No Surprises

For Christmas my oldest daughter bought me a new journal. She usually does.

Perhaps it is because she knows I need a place to record (in my own handwriting) what is going on inside me. Perhaps it is because she understands my need for the texture and the tangible quality of paper. Perhaps it is because she knows I like books and in giving me a journal she helps me to create one of my own.

I don’t have to tell her what kind. She knows. She has paid close attention through the years. Black, spiral- bound with college-ruled sheets.

Close to Christmas she called me from the bookstore and asked if I wanted a large or small journal this year. (I usually get a small one). We laughed and talked about Christmas not having any surprises—this would be the year of knowing what you were getting; the year of knowing what was going to be inside the box.

I knew I was getting a journal from her, so I didn’t purchase one. I waited. And sure enough on Christmas morning I opened her package and found my large, black, spiral-bound, college-ruled journal. I said thank you and then put it away until I would need it. (I had to finish the last few pages of the other one first).

My daughter said no surprises.

But she fooled me.

She didn’t tell me that there was something else.

Last week I was thinking about the new year that was before me. I don’t make resolutions anymore. I don’t make promises, but I do keep a journal. So, I went to get my new journal because I wanted to feel the weight, length, and width of its pages.

Then I found my surprise.

When I opened the cover the first page was not white, not blank, and not empty.

My daughter had written on the first page—in blue ink was a paragraph inscribed in her sweet, distinctive handwriting. I stood poised in front of the window for light, and I read her words.

Suddenly the Christmas that was to have no surprises had one of the greatest ones of all. Her note to me was one of the best gifts I have ever received.

I was alone, but (to no one’s surprise) I cried.

Her words set the tone for my new year.

Because of my daughter’s invocation and benediction this blank new year was now infused with hope.

She didn’t know this was what she was offering to me.

Or did she?(She is incredibly wise.)

In a few days I will start using this journal. I will fill it with words, illustrations, quotes, verses and whatever else moves my being. I don’t know how long it will last. Could be a month, could be six months; I don’t know. Never do.

But I do know that I will often return to her note for me. I will reread it and savor every word.

She said it was a Christmas with no surprises.

She was wrong.

Two Men and a Baby

" ... learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart..." (Matthew 11:29)

Recently I was privy to something rare and lovely.

We had friends over for dinner, and they brought their children. It was their son's first birthday, and we had a mini birthday party for him.

I loved the company of our friends: rich, encouraging, funny. But it was the interaction between the two men and the baby that captured and held my attention.

Mama was holding Lee in front of her on the kitchen table. His little legs were bowed and pointed toward the center facing the rest of us. All attention was on this little boy. Four adults (and all the others who found their way in or through the kitchen) were watching him.

But he was guileless.

Even with all the attention focused on him he remained innocent and unaffected.

Lee was simply delighted that he was making us happy. He would stretch out his little arms and then shake them in utter delight. Chortling and laughing in precious belly giggles. He would reach for the men at the table and crawl into their arms. He would investigate their mouths, eyes, and glasses. And he would give them enormous open-mouthed kisses.

At one point his Mama broke up a chocolate chip cookie and put the pieces in front of him. One by one the pieces disappeared into his tiny, cherub mouth. Several times he turned so he could better see who he was with, and then he would settle back against their chest. His little face was just alight with joy. He would clap for himself, and then look to see if his antics made us laugh. If they did, then he would do it again. So pleased was he, so delighted.

Interestingly enough, the men were unaware they were being watched also. They played with our little boy with unabashed enthusiasm. Silly noises and facial expressions and all. And to Lee's utter delight they would mimic him.

Both men at the table were giants (in more ways than one). And yet the gentleness and tenderness they lavished on this little boy was something to behold. I watched our little birthday boy, but I watched the men even more. His Daddy would look him right in the face and exclaim, " I love you, Lee."

Lee understood. It was quite apparent he had been told this many times before.

I understood.


In Baby Lee I saw why Jesus told us to be like little children.

