Tying the Knot

In so many ways, it was a typical Sunday morning. Church and lunch, and a brief time of rest after both. But the day was anything but typical. We went home to change not into our Sunday afternoon napping, relaxing clothes, but into wedding clothes. On April 26th at 2 pm, I drove to our church to join the preparations for my daughter’s wedding.

There were no frenzied preparations. No last minute blunders. No jittery nerves. The atmosphere in the room was still and easy—like the slow rhythmic pace akin to the push and pull of a porch swing.  Nephews (my grandsons) were present eating lunches and snacks on folded-out chairs.

The bride-groom reveal was quiet and unassuming. I didn’t get to see it, but I heard the groom teared up when he saw his bride-to-be. When it was time the bride and the groom walked into the church and down the aisle together.

 

She held a smooth, silky white rope; he grasped a dark, rough hemp rope. They laughed as their hands turned and pulled—two knots forming to push against each other. Back to back. Shoulder to shoulder. When pulled, the knots would hold—fast. But a loop turned wrong, and her eyes flickered up to his in a trace of panic,

“That was wrong wasn’t it?” she asked.

He helped her redo, never commenting, never offering censure. They, my third daughter and her lumberjack man, tied the knot.

They tied a fisherman’s knot in the middle of their tying THE KNOT.  During their wedding, I watched them pull the ropes through the loops, and I envisioned God's grace moving through the ends and the outs. Over and across. God's mercy and grace and truth weaving the knots together--sturdy and strong against the silky smooth.

Olivia, Egyptian-like in her glimmering gold sheath, lifted her head to him. Eyes shimmering far more than her dress. Nolan, handsome and strong, gazed down drinking in the joy of her. They stood at the center of a full circle, every guest standing. We were close and near enough to hear the nuances and inflections of their voices. We leaned toward them to hear as they exchanged vows. We wanted to hear the traditional promise of fidelity of body and the commitment of exclusivity. We wanted to hear the I Do’s.

The decision and the resolve in their voices were sound, unshaken by nerves. And we, the guests,  leaned against each other—hands on backs and shoulders pressing. They exchanged their vows, words tailored and crafted for the other—intimate words, almost uncomfortably so. For a brief moment I felt I had barged in on a private conversation. But they wanted us privy. The two of these, our daughter and our son, wanted us to hear their quiet declarations.  This wedding unfolded with such ease, unrehearsed and effortless.

He attempted to speak first—the words stopped.  He began again, but the words lodged behind the trainwreck in his throat. And the lumps in our throats grew. He started three times, and then the words finally moved. He held my daughter’s gaze, and with such tenderness he promised to provide for her, to take care of her and never to make her drive a minivan. But then he said something we didn’t expect.

“We have learned that love is so much more than infatuation. It’s a choice, and I promise always to choose you.”

And we wept. Yes, we cry at weddings. Women leak, often and profuse. Those tears came from a different place than simply emotion.

We wept because we knew they understood the choosing of love. Love chooses—when life gets hard and the ropes pull, and the knots push against one another—it will be the choice made in and by love that will hold them. The knot of this choice will hold and steady Olivia and Nolan until the pressure of life’s circumstances releases.

Olivia reached for her words from me. I held out the narrow slips of paper marked and written in her round manuscript. She looked down at them and spoke. Choreographed words danced forward, soft and tranquil. Her words poured out like oil—anointing him. She too spoke of choosing, and she promised always to cook his eggs over easy.
The pastor, our friend, asked for the rings to seal what they exchanged—these covenants in the presence of witnesses, in the presence of God.

During the whole time, I watched them. Observed the glances and the looks passing through the space between them. I would notice it again later in the evening at the wedding supper. Across the space of a table, I sat diagonally from them in full view of their faces. This boy, this man I now call son, looked at my daughter like my husband looks at me. The other faces around me blurred; their voices muted as I unashamedly stared. Praise rose in my heart; prayer winged out over the heads of the others for her—for them. Lord, let her understand this “seeing”. Let her see the cherishing in this gaze, and may she feel the lavishness of its assurance always.

This gazing passed between them as they stood before us. We felt its gentle heat. The pastor looked at my new son-in-law and stated, “You may kiss your bride.”

