Phenomenal Women
What a summer!
On June 1st my second daughter traveled over 5500 miles to Bolivia. She is spending her summer working in a Hospital of Hope. This morning my oldest daughter flew to a major city to work in inner city missions work through the July 4th weekend. And Monday my two youngest daughters will travel to my Alma Mater for a week-long teen convention.
My daughters. I have written about them before; I have talked about them frequently. They are incredible women. Actually they are phenomenal women.
Recently I discovered Maya Angelou’s piece Phenomenal Woman. Then shortly after I stumbled across a random CD of Ruthie Foster. Foster recorded Maya’s poetry as a song, and it has played quite loudly in my car many times since. (Luckily when I sing the car is empty!) I saw and heard my daughters in its voice.
(If you would like to read the poem, follow this link: www.poemhunter.com/poem/phenomenal-woman/ )
My heavenly Father has transformed, conformed, and formed incredibly phenomenal women in my four daughters. I see his handiwork and fingerprints all over them and it expands my heart. They are such wonderful, lovely and gracious blends of their father and me—but, and even more, they are all unique.
Phenomenal is defined as something or someone who is highly extraordinary. Very early on the girls’ father and I strove (and still do) to instill independence and strength and compassion in our daughters (there are times when I laugh and think we might be guilty of overkill).
We wanted them to be phenomenal—extraordinary.
Maya speaks of the “inner mystery of a woman and that it is to be found in the arch of her back, the sun of her smile, the grace of her style, the fire of her eyes, and the flash of her teeth.”
So today I was thinking about my daughters. And on the back of my eyelids, clips and movies were rolling—power points of each of them. For a split second I could see the sun of Anna’s smile, the flash of Katherine’s teeth, the fire of Abby’s eyes, the arch of Olivia’s back.
I am blessed. Utterly blessed.
This week, Katherine will pull a Bolivian child into her arms and make him not only smile, but laugh. And she will splint a broken leg with cardboard. This week, Anna will hand food to a homeless woman and look her in the eye. And Anna will never forget her face. This week Olivia and Abby will attend a conference, but more importantly they will participate and be involved in a community. They will laugh, cry, encourage, and pray with this community and begin to learn what it means to be an integral part of God’s Body.
And Momma?
Momma will pray.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Assembly
Gather your people,
Oh, Almighty God.
Assemble your Body,
Oh, Mighty King.
Please speak to us:
Extend your invitation throughout the expanse of our land
and to the edge of its borders.
Let the winds be your messengers
and draw your people—
And let us have ears to hear.
You have summoned us by name.
Calling and rousing us from afar—
our terrestrial, spiritual, and emotional positions
have not hindered or impeded you.
We have been named the called out ones.
Call us out, O God,
And gather us together to become the assembly of the saints—
We can feel the rise and draw of your Spirit.
You are settling us according to your purpose.
You are arranging us according to the gifts you allotted.
You are placing us on the invisible battlefields of your choosing.
You are positioning us in obscure arenas.
You are establishing us in seemingly insignificant theatres.
We wait with Christ’s Ecclesia for your instructions.
We are at attention.
We stand at ready.
While we wait:
Raise in us a revived spirit of worship.
Instill in us a renewed mind of unity.
Tender in us a refreshed heart of teachableness.
Assemble us and transform your Body, Oh Lord!
Psalm 149:1 (NIV)
Oh, Almighty God.
Assemble your Body,
Oh, Mighty King.
Please speak to us:
Extend your invitation throughout the expanse of our land
and to the edge of its borders.
Let the winds be your messengers
and draw your people—
And let us have ears to hear.
You have summoned us by name.
Calling and rousing us from afar—
our terrestrial, spiritual, and emotional positions
have not hindered or impeded you.
We have been named the called out ones.
Call us out, O God,
And gather us together to become the assembly of the saints—
We can feel the rise and draw of your Spirit.
You are settling us according to your purpose.
You are arranging us according to the gifts you allotted.
You are placing us on the invisible battlefields of your choosing.
You are positioning us in obscure arenas.
You are establishing us in seemingly insignificant theatres.
We wait with Christ’s Ecclesia for your instructions.
We are at attention.
We stand at ready.
While we wait:
Raise in us a revived spirit of worship.
Instill in us a renewed mind of unity.
Tender in us a refreshed heart of teachableness.
Assemble us and transform your Body, Oh Lord!
Psalm 149:1 (NIV)
Say What You Need to Say
I went to bed and woke up with this deep sense of urgency to write—this longing and yearning to translate the inner language of my soul. Yet I know not where to begin.
I tell my students that the writing well must be primed. Sometimes you have to stand and pump the handle many times before the water begins to trickle from the spigot. Yesterday, I told the class you must write every day in order to keep your writing muscles strong and toned. (I am mixing metaphors, sorry). I haven’t followed my own instructions, and my muscles have weakened. It doesn’t take long for them to atrophy or for the pump handle to become rusty.
In class a student shared that he had a hundred ideas about what to write, but didn’t know where to begin. I am not sure where to begin either. I have made notes for months, but the stories have remained unwritten. Ideas have floated without anchors; they have waited patiently to be moored on the screen.
I must simply prime the pump.
One day at work one of our lovely, regular patrons came in to pick up her books. She stood and chatted with us, and I noticed a locket she was wearing. It was a large gold locket just a little bigger than a silver dollar. The locket was inscribed, but the printing was far too small to be just simply a date or a mere sentiment.
I asked questions.
The locket was a gift from her husband. He had recently passed away, and I was afraid I was invading a sensitive place, but she kept sharing. Her husband had written her a love letter, and to ensure its preservation he had it engraved on this locket that she now wore around her neck.
As she shared her story she held the locket in her hand and rubbed her thumb over its front and back—a gesture, I am sure, she wasn’t aware of and repeated often.
She smiled and said, “We were married for 52 years, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I miss him terribly.” There was no self-pity, no despondency, and no regret in her voice. Just matter-of-fact statements. She picked up her bag of reading materials and walked away.
I was left in tears.
How often do we voice our love to those we hold the closest and dearest? How often do we take the time to ensure that they will know this even if we are gone? What measures do we take to make sure they have some token, some symbol, and some memento so that they might remember?
This precious lady was so pleased to share her story, and in sharing she kept her own memories alive. In telling me the story of her locket she was able to relive and remember all the circumstances and events surrounding this gift.
I am hoping that for a brief moment she felt him near. Perhaps for a small increment of time she was able to see him and hear his voice reading the words etched on the face of the disk she wore around her neck.
I have the feeling the words were not eloquent—I am sure they were not Shakespearian or Browning sonnets, but they were his words and his declaration of love for her.
Often we don’t say something to someone for fear of our words being inadequate or concern for their lack of eloquency. We hesitate because we don’t want to be misunderstood or we are concerned we won’t be understood at all. These are not adequate or acceptable reasons for silence.