Guilelessness and innocence are not prevalent in our society.Instead we are taught the craft of scheming and manipulation. And our innocence is robbed or hastily given very early. Sophistication is pursued and naivete is shunned.

In the giant men I saw why Jesus said learn from him.

Gentleness and tenderness are not valuable commodities in our society. Not in women, but especially not in men. These attributes are viewed as weaknesses--hammer blows to the masculine identity. Incongruent with the definition of a man's man. These traits are not desired and certainly not cultivated or encouraged. Often they are discouraged and the slightest growth of either is quickly uprooted.

Yet, Jesus was both.

He was so often tender with those he encountered: the Widow of Nain, the woman caught in adultery, Jarius and his daughter, with the children brought to him for blessing, the demoniacs, Mary of Bethany and Mary of Magdala.

But Jesus did not apologize, excuse, hide or justify his behavior.

Jesus was a strong, gentle man. True gentleness and real tenderness have tensile strength.

Jesus was guileless and innocent, and he was very much a powerful man. (Think about Baby Lee. He ruled the kitchen that night.)

For many these traits seem to be oxymorons. How very sad.

The Men and the Baby were both emulating Jesus.

We should take notes.

Lucidity

In the midst of the dailyness of life
through the course of the mundane,
in the rote routine of my day,
between the early morning alarm and
the late night closing of my eyes in sleep
there are moments,
rare and exquisite,
when I understand who I am
and where I am going—
when I see eternity with pristine clarity.

Oh glorious short increments of lucidity!
thin places in the fabric of my spirit
when I see God’s plan,
when I see his hope,
when I see his purpose.

These moments are like trailers of soon to be released films. Momentary clips of extraordinary vision that come to me when I am at least aware. No, most aware. They manifest when I am completely still and at myself.

Lucidity comes
when my spirit is being

turned
loosened
gentled
softened
molded
pivoted.


Lucidity comes
when I am enthralled with
the origin of words,
the ticking of many clocks,
the patter of the dogs’ feet,
the nuances of a phrase,
a dog’s whispery snore,
a deep, long, contented sigh,
the turning of page in a book,
the bond of friendship,
the curve of a newborn infant’s cheek,
the uniqueness of a snowflake,
the deep color of a fallen autumn leaf,
the gaze exchanged between two lovers.

Lucidity comes
when I have encountered beauty—
Oh! so profound.

So breathtaking in its utter simplicity:

the translucent green of Katherine’s eyes,
the sweet beauty mark on Abby’s face,
the rich fall of Olivia’s hair,
the illuminating smile in Anna’s eyes.

Lucidity comes
when I experience and acknowledge
the depth of Steve’s prayers,
the blunt, common sense of my Daddy,
the wisdom in Terri’s words,
the fortitude of Jennifer’s spirit,
the strength of Angela’s will.

Lucidity comes
when gentleness and strength complete a paradox,
when goodness is juxtaposed with danger,
when two minds track together,
when two puzzle pieces
connect and become a recognizable image,
when the notes played on our piano
become a familiar melody,
when laughter is spontaneous and uninhibited.

Synapses of time--
fleeting, transient
momentary intervals.

Eternity in pristine clarity.

Lucidity.

The Perfect Christmas

Something dawned on me this week. The dawning was slow and gradual. The Holy Spirit had to bring me almost to the full light of dawn before I could even grasp what he was saying and explaining.

I have been on a mission that I didn’t even know I had undertaken. Somewhere in the far recesses of my mind I came up with this idea, and I started trying to carry it all to completion.

I realized on Monday that I cannot complete what I started.

I have been trying to create the perfect Christmas.

Not long ago I went with my daughters to see Four Christmases. I watched Reese Witherspoon and Vince Vaughn’s characters have to navigate their multiple parent (as a result of divorce and remarriage) Christmases. The movie is hilarious. I laughed quite hard in several places as we were able to plug our own family members into the cast. But there were also some very insightful moments, and I found some unexpected resonation with both Reese and Vince and all of their big-screen dysfunction.

My family is incredibly different. We don’t do things like other families. Never have and most likely never will. We all seem to march to a very different rhythm and cadence. Sometimes our melodies are even played in minor chords (we add the black keys to our music often).