Before their lips touched, Nolan’s hands cupped Olivia’s face, and our crying turned to laughter fueled by their radiant faces. We who stood around them knew we had witnessed something extraordinary. I glanced at the knotted ropes behind them. Laying tangled—a witness of the tying of two people, two families. Its knotted lengths now a testimony to the power of God’s enduring grace.

There will come days when the rope will put taut.

My prayer?

May they become one rope, one flesh. That with every pull and tightening of the ropes, Olivia and Nolan will be bound together more and more. Until one day their knots will mesh together—only the texture and color distinguishing the individual strands of which is which, who is who.

January Confession

December began with the very best of intentions. The first day of the Christmas season rolled around and I was already in full swing—planning and listing and projecting and enjoying.

Advent approaching.

My nativities took center stage in the home decorating. My blog writing for the month began full of sentiment and thought and adoration. There were days of writing planned. Insights to be shared. New points of view to consider. The house livened up with plump snowmen and glittery red stars and shimmering lights.

Somewhere in one of the early days of the month I realized the dulling of my spirit ran parallel with the glitter and the flash. Numbed. Deadened. Like a pencil whose lead is far too close to the wood and the writing is nothing more than scratching on the paper.

 A week in and I began to feel it—like a tree whose sap stops running because of the frigid cold. But for some reason, whatever reason I could not get warm. I couldn’t pull my spirit up out of the lethargy.

I tried to read. I heard others talk about reading the Christmas story, read Facebook posts about extraordinary Christmas encounters and experiences, but I continued down this slow spiral into this blank place. A place of fog and mist. Spiritually I could not lift my head. Writing ceased completely. Scripture reading stopped. Prayer slowed to a trickle.  

I worked right through it all. Sent out Christmas packages. Ordered special gifts. Laughed at Santa’s antics. Got caught up in the shenanigans of my grandsons’ elves. Listened to our minister deliver really good messages about the ordinary characters in the birth of Jesus. I watched a children’s Christmas play that was wonderful—the gospel message strong and relevant. I spoke about hope to a group of broken and wounded women—looking into their faces almost broke me. But I just couldn’t find my way spiritually. I kept trying to hear the voice of God and I heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. The silence was far too thick. And there was this constant niggling that I was missing it all. All of it—everything. At one point I felt like I had been hit, a punch to the jaw and I tried to shake it off, but simply couldn’t.

The absence of prayer bothered me the most. Prayer for me is usually this wide and powerful river, banks overflowing, curving and meandering and crashing over in waterfalls and currents and white foam. During December it became this iced over creek—barely moving beneath the surface.  

At one point I remember being afraid. Fearful of what the silence meant. What it indicated.   

The perceived implications overwhelmed me. Paralyzed me.

Outwardly, externally so many things were good. Actually absolutely wonderful things and events and experiences happened for me during this month. Unbelievable, almost impossible things.  But inwardly and internally I was struggling. Struggling in a battle I had yet to perceive. And I was getting weary from the struggle.

No, I was exhausted.

Christmas came and I loved every minute.  

Two days after my husband and I stayed in all day. Curled up on the couch with movies and quiet and books. And I could feel a slight breaking in the ice of my spirit. The movement of water below the surface increased. Four days after Christmas I had coffee with a dear friend and in the course of our conversation the icebergs began to split. I felt them shift and float. And I began to ask God to wake me up. Five days after Christmas my husband and I declared a date day—we went off for a whole day. We had an agenda—not to do anything we really didn’t want to do. We stopped at a precious brother’s house so I could participate in his only daughter’s one year birthday video. We rummaged in antique stores, collected in craft stores and indulged in bookstores. Leisurely we ate at one of our favorite places and stopped and got coffee and hot apple cider to round out the day.

My waters ran swifter. And the rush of that water pushed back the ice, the fog began to dissipate.

And I woke up.

And my first instinct was to thrash the spiritual skin of myself to shreds.  

Tamera, you know better. How in the world did you get into this kind of predicament?  You know better than to allow yourself to get too busy during this holy and sacred season. You were too materialistic and out of focus. You were too…and my list went on and on. Far too long. Far too much. My back was black and blue from my own hand.

And the Spirit’s soft gentle whisper reprimanded me. Chastised me. Revealed the truth to me.

