Wonderland

Ted and Nancy Johnson drove Matt and I to Oregon.  We had a long day in Portland, and arrived at our hotel on the Columbia River just as the rain and sun set in.  Nancy got it in her head that she wanted to find the alpaca farm for knitting yarn.  The men were tired, but I'm always up for an adventure.  We weren't sure if it would be open for business.  It was late in the season and as we ended up taking the long road there, it was late in the day, too.  Finally, after following sign after sign after sign, we knew we were close.  We traveled through orchards and vineyards and golden fall foliage before we found the alpaca farm. It sat up and into the hills. With the elevation came an unexpected transformation.  Rain turned to snow. 
The memory of it all still takes my breath away.   Each delicate flake was so defined I could almost discern its pattern from afar. Silence fell upon us as the sky powdered the tallest, straightest, evergreenest trees I had ever laid eyes on.  Like feathers gently blessing every branch.  We were blanketed in beauty and I thought to myself, I don't think I have ever seen anything quite so lovely in all my life.  And yet, I had never expected snow to captivate me so.  I love the sea. It's always been my muse. But here I was, lulled and rocked by another sort of wave.  Snow sweetening every surface, frosting the world before me, bringing crystals to my eyes. I didn't want it ever to end.    

Very, Very Small

The only thing I know to do right now is to grow very small.  To curl up in the corner of my sanctuary and wait and bow and draw the presence of God to me through humility.  He who reveals, He who grants, He who draws all things together and into being. 
He who gives grace and sanctification to walk the path He places before our feet. 
This is almost too much to wrap my head around.  I feel elated and confused and so hopeful. 
And yet so afraid--of myself mostly, and the questions I don't have anwers for.
So anxious not to have to lead through this. 

Shiver

It's one thing to choose between tangibles. 
Should I wear green or purple today?  Flats or boots? 
Should I encourage Grace to continue dance?  Emily horse back riding?  These choices come with responsibilities, repercussions...but I am involved in the ebb and flow of the circumstances and interactions and emotions of the decisions, even if I cannot control the final outcome.
But if I think about it for more than a minute...I realize so many of the things that I "decide" have been in preparation long before my awareness or involvement.  God's sovereign hand has been at work, preparing, bringing things into alignment.  And so my choice comes in after I have already been traveling the road for some time.
Unless...well, what if...I know I shouldn't say such things...it seems I must be offending someone by doing so...but well...
What if God decided to give you a choice before you were on the path.  Way before you could possibly know from your own sense of things what was happening, maybe because those things hadn't even happened yet.  
What if God laid out paths before your feet and gave you a choice...a limited choice...but still, there it was before you, a choice between two very different roads, or maybe more. 
And what if...it was up to you to choose.  And your decision would drastically change the course of not only your own life, but others too.  And what if there were no guarantees...
The truth is, we make those choices all the time.  Maybe every day...but most of the time we do it blind, and we don't see the result of our decisions. 
But what if...we could see. 
And we had to choose knowing some of the ramifications of our choice. 
And what if we were very afraid of that choice... 
So very afraid of the possibility that it might actually come to be...
And it might mean that it changes EVERYTHING.
And what if we weren't so afraid that we did it anyway?

Breathe

I could have held her all night. 
Little chest rising and falling on mine.  Warm breath, labored though it was, blowing into a soft rhythm.   Soft hair curling against my cheek.
Though just one cherub was in my arms, they were all in the room and I could hear them, and feel the closeness of their presence. 
I didn't want to leave.
I, the mother bird, with all my little songbirds under my wings at once.
Listening as my nest whispers its own sweet lullaby to the night.