The heart has a way of learning how to translate and interpret.
This precious woman had translated her husband’s words. They have been a solace and a balm in his absence.
John Mayer sings, “Say what you need to say.”
As I held that locket in my hand—I realized this wonderful woman’s husband had said what he needed to say.
I tell my students that the writing well must be primed. Sometimes you have to stand and pump the handle many times before the water begins to trickle from the spigot. Yesterday, I told the class you must write every day in order to keep your writing muscles strong and toned. (I am mixing metaphors, sorry). I haven’t followed my own instructions, and my muscles have weakened. It doesn’t take long for them to atrophy or for the pump handle to become rusty.
In class a student shared that he had a hundred ideas about what to write, but didn’t know where to begin. I am not sure where to begin either. I have made notes for months, but the stories have remained unwritten. Ideas have floated without anchors; they have waited patiently to be moored on the screen.
I must simply prime the pump.
One day at work one of our lovely, regular patrons came in to pick up her books. She stood and chatted with us, and I noticed a locket she was wearing. It was a large gold locket just a little bigger than a silver dollar. The locket was inscribed, but the printing was far too small to be just simply a date or a mere sentiment.
I asked questions.
The locket was a gift from her husband. He had recently passed away, and I was afraid I was invading a sensitive place, but she kept sharing. Her husband had written her a love letter, and to ensure its preservation he had it engraved on this locket that she now wore around her neck.
As she shared her story she held the locket in her hand and rubbed her thumb over its front and back—a gesture, I am sure, she wasn’t aware of and repeated often.
She smiled and said, “We were married for 52 years, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I miss him terribly.” There was no self-pity, no despondency, and no regret in her voice. Just matter-of-fact statements. She picked up her bag of reading materials and walked away.
I was left in tears.
How often do we voice our love to those we hold the closest and dearest? How often do we take the time to ensure that they will know this even if we are gone? What measures do we take to make sure they have some token, some symbol, and some memento so that they might remember?
This precious lady was so pleased to share her story, and in sharing she kept her own memories alive. In telling me the story of her locket she was able to relive and remember all the circumstances and events surrounding this gift.
I am hoping that for a brief moment she felt him near. Perhaps for a small increment of time she was able to see him and hear his voice reading the words etched on the face of the disk she wore around her neck.
I have the feeling the words were not eloquent—I am sure they were not Shakespearian or Browning sonnets, but they were his words and his declaration of love for her.
Often we don’t say something to someone for fear of our words being inadequate or concern for their lack of eloquency. We hesitate because we don’t want to be misunderstood or we are concerned we won’t be understood at all. These are not adequate or acceptable reasons for silence.
The heart has a way of learning how to translate and interpret.
This precious woman had translated her husband’s words. They have been a solace and a balm in his absence.
John Mayer sings, “Say what you need to say.”
As I held that locket in my hand—I realized this wonderful woman’s husband had said what he needed to say.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Tell the Story
When Olivia was eight, she was a tiny dancer, and one of her first performances was Happy Feet. She was a tiny little thing, yet quite indignant that she had to lie on the floor with her ballet feet up in the air.
I am not sure we realized how prophetic this dance and song would be for her. Each year, each performance made her physically stronger, enabled her to mature as a dancer, and fed her passion to express herself through the art of dance.
Her family has been at every performance, and for the most part our eyes and attention have been mostly for her. Our eyes have been riveted to her—her smile infectious, her enthusiasm contagious, her energy transferred. We dance through her. I, her mother who has no rhythm and no tempo, can dance if just for a brief few moments through her.
Before each performance we have a deep conversation: dance your best, dance as if no one is watching, dance as if you aren’t being evaluated, dance from your heart.
Also during this period before the performance she zones and becomes tunnel-visioned. She can only see what is directly linked to the performance; everything else is forgotten or stored away until it is over.
This performance is based on the parable of the Ten Virgins found in Matthew 25 1-13. Perhaps you know the story.
Ten young women are preparing for the wedding week of their friend. They are waiting for the bridegroom, waiting for him to arrive, waiting for him to escort them to the festivities. But they must be ready; they must be prepared. All ten take lamps filled with oil. All have thought about what they needed in the moment, but only five take extra oil to fuel their lamps if the wait is longer than anticipated. Only five think about the wee hours of the morning.
The glorious bridegroom arrives. They all jump up ready to follow. All. Did you notice—all? But a problem surfaces: five of the young girls discover their lamps’ oil supply has been depleted in the long night. They panic. They turn to their friends, their companions, and plead with them to share their oil. There will be no sharing. There is neither enough time nor enough oil. The wise virgins go with the bridegroom and the foolish are left. For lack of preparation they miss the wedding celebration. For a lack of vision they miss the wedding banquet.
This parable breaks my heart. I vacillate between anger and pity. Between angst and urgency.
Tonight my daughter will dance the role of a foolish virgin. She volunteered for this role. Why? At first I thought it was because she thought it would be more fun to play one of the bad girls of the Bible. Given her incredible bent and propensity toward theater, I am sure this was part of her decision. But this was not the whole reason.
Her instructor, a beautiful woman, told the dancers in dress rehearsal that she wanted them to tell a story—more than technical perfection she wanted them to interpret the roles and the music for the audience.
Olivia will be the words tonight of the story. That is what dancing becomes—the words of the music. The words of the story.
Tonight Olivia will interpret the heart and the mind of one of the foolish virgins. And as the bridegroom comes and gathers Olivia's wise companions, how will she feel? How will she feel to be left behind? How will I feel to watch my daughter realize the consequences of her lack of preparation?
How will I see myself in this parable? If Olivia and all of her company tell the story tonight, if they dance in a way that draws all of us in, then these are the questions we will have to ask.
Am I prepared? Am I ready? Have I filled my own lamp and brought extra oil in case the wait is longer than I anticipated? Am I waiting and prepared for the glorious appearing of my Bridegroom?
Tell the story tonight, beautiful Olivia.
Remember you are anything but foolish.
I am not sure we realized how prophetic this dance and song would be for her. Each year, each performance made her physically stronger, enabled her to mature as a dancer, and fed her passion to express herself through the art of dance.
Her family has been at every performance, and for the most part our eyes and attention have been mostly for her. Our eyes have been riveted to her—her smile infectious, her enthusiasm contagious, her energy transferred. We dance through her. I, her mother who has no rhythm and no tempo, can dance if just for a brief few moments through her.
Before each performance we have a deep conversation: dance your best, dance as if no one is watching, dance as if you aren’t being evaluated, dance from your heart.
Also during this period before the performance she zones and becomes tunnel-visioned. She can only see what is directly linked to the performance; everything else is forgotten or stored away until it is over.
