And The Rains Came

This morning I am sitting in the quiet of my sanctuary and I hear the rain coming down outside. Slow and steady. Hard enough to saturate the cracked ground, steady and consistent enough to penetrate the hard soil. The rain barrel will be full.

My youngest daughter started praying for rain weeks ago. Bold and mouthy she asked God specifically for rain—imitating Honi* she sat down on our front sidewalk and decided she would wait there until the sky spilled rain.

And the rains came. Sparse and scant. But it was enough to slick her hair to her head and dampen her clothes to her skin. She sat there for a long time and we laughed with her and she waited. She danced in the rain on the sidewalk (same one I danced on years ago) and I joined her. We frolicked and held onto each other. Laughing and forgetting to be self-conscience. Later in the evening she decided to get out of her comfort zone and she danced in the middle of our road. I could see her head over the tops of the cars from my place on the front porch steps.

She had prayed for rain. Asked God to send it.

The whole summer has been an endless succession of baking temperatures. Off the charts heat. Two weeks or more of temperatures in the triple digits.

Our front porch was often vacant because of the smothering heat. Even the early mornings proved to be too warm to enjoy a leisurely breakfast. We stayed inside. Shades closed. Lights off. Anything to reduce the temperature and help the air conditioners as they labored.

But she asked for rain and since that night we have had many rainstorms.

You have to learn to ask for rain.

I hadn’t fully recognized how hot and dry my life had been in the past year.

Circumstances melded together and created some long stretches of intense heat. It was a season of survival. A time of one new element added to the story after another. Major life changes—in rapid succession. A year of a sometimes grueling and demanding schedule.

I didn’t realize I was longing for rain.

Until my daughter sat on the sidewalk and asked God to send it.

Until she risked looking like a fool in the asking and the anticipation of expecting Him to send it.

And I wondered: was my faith still in a place where I was willing to look like a fool? Was I in a place where I could and would ask God for something and expect an answer? Where had I misplaced my child-like faith in my Father to do things beyond the ordinary? Against the grain? Outside the confines of the box I have gradually put Him in since I became an adult? Am I willing to look like a fool? Am I willing to take a risk—is it a risk if it really is a sure thing? Is depending on the character of God a risk? If you don’t know him or only know of him you might answer yes.

I looked at her sitting on the sidewalk. And then I watched her dance in the road. She prayed and expected God to answer. Not out of arrogance. Not out of entitlement. Not out of ignorance. But she asked out of a place of trust. Trust in who she knew the Father to be. The only risk for her was being willing to look like a fool. She took that risk.

And the rains came.





*Honi's story comes from The Circle Maker by Mark Batterson.

Hope Floats

One of my favorite movies is Hope Floats with Sandra Bullock and Harry Connick Jr. I have watched it way too many times, but I really watch it only for a few reasons: the relationship between Bernice and Birdee, the just breathe scenes on the boat and dance floor with Bullock and Connick and the one line that you almost miss—hope floats.

Birdee Pruitt: Childhood is what you spend the rest of your life trying to overcome. That's what momma always says. She says that beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it's the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning. Just give hope a chance to float up. And it will...           Hope Floats, 1998. Twentieth Century Fox

I never understood that line. For a long time I couldn’t wrap my arms around that concept. Hope was still under the surface in my life. I just didn’t get it; I didn’t know what hope looked like. I watched the movie just to hear Birdee say that phrase.

But God is always far ahead of us. His orchestration is already ripples and ripples beyond what we can ask or imagine. At that time I didn’t see hope floating among all the debris and rubbish. During the year of my forty-first birthday I began to see hope bobbing on the water. Briefly at first. Only glimpses in my peripheral vision. Then the debris began to move and sink and I began to hope.

Hope does not disappoint us—hope floats. When all else falls in the water and the weight sucks it to the bottom, it is hope that floats. Hope, any at all, will rise to the surface and float. It will hover on the top of the water. Because real hope (not hope-wishing) is backed by God.

Hope reminds me that the Father is going to keep remaking and cleansing me until I rise to the top. Even when I keep getting it wrong, when I keep missing the mark, when I really realize I am a mess, when the wrong words leave my mouth, when my attitude is warped, when I fail to listen, when I am reluctant to obey, when I am afraid to speak, when I hesitant to intervene God still pours his love into my heart. That is hope. 

He loves me still. Amazing.

When I study Scripture I tend to pull out phrases and words. I dig and mine them attempting to excavate gems or hit a seam of coal. And Romans 5:5 was being made manifest in my life before I even noticed. Now I cling tightly to the seam of its precious truth.

And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us. Romans 5:5

God—Notice who is doing the pouring here. God. Not my children, not my husband, not my friends, not my co-workers or my church body. God pours. My God. And he is dependable and faithful.

Poured out—Notice the deep sense of lavishness here, no holding back, no conservation. God isn’t stingy with his love. It isn’t measured out in rational portions. He does not mete or dole out his love with caution because it might run low or be depleted. God doesn’t hesitate; he just pours.

His love—Notice what he pours. Love. Not punishment. Not condemnation. Not wrath. But I fear we have diluted this word love until it is nothing more than a romanticized fairy tale. This is not completely accurate because even in the fairy tales there is the presence of enduring, pure and strong love. Sacrificial love. The undercurrent of our culture’s definition of love is that it allows you to be true to yourself (whatever that is supposed to mean), that it doesn’t have to say it is sorry, that it doesn’t have to go out of its own way, that it doesn’t have to be accountable, that it only has to give until it gets uncomfortable. Listen, this is not God’s love.