Heavenly Peace

I'm looking forward to a silent night.  The last few weeks have been a busy blurr.  Fun, exciting...crazy at times.  Tense quick changes, nervous nellies, and a few moments bursting with pride.  Two more shows to go. Then Mom and Dad leave. 
And then...I want quiet.  Em and I might put that gingerbread house together.  Sam and I will go for a long walk.  Sarah and I will take a cozy cuddle.  Maybe Matt and I can watch the birds discover their new house.  Grace can bake a cake with me. 
I am longing to stay home. And after everyone else goes to sleep, and all is quiet, I will focus on the holiness of it all--the chaos and the calm.  I think there was a bit of both even on the first Christmas night. 

The Cardinal Sin

The sun lights the snowflakes on the wooden planks
It's rays not hot enough to melt them. 
The wind lifts the crystal feathers and rocks them from side to side,
It's gusts not strong enough to carry them.
How much light and breath will it take?
Israel's in a stand off with winter,
Jacob lies cold outside the door.

Nesting

One of the things I love about traveling is how nice it is to come home.  Since I've been gone for so much time this past year, I've found it really nice to want to stay home. I'm in nesting mode.  Like I want to hibernate for the rest of the winter, or maybe a whole year.
I feel like taking restaurants, movie theatres, shopping malls...everything superfluous off the radar.  I'd rather cook, watch a video, or shop on-line.  Better yet--read a book, invite my friends over, listen to Matt's new old record player with all his Dad's old records, or light some candles and take a bubble bath.  OR play some games or do some crafts with my kids.  OR paint furniture.  Or for that matter, my kitchen.  I'm ready to put the finishing touches on all the stuff we've been working on around the house, and get rid of stuff we don't need.  Or pray. I'm even in the mood to clean! 
There are times where you  turn yourself out onto the world and then there are seasons where you shut yourself inward. 
I'm turning in...and loving it.
B

All flesh is grass...

"The grass withers, the flower fades,
Because the breath of the Lord blows upon it.
Surely the people are grass."
Isaiah 40:7

You know, I've heard this passage countless times in my life. 
For some reason, I don't think I ever read this verse on its own. 
When I read it as a naked verse, not dressed up by the verse before or after it,
I wonder if the imagery paints a picture something like this...

The grass and flower die because the wind blows life out of them.
People die because the Spirit (ruah) of God blows life out of them.

I've heard a lot of people say that death is not of God.  God is not a God of death, but of life.
That never really rang true for me.
And this verse seems to say otherwise.
It doesn't seem to say that death happens despite God.
It portrays God as the blower, the bringer.

Maybe most people don't feel this way, but as for me, I want to welcome the Spirit of God to blow my soul all the way to Heaven.
I want to trust that when it's my time He will take me.  Not a moment too early, not a moment too late. 
I want to welcome death as a bittersweet gift.  I want to believe that "to die is gain." 
Maybe that depends on your life.  Maybe you die well when you live well.
What I'm trying to say is this,
I want to do both.

I Mean It

We are now way past "this is not what I expected" to the "seriously, are you kidding me?" phase.
Remember the line in Annie's song, "Would someone, pinch me please?"
And then they pinch her and the next line in the song is, "Ouch, I didn't mean it!"
Well, I mean it.

Powells

There is not a bookstore anywhere like it.  It covers the whole city block-- five stories high--and carries new and used books.  I like the used ones because they're cheaper.  Then I found out I could have them shipped from Portland to PA for a small flat fee. 
I spent 3 hours in the theology section before heading over to poetry.  I found a couple gems--a compilation of Jim Elliot's Journals, a few books by Ryken and Boyd.  I loved the thought of buying books written by two theologians who might not want to have lunch together.  I think I'll put them next to each other on my shelf, maybe they can sort out their differences, or at least learn something from each other. 
I prayed for a book--just one--that I would know I was to read.  A gift.  Something that would be exactly what I needed.  In that three hour period, there was only one moment I had a sense--though I wasn't sure I trusted it--that the shelf that I was looking through held the book.  I said it out loud, "I think my book is going to be on this shelf." 
Less than a minute later I pulled it out, looked at the title and knew when I held it in my hands that it was the one,  that it was time for this lesson, for this chapter in my life. 
The charge from years back whispered to life in my ear.
"Run with the horses."