This performance is based on the parable of the Ten Virgins found in Matthew 25 1-13. Perhaps you know the story.
Ten young women are preparing for the wedding week of their friend. They are waiting for the bridegroom, waiting for him to arrive, waiting for him to escort them to the festivities. But they must be ready; they must be prepared. All ten take lamps filled with oil. All have thought about what they needed in the moment, but only five take extra oil to fuel their lamps if the wait is longer than anticipated. Only five think about the wee hours of the morning.
The glorious bridegroom arrives. They all jump up ready to follow. All. Did you notice—all? But a problem surfaces: five of the young girls discover their lamps’ oil supply has been depleted in the long night. They panic. They turn to their friends, their companions, and plead with them to share their oil. There will be no sharing. There is neither enough time nor enough oil. The wise virgins go with the bridegroom and the foolish are left. For lack of preparation they miss the wedding celebration. For a lack of vision they miss the wedding banquet.
This parable breaks my heart. I vacillate between anger and pity. Between angst and urgency.
Tonight my daughter will dance the role of a foolish virgin. She volunteered for this role. Why? At first I thought it was because she thought it would be more fun to play one of the bad girls of the Bible. Given her incredible bent and propensity toward theater, I am sure this was part of her decision. But this was not the whole reason.
Her instructor, a beautiful woman, told the dancers in dress rehearsal that she wanted them to tell a story—more than technical perfection she wanted them to interpret the roles and the music for the audience.
Olivia will be the words tonight of the story. That is what dancing becomes—the words of the music. The words of the story.
Tonight Olivia will interpret the heart and the mind of one of the foolish virgins. And as the bridegroom comes and gathers Olivia's wise companions, how will she feel? How will she feel to be left behind? How will I feel to watch my daughter realize the consequences of her lack of preparation?
How will I see myself in this parable? If Olivia and all of her company tell the story tonight, if they dance in a way that draws all of us in, then these are the questions we will have to ask.
Am I prepared? Am I ready? Have I filled my own lamp and brought extra oil in case the wait is longer than I anticipated? Am I waiting and prepared for the glorious appearing of my Bridegroom?
Tell the story tonight, beautiful Olivia.
Remember you are anything but foolish.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Happily Ever After: A Lesson and a Tribute
This was her second marriage.
This was his third.
They both had a history.
They both carried a lot of baggage.
He was several years older than her.
The odds were stacked against them.
Statistics implied that this marriage would end in divorce also.
People (including family) didn’t think it would last.
I am sure at one time they both dreamed of the perfect life. They wanted the fairy tale. No doubt they longed for the happily ever after.
As a little girl, as a starry-eyed teenager, as a young college student, as a green wife, as a new mother, as a divorced woman—I had a vision of what happily ever after looked like. I am not sure I ever articulated my definitions or expectations, perhaps not even with myself. I just knew there was a space within me that longed for the fairy tale.
Naively? Of course.
My definitions were naïve. They were unrealistic and based on culturally sentimental (secular and Christian) demands that were temporary and transient.
One of my long time favorite movies is Ever After with Drew Barrymore. This film is a retelling of the age old tale of Cinderella. A few wild twists and great character development add much interest to this formulaic plot. (Leonardo Da Vinci even appears; how he ends up in France, I am not quite sure).
My favorite quote from this movie is made by Cinderella’s great-granddaughter, the Grande Dame. She is relating the ‘real version’ of the story to the Grimm brothers. The movie ends with her words.
“And, while Cinderella and her prince did live happily ever after, the point, gentlemen, is that they lived.”
The point is that they lived.
We get so caught up with the happily ever after and whatever that entails at any given moment, in any given situation. We have allowed Hollywood and the Disney-fied versions to color and tinge this life state for us. We have traded something real for something air-brushed, compiled, and fabricated. We have traded the illusion of love for the Spirit-defined love of 1st Corinthians 13.
The happily ever after of this culture is rooted on appearance and physicality. Often it is based on what you have to offer rather than who you are. Frequently the happily-ever-after demands an arbitrary standard that does not and cannot exist.
I am rehabilitating my definition and expectations of happily ever after because over the years I have missed the point.
Remember the couple at the beginning of this post?
They will be married thirty-two years in October.
Let that sink in.
They have beaten the odds. They have defied the statistics. And they ignored the whispers and the negative talk. They determined their own definition of happily ever after. They wanted to live.
I asked them what advice they would give? What is their secret?
I got a two sentence answer.
Two sentences.
“Take care of each other.”
“Do things with each other; do what the other likes to do.”
I have observed them and their relationship. I have watched closely.
They live their philosophy.
“And, while they have lived happily ever after, the point, friends, is that they lived.”
I know this to be true.
This couple is my dad and my step-mother.
Their thirty-two years have not been necessarily the stuff of fairy-tales.
They have had more than their share of struggles and problems. They have endured the censure of family, they have struggled financially, they have lost all sets of parents, they have lost siblings. They have had to deal with an estranged daughter, they have had to cope with the horrible disease of MS ( they do physical therapy together every night), they have had to deal with horrible horse riding accidents (one was thrown from a horse and was in ICU for days).
Yet, their marriage has endured. They are admired, respected, and loved by many.
I love them both—
The day of my second wedding, my father took my face in his hands. He looked me in the eye (his were misted and so were mine) and he said to me, “Take care of each other. Enjoy each other, do things together.”
What an incredible redefining of happily ever after.
This was his third.
They both had a history.
They both carried a lot of baggage.
He was several years older than her.
The odds were stacked against them.
Statistics implied that this marriage would end in divorce also.
People (including family) didn’t think it would last.
I am sure at one time they both dreamed of the perfect life. They wanted the fairy tale. No doubt they longed for the happily ever after.
As a little girl, as a starry-eyed teenager, as a young college student, as a green wife, as a new mother, as a divorced woman—I had a vision of what happily ever after looked like. I am not sure I ever articulated my definitions or expectations, perhaps not even with myself. I just knew there was a space within me that longed for the fairy tale.
Naively? Of course.
My definitions were naïve. They were unrealistic and based on culturally sentimental (secular and Christian) demands that were temporary and transient.
One of my long time favorite movies is Ever After with Drew Barrymore. This film is a retelling of the age old tale of Cinderella. A few wild twists and great character development add much interest to this formulaic plot. (Leonardo Da Vinci even appears; how he ends up in France, I am not quite sure).
My favorite quote from this movie is made by Cinderella’s great-granddaughter, the Grande Dame. She is relating the ‘real version’ of the story to the Grimm brothers. The movie ends with her words.
“And, while Cinderella and her prince did live happily ever after, the point, gentlemen, is that they lived.”
The point is that they lived.
We get so caught up with the happily ever after and whatever that entails at any given moment, in any given situation. We have allowed Hollywood and the Disney-fied versions to color and tinge this life state for us. We have traded something real for something air-brushed, compiled, and fabricated. We have traded the illusion of love for the Spirit-defined love of 1st Corinthians 13.