Into our hearts—Notice where he is pouring this strong, real love. He pours it out on us, his children. God pours his love into these frail, dirty containers. He pours his love into these hard, stone-like vessels. He pours with a generous hand on the Body of Christ—his people. The ones called by his name and by his purpose. Our hearts become the receptacles for his lavish love. This should compel us to go and do likewise.

By the Holy Spirit—Notice how he does this. Through the Holy Spirit that he gives us. He sends this Spirit to show us truth, to counsel us, to remind us of what the Father has said and to walk beside us. The Spirit doesn’t just visit us; no, he comes to abide in us.

Now, when the debris and rubbish begin to fill my small creek the Spirit reminds me of what God has done in the past. He reminds me that I will see God’s hand move on my behalf. I may not see it immediately or clearly at first, but I will see. And in my peripheral vision a light will begin to bob on the surface of the water.

And I will be reminded that hope floats because of God’s remarkable, indefatigable, limitless love.

A Pregnant Hope

Every day last week the temperatures edged into the triple digits. Intense heat. Moving outside felt like stepping into a stone bread oven—the heat waves danced, undulating like a mirage in the desert. Oppressive and heavy. This heat is a robber. It steals energy, it seems, from the very marrow of the bones.

We had just finished dinner and decided to move out to the porch. The heat was dissipating because rain was falling somewhere. The scent was moving in the air, and the breeze was fluttering over the tops of the tomatoes and across the expanse of the porch. And the heat began to move away, carried by the breeze and it left fresh, crisp air behind.

Three of my four daughters were here. One of the highlights of my days is when I manage to get all four of them in the same place at the same time. They are all grown now and so this doesn’t happen as often. Two of them are round with child—incubating two precious little boys who will change our lives completely, utterly.

And that is how the night felt. The waiting for the rain mirrored the waiting in pregnancy. This waiting is a beautiful and tiring anticipation of something good and wanted and needed. Something longed for.

Lighting flashed and sparked against the sky. Thunder grumbled and quarreled in the air. And a few drops began to fall. My third daughter was standing on the front porch steps, one level down, watching the display. I moved in behind her and put my arms around hers, and laid my chin on the top of her head. It had been a long, long time since she had fit in that place. Under my chin. In my arms.

For a brief time I stood behind her and rubbed her arms and kissed the top of her head as I used to do when she was a little girl. Contentment swelled in me and opened up the very cells of my being. I didn’t even want to twitch for fear she would move away and the moment would be gone. I hoped it would lengthen and spread like the wet places on the sidewalk.

Later I sat down on the front porch step and my husband came and sat in front of me—this giant of a man leaned back against me and we braced each other. (We do that—brace each other when we need fortification, carry each other when the other is weak or tired, hold each other when we are fearful or agitated and love each other even when we seem or feel unlovable.) We perched on the edge of those steps for a long time watching the stormy night sky. Both of us were listening, waiting, anticipating.

Hoping.

Doesn’t our culture’s definition of hope seem like a funny thing? Often it is flighty and frivolous—like wishes on tilted birthday candles or fluttering dandelion seeds. Hope seems unsubstantial—like elusive shadows or invisible longings. Ethereal and airy. Not the stuff of this earth.

We were hoping for rain. We watched the sky and listened to the storm, but there was little promise in it. But we hope-wished anyway.

I hope-wish for a lot of things. But this kind of hope is not enough.

I want the kind of hope my daughters have right now. Their hope is not seen; their sons are tucked away and are being knit together within them. My daughters are hoping that their sons are developing, growing and lengthening. There’s evidence for this hope. These tiny little boys kick and turn and shift much to their mothers’ discomfort. But my daughters can’t see them, but they hold within them a very real hope that these little boys will arrive. They do not have their sons yet, but they are waiting for them and anticipating them. It is not a wish. It is hope.

Pregnant hope. Swelling, growing, expanding , enlarging.

Someday I know that the rain we need will come. Eventually the conditions will be favorable and the wind currents and heavy clouds will bring the much anticipated rain.

Someday in the future my daughters will recognize birth pains. And they will begin to count the minutes between them. The time span will decrease and the pains will increase. They will need to hope no longer. It will be upon them. Their hope will be in their arms.

Someday the answers I pray for will come. The conditions will eventually be favorable. Right now I can’t see the answers. I can’t find the solutions. I can’t drum up the resolutions. And I start to get discouraged. I begin to be weighed down and burdened. Right now my wisdom seems folly, my strength seems puny, my intentions weak, my abilities inadequate.

But I have hope.

I am waiting for my God to answer. And this waiting is a beautiful and tiring anticipation of something good and wanted and needed. Something longed for.

A pregnant hope.







Romans 8:24 NIV
…but hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has?

Waiting for the Rain

There’s been no rain here in weeks. Our yard is brown and straw-yellow and the blades of grass crunch under your shoes and stab your bare feet. The tomatoes and azaleas are vivid green only because I water them daily.

I started with the rain barrel. Every morning I dipped the bucket in and tipped it and let the water pour in and fill. I pulled up water that had sat for days and days. It was dark and murky. Stale. Stagnant. Full of stink.

Jeremiah’s cisterns.

But it was water. It was wet. So, every day I pushed the bucket down and watched it fill. Then I leaned to one side and carried the bucket and poured the earthy-smelling liquid on my pampered tomatoes. The rain barrel’s level has been depleted bucketful by bucketful. My arm is no longer long enough to reach down and retrieve it.