When people see us interact and carry out our lives together, they cock their heads like puppies who are hearing a very strange, high-pitched sound.

But this holiday season has brought some changes and some shifts in dynamics. Adjustments and rearrangements have been needed. Some of our traditions no longer fit where we are now. How we have always done some things just will not work anymore. And everyone is in their own place trying to decide how and when to handle the multiple scenarios.

I am a “fixer” by nature. I want everyone happy. I want everyone to have what they need and what they want. I don’t like conflict, and I don’t like change that produces conflict. Well, hello, in reality who does?

So, in the back of my well-intentioned, but misguided mind I decided I wanted to do my utmost to create the perfect Christmas considering all the circumstances. I started making mental lists. I began to revamp my whole holiday mentality based on the fact that we needed a new plan. Now, I didn’t realize this was exactly what I was doing. I just went into “fixer” mode. I was trying very hard to find ways for us not to fit any of the dysfunctional families portrayed in the movie or in real life.

I wanted the perfect tree, the perfect presents, the perfect open house, the perfect dinner, the perfect Christmas Eve schedule, and the perfect Christmas day. But I couldn’t find a definition of what those perfections would be.

My frustration level has mounted exponentially since Thanksgiving. Clarity was obscured. I felt like a woman who was quite used to wearing reading glasses, but suddenly her prescription changed over-night. I put my glasses on my nose thinking I would be able to see. I could see what was in front of me, but then I would look up and everything would be blurry.

In my quest for perfection, I lost sight of what really matters. We hear this all the time, don’t we? Christmas is about family, about friends, about the real meaning of Christmas.

The litany of the phrases to describe Christmas is endless and sometime sappy. Avoid commercialism. Remember the baby in the manger. Give to the less fortunate. Keep it simple.

And in this quest for the perfect Christmas I began to detect cynicism. I noticed a Scrooge attitude seeping through my broken traditional cracks.

And then three things happened.

My daughter’s Christmas List. I asked my younger daughters what they wanted for Christmas. One wrote her list and then shared it with me. Incredible. The insight into the essentials for this season was unbelievable. Wise and funny. Profound. I was moved and convicted.

This was the first of the Spirit’s clues:

“Tamera, the best parts of Christmas can’t be bought or wrapped, they must be experienced.”

My misunderstanding with another daughter. No matter how hard you attempt to make something perfect, it will not be perfect for everyone. I tried to do one thing new and in the course this decision hurt and frustrated others. Misunderstanding caused frustration and complicated communication. I realized that my relationships with my daughters are priceless to me. Priceless.

Second clue:

“Tamera, the people you love and hold close to your heart are the priceless part of Christmas.”

My Christmas present’s arrival. I ordered a gift for someone very special to me. I was so thrilled and delighted to have found something rare. A small gift, but so very important. Between the times I ordered it and its arrival I had forgotten my delight. I forgot the feeling I had when I clicked purchase. The package arrived in the mail this week. When I held it in my hands my delight returned and multiplied. A small thing, but it was the right thing for the person I had chosen it for—and it was better than I had hoped. I was so excited. I realized I had allowed cynicism to rob me of my delight in such simple pleasures.

Third clue:

“Tamera, delight is the magical ingredient of Christmas. Delight over the simplest of things.”

And then I understood. The goal is not about a perfect Christmas. My oldest daughter said it is about Christmas making sense. The clues of the Spirit made this season make sense for me. These truths released me from the stress of trying to create something that is not even necessary.

Christmas is to be experienced not orchestrated.

Christmas is about embracing priceless people not idealistic perfection.

Christmas is remembering to delight in the smallest of gestures and events.

I think I will get my perfect Christmas.

My Thanksgiving List

Today is Thanksgiving. From tradition we might believe this idea originated with the Pilgrims on the Massachusetts shore hundreds of years ago.

But my friend, David, from the book of Psalms understood this concept long before William Bradford and Mary Allerton.