The happily ever after of this culture is rooted on appearance and physicality. Often it is based on what you have to offer rather than who you are. Frequently the happily-ever-after demands an arbitrary standard that does not and cannot exist.
I am rehabilitating my definition and expectations of happily ever after because over the years I have missed the point.
Remember the couple at the beginning of this post?
They will be married thirty-two years in October.
Let that sink in.
They have beaten the odds. They have defied the statistics. And they ignored the whispers and the negative talk. They determined their own definition of happily ever after. They wanted to live.
I asked them what advice they would give? What is their secret?
I got a two sentence answer.
Two sentences.
“Take care of each other.”
“Do things with each other; do what the other likes to do.”
I have observed them and their relationship. I have watched closely.
They live their philosophy.
“And, while they have lived happily ever after, the point, friends, is that they lived.”
I know this to be true.
This couple is my dad and my step-mother.
Their thirty-two years have not been necessarily the stuff of fairy-tales.
They have had more than their share of struggles and problems. They have endured the censure of family, they have struggled financially, they have lost all sets of parents, they have lost siblings. They have had to deal with an estranged daughter, they have had to cope with the horrible disease of MS ( they do physical therapy together every night), they have had to deal with horrible horse riding accidents (one was thrown from a horse and was in ICU for days).
Yet, their marriage has endured. They are admired, respected, and loved by many.
I love them both—
The day of my second wedding, my father took my face in his hands. He looked me in the eye (his were misted and so were mine) and he said to me, “Take care of each other. Enjoy each other, do things together.”
What an incredible redefining of happily ever after.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Overflow
Jesus said, “If they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.” (Luke 19:40, NIV).
I read my daughter’s blog this week.
She is a prolific and profound writer.
(Visit her blog @ www.ancientstillness.blogspot.com, and when you do read: The Rock’s Cry).
Her refrain of “holy, holy, holy” has reverberated in my thoughts all week.
I cannot keep quiet. I can not be silent. My heart is too full, and Jesus also said that out of the overflow of the heart does the mouth speak.”(Luke 6:45, NIV)
My heart is speaking.
Not long ago the jar of me was empty—
dry as dust.
Moisture did not cling to my earthen walls;
it was absorbed too quickly.
Drought had shriveled my soul.
I was dying of thirst.
I had forgotten the taste of fresh water.
With David I thought my tongue would stick to the roof of my mouth.
I had continued to return to a well gone dry,
to a shallow, stagnant cistern.
I had been strapped to the back of a heaving, lumbering camel, and I was wandering through the desert.
This was a dire and urgent sojourn.
I was meandering in circles in this vast, unyielding place.
I wasn’t aware that if you didn’t have a focal point in this harsh place—that no matter how straight of a path you tried to walk—your path would ever circle. Your dominant leg would lead you; my right leg led me clockwise rather than straight.
But my Father heard my cries.
He heard my silent voice.
He told me to look up.
And I did.
I didn’t understand that my path was starting to straighten.
I just simply kept looking up instead of in,
Out to him instead of inward toward myself.
I could smell the water before I actually saw it.
I could feel the moisture in the air on my parched skin.
I could hear the faint gurgle of the springs.
I found myself on the edge of an oasis.
I was too amazed to remind myself I could go into the interior—I was too enthralled with the abundance of what was available on the periphery.
So, I pitched my tent and camped there for a while. (I didn’t even bother to tether my camel. He would come back if I needed him.)
Rehydrating
Replenishing
Restoring
Renewing
Refreshing
Refilling
One morning I woke and found I was full.
Full.
And that would have been enough.
But, you see, our God isn’t just about enough. He extends generosity with abundance and bounty. He causes people to fill up and spill over. He creates excessive overflow. He gives with lavishness and extravagance. His goal is to bring his people to a point of more than enough.
My God brought me deep into his oasis—I have been brought into his place of plenty.
It is a place of water, and light, and of palm trees.
I understand the beauty and value of this place of overflow because I have experienced seasons of drought.
Oh! How I want others to know this vast richness of his grace.
How I long for the overflow to rush over those near me.
I am on holy ground.
My shoes need to be removed.
I need to be facedown.
My heart is speaking.
I cannot be silent.
Holy
Holy
Holy
I read my daughter’s blog this week.
She is a prolific and profound writer.
(Visit her blog @ www.ancientstillness.blogspot.com, and when you do read: The Rock’s Cry).
Her refrain of “holy, holy, holy” has reverberated in my thoughts all week.
I cannot keep quiet. I can not be silent. My heart is too full, and Jesus also said that out of the overflow of the heart does the mouth speak.”(Luke 6:45, NIV)
My heart is speaking.
Not long ago the jar of me was empty—
dry as dust.
Moisture did not cling to my earthen walls;
it was absorbed too quickly.
Drought had shriveled my soul.
I was dying of thirst.
I had forgotten the taste of fresh water.
With David I thought my tongue would stick to the roof of my mouth.
I had continued to return to a well gone dry,
to a shallow, stagnant cistern.
I had been strapped to the back of a heaving, lumbering camel, and I was wandering through the desert.
This was a dire and urgent sojourn.
I was meandering in circles in this vast, unyielding place.
I wasn’t aware that if you didn’t have a focal point in this harsh place—that no matter how straight of a path you tried to walk—your path would ever circle. Your dominant leg would lead you; my right leg led me clockwise rather than straight.
But my Father heard my cries.
He heard my silent voice.
He told me to look up.
And I did.
I didn’t understand that my path was starting to straighten.
I just simply kept looking up instead of in,
Out to him instead of inward toward myself.
I could smell the water before I actually saw it.
I could feel the moisture in the air on my parched skin.
I could hear the faint gurgle of the springs.
I found myself on the edge of an oasis.
I was too amazed to remind myself I could go into the interior—I was too enthralled with the abundance of what was available on the periphery.
So, I pitched my tent and camped there for a while. (I didn’t even bother to tether my camel. He would come back if I needed him.)
Rehydrating
Replenishing
Restoring
Renewing
Refreshing
Refilling
One morning I woke and found I was full.
Full.
And that would have been enough.
But, you see, our God isn’t just about enough. He extends generosity with abundance and bounty. He causes people to fill up and spill over. He creates excessive overflow. He gives with lavishness and extravagance. His goal is to bring his people to a point of more than enough.
My God brought me deep into his oasis—I have been brought into his place of plenty.
It is a place of water, and light, and of palm trees.
I understand the beauty and value of this place of overflow because I have experienced seasons of drought.
Oh! How I want others to know this vast richness of his grace.
How I long for the overflow to rush over those near me.
I am on holy ground.
My shoes need to be removed.
I need to be facedown.