This week I have gone out every morning before the heat of the day and resorted to using the water hose. I turn the nozzle to shower, attempting to imitate real rain, and water my gems. Standing in my bare feet I spray until the ground is saturated. Until it is dark and moist. The stalks straighten and the leaves revive. I come back the next morning and the ground is pale and dry and the plants are deflated. I spray again.

The plants have survived because of the rain barrel. They have continued to grow and put forth fruit because of the water from the hose. But it is rain from the heavens, coming down from above, that will make them explode in vibrancy of color and heaviness of foliage and fruit.

They are waiting for rain. A release and refreshment from the heat. They need a clean, clear drink of water that permeates and saturates the hard crust of ground that surrounds them.

Isn’t that where we find ourselves sometimes? In the middle of a season of intense heat? Planted in hard, dry ground? We are in the midst of change, pain, worry, frustration, fear, fatigue and confusion.  We are right in the middle of it all and we know that going backward will be just same as going forward, so we trudge onward.

But we are thirsty. So thirsty. Depleted. Dehydrated.

We know the water from the rain barrel is water. It is wet.

But we long for a drink. Just a cold, cold drink of water.

This week there is someone in your life who needs a cold drink of water. This is not a maybe. Not a perhaps. No, there is someone. And they need someone, us, to come to them and offer a cold metal dipperful or a cool pottery cup of fresh clean water.

They may even need us to hold it to their mouths for them.

They have been drawing from the cistern. They have been dipping their buckets, but perhaps, their arm is too short to reach the dregs of water in the bottom. And dregs are gritty in your mouth. Really, they leave you thirstier than before.

These precious people need a kind word, a warm hug, a gentle nudge, a simple prayer, a squeezed hand, a quick wink, a chosen verse or a short note.

They need a drink of water. They don’t need more cistern water. They need a drink from the spring of living water.

It’s hot out there.

They're waiting for the rain.


Go give a cold cup of water in His name.

Go.


Jeremiah 2:13
Mark 9:41

Letter to my Youngest Daughter

Every year of SITS I have sent a package of written notes with you—wondering if they will have relevance, if they will have any import, if they will have impact. Every year.

This year is not different. Often I try too hard—only to forget and then remember that it is God who takes his own word and does with it what he wants. Only he knows what you truly need, what you long and sigh for in the depths of all that is Abby. Only he knows.

And so I trust him—not to use my words, but to use his. And his word will appear in the most unlikely and obscure places. They will suddenly stand up from the page or out from the wall or appear as scribblings in the sand. But they will appear. The better thing for me to do is ask that your eyes be open to see and interpret, that your mind be plowed and receptive to the seed and that your heart would be open and perceptive to his methodology.

All of us long for that moment in our personal histories that we can look back and attest that this was the place that we met God. This is the place he spoke to us through his Spirit and changed our lives. We long for the Isaiah 6,  the Transfiguration and the Upper Room experiences. We want to be able to mark our history. But because we are finite and so very linear in our thinking we do not see the entirety of our history—we do not see the myriad of ways God changes our lives in the daily plodding of our living. This is a gradual shifting of our hills and valleys and we often fail to recognize what he is doing.

God, our God, has been shifting and moving great mountains of earth in you this past year, Abby. This has been painful; your whole inner tectonic plate has been shifted. Now you are living with the adjustments and acclimations it takes to readjust. And you are attempting to remap who you are.
This week he will want to show you how he wants you to live in this new terrain. You have had a year of ducking falling trees, dodging rolling boulders and running from avalanches. All of these have taken their toll from you in one way or another. But now, Abby, it is time for you to rest.

Remember, you are his delight. Your earthly father named you, but your heavenly Father chose your name. It is not some aesthetic accident because it flowed well with your last name. It is not just because your dad liked the way it looked on paper. God named you, and in naming you he called you.

And the calling he has on your life is a hard one. It is hard to be a prophet in a compassion-mercy and tolerance driven world. It is hard to stand alone and call black black and white white when so many people just want you to divert to gray. It is hard to stand for justice and right when the standards of these realities seem to be so arbitrary. It is hard to be seventeen and four hundred and sixty-three at the same time.

Rest this week. Rest.

Allow the God you so love to minister to you. To heal you. To restore you. To rejuvenate you. To under gird you. To encourage you.

He will rebuild what has been broken. He will restore what has been pilfered. He will replenish what has been siphoned.

Be his delight this week. You won’t have to try very hard.



Love, Mama.

Quarter of a Century

She’s prayed with and for me. She’s cried with and for me. She’s dreamed with and for me. She’s laughed with and at me. She’s openly shared with me and attentively listened to me. She’s stood by and behind me. She’s had my back and she’s helped guard my heart. She’s exhorted, encouraged, challenged and reprimanded me.

For twenty-five years Terri has been my kindred spirit, my best friend and my spiritual mentor. For a quarter of a century we have been woven into the tapestry of the other. Each of us a distinct weft of color that wends over and under the warp God strung for both of us.

She has spoken into my life more than anyone else in my history.


I met her fresh out of college and newly married. Our paths intersected at a Christian bookstore; I believe one of the sole reasons I worked there is because God ordained the crossing of our paths.