“I will give thanks to the Lord because of his righteousness and will sing praise to the name of the Lord Most High.” Psalm 7:17

“Let us come before him with thanksgiving and extol him with music and song.” Psalm 95:2

“Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name.” Psalm 100:4

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.” Psalm 107:1
Today what presses on my heart and causes it to lift in thanksgiving?
Here is my Thanksgiving List. As usual there is really no particular order.

contentment
love
circles
daughters
Steve
vision
patience
hope
Angela
Terri
Jennifer
Denise
Andy
laughter
falling walls
professor's glasses
Sharon
filters
mornings
sighs
renewal
tenderness
New Testament Survey Class
idiosyncrasies
Betty
Abby’s discernment
memories—old and new
provision
Orion
surprises
7:00 a.m.
transparency
John Legend
Olivia’s bruised dancing feet
Abby’s gorgeous smile
Anna’s profound words
Katherine’s intense passion
neighbors
standing on tip-toe
Anna’s wisdom
connection
commonality
Joe
achieved goals
My daughters’ father
peace
Olivia’s wit
my Dad
dominoes
Southland
Katherine’s compassion
brothers
love languages
the library, my job, and the staff
Brenda
dreams and wishes
fairy tales
Crossroads
The Body of Christ
Mac
purpose
healing
faithfulness
quickenings
conviction
Did I mention my four daughters?

Bend Low

“I love the LORD, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy. Because he turned his ear (bent down) to me, I will call on him as long as I live.” Psalm 116:1-2

O bend low, sweet God.

I am just a little girl
wanting you to
incline your ear to me.
Eager for you to
turn your head toward me.

I am a small child.

Persistently speaking,
wanting so much for you to hear.
Unabashedly touching
the hem of your sleeve.
Boldly tugging
for your undivided attention.
Wistfully longing
for your face to turn toward mine.

Bend down to me.
Please bend down, I pray.
You must bend because
even on my tip-toes I can not
reach that high.

Who are you to bend so low?
Who am I to ask?

You bend so low because you are my father.
I ask because I am your child.

Incognito

“We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade, the presence of God. The world is crowded with Him. He walks everywhere incognito. And the incognito is not always hard to penetrate. The real labor is to remember, to attend. In fact to come awake. Still more, to remain awake.”
C.S. Lewis
—Letters to Malcolm

I have seen you.
In glassy, colored, concave mirrors—
just fleeting glimpses.
Perhaps they are nothing more than flash pan,
momentary impressions.
Maybe they are simply figments of my own
eager imaginations.

But in my peripheral vision
(the part of my sight not impeded
by preconceived ideas)
I see the back of you—

I think it is you.
I want it to be you.
I need for it to be you.

I run and try to catch you.
My feet pound the uneven, broken pavement.
The wake of your flying coat becomes
a pulling, drawing filament
connected to me.
I reach forward to grasp

the fleeting glimmer
The undulating wisp
The lingering aroma

of You.

I must follow—
compelled
by the shadowy images
on the backs of my eyelids.
I watch
for any clue
that you have been here.
I turn the corner
searching for the
trailing cloud of your glory**

You seem to elude me.

Are you in disguise?
Are you moving freely about
Incognito
wondering, hoping
your people will recognize you?

Are you delighted when we do?

Are you thrilled when we gasp
and drag in a breath of air?
Because in this brief breath-held moment
we see you face to face—
and you wink.
Then you smile and take off again
wanting and engaging us to follow.

You are traveling incognito—

What beautiful, varied, and tragic disguises you don.
You cloak yourself in the frailty and fragility of the human soul:

The grungy, ragged coat
the risqué, black lace
the four-button sweater
the designer suit
the wounded eyes
the hesitant caution
the polished façade
the angry defense
the pain-filled countenance
the loud bravado
the wary glare
the drug-induced stupor

Only those who will look
beyond and through these
will see you.

In the moment
we peer into
the concave mirrors of another soul--
what we see in their reflection will startle us.

And we will become fully awake.

In each other we will see you.

Incognito.