My heart is speaking.
I cannot be silent.
Holy
Holy
Holy
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Free-Write
Often in my writing classes I ask my students to free-write. I give them a topic and set a time limit. Most of the rules of writing are suspended for this time frame. They don’t have to worry about punctuation, grammar or spelling. When I call time they can only finish the last sentence they were writing.
This morning I am free-writing. And I have a time limit. Bear with me.
Last night I was served at an elegant café by my daughter.
Last night I waited for the arrival of all my girls.
Last night I wore a tiara with an amethyst-like stone.
Last night I wore multiple strands of colored beads.
Last night I drank wine with my daughters.
Last night I was shot with silly string.
Last night I tried to dance.
Last night I packed my suitcase.
Last night I was content.
Last night I laughed, but I didn’t cry. Unbelievable.
Last night I said good night because tomorrow would be Someday.
This morning I woke.
This morning I prayed.
This morning I rejoiced.
This morning I wrote.
This morning is Someday.
This morning I enter a new season.
My free-writing time is over.
I have to finish the last sentence:
This morning I am getting married.
This morning I am free-writing. And I have a time limit. Bear with me.
Last night I was served at an elegant café by my daughter.
Last night I waited for the arrival of all my girls.
Last night I wore a tiara with an amethyst-like stone.
Last night I wore multiple strands of colored beads.
Last night I drank wine with my daughters.
Last night I was shot with silly string.
Last night I tried to dance.
Last night I packed my suitcase.
Last night I was content.
Last night I laughed, but I didn’t cry. Unbelievable.
Last night I said good night because tomorrow would be Someday.
This morning I woke.
This morning I prayed.
This morning I rejoiced.
This morning I wrote.
This morning is Someday.
This morning I enter a new season.
My free-writing time is over.
I have to finish the last sentence:
This morning I am getting married.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
17 Minutes
Ireland has been calling my name. She whispers and beckons to the soul of me to come and dance on her shores and cliffs and green pastures. She has for years. Recently I was doing some research concerning the thin and sacred places in Ireland and was intrigued with Newgrange.
Newgrange is a burial mound in Ireland. The mound is quite large and under the great pile of earth there is a 60 foot corridor; this corridor leads from the front entrance to the inner cruciform chamber. Every year on the Winter Solstice, when the sun begins to rise, the rays laser through the mound's roof box. Slowly the corridor is lit and then the whole inner chamber.
For seventeen minutes there is light in the utter darkness of winter.
The waiting list to experience this event is years long, and the participants are chosen through a lottery.
Heavenly Father,
Paul says that because of Jesus we have access to your throne, and we can come boldly. I am coming boldly. I want something. I want something for your people.
Give us 17 minutes.
Come. Come.
Shine your light down through the dark corridors of our inner beings. Rise on us and may your favor laser through even the smallest of apertures. Send your warm and illuminating light coursing along the narrow hallways to infiltrate the dark, dusty, closed places in us.
Let your light inch down our 60ft corridors—corridors we have often closed off and hidden or denied access to others and to you. May your light heat up the cold stone of our hearts and spirits. May you warm the gritty stones of who we are.
Don’t stop, Lord, until your light penetrates and illuminates our entire inner sanctuary. The most inward places of us…where all that we hold dear and all that we fear resides.
For seventeen minutes, in this winter of ours, would you help us to see your light?
Then we will have hope--a hope that shows us that the darkness of winter will soon be over. The season of hidden-ness and slumber and lethargy will soon give way to the light and rebirth of spring.
For seventeen minutes, Lord, however that translates—let us be your Newgrange. Let us wait with great anticipation for your light to reach our inner chambers.
Thank you that we do not have to enter our name on a waiting list. Thank you that we do not have to pray for the luck of the draw of the lottery.
17 minutes.
Actually I want more.
But for now 17 minutes is enough.
Newgrange is a burial mound in Ireland. The mound is quite large and under the great pile of earth there is a 60 foot corridor; this corridor leads from the front entrance to the inner cruciform chamber. Every year on the Winter Solstice, when the sun begins to rise, the rays laser through the mound's roof box. Slowly the corridor is lit and then the whole inner chamber.
For seventeen minutes there is light in the utter darkness of winter.
The waiting list to experience this event is years long, and the participants are chosen through a lottery.
Heavenly Father,
Paul says that because of Jesus we have access to your throne, and we can come boldly. I am coming boldly. I want something. I want something for your people.
Give us 17 minutes.
Come. Come.
Shine your light down through the dark corridors of our inner beings. Rise on us and may your favor laser through even the smallest of apertures. Send your warm and illuminating light coursing along the narrow hallways to infiltrate the dark, dusty, closed places in us.
Let your light inch down our 60ft corridors—corridors we have often closed off and hidden or denied access to others and to you. May your light heat up the cold stone of our hearts and spirits. May you warm the gritty stones of who we are.
Don’t stop, Lord, until your light penetrates and illuminates our entire inner sanctuary. The most inward places of us…where all that we hold dear and all that we fear resides.
For seventeen minutes, in this winter of ours, would you help us to see your light?
Then we will have hope--a hope that shows us that the darkness of winter will soon be over. The season of hidden-ness and slumber and lethargy will soon give way to the light and rebirth of spring.
For seventeen minutes, Lord, however that translates—let us be your Newgrange. Let us wait with great anticipation for your light to reach our inner chambers.
Thank you that we do not have to enter our name on a waiting list. Thank you that we do not have to pray for the luck of the draw of the lottery.
17 minutes.
Actually I want more.
But for now 17 minutes is enough.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
To Mark or to Dance?
Steve and I had our last dance lesson last night. My daughters gave me two for Christmas, and we enjoyed them so much we signed up for four more. Not because we were naturals, mind you, but because we were having a great deal of fun. We laughed a lot with each other. I am not sure our instructor knew quite what to do with us. Anyway, during our last lesson I was doing a great deal of thinking about how dance parallels life. Of course I can't think really hard and do something else equally hard at the same time. So, I stepped on Steve's toes often and I got out of step, but that is okay because my lesson last night wasn't about the Rumba, the Foxtrot, or the Waltz.
How often I get distracted and forget the manna of His Word. I feel as if I have been to a feast, and in reality I have only enjoyed the appetizer, or I am one of the dogs under the table and devouring the crumbs. I understand the woman's words to Jesus...I understand that the crumbs of God are more filling and life-giving than a banquet of the world's vanity cakes (Little House on Plum Creek).
God doesn't want us to be sustained by crumbs. He wants us to sit down at the table and sup with him. He wants us to dine...to eat the bread and drink the wine of his word with Him.
While eating and drinking this morning, I have been amazed by the boldness of Paul. When I read the prayer of Ephesians 3:14ff I have to shake my head. Oh, to be that bold. To ask for something that big.