During our friendship we have never lived in the same city or town. There was a ten year stretch we didn’t see each other at all. We became adept in the art of letter writing. Our letters would arrive in our mail boxes—recognized immediately because of our distinct scripts. On our retreat she brought a box of my letters; she had saved them (just as I have) over the past twenty-five years. The stack was tall, yellowed and frayed. . Occasionally we talked on the phone, a rare event. Then the dawn of the internet and email began. I was slower than her, but finally I entered that world and we talked almost daily. Since we have started to text and that has opened a another realm of connection.


When I met her at the bookstore—I was a believer in Jesus. I had just graduated from a Christian college with a Bible degree and was married to a minister, but I was in an embryonic stage of my faith. I loved Jesus and wanted to serve him, but I was young and idealistic. My faith was heart only, passion and zeal, my mind hadn’t engaged yet. I didn’t understand what Jesus meant when he said love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.*  My faith, over the next few years, was to be tried, tested and proven. And Terri would be present and available through it all.

God used this friend to help my fetal faith to grow and mature.

She does not have a college degree, yet because of her vast depth and breadth of reading, her articulateness in argumentation, her reasoning skills, her intellectual insight and her sensitivity to the Spirit she is one of the most brilliant and most intelligent and most godly people I have ever known.

She introduced me to writers like C.S. Lewis, John Stott, John Piper and Eugene Peterson.

I was opposed to Paul and his writings for years, but she challenged me to study him, to look closely at his letters, to meet the man. She didn’t push; she didn’t attempt to sway me. She simply asked me to study Paul with her for one year. I did and my response and reactions to Paul were transformed.

She’s given me too many gifts over the years to count (one of her love languages). Her gifts are revelations of who she is and who you are. They reveal how much she loves you and they highlight how she listens and interprets what you have shared with her.

I am not sure I could pick my absolute favorite gifts, but four stand high above the rest.

Many years ago I took my daughters and we spent the weekend at her home. We actually went shopping together. I was fawning over a black leather backpack purse that was on sale. I couldn’t justify purchasing this for myself so I left it behind. Sometimes you just have to make hard decisions. When it was time for me to go home I gathered all our suitcases and bags and put them by the front door. Right before I left I discovered a gift bag had been placed there. I opened it; yes, my backpack purse was buried in the tissue paper. That purse is now worn out—the leather tinged green in the worn places—I carried it for years.

On my fortieth birthday she gave me a black leather-bound copy of the Valley of Vision. This compilation of prayers has become an integral part of my spiritual terrain. When I am in a dark, dry place I return to this book. When I feel like I am languishing in the cistern of my faith often this little volume will remind and return me to the truths of Scripture. She knew the beautiful depth of the thought and language would minister to me.

During our recent retreat we exchanged gifts, and I wondered if Terri was secretly Mary Poppins when I wasn’t around. The bag was packed with things she had accumulated for me over the last couple of years. Every gift had a story and a purpose, but my favorite was a prayer pendant—an intricately designed, black and silver Celtic piece. My breath caught. I have a deep fondness for prayer beads, for rosaries and their purpose. Several years ago I started making my own prayer chains, and she bought the pendant thinking I would find a special purpose for it. When I got home I attached her pendant to my own prayer chain. This pendant is now my amen piece.

We both love the ocean. Often Terri vacations at the ocean. One particular year she wanted to find something special for me. She rose very early one morning and prayed for me. She asked the Lord, in his generosity, to please send a treasure on the beach to give to her dear friend. Me. Partway through her walk she discovered one of my greatest treasures. In the sand, deposited by the evening tide, was a large, whole conch; its ivory surface only slightly marred from its journey from the sea to her hands. An answered prayer. The story and the shell are symbolic reminders of God’s faithfulness to her, to me—to us.

These are special and remarkable gifts, and James tells us that every good and perfect gift is from above. * *

But when I count my one thousand gifts***—this friend is one of my greatest treasures.




Thank you, Terri,
for a quarter of a century.
Is it selfish to ask for a half century?

 * Matthew 22:37a.

**  James 1:17a

*** One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp

Place of Fire




My precious friend on the steps of the Grotto

My friend and I did not pick or choose a theme for our weekend together. We simply longed to share time together—physically in each others’ presence. We wanted to see the animation of our faces, hear the inflection of our voices. We wanted to talk and laugh and cry together. Though over four hundred miles separate us geographically we still do life together, but we wanted space and time  with each other.

The retreat center was so quiet. All the hums of modern life were muted or completely absent. The house sat far enough off the secondary road that even the passing of cars was not heard. When I woke up in the mornings the only, only, thing I could hear was a bird that sat right outside my window. This silence had weight and volume.

As we moved across the grounds we fell into this silence. We did not talk in whispers, but the volume of our voices was subdued. Gentle and easy.

Near the Prayer Labyrinth there was a structure: a grotto. I was intrigued. It was a building created of craggy, rough stones that were dirt gray, irregular shaped and pumice-like. No two stones were alike.

We walked up the steps and opened the door. Inside was a sanctuary. The structure was hollow and rose perhaps twenty-five feet at its center. I thought of the beehive huts of the monks on Skellig Michael* in Ireland. The deepest roots of me must have recognized this because I could have spent a long stretch of time in this rocky hive.

In the center was a small niche with a door. A metal door with an embossed communion cup on its surface. I am such a curious soul. I have to touch and look and peer into and at everything (this amuses my husband tremendously). This was no exception. I opened the door. My friend was taking photos and absorbing the atmosphere of the grotto just as I was, but there were very few words. Only the weighty silence.