**William Wordsworth

Lovely Waste

During a dinner for Jesus and his disciples, a woman moved inward among the recliners at the table. Culture and tradition was forgotten. Hair unbound, eyes focused, hands trembling. She came toward Jesus with an alabaster jar filled with expensive perfume. And of all things, she broke the jar and anointed Jesus, right then and there—in full view of them all. Then she took the act a step further: she dried his feet with her hair.

Scandalous, questionable, risky behavior.

You know the story. You have heard it from many angles.

A woman bent—kneeling at the feet of Jesus. She is scrutinized and criticized. In the eyes of many she is weighed and found wanting. She comes up short. Wasteful woman. Their words are derisive and condescending. And they discussed her as if she were not present.

Crazy woman. She doesn’t have a clue what she has just squandered. Immediately they deemed her act to have no value. There were too many other “good” things that could have been done. Even Judas made suggestions, and the others were in agreement. They turned to Jesus for his assessment.


Jesus remained silent. He did this often when the disciples made fools of themselves. He waited until the heat of their protestations had dwindled. He paused until the intensity of their overwrought reactions dissipated (remember the woman caught in adultery?)

And then he spoke. As usual they had missed the point.

She had opted to be extravagantly wasteful rather than piously good.

“Leave her alone. She has done a beautiful thing to me.”

Some versions of Scripture translate the word beautiful as “good” or “beautiful”. This particular word has a slightly different nuance. It means “lovely, winsomely good, not just morally good (though this thought is present)".

“Leave her alone. She has done a lovely thing to me.”

The disciples are stunned. They stammerd and murmured at the rebuke. Once again their paradigm of value in Jesus’ kingdom is shifted and turned on its head. All their lives they had been taught to value the “good”. They had watched the Pharisees: pious and devout. And so their definitions of good evolved and revolved around the outward, religious acts of the Pharisees.

And of course we should take note. We should pay attention. We should be willing and even eager to be extravagantly wasteful for and toward Jesus.

But I have learned something else. Never would I have caught this truth had I not studied and pondered this dear woman’s sacrificial actions. I discovered the word kalos (lovely and winsomely good) as a result of studying her.

My God has always been good to me. Always. Since I was a young girl: lost and in utter darkness and profound poverty. His goodness has led me, guided me, conducted me, convicted me, compelled me, and corrected me. As I survey the last forty-some years of my life I see not just traces but rivers of this goodness flooded over me and my life.

Recently though, as I have assessed and weighed and pondered my life, I have found a tributary in his river I had never noticed. This tributary is an endless succession of blessing and intervention and grace: specific and detailed. It is so evident I wonder how I actually missed its presence, but I did. Then I realize why.

I questioned my God’s judgment. I have questioned his actions toward me. As he has poured out rich perfume on me I have protested. I have fussed. I have argued. Surely there is someone or something more worthy of his attention? Surely there is someone who deserves this lavish outpouring more than this crazy woman named Tamera—with all her flaws, issues, walls, and sins. Surely. My whining objections were loud, and my balking behavior was overwrought.

But he waited, in silence, for my protestations to dwindle and dissipate.

Then he spoke to me. As usual I had missed the point.

“Leave me alone. I am doing a lovely thing for you.”

I am the recipient of the kalos of God.

My God, through Jesus, has been extravagantly wasteful to me.

Redemption

“For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life…but with the precious blood of Christ…”
I Peter 1:18

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine."

Isaiah 43:1b

My God!

You have been my Redeemer.


Saving me from pitiful predicaments
—though many were created from my own weak will.

Rescuing me from perilous places
—though at times I have gone willingly and sometimes I have stumbled in the dark.

Ransoming me from the enemy
—though often my own choices brought me to his territory.

Protecting me from myself
—though often I have not acknowledged or taken responsibility for my poor
discernment.

The reality is your redemption does not end. It is not a one-time event in history. Your redemption is a continual theme in this brief story of mine.

But in the finite frailty of my humanness I could not comprehend that your redemption restores spoils I was unaware had been raided and plundered.