I think in many ways I have been afraid to ask for the power of God to be fully manifested in my life. I don't know if I am afraid that my prayers won't be answered, or that they will.
What would it be like to be filled to the measure of the fullness of God? What would it be like to have the power that raised Jesus from the dead at work in us? What could and would God do with a group of people given to this kind of praying, thinking, and living?
I think we have seen it. We are a fruit of this kind of living. Somewhere our history links with the Apostles. Somewhere in our spiritual lineage we can be traced back to the ones who walked with Jesus or who were visited by him (Paul). Because they believed, because they asked him to work in them boldly--we stand as spiritual heirs with Jesus.
But we can talk and discuss this fact all we want...the reality is will we allow God to live it in us? Will we allow him to be dangerous in our lives? Will we get bold enough to start asking him for things that will have effect in his kingdom? Will we start actually fighting in the battle or will we continue putting the stratagems on paper and playing through the theories like we would move chess pieces in our minds?
As you read in the introduction, the theme of my life right now seems to be about dancing. Every metaphor and analogy begins with this choreography that started way back when I danced in the rain (see the archives).
And then, this morning, I remembered Olivia.
There are times in the dance studio that my daughter, Olivia, will "mark" her dances. This means she will walk through the choreography in her mind with barely any movement. This is good for visualization, but eventually she must dance. Eventually those marked movements must be become full and extended with height and length and power.
It is good to learn to mark life.
But eventually we will need the power to dance this life out...to extend and expand all the choreography.
Jesus didn't just mark life. He danced it. And his choreography was crazy. Radical. Wild. Untamed. Powerful. Beautiful. Frightening. Lovely.
Paul came along and entered in full synchronicity with Jesus. He marked it once, and then he danced.
I don't want to just simply "mark" life anymore.
I want to dance.
BOLDLY
How often I get distracted and forget the manna of His Word. I feel as if I have been to a feast, and in reality I have only enjoyed the appetizer, or I am one of the dogs under the table and devouring the crumbs. I understand the woman's words to Jesus...I understand that the crumbs of God are more filling and life-giving than a banquet of the world's vanity cakes (Little House on Plum Creek).
God doesn't want us to be sustained by crumbs. He wants us to sit down at the table and sup with him. He wants us to dine...to eat the bread and drink the wine of his word with Him.
While eating and drinking this morning, I have been amazed by the boldness of Paul. When I read the prayer of Ephesians 3:14ff I have to shake my head. Oh, to be that bold. To ask for something that big.
I think in many ways I have been afraid to ask for the power of God to be fully manifested in my life. I don't know if I am afraid that my prayers won't be answered, or that they will.
What would it be like to be filled to the measure of the fullness of God? What would it be like to have the power that raised Jesus from the dead at work in us? What could and would God do with a group of people given to this kind of praying, thinking, and living?
I think we have seen it. We are a fruit of this kind of living. Somewhere our history links with the Apostles. Somewhere in our spiritual lineage we can be traced back to the ones who walked with Jesus or who were visited by him (Paul). Because they believed, because they asked him to work in them boldly--we stand as spiritual heirs with Jesus.
But we can talk and discuss this fact all we want...the reality is will we allow God to live it in us? Will we allow him to be dangerous in our lives? Will we get bold enough to start asking him for things that will have effect in his kingdom? Will we start actually fighting in the battle or will we continue putting the stratagems on paper and playing through the theories like we would move chess pieces in our minds?
As you read in the introduction, the theme of my life right now seems to be about dancing. Every metaphor and analogy begins with this choreography that started way back when I danced in the rain (see the archives).
And then, this morning, I remembered Olivia.
There are times in the dance studio that my daughter, Olivia, will "mark" her dances. This means she will walk through the choreography in her mind with barely any movement. This is good for visualization, but eventually she must dance. Eventually those marked movements must be become full and extended with height and length and power.
It is good to learn to mark life.
But eventually we will need the power to dance this life out...to extend and expand all the choreography.
Jesus didn't just mark life. He danced it. And his choreography was crazy. Radical. Wild. Untamed. Powerful. Beautiful. Frightening. Lovely.
Paul came along and entered in full synchronicity with Jesus. He marked it once, and then he danced.
I don't want to just simply "mark" life anymore.
I want to dance.
BOLDLY
Monday, February 9, 2009
Dancing on the Edge of Beautiful
Acts 3:1-10
Holding fast to the wonderful tradition of prayer at three in the afternoon, Peter and John were on their way to the temple. How many times had they passed this way before? How often in the sojourns with Jesus had they passed through this particular gate?
Other days may have been forgotten, but they would not forget this particular day. Peter and John would not forget their encounter with the long-time resident of the gate Beautiful.
Daily this man had been carried to the steps and laid there to beg—to plead for alms as people entered the court. Familiarity was his enemy. His face was so common he was easily ignored and over-looked. But he had learned. He had become bold in his crippled state.
On this day he shouted out to Peter and John. He did not know and did not understand that the life he knew was about to change. The life he had become accustomed to was to be transformed.
He asked for his usual. His words were rote and stale. Repeated over and over until they had no meaning and no emphasis. He asked for coins to buy the paltry bread so he might beg again the next day.
From his stony pallet he cried out to Peter and John as they passed by him. He waited to see if they had a generous or stingy spirit. He waited to see if they even noticed before he attempted to garner the next person’s attention.
Often people didn’t even see him. He was invisible—a part of the daily ornamentation of the temple. Even when the Pharisees deigned to drop a trickle of money into his hands, they never looked him in the eye. They did not see him.
But on this day, the men stopped before him. They squatted level to his half-way erect body. They looked and saw his face rather than his maimed and crooked legs. Not only did they look, but they spoke to him.
“Look at us!” Pay attention to us, too. Just as the others were guilty of not seeing him, he did not see or remember the contributors either.
He looked at them with expectancy. He waited for a lecture or a spotlight on their generosity.
He didn’t receive either.
Peter and John didn’t give him what he expected. Peter and John didn‘t give him the token offering for a beggar.
Instead they held out their hands and pulled him up to his feet. And as they did they were explaining that they didn’t have a temporary solution, but they would give him what they did have.
As they lifted him—Luke, our beloved physician—tells us that the man’s feet and ankles became strong. They could hold his weight. In that moment another miracle occurred.
I have had a broken ankle. When you haven’t walked on your own feet in a while, you don’t just take off walking again. Your mind has to remember and you must have body and muscle recall.
This man had been crippled since birth—he had never walked. Never propelled himself forward in the toddler waddle, never graduated to the fast three year trot. But in this instant at the Gate Beautiful, this man—this beggar—stood on strong feet and walked for the first time in his life.
Don't miss this double miracle.
Luke tells us “he jumped to his feet…and went with [Peter and John] into the temple courts (had he never been inside before?) walking, jumping, and praising God.”