I was not sure what  I would find when I opened the door of the niche. My initial thought was that I would find communion: a loaf of bread and a cup of wine. Incongruent, but it was my thought. I think that is what I would have put there if this grotto had been in my backyard.

I opened the door and what I found was so unexpected. This was my first experience in a grotto. Perhaps this is what is always in a niche of a grotto, I don’t know. The niche was filled with paper. Prayers. Prayers written on ripped paper plates, crumpled napkins and torn sheets of notebook paper. Prayers written in Spanish and English. Paragraphs. Sentences. Words.

My heart squeezed too tightly in my chest. I reached out my hand to touch the papers, but couldn’t bear to disturb them. I couldn’t move these offerings, these pleadings that people before me had written and placed inside.

I turned away to study the rest of the interior of the grotto, but several times I returned to the prayer niche.

The foreshadowing of a revelation began to form while I stood in that hushed cool place. I could feel it on the edges of my spirit, on the perimeter of my spiritual awareness.

It wasn’t until later that I understood and the revelation became manifest to me. It wasn’t until we were in the local Wal-greens printing the photos that the foreshadowing began to have substance. And the image emerged.

When I previewed the photo of my friend standing on the steps of the grotto I understood.

Peter tells us in his first letter that as we come to him (Jesus), the Living Stone—rejected by men but chosen by God and precious to him—you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. *

The next day we walked the grounds one more time. I stopped in front of the grotto. In a far deeper and greater way I understood that we are stones, living stones, being placed into the Body of Christ—this spiritual house God is building. All through the ages from Adam and Eve onward, God has been building—laying foundations and then walls to build the Body of Christ. And at the center of this spiritual house, of this structure we call the Body, is prayer.

Prayer, this communion with the Father, is the secret, quiet and desperate place at the heart of this spiritual house. In houses of old the hearth was the center. The fire in the fireplace was essential for warmth, for light and for preparation of meals. And when the fire went out often people would go to the neighbors for live coals to restart their own fires.

This is prayer: lighting the fire for our neighbor.

The Holy Spirit came upon the disciples of Pentecost as tongues of fire. Through prayer we are united, through prayer we are connected both to each other and the Father. Through prayer we are made aware and brought awake, through prayer we are changed and through prayer we are transformed.

We are called to pray. As the Body of Christ, as living stones, we are called to be a royal priesthood. The priesthood stood before God on behalf of the people they represented. Collectively and individually we are called to prayer. We don’t understand what it means to be priests. We have often reduced this communion to duty, tradition and obligation. Our prayers become rote formulas instead of passionate intercession for others. We pray generically. We pray hesitantly. We pray passively. We pray awkwardly.

Why?

Because we are afraid we are going to get it wrong.

I looked at the prayers in the grotto niche. I saw them and I read the words. They did not get it wrong.

The prayers in the niche were sighings and longings cried in the dark. Cried in the prayer closet. The prayers were spiritual sacrifices. Our God said if we call on him and pray to him he will listen. We don’t have to get it right. The Spirit will do that for us. Peter said that these sacrifices will be acceptable through Jesus Christ. Because of Jesus they will be acceptable. And Jesus is the living Stone, the Cornerstone, of this spiritual house.

We are the grotto. And at the center of us is the niche. And the niche should be a place of fire.




http://www.skelligexperience.com/skellig_michael.html


2 Chronicles 7:14 NIV

Jeremiah 29:12

I Peter 2:4-5

Let Me Be

Almost five years ago I decided to create a modified version of a bucket list. This list wasn’t prompted by the antics of Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, but by my oldest daughter who first engaged in this exercise on her blog. I followed. My original list, No Particular Order, was posted here in 2007. In the last few weeks since the retreat I have revisited that list.  God be forever praised!

My original list called for me to line dance in Texas. Funny how these little things can be modified and still fulfill the real wish. I haven’t lined danced, not country style, but I have done the Electric Slide and the Cha-cha slide at two high school proms and at my daughter’s wedding. And I have laughed at myself while missing steps and fumbling to find the rhythm (which I never do quite do). I have laughed at how alive it makes me feel. I have enjoyed purposely taking the risk of having fun and looking like a fool. I have accomplished both.

My original list called for me to sit with someone while they passed from this life to the next. Again in a modified way my daughter and I did this back in January. Our little dog, Molly, had been with us for fifteen years. She had grown senile, blind, deaf and feeble. For months I agonized about whether it was time to put her to sleep. All my daughters agonized, but urged me to go ahead. Finally, I made the appointment. That morning (almost six months ago) my youngest daughter and I got in the car. She held Molly on the trip there. Neither of us knew what to expect. Neither of us was prepared. We were not ready for the speed with which Molly passed or the emotion that backhanded us. I carried her to the car, wrapped and swaddled, and held her all the way home at my daughter’s request. She drove. And we buried our little dog in our backyard.

My original list called for me to hold and kiss my future grandchildren. Soon. Very soon. September. I’m waiting. Eagerly. Joyfully. Ecstatically. Prayerfully.

My original list called for me to walk a prayer labyrinth. On June 2, 2012 I did. Saint Joseph’s has a prayer labyrinth—an asphalt square painted dark blue and white on a light blue background. It is situated on the opposite side of the Center from the House of Prayer. On Saturday morning after breakfast and our first morning conversation we walked the grounds. I knew which direction we would go. We went to several other places first (will write about those later), but my heart was bent toward the labyrinth.

