Rare State

I woke up this morning at four. The faint light that made its way through our curtained windows was blue, but the house was dark. Fumbling my way through the house, down the stairs and through the hallways I found my computer. Its light blinked bright and I squinted. Would we have school today? All evening we had wondered as the forecasts of snow came. The snow fell first in a blinding fury and then lightly as if teasing.

I scrolled down the list to see if our county would be posted. Unashamedly I say I wanted our name to be on the list. A four day weekend would be mine if it were there. Nothing. Our name was not on the list. I went back to bed to await the 5:30 am alarm.

An hour and a half later I woke to my alarm. I knew I couldn’t hit the snooze this morning. My husband rose up and opened his computer. The screen light lit up our dark room and he scrolled down the pages once more. And our county’s name was on the list. An hour and half later it had been inserted in alphabetical order and we had a reprieve. I asked twice for confirmation. And then I scooted down into the covers and curled up and fell back asleep. Almost three hours later I woke.

I am still in my pajamas. My husband braved the cold and the roads and went to the store to purchase ingredients for his wonderful omelettes. And they didn’t disappoint—filled with ham and peppers and onions. That’s a treat from my normal yogurt and granola breakfast.

And now we are on our recliner couch reading and listening to the wind rattle against the windows. On their pillows the dogs lie at our feet curled in tight balls and snoring. And once again I listen to the sounds of a quietly working household: drawers opening, dryer rotating, and shower running. Outside the snow is swirling and the light is still blue, and I am at ease.

This is a rare state for me. Usually I am plowing forward with my mental list scrolling. Or I am moving from room to room attempting to create some kind of order even if it is only order I can detect. But this morning I am still.

I have been reading Madeleine L’Engle’s Crosswicks Journals. I am in the middle of the third one; there are four. I keep telling myself to slow down, read snippets and small sections, and savor. But her words and thoughts pull me along, beckoning me. And her words press in on my heart and I find that with the pressure comes out prayer. Sentence prayers. I will read a paragraph and before I even think what I am doing I am asking God to move in me. And there is this spontaneous blessing that just pours out to Him.

And isn’t this what good writing, a good story or a deep recollection should do? Would Madeleine be pleased that her words brought me to a place of blessing? a place of prayer?

Words she wrote thirty-five years ago remain relevant because they were infused with truth. Truth always remains relevant. And if the Spirit has been present during the writing, he will again be present in the reading. And through this series of books He has been very present.

The last six months have been a dry season. A season of schedule survival--simply attempting to survive my twenty-four cycle by paring down to what do I do next? What can I do to get to the next thing? And in the midst of this kind of daily survival you grow lean and edgy. Hungry.

I have been asking God to meet me in the midst of this. There seems to be no remedy for the scheduling right now. Very few options of adjustment, removal or rotation. But God is not limited by our options. He is not bound by the schedule we have enforced on ourselves. And I knew that if I asked to see Him in the midst of this taxing season He would show himself.

And show himself he has. Through words decades old. Through an author who is now with Him. Through a woman I admire. Through a spiritual mentor I have never met. And God knew. He knew what and who could speak to me in this season. He knew I would need a circle of quiet in the midst of this irrational season.

My God, who cares so much about me, has used Madeleine’s words to draw me back to his Word. Through her writing I search Scripture and attempt research—digging, delving, diving.

And so on this day, lest I forget what I learned during the Christmas Season, I am being still. During this season of schedule survival I have not done a very good job of taking care of myself. I have neglected what softens and shores me. Abandoned what anchors and connects me.

Now it is 12:30. I am still in my pajamas. I am pressed against my husband’s solid and warm side. Books strewn on the couch around me. Journal waiting. And I am at rest. The fury with which I usually meet a day has been tamed. The frenetic pace of my morning routine has slowed and I can hear my own heartbeat.

This morning has been a gift.




The Crosswicks Journal—four volumes

A Circle of Quiet


The Summer of the Great-grandmother


The Irrational Season


The Two-Part Invention


Madeleine L’Engle

Lest We Forget, Part 1--Day 13

Once again I am in the quiet of the morning. I hear the furnace as it works to send heat through long and winding ducts to the rest of the house. I hear a bird on the back deck and I wonder what it is still doing here during winter. And I remember we have not had cold yet. Frigidness and snow have not yet arrived here—never coming for Christmas.

I sit in our back room—the catch-all, junk room of the house. I have a corner carved out among the clean towels and clothes that have yet to be folded. I hear the clocks ticking and the dogs are restless in their crates. Everyone else is still asleep.

My God keeps bringing me to these quiet places of the morning. He has tucked me away in this little corner because he wants me to breathe and to be still with him again.

Stillness is not a one time event—it is a way of life that many of us are quite reluctant to embrace. We are a production-oriented people. We want product and evidence of our busyness and toil. And the product and evidence of stillness is not readily seen. Its affects are not always immediately visible.


Christmas is over.


The anticipated, dreaded, loved, embraced and shunned holiday has passed us by on the calendar.