Here's a excerpt from Chapter 1:
Something very different takes place in the life of faith: each person discovers all the elements of a unique and original adventure. We are prevented from following in another person's footsteps and are called to an incomparable association with Christ. The Bible makes it clear that every time there is a story of faith, it is completely original.  God's creative genius is endless...Each life is a fresh canvas on which he uses lines and colors, shades and lights, textures and proportions that he has never used before...And we see how it is possible: by plunging into a life of faith, participating in what God initiates in each life, exploring what God is doing in each event.  The persons we meet on the pages of Scripture are remarkable for the intensity with which they live Godward, the thoroughness in which all the details of their lives are included in God's word to them, in God's action in them.  It is these persons who are conscious of participating in what God is saying and doing that are most human, most alive.

"So Jeremiah, if you're worn out in this footrace with men, what makes you think you can race against horses?  And if you can't keep your wits during times of calm, what's going to happen when troubles break loose like the Jordan in flood?" (Jeremiah 12:5)

The response when it came was not verbal, but biographical.  His life became his answer, "I'll run with the horses."  Eugene H. Peterson

I hope my life is my answer too.

Say what you need to say...

So many things I could say about today. About this year.  About life. 
But at the bottom of it all is just this...
I am blessed.
I am full.
I am happy.
I love my life.
And I don't know.  I just don't know.

Back

I am not leaving my house for three months.  I've just decided.  Except to go to Giant.  And to Annapolis.  And to the Hershey Hotel Spa for my Birthday.  And to take Grace to dance.  And  Sarah to school.  And church...(maybe).  No--I'm not going Christmas shopping.  I'm doing it all on-line.  I mean it.  I'm not going anywhere.  Oh, and Matt's Christmas Party at some fancy shindig hotel in Lancaster.  That's it.  Except for Grace's performance at F&M. But other than that...Oh...bother.

When grace comes...

I wish I could explain the feeling.  There really is nothing like it.  I remember first hearing about it years ago from a girl who was battling cancer.  As the beams of light streamed through the window behind her, she seemed to glisten, and she said ever so tenderly, "Sometimes all you can do is wait, and then there are times when you must pray for grace to wait." 
I had never thought of praying for grace.  I didn't even know what that meant. Now I understand.  It is when you are past all your capacity to live in love and at rest.  Or to do what you need to in a given situation.  You have reached the end of yourself and really don't have any strength left in you to give or maybe even to move.  You pray and ask for help.  Then you wait.  Sometimes a minute, sometimes days.   Then, out of nowhere, it might seem, grace comes.  You know it is not coming from you--you have no power to contrive such a thing.  It is a power unlike any earthly thing, and you can feel it.  Soon it washes through you and you have what it is that you need in that moment--compassion, patience, strength, mercy, insight...God gifts are always fitting. 
It is always enough for what is at hand.

What is real...

"He never loved me.  I've known that."
She spoke quietly with a gentleness that seemed like it should be out of place and yet somehow, it wasn't. 
"He loved my love for him."
Slowly her head moved from left to right and back again and her eyes closed against the words,
"It is not the same."
"Love, real love, withstands the demands of sacrifice.  We don't all forge that kind of love, we're not all tested the same.  But real love, when given the choice, always determines to bleed. 
Real love embraces the darkness in another.  It does not excuse or explain away or keep it's eyes half-closed against corruption.  It opens it's eyes wide and takes the whole landscape into view, then leans the force of it's wholeness into brokenness, chasing away the darkness with the light of it's goodness.  It doesn't expect that which it is unwilling to give."
"Who wouldn't want to be loved like that?" My voice cracked as the beauty of her explanation caught in my throat.
She looked at me then, and saw my sorry eyes.
She smiled an old smile.
"Don't be sad for me my dear," she spoke intensely, "Don't you dare think I've lost."
"What is better?  To be the object of whimsy and poetry and vapor?
Or to know you carry in your being the capacity to love beyond yourself, beyond your own blood and your very own breath?"
She quieted then and I saw her chin rise just an inch in defiance.
"I will choose to love every time.  It is how I become like the one who loves me most," she whispered carefully and clearly, though it didn't seem like she was speaking to me.
I pulled the blanket up over her frail shoulders, tucking them under her chin.  I leaned my forehead lightly onto the side of her head and spoke quietly into her ear, "I love you Grandma Grace."  I hesitated, "At least, I hope I would, if I had the chance to." 
Her chest rose and fell and her breathing deepened.  I would have liked to hear more, but she was already resting...deeply resting.