I stood on the perimeter and gazed across its breadth. I tried to trace the path with my eyes only to get lost and have to start over. Inwardly I wrestled about how to start. In a mental tug of war with myself I asked way too many questions.  How do you walk a prayer labyrinth? What do you do? How do you start? Here I was, literally standing, on the cusp of something I had desired to do for years and I was hesitating. My friend, the gracious one that she is, left me alone. She walked the area around the labyrinth taking photos of flowers and trees and the surroundings. Not once did she intrude, coax or speak. She just let me be.

I was praying and I felt the gentle urgings and proddings of the Spirit. Just take the first step. Tamera, just put one foot in front of the other and I will lead you all the way.

I did. I stepped forward and began to walk the labyrinth. And as I stepped into the labyrinth I asked a question.

Father, what do you want me to do? What is the next step?

I wasn’t just asking about here in the labyrinth, but in life. What do you want me to do?

I walked with my hands behind my back. Head down. When I looked up and tried to see where I was going the endless loops and turns caused confusion and disorientation. So, I just followed the dark blue path. One foot in front of the other.

As I walked that winding path, the Spirit talked to me. I am his sheep; I know his voice. Tamera, I want you to just be. You keep asking me what I want from you. What do I want you to do. What my will is. What I want you to do is just be.

A cry escaped my mouth as I turned another loop.

I want you just to love me. Love me. Love my people. However that looks and in whatever way I just want you to love me.

I was on the outside loop now. Tears were brimming in my eyes and my vision was blurred. Surely there is more that you want me to do, Lord? Surely.

You didn’t hear me. I want you to stop this fitful striving. I want you to rest in me. I want you to simply love me. Everything that you are I want bent toward loving me. It’s that simple. That’s what I want you to do next. You don’t think that it is enough, but it will be enough.

I stepped into the center of the labyrinth and stood. I waited in that painted floret, in a space wide-open and yet utterly closed. A spacious place, yet a prayer closet. A holding place, yet a launching pad. A center, yet a doorway.

I looked at my friend. She was smiling at me. Her head tilted. I wanted to stay right there. I wanted to stay in the center of the labyrinth. But I turned and began the walk back out of the winding path. My feet began to hurry, but I purposefully and willfully slowed the pace. On the way out I prayed for the people I love. I prayed for blessings and riches and comfort and challenge for my daughters and son-n-law, my husband, my grandsons, my family and my friends. One sentence prayers as long as the length of a loop, one word prayers as the loop turned.

When I stepped out of the labyrinth my friend was waiting. She hugged me and I cried. She asked me where those tears came from, but I had no answer. And she just let me be.

My Labyrinth Prayer—2007

—reposted and edited from the archives.

Lord God,
Walk with me around the spiraling corridor of my asphalt path.

Let the sound of my shoes become the cadence of my inner worship.

s I kick the rocks and pebbles in my path,
and when I lose my footing on the crumbling edge of the road—
remind me that you will catch me when I stumble.
You will steady me.
You will set me aright.

As the light calls to the morning,
Call to me, O God.
As the darkness gives way to light,
Help me to give way and be enlightened.
As the darkness recedes,
let me be filled with your light gradually—
slowly so that my fragile self will not be completely undone.
I cannot encompass you.

As I tread along my course inward,
help me shed and discard everything
that will not lead or aid me in my journey toward you.
As my awareness of your Presence increases,
take me to a place until it is just you and me.

Please tighten and narrow the spiraled cell
so that my awareness of self
dissipates in your Presence.

As I push aside all my preconceived notions,
manifest yourself to me and in me.
Be the reality of my longings.
Let me see only you.

As I dwell in this still, lucid moment with you—no matter how brief—may I know you.
Lord God, I ask that you increase the length
each time I join you there.

Then when I have seen you—
when my moment of awareness is done—
help me to walk outward again.
Retrace my steps with me and
help me to retrieve
only those things which will enable me
to bless and bring lucidity to others.

House of Prayer

(This year my friend and I celebrate 25 years of close and endearing friendship. This journey has been amazing and rich and wonderful. The next few posts will chronicle our retreat the first weekend of June 2012.  We came together to celebrate her birthday and to celebrate an extraordinary relationship. This is the first post of this series.)

It is early morning, and I am sitting in my den. I have not known what to call this room since it has played many different roles while I have lived here in this house. But this room is my special place now. When all the rest of the house slumbers, when the only noise is the ticking of the clock, I sit here on my corner of the couch with my morning paraphernalia around me.
I’ve left the back door open simply so I can hear the rain. The only light this morning is from the window. Just a simple rectangle of muted light. I can see the rain drip off the branches of the dogwood and hear it hit the deck. I sit and attempt to allow my restless soul be still.

This is not an easy task for a woman whose mind is at full throttle almost before her feet hits the floor. My husband often tells me I have to give him time to catch up, that I have already mapped out the day before he even completely opens his eyes. There’s some truth to this. Bless his heart.

But this morning I sit here in this beautiful, lovely place and think about my family, my friends and all of you who read these words.

This morning this place reminds me of the House of Prayer (pictured above at left). A couple of weekends ago my dearest friend and I went on a personal retreat together. We met at Saint Joseph’s Retreat Center in Tipton, Indiana. In 2005 we had a retreat together at The Cove with Beth Moore, but this time we went alone—just the two of us. No agenda. No plans. No itinerary.

I packed my bags and left everything behind. I especially wanted to discard expectations because often I expect what is not necessary. I expect the ordinary. I expect the commonplace. Or I expect The Transfiguration or Water to Wine and I miss the little miracles if there really are such things.