Your redemption of Tamera (and anyone reading these words) reaches back into the past and stretches forward into the future. Incredibly your redemption is also NOW. You are summoning me by name here in my present—in the daily profane and holy now of my life.

Your redemption leads to restoration far beyond what and where I was before. You will not take me to that place again. You will take me beyond—into the richness of your abundance—into the broadness and depths of your grace.

I am stunned

I thought I understood the beauty and joy of your redemption. I believed I had seen and experienced your riches. I thought I understood your bowl of blessing for me. I thought I had seen a glimpse of the trailing essence of your glory.

I was and am short-sighted.



Oh my God, correct my vision!

My Crazy Beautiful Daughters

I have the most crazy, beautiful daughters.

And I am one of the richest women in the world because of them. They have blessed me far beyond my hopes. And they make me very, very proud to be their mama.

One sent me a Facebook message this morning. Simple, forthright, direct. And I could only smile and laugh. Her simple words were enough to last the whole day.

Another daughter called me this morning. We laughed and cried together. And we shared hard things and encouraged each other.

Then my younger daughters came down and hugged me—their beautiful faces were the first ones I saw this morning. I spend most of the day with them, yet I find myself wishing there were more hours in the day.

I am acutely aware of how very blessed I am.

My crazy beautiful daughters.

They are Unique. Gifted. Insightful. Passionate. Intelligent. Street-wise. Deep. Sassy. Energetic. Witty. Keen. Quick. Lovely. Edgy. Compassionate. Bohemian. Non-conformists. And they love Jesus.

When I was young I dreamed about being a mother. I had vivid daydreams about what my children would look and be like. My wildest most wonderful dreams could not touch the reality of who they are. I didn’t dream big enough.

My crazy beautiful daughters.

They inspire me.

They encourage me to be me.

They call me to a higher place.

Eating Cake

I have returned from my adventure.

My cruise to the places of paradise is over--now hidden away in private thoughts and memories. I was forever changed during this trip not by some great and momentous event, but by little things building one on another.

I have many stories to tell, but you can only tell one story at a time. Here's my first.

Eating Cake

He was just a little boy. We will call him John.
Tow-headed and fair. Sun-kissed.
Dressed in simple shorts and tee shirt.
His feet couldn’t touch the floor; they dangled and swung free and limp.
He balanced the plate on his lap; the cake tilted precariously (he wasn't a bit concerned that it might fall).

I watched him. Enthralled, I sat and stared at him (I know it was rude, but I just couldn't help myself).

The cake was three-tiered. White with layers of icing. Decadent, rich, and elegant. Others were eating the same kind of cake using forks in tiny manageable bites, but they didn’t interest me.

John ate the elegant cake with his little boy hands. He would pick up the whole wedge and take enormous bites from the section that reached his little mouth first—top or bottom it didn’t seem to matter. He would lick his lips (stretching his little tongue as far as he could) before each new bite.

I took photos and he didn’t even notice.

He had no napkin, so I waited to see what he would do when he finished.

He didn’t disappoint me.

He started at the base of his hand and licked all the way to the tips of his fingers. Several times. Then he licked his thumb and each finger one by one. Only then he was finished.

But I wasn’t.

I wanted a piece of cake (and I really don’t even like cake).

There in the Piazza of the Crown Princess I learned a lesson from a little boy I called John. I had to brush a few hot tears away as I quickly jotted notes down on a piece of paper I found in my bag.

John enjoyed his cake. Every crumb. Every morsel. He was not bound by decorum and etiquette. No one (not even his mother) handed him a fork. No one told him to go and get a napkin. No one told him he was taking too big of a bite. They simply let the little boy be and eat his cake.

I want to eat life like little John ate cake.

With relish.

With enthusiasm.

Without the restraints and constraints of what is deemed proper.

I want to sit somewhere and let my feet dangle and eat a piece of cake with my fingers and lick each one of them and laugh. Who am I kidding? I want to lick my whole hand and not miss even a smudge of icing.

If we treated our relationship with Jesus like little John treated his piece of cake--a whole lot more people would be interested in eating cake.