Chess

He sat there then, in the way that he does, with his eyes half closed, shaking or nodding his head now and then so you know he's listening.  We sat far enough away from the fireplace that I warmed my hands on a half-full mug of coffee.  I spoke quietly and confidently, not so full of trepidation when sharing my journey as I used to be. 
"I don't know when it happened.  I can't put my finger on a particular incident or time.  One day I just realized that I believed.  Didn't really have anymore understanding or clarity.  Just faith. In that place that courses through the very depths of you, that holds more weight than your mind or your feelings about everything that surrounds you, I had been persuaded. I didn't know why or how, and it didn't matter.  My soul rested in the belief of God.  I stopped wondering, vacillating, needing evidence, needing to prove myself.  I gave up needing to be believed.  I even gave up needing the promises to come true.  They were God's.  He could do with them as He saw fit.  I trusted Him."
"And you don't understand how huge that was for me," I continued, "For so long I felt like I was a pawn in some divine chess game."
He looked at me then, in the way that he does, his eyes piercing out over his glasses and beneath his graying brows. 
"I don't think you were a pawn," he said definitively.  "You were a bishop."
I looked at him fondly, like I sometimes do, and quietly and gratefully took in the honor of what he had said.
Somehow then, I didn't mind the game so much.

This House

There's a lot of things I like about this house.  Window lights in the high and lofty ceilings.  Massive marble encased fireplace.  Long patio off the back that looks out onto a quiet reserve.  White everywhere.  Hard floors and soft rugs.  Piano and paintings and warm maple shelves. But all that is just the stage.
The great big buck lowering the weight of his rack to the ground and pushing it up to the sky as he scattered when Ted shooed him out of the yard waving and yelling in a most undignified manner. Chester pouncing and sprawling and batting at imaginary enemies and curling up with me in the deep leather chair.  Nancy giggling at Matt's dry humor while cooking up meals that rival Ina's entertaining.  Ted's deep voice thundering out a great laugh at some assertion I've made just to press his buttons.
Those are the sights and sounds of life here; the things about this house I'm gonna miss.   

Sleepless

"Remind me again, why didn't we move here?"
My deep, slow sigh echoed his question.

Here, where the trees wear sequins and
all the stairs lead down to the sea.
The market bursts with the fragrance of flowers, pepper bouquets, and
the shine of coffee bean constellations.
Art bleeds out of every ware and shouts from high risen edifices
Defying the grey, graceful clouds.
People know who they are, or at least who they're pretending to be.
When light pushes through and the skies break into clear blue,
You see the swarms of hopeful souls
Under all their costumes.
Creation hovers and swims;
Seeps out her pores
Creeps in through her doors.
God watches--waiting, whispering.
Seattle, I love you.

G.N.O.