We stayed in a beautiful log cabin. This house was nestled off to the side of the retreat center property, hidden among trees. Careful thought had been given to the layout and furnishing of this retreat; it felt like someone’s home.

And for three days it became ours.

We picked up the recliners and moved them in front of the fireplace, and that is where they stayed until checkout time when we returned them to their original places. That fireplace became the gathering point of the weekend. During the day we would venture out on the grounds, we would stand and gaze out the wall-sized windows and at night we would retreat to our own rooms and remain until we were ready to emerge the next morning, but it would be to the fire we would return.

Like women of another century we sat in front of that fireplace and talked, discussed and reminisced. Our words and memories and hopes became our knitting and mending.
At night the fire was our only light. And I watched as the blue flames danced shadows and cast light on my friend’s face as she talked. In those moments I prayed for her. Prayed for there to be more light than shadow in her life. And I wondered if my face too was lined and shadowed.

When we got hungry we would fix a meal and sit at the bar—slide up a stool and share a meal and break bread together. Rarely have we gotten to share meals together, but we have broken bread too many times to attempt to count. And this breaking of bread with her has often been a great part my nutrition and sustenance.

We talked of everything: from The Hunger Games to grandchildren, of the complexity of Paul’s life and theology, of the wonder and diversity of beauty and the ugliness and disparity of evil, of our voracious reading appetites and our current indulgent television viewing. The gambit of our conversations would have given whiplash to others, but we reveled in it. There have been many mornings we have longed to have a cup of coffee with each other over a scarred kitchen table, but we have not been able to because of the miles that separate us—we were making up for those mornings.

One of the hardest questions we asked during this time was do we really know how to pray? At the end of the day when it is all finished do we honestly know how to pray? We talked about the fact that we don’t know how prayer works or why. We only know that it does. We asked if traditional forms of prayer were the only ways to pray. For over seventy years (when combined) we have been praying. And we are both still asking questions.

Is simply holding someone’s name before the Lord prayer? If we stood before the Lord and just held up each other by saying our names to the Him, wouldn’t that be prayer? The Holy Spirit interprets for us when we have no words. When we don’t know what to pray He intercedes for us. * So, if we stood before him holding a name in our hands and offering it—this name that encompasses who this person is—wouldn’t God understand? Does God need our words? Or does he want our offering? Our surrendering? Our yielding? Our giving over? Our giving up? These were the burning questions in our hearts.

On Sunday we were preparing to leave. There was reluctance because we were going back to the reality of the marriage of life. As we stood there together I told my friend that I had been concerned that we had not sat down and had a long prayer session together. Isn’t that what a retreat is supposed to be? Studying God’s word and praying?

We looked at each other. We know each other. No, listen. We really know each other. I know most of her darkest secrets and she knows most of mine.


We looked at each other and I spoke to her, “This whole weekend has been a prayer. This ongoing conversation we have engaged in has been prayer. And God has heard us. **”

We had been in the house of prayer. We had prayed. We had sighed for each other, for our children, our grandchildren and our spouses. We had sighed for each other. We had held each other before the Lord. And he knew our names.

Paul tells us to pray without ceasing. I used to wonder how that was possible. Over the years my understanding of prayer and Paul’s exhortation has been changed and deepened. Prayer is much like the fire that burned continually in that house all weekend. A continual blue flame. Consistent and steady. In the fireplace and in us. Most importantly and most significantly in us—individually and collectively.

We spent the weekend at the House of Prayer. The fire burned. And here, really is the most beautiful thing: the fire burns in my house and it burns in my friend’s and it can burn in yours. As I sit here in my sacred place, this place set apart, the fire of prayer flickers and leaps. A continual blue flame burns for those I love and hold so dear and for those who seemingly seem to be my enemies and for those I have yet to meet.

And for you who read these words—the fire burns in this house of prayer.


Psalm 38:9

* Romans 8:26-27

**Malachi 3:16

http://www.csjoseph.org/tipton_indiana.aspx

http://www.thecove.org/

Another Tomato Lesson

In an earlier post titled An Endless Parade I talked about the miracle of the tomato plants here on our little plot. The Lord must have the tomato in my life to be visual lesson for me. I have to laugh. Of course he would use the one thing in my life that can rival chocolate! I often say that if you place a true garden-grown tomato and dark chocolate in front of me I would hesitate, but most likely choose the tomato. Our God always uses what will gain and garner our attention to teach us.

The tomatoes came up on their own again this spring. Several little plants shot up through the ground and they looked like nothing more than weeds (they are weeds). My husband and I waited. We wanted to let these plants get bigger before we started to weed the beds. We wanted to let them grow for a while so they would establish good roots and withstand the transplant.

Now, I talk like I know a lot about tomatoes. Let’s get this straight. I don’t. I know more now than I did two years ago, but I still know very little. But I have a couple of people in my life who do. There are two in particular.

One would be considered an Olympic tomato grower. Not a professional expert, but an incredibly well-trained and disciplined tomato grower. His beds and plants look like works of art. The other is a professional expert. I asked her a question the other day about a tomato problem and I was stunned at the wealth of usable information that she gave without hesitation. She’s an expert. But there are lots of people who are experts. What separates her from the others is that she truly loves the tomato. She loves the the tomato in a manner akin to my own passion. When you couple the expertise with the passion then you have someone to listen to and emulate.

But, here’s what I tend to do. Because I am not an Olympic amateur or a passionate expert I tend to dismiss my own experiences and knowledge of the tomato. That, however, is for another post.