Miracles dancing on the edge of Beautiful.
I have been temporarily crippled. I have been in a place where I have felt like this beggar –sitting on cold, stone steps in a throng of people.
Invisible, unseen, ignored, tolerated.
And no wonder, it is hard for people to look a crippled beggar in the eye. They can’t make eye contact either because of their own issues or because of the beggar’s victim attitude and demeanor or both. (Who knows which happens first?)
I became a crippled beggar partially because of my own choices.
My ankles and feet were weak because I had forgotten to stand and walk on my own. I was crippled because I couldn’t see past my stony perch, and I had developed a crippled victim attitude in my heart and demeanor.
I am not sure where it started or exactly what caused this attitude. I am not sure how much I contributed to my own self-pity or how much circumstances determined and fed it. I do know it was a combination of both.
But somewhere and at some point I was shaken out of my depressed slumber, and I woke up and found myself on my stony ledge.
Precarious position.
Frightening perch.
I didn’t recognize myself. I tried to ignore the identity of this pathetic beggar woman I had become. I was appalled because I realized I had created some of my own crippled ness. I was also unbearably sad and trying desperately trying to find a remnant of who I remembered being.
Finally, I began to give way to the strong urge to cry out—and I began to shout for help. I became quite bold.
There were times I cried in no recognizable language. There were times I cried and was not even cognizant of doing so.
He sent help. He sent aid. He allowed me room to turn and pivot so I could leave that ledge I had been teetering on.
Funny thing, I was given not what I thought I wanted, but what I actually needed.
Like the man at the Gate Beautiful, I had to learn to ask for what I needed. I had to learn to look up. And I had to be willing to let go of everything I thought I knew, and allow him to pull me to my weak feet.
It took me a while to learn to walk again. I had to be very careful not to favor the weak parts of me. I had to take a risk and stand and put weight on my atrophied limbs.
I didn’t stop being a beggar immediately. Unlike my friend with Peter and John, my healing wasn’t immediate and sudden. Bones are often easily mended with time, rest, and good medical attention. I have dealt with broken bones.
Broken perspectives and warped attitudes are not as easily or quickly mended.
When I did begin to cry out I did not understand how much my life was going to change. When I began to shout from my beggar’s pallet I had no idea how much or how drastically my life was going to transform.
God didn’t give me what I expected. He didn’t give me the temporary token offering for a beggar.
He pulled me to my feet and made me walk.
And it hurt.
But he helped me to keep walking and now there’s tone in my muscles again.
I rarely sit on those stony steps any more. Sometimes I catch myself easing myself down there...
but (remember the Divine Conjunction?)
For all of you who are reading my words, I want you to know I have discarded my beggar’s rags. My face and hands have been washed and my hair has been combed.
These days you can find me dancing on the edge of beautiful…
Holding fast to the wonderful tradition of prayer at three in the afternoon, Peter and John were on their way to the temple. How many times had they passed this way before? How often in the sojourns with Jesus had they passed through this particular gate?
Other days may have been forgotten, but they would not forget this particular day. Peter and John would not forget their encounter with the long-time resident of the gate Beautiful.
Daily this man had been carried to the steps and laid there to beg—to plead for alms as people entered the court. Familiarity was his enemy. His face was so common he was easily ignored and over-looked. But he had learned. He had become bold in his crippled state.
On this day he shouted out to Peter and John. He did not know and did not understand that the life he knew was about to change. The life he had become accustomed to was to be transformed.
He asked for his usual. His words were rote and stale. Repeated over and over until they had no meaning and no emphasis. He asked for coins to buy the paltry bread so he might beg again the next day.
From his stony pallet he cried out to Peter and John as they passed by him. He waited to see if they had a generous or stingy spirit. He waited to see if they even noticed before he attempted to garner the next person’s attention.
Often people didn’t even see him. He was invisible—a part of the daily ornamentation of the temple. Even when the Pharisees deigned to drop a trickle of money into his hands, they never looked him in the eye. They did not see him.
But on this day, the men stopped before him. They squatted level to his half-way erect body. They looked and saw his face rather than his maimed and crooked legs. Not only did they look, but they spoke to him.
“Look at us!” Pay attention to us, too. Just as the others were guilty of not seeing him, he did not see or remember the contributors either.
He looked at them with expectancy. He waited for a lecture or a spotlight on their generosity.
He didn’t receive either.
Peter and John didn’t give him what he expected. Peter and John didn‘t give him the token offering for a beggar.
Instead they held out their hands and pulled him up to his feet. And as they did they were explaining that they didn’t have a temporary solution, but they would give him what they did have.
As they lifted him—Luke, our beloved physician—tells us that the man’s feet and ankles became strong. They could hold his weight. In that moment another miracle occurred.
I have had a broken ankle. When you haven’t walked on your own feet in a while, you don’t just take off walking again. Your mind has to remember and you must have body and muscle recall.
This man had been crippled since birth—he had never walked. Never propelled himself forward in the toddler waddle, never graduated to the fast three year trot. But in this instant at the Gate Beautiful, this man—this beggar—stood on strong feet and walked for the first time in his life.
Don't miss this double miracle.
Luke tells us “he jumped to his feet…and went with [Peter and John] into the temple courts (had he never been inside before?) walking, jumping, and praising God.”
Miracles dancing on the edge of Beautiful.
I have been temporarily crippled. I have been in a place where I have felt like this beggar –sitting on cold, stone steps in a throng of people.
Invisible, unseen, ignored, tolerated.
And no wonder, it is hard for people to look a crippled beggar in the eye. They can’t make eye contact either because of their own issues or because of the beggar’s victim attitude and demeanor or both. (Who knows which happens first?)
I became a crippled beggar partially because of my own choices.
My ankles and feet were weak because I had forgotten to stand and walk on my own. I was crippled because I couldn’t see past my stony perch, and I had developed a crippled victim attitude in my heart and demeanor.
I am not sure where it started or exactly what caused this attitude. I am not sure how much I contributed to my own self-pity or how much circumstances determined and fed it. I do know it was a combination of both.
But somewhere and at some point I was shaken out of my depressed slumber, and I woke up and found myself on my stony ledge.
Precarious position.
Frightening perch.
I didn’t recognize myself. I tried to ignore the identity of this pathetic beggar woman I had become. I was appalled because I realized I had created some of my own crippled ness. I was also unbearably sad and trying desperately trying to find a remnant of who I remembered being.
Finally, I began to give way to the strong urge to cry out—and I began to shout for help. I became quite bold.
There were times I cried in no recognizable language. There were times I cried and was not even cognizant of doing so.
He sent help. He sent aid. He allowed me room to turn and pivot so I could leave that ledge I had been teetering on.
Funny thing, I was given not what I thought I wanted, but what I actually needed.