They carry their stress in their shoulders, I carry mine in my face, but there was no sign of it tonight.  What elusive formula is gathered up in our dispositions, intellects, characters, beliefs, strengths, weaknesses, experiences, difficulties and dreams that makes for such a camaraderie?  Such trust and acceptance exists there is nothing we couldn't share, and yet no pressure to tell anything at all.  No landmines to tread lightly around or closet doors that can't be opened.  Every time we come together, we anticipate the strength of our bond and enjoyment of each other and the comfort and sympathy of close community with a good dose of humor.    To know and be known and to love and be loved.  We're fascinated by each other's little cares and widely contemplate the greater ones.  Does anyone laugh more in deeper waters?  We could have talked all night but for the responsibilities that awaited us elsewhere.
There will be more nights full of niceties and naughties, secrets and shoes, loyalty and love.
Annapolis here we come...

Work

Maybe it's like the artist who hasn't picked up a brush for too long,
Who is surprised his first mix of paint matches the color in his mind's eye.
Or like picking cherries for the first time since last summer,
Popping one in your mouth and being surprised again at how the juice hits you sweet and tart in the same burst.
Somehow it's like the ocean in June, wonderfully uncomfortable, uncontrollable, and irresistable.
You tingle all over stepping back onto shore.
"This is who I am and what I was made for and how I'm supposed to live," I think.
But it's not really true.
It's a work, a taste, a dip of the toe into the ocean of what is to come.
I really, really like it.

Wordy

Just know that I DID write something. Except it was too personal for this public little blog, and it was way too long for this venue. (Which is supposed to be short and sweet...OK, maybe just short.) Brevity is gonna be the beast on this one...

Already Behind

The plan was to post a paragraph or so every day.  Hone the writing skills and all that. Three days in and I'm already behind.  I did try yesterday, but there wasn't a one thing. 
A one thing that fusses with me, nags at me and prods me to lose myself in it's imagery.   
Nothing surfaced that needed me to write it yesterday, though there were a few photos I fell in love with.  They'll speak soon enough.
No pictures allowed here,though.  Just words.
Today, oh but today--there was a one thing. 
I bought him a shirt with pocket snaps.  I can't say if he'll wear it.  Can't say if he should, or what that means, if anything at all. 
If he did, it would make me smile.  I told him we could match in Seattle.  I waited for his eyes to roll...yep, right on cue. 
Mine has flowers on it.  Roses & pocket snaps.
The Emerald City, the White Wizard, Words, photos, pocket snaps...
It's gonna be a good time.

Faith

Last night she prayed.  Willingly, lengthily.  Her prayer was full of life, excitement, and well...faith. She prayed for her sisters, she was grateful, she asked God to help us get caught up with her flannelgraph...because she wants to learn again.  I'm trying to put my finger on it--you know--what made her change her mind about God.  How do you teach a nine year old to believe a God you can't figure out yourself?  How do you ask her to trust your trust in Him?  How do you accept your inability to make God reveal Himself to her? 
I didn't know how to do any of that.  I just decided to love her. To keep telling her I love her.  To keep telling her how much He loves her. 
It seems to have made a difference.  Something in her heart has changed, softened, opened...at least for now.  Help her to keep believing.  Teach faith to her spirit, even if her mind can't yet hold it fast.

Shirts

I like to wear his shirts.  Even more so when he's not home.  Especially to bed--they're so much roomier than mine.  If I'm warmed from a hot shower, I grab one of his new undershirts.  So white clean, so soft cotton.  If I'm cold I go for a long-sleeve thermal.  The cuffs stretch over my fingertips.  I'm comforted and somehow, though I get a little lost in the extra fabric, I feel closer to him.  I sleep swaddled in sheet, shirt, and sweet sorts of dreams.
  

Hard Floors

I like a hard floor. 
Tile, wood, marble...natural materials, mostly.  A flat, solid plane to press my bare feet into.
I like my toes to tell me the temperature.
That can't happen with carpet.  Not that I don't like a soft warm rug.  But I can't appreciate a rug until I've traveled a cold unyelding surface before it.
A hard floor holds up under pain better than a soft mattress.
It feels like I feel. A concrete platform that doesn't give way even if my soul caves in.