At the beginning of seedling season this expert was discussing tomato plants with me. She was talking way over my head and far beyond my limited experience, but she said something that caught my attention. We were talking about growth and how we wanted our tomato seedlings to grow.

We want growing, not just stretching.

My mind was about to cloud over with all the information she was giving me, but this phrase shouted for my attention. God had found a teaching moment with me. He knows how to talk to me. He knows my language.

In a tomato plant’s cycle of growth there needs to be enough light and nutrients and water to promote new cell growth. If all of these elements are present in goodly and consistent amounts then your plant will be stocky, thick and full. If one or more of these elements are not consistent, especially sunlight, then the plant will be tall, thin and with a sparser set of leaves. This means that there has not been a great deal of new cell growth. What is happening, this expert explained, is that the present cells are stretching. They are pulling upward to try and gain the sunlight. But there is little new cell growth. If you were able to look at the plant on a cellular level you would see that the cells are pulled and misshapen in their attempts to reach upward. These plants are more frail and fragile in their structure.

They are tall because they have stretched not because they have grown.

How many times in my life have I asked God to stretch me? Now, I understand the context that I have most often made this request: I wanted to move outside of my comfort zone. But as I listened to this information about the tomato, because of Jesus’ constant use of agricultural visuals, I knew I needed to ponder this.

Do I want to be stretched? Do I want the spiritual cells present within me to just be stretched or do I want new cell production? I don’t want to be frail and fragile. I want to be strong and thick and stocky (when have you EVER heard a woman say this phrase?)

The Word never talks about being stretched (I only found one reference in the NIV. Psalm 104:2. God is stretching out the heavens there.). But through his Word our Father is constantly exhorting and encouraging us to grow.

New cell production.

This is what I will ask for now. I no longer want what is present in me to simply be stretched.

I want growth.


Come, Master Gardener. You are my expert. I ask for your gentle assessment concerning whether I am growing or just simply stretching. Don’t allow me to be fooled or deceived by the height of my stalk. I don’t want to stretch myself; I want you to grow me. Produce new cells in me. Healthy cells: ones that will lead to the bearing of fruit. And that is the point, isn’t it, God? To produce fruit in accordance with who we are. To produce fruit in abundance. I ask that you help me stop striving to stretch. Help me to settle into this spot you have planted me. Send water, nutrients and light. And help me recognize the methods and means by which you do this. Help me to simply just be and grow.

Amen and amen.

Hebrews 12:1

Before this year of school came to a close I was sitting in my third period World History class. We were not studying World History that day. We were on chapel schedule which made us have a shorter class period. I didn’t want to introduce our new subject until the following week. So, I allowed my students to study for a final in their next class.

They wrote Hebrews 12:1 on the board and were trying to memorize the verse for the Bible 10 final. Over and over they repeated the verse. Out loud. One word at a time. Then they removed words and had to fill in the blanks. They almost had it memorized. I loved to hear them—in unison their voices repeated this incredible exhortation of the Hebrew writer. There were bursts of laughter and cajoling. Many stops and starts.

God shows up in the most unexpected places. Yes, they were studying His Word. For the test? Probably. But the Word of God was planted in their hearts and it will grow. It will produce fruit. But this study session wasn’t just for them.

Often times I think I learn far more from my students than they learn from me.

As I listened to the rhythmic litany of the words of Hebrews the last phrase exploded behind my head. The leader of the group’s voice was right behind my right ear, my back to him. But the words:

Therefore, since we are surrounded by witnesses let us throw off everything that hinders, and the sin that so easily entangles us, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Hebrews 12:1

I opened my Bible to read the words myself to make sure my ears were hearing correctly. How many times have I read this verse? Yet—the race is marked out for us.

This was an epiphany.

Others have probably simply understood it from the beginning, but Tamera can be quite dense at times.

I am not supposed to run someone else’s race.

No, I am to run with perseverance, not someone else’s race, but the one my Father marked out for me.

For me.

I don’t run. First of all, believe me you would not want to see me run. Even though the phrase offends me slightly, I do run like a girl. Second, my family cringes when I run and they beg me not to even speed or power walk. That’s how I broke my ankle. I was running.

Anyway, I don’t run. But if I did, I would want the race marked out for me. I would want mile markers and signs and directional arrows just for me. And God has done that for me.

He’s made my race personal.

He knows the bends and turns where I will falter and stumble. He knows the rocky places that will slow down my pace. He knows I will lose clarity when I get to the wooded places. He knows I will struggle with my breathing in the high places. And he knows at what points in the race I will grow weary. He also knows the places of beauty I will pass and the points of interest that will encourage me. He knows what will distract me. He knows me, so he tailor-made my running route.

He gave me instructions for the race. Often I don’t understand them. He gave me encouragers who stand along the roadside and cheer for me—slow as I am. But he decided to do more. He came and ran the race ahead of me. He ran my race.

But God didn’t stop there either. He runs the race with me now. I don’t run alone. Regardless of how I think or feel on this race I am running I am never alone.

I do not run alone. He promised me he would never leave nor forsake me.

This metaphor begins to lose its revelation for me because I do not run, but I understand. My race is not a revamped version of someone else’s route. My race is similar to all the races run in history, but not identical.

This relieves me.

I am not expected to run someone else’s race. I am expected to run mine. And I don’t have to run it alone.

And thanks to my third period World History class I almost have this verse memorized.