I wonder in the days after Jesus’ birth did Mary experience post-partum depression. Did she struggle in the dankness of the cave stable with her emotions and moods? Did she look around and second guess all that she had experienced in the past nine months? Did she look at the baby she held in her arms and wonder at his ordinariness? In those few days after the shepherds when she was alone, while Joseph was out looking for lodging, did she cry? Did the emotional weight of her experiences overwhelm her?

Isn’t Christmas like that? We work and work toward this season—planning, preparing and purchasing. We await this incredible day and then it is gone. It dissipates and we are left with these vague, shadowy memories.

Did Mary attempt to remember the exact words of Gabriel? Had he given her instructions for these days afterward? Did she try to remember the lines of the worn faces of the shepherds? Did she look at the donkey and replay the journey? Scripture tells us that she treasured and pondered all the events and things said in her heart. She mulled them. For the days from Jesus’ birth until his dedication at the temple she held all these things close to her heart lest she forget.

And that’s what I am doing this week. This Christmas there were some extraordinarily beautiful moments for me. Moments I don’t want to loose or fade, and so I am pondering and treasuring them.

Lest I forget.

A Gift for You--Day 12

Psalm 131:2; Matthew 7:11


After a semester of getting up at 5:15 am every day of the week you would think that during the break I would be able to sleep far past that time. Internal time clocks are very hard to reset.

I woke this morning and my mind was already at half throttle before my eyes even opened. I fumbled for my phone and the bright screen showed me that it was 5:41 am. I pushed down into the covers and against the warm wall of my sleeping husband and was determined to go back to sleep. The gears, however, were already in motion.

Here I am in the kitchen. Mechanically the house is not quiet. The washer is spinning, the dryer is whirring and the bread machine is rotating. My mind is acclimating quite well to the rhythm.

Last night I went to bed and realized I had gone almost the whole day and failed to have any kind of conversation with my Father. Interestingly I didn’t feel condemned. I felt deprived. My whirlwind actions and schedule of the day had taken their toll. My lists, my schedule, my worries, my agenda and my plans had occupied my mind the entire day. Much was left undone and untouched even with my preoccupation.

Stillness is a hard place for me to reach. Often I can get my body still even planted in one place for longer than ten minutes. My mind will slow, but rarely will it shut off. It is triggered by even the most random pieces of information—flitting from subject to task at a dizzying speed.

This morning when the numbers on my phone said 6:00 am the Spirit said to me, “Get up.”

Get up? I have a long (but fun) day ahead of me. Shouldn’t I sleep a little longer? Shouldn’t I attempt to rest for a couple more hours? Shouldn’t I try to relax?

Get up, Tamera.

See, it’s Christmas. And I have been very busy trying to get everyone’s gifts and packages ready. I have been preoccupied with Wow gifts for others. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do?

This morning my Father had a gift for me to open.

I am like an adult child. I have had too much sugar, too much caffeine and too much stimulation. I am overloaded.

He wanted to still me. To settle me. To calm me.

He didn’t throw a wrench in my turning gears. He was not interested in giving me whiplash. He didn’t throw cold water in my face. He didn’t scold or yell at me. He didn’t threaten to return my gifts and he didn’t make me feel guilty.

Gently he woke me. Shaking my shoulder ever so slightly and speaking my name.

Get up, my child. I have something for you. Get up so I can give it to you this morning.

Here I sit in the quiet. The bread machine, washer and dryer have stopped. The house is very still. I am sitting at my kitchen table and then I hear it.

The rain against the window pane. Pattering against the glass. I wouldn’t have heard it upstairs. I wouldn’t have heard it in my bed; the sound would have been too muted. I don’t like rain in the winter, but this morning there is something so soothing about the sound. The rain is tapping down the dust that has been stirred up in the past couple of days of my fevered activity.

And I am still.

The rush of my thoughts has slowed. The thread of panic is dissipating.

With the psalmist of 131 the Father has stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me.

How many times have I held my precious daughters close to me—caught them up in my lap and held them close in the circle of my arms in an attempt to still them? How I savored the feeling of their coiled, energetic little bodies settling, going limp and their weight draping in my arms.

And if I, though I am evil, know how to give good gifts to my children, how much more will my Father in heaven give good gifts to me when I ask?

This morning my Father woke me (there are times that it is good to wake a sleeping child) so that I could climb up in his lap and sink into him. This morning he has wrapped his arms around me—it’s the first chance I have given him to do so all week.

I wonder if in the early hours of the morning Jesus stirred in the manger. Did the Spirit whisper to her, “Get up, Mary.”

Did Mary wake from her slumber and pick Jesus up and pull him close to her? In the stillness and quiet did she recognize who she held? Did she swaddle his little limbs close and tight so he wouldn’t flail and startle? Did she tuck him tight to her breast and soothe him with whispered words? Did she rock and sway him in the dim light of the animal stall?

This Christmas our Father wants to hold us. In this season when our arms flail, our limbs startle and our minds jerk he wants to give us peace. He wants to soothe our agitated hearts. He wants to calm our irritated spirits.

His gift to me this morning was his presence.

He wants to give the same gift to you.