Like the man at the Gate Beautiful, I had to learn to ask for what I needed. I had to learn to look up. And I had to be willing to let go of everything I thought I knew, and allow him to pull me to my weak feet.
It took me a while to learn to walk again. I had to be very careful not to favor the weak parts of me. I had to take a risk and stand and put weight on my atrophied limbs.
I didn’t stop being a beggar immediately. Unlike my friend with Peter and John, my healing wasn’t immediate and sudden. Bones are often easily mended with time, rest, and good medical attention. I have dealt with broken bones.
Broken perspectives and warped attitudes are not as easily or quickly mended.
When I did begin to cry out I did not understand how much my life was going to change. When I began to shout from my beggar’s pallet I had no idea how much or how drastically my life was going to transform.
God didn’t give me what I expected. He didn’t give me the temporary token offering for a beggar.
He pulled me to my feet and made me walk.
And it hurt.
But he helped me to keep walking and now there’s tone in my muscles again.
I rarely sit on those stony steps any more. Sometimes I catch myself easing myself down there...
but (remember the Divine Conjunction?)
For all of you who are reading my words, I want you to know I have discarded my beggar’s rags. My face and hands have been washed and my hair has been combed.
These days you can find me dancing on the edge of beautiful…
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sap
Today I wrote in the last two pages of my 2008 journal. I meant to finish it before the new year began, but I kept getting side-tracked. Or rather my writing found voice in other venues: blogs, emails, cards, and notes.
When I pulled this journal out this morning I realized several pages have been torn out—simply because this journal was handy and someone needed a piece of paper. This bothered me. I wondered what would have been written on those pages had they remained. I stopped wondering and simply wrote on the pages that remained.
Winter is here. We are in its clutch. The temperatures have dropped to single digits. There is a light crust of powdery snow skiffed on our sidewalk. The house is dry. The furnace grumbles and heaves as it attempts to keep out the cold. The dogs don’t want to stay outside very long. Zoe-girl comes to the back door barking insistently to come back in the house. Coats, hats, scarves, gloves and boots litter the house. Dark circles of moisture puddle at the front door.
Recently my daughter posted her own thoughts about winter. We both struggle.
We are in winter. Light is low; the brilliance is dimmed and shrouded. And it is only mid-January.
January and February are hard months for me. The holidays are over and the bitterness of winter has settled down among us. I find it is very hard to keep the creeping shadows at bay.
C.S. Lewis was a brilliant man. The connections and insights and wisdom in his writing were extraordinary—birthed from a mind leaning in toward the things of God. I often think about Narnia: forever winter, but never Christmas. This is a stark portrayal of the absence of hope.
Lewis recognized what happens to us when our hope has been reduced or depleted.
We cannot live long or well without hope. We are too frail. Too fragile. Too brittle.
Many equate hope with a wistful dream. Misty and ethereal. Vaporous. This kind of hope is like a fog that dissipates when the sun rises; or like a child’s soap bubble that bursts with the slightest touch. We speak of this hope as if it is an entity which will easily vanish and melt away if we are not careful.
But real hope, the hope Job, David, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Paul and John talk about has a different substance. They are not talking of pensive longing. Their hope was not a flimsy thing. Their hope had its foundation firmly knotted in the character and promises of God. It was not a thread, but a rope tied to the waist of God.
There is an assurance in their hope—not just a hopeful longing—but a reality that is just not visible yet. Their ropes had been tested. They knew that if their rope did break then the arm of God would reach down for them. And his arm is never too short.
This winter is a little different for me. I still feel the shroud of its dark shadows. I still struggle with the lack of brilliant light. And the gray still bothers me, but this year there is a new hope.
I can feel this ancient hope—like a sugar maple must feel the sap as it begins to rise through its trunks and branches.
I feel the sap being held in reserve at the core of me.
And when the right temperatures come, when we get a short reprieve from the relentless cold—a glimpse of spring—and then it turns cold again, this is when the sap will run.
We don’t see this sap unless we tap into the tree. Unless we bore a hole into the bark, it is invisible to us.
I know it will not be forever winter.
I have tied my hope to the waist of God.
I feel the sap.
When I pulled this journal out this morning I realized several pages have been torn out—simply because this journal was handy and someone needed a piece of paper. This bothered me. I wondered what would have been written on those pages had they remained. I stopped wondering and simply wrote on the pages that remained.
Winter is here. We are in its clutch. The temperatures have dropped to single digits. There is a light crust of powdery snow skiffed on our sidewalk. The house is dry. The furnace grumbles and heaves as it attempts to keep out the cold. The dogs don’t want to stay outside very long. Zoe-girl comes to the back door barking insistently to come back in the house. Coats, hats, scarves, gloves and boots litter the house. Dark circles of moisture puddle at the front door.
Recently my daughter posted her own thoughts about winter. We both struggle.
We are in winter. Light is low; the brilliance is dimmed and shrouded. And it is only mid-January.
January and February are hard months for me. The holidays are over and the bitterness of winter has settled down among us. I find it is very hard to keep the creeping shadows at bay.
C.S. Lewis was a brilliant man. The connections and insights and wisdom in his writing were extraordinary—birthed from a mind leaning in toward the things of God. I often think about Narnia: forever winter, but never Christmas. This is a stark portrayal of the absence of hope.
Lewis recognized what happens to us when our hope has been reduced or depleted.
We cannot live long or well without hope. We are too frail. Too fragile. Too brittle.
Many equate hope with a wistful dream. Misty and ethereal. Vaporous. This kind of hope is like a fog that dissipates when the sun rises; or like a child’s soap bubble that bursts with the slightest touch. We speak of this hope as if it is an entity which will easily vanish and melt away if we are not careful.
But real hope, the hope Job, David, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Paul and John talk about has a different substance. They are not talking of pensive longing. Their hope was not a flimsy thing. Their hope had its foundation firmly knotted in the character and promises of God. It was not a thread, but a rope tied to the waist of God.
There is an assurance in their hope—not just a hopeful longing—but a reality that is just not visible yet. Their ropes had been tested. They knew that if their rope did break then the arm of God would reach down for them. And his arm is never too short.
This winter is a little different for me. I still feel the shroud of its dark shadows. I still struggle with the lack of brilliant light. And the gray still bothers me, but this year there is a new hope.
I can feel this ancient hope—like a sugar maple must feel the sap as it begins to rise through its trunks and branches.
I feel the sap being held in reserve at the core of me.
And when the right temperatures come, when we get a short reprieve from the relentless cold—a glimpse of spring—and then it turns cold again, this is when the sap will run.
We don’t see this sap unless we tap into the tree. Unless we bore a hole into the bark, it is invisible to us.
I know it will not be forever winter.
I have tied my hope to the waist of God.
I feel the sap.
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The Thrill of Hope--Jeremiah, Part 1
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