I didn’t forget Christmas; I forgot Sabbath. I dismissed the need for rest. For space. For quiet. For stillness. I failed to eat. To drink. Literally and spiritually. I ignored the signs and symptoms of my own body and spirit as exhaustion iced over me.

Friends, you can’t do battle when you are exhausted. Are you kidding? You don’t even have the strength to heave on your armor.

It was in the stillness of the holy season of the celebration of Jesus’ Incarnation that my own flesh began to fail. In the hush of the sacred days of Advent my spirit waned.

Frozen December.

But I know this: there were people praying for me. They were battling for me. Around me.

It is now approaching the middle of January. I have made not one single resolution. I have not chosen a word for 2015. The new year routine is still unsettled. There’s something more important happening.  

Right now, the Spirit is instructing me to be still. He is breaking up the ice. I have offered to use the pick ax, but the Spirit has stayed my hand.

I believe in grace, but because of my derailment in December I have experienced it once again. I forget. Sometimes we forget the utter profoundness of grace and that it can and does apply to us.

Friends, I know there are some of you out there who are simply and utterly and completely exhausted. You are in a battle—physically, emotionally or spiritually. Perhaps war is being waged on you in all three arenas. You are trying to salvage severed relationships. Attempting to fight disease, cancer and debilitating illnesses. Struggling to last until the next pay check. Worried about your children. Concerned about your parents. Warding off loneliness. Fighting fear. Your armor is scattered and you don’t have the wherewithal to retrace your steps to find it. Right now reading your Bible is nothing more than a rote exercise. Praying is laborious. Fellowship is tedious.

You have been cold a long, long time. The water of you frozen over in a thick layer of icy sludge. For some of you there’s very little water moving—a shallow and narrow trickle. And you are numb. You are exhausted.

I have been there and know this: I am praying for you. Be assured of this: help is on its way.  

Father, oh sweet Father.

Faithful. Good. Powerful. You know the weakness of us and how it leads to exhaustion—to the depletion of us. Father, I pray for anyone caught in the chill of this winter’s bones. I pray for those who have grown cold and numb—even the sensation of tingling limbs no longer occurring. Oh, sweet God! I am asking for you to wake them from their slumber. Chip the ice away and fill them with the warmth of your favor, with the truth of your word and the healing of your Spirit. Father, I ask that you would replenish these precious people in their exhaustion. I pray you would provide for them what they need—strength and perseverance. Lift their heads. They cannot lift their faces to you on their own. I know. They are too weary. Too tired and wounded from the battles. Father, be near them. Lend them your strength and energy in their exhaustion. Oh, Father. Wake them up. Shake them. Nudge their shoulders. Take fear away. Swallow it up for them. Give them reason to hang on through the silence. Remind them to hold tight through what seems to be an absence of your Presence. In their hurting, tired weariness come to them. Remind them that the extension of your grace is far beyond their imaginations. In the name of Jesus. Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advent: The IS of God

My third grandchild will arrive sometime in early April (perhaps on my birthday?). We know what this sweet baby is because of a high-tech ultrasound administered by a skillful professional. A boy. Another grandson. With this revelation this baby moved from the neutral, generic it to the personal pronoun he. Once my daughter and son-in-law were told this news they announced this beautiful boy’s name (Grandmothers don’t have to have ultrasounds to know their grandchildren are beautiful). This child will be called Atlas. Atlas Jensen. His father named him. A strong real name meaning to carry, great strength and God is gracious. This grandmother’s interpretation of his name? He will carry the great strength of God’s grace. Suddenly this new baby became far more real.

A name is indicative of what God is doing and being in our lives. And this baby’s name carries the weight of what God has already done in his life. Early in my daughter’s pregnancy she went to her doctor’s appointment. She had several blood tests and an ultrasound and then was told there were issues. 

Her hormone levels did not rise as expected. They could not find the baby’s heartbeat. The doctors explained to her and my son-in-law that this pregnancy had a five percent chance of being viable. For almost ten days we were held in a rising panic, a sobering reality—this baby might not be. She came to me on a Friday and asked for me to pray; she asked for me to call on the prayer warriors I know. And we prayed. The clinic staff would check her levels and do another ultrasound on Monday. All through the weekend we interceded for this child. We asked for his will to be done, but this grandmother prayed for a miracle.

Monday came.

And so did our miracle. All levels rose considerably over the weekend and suddenly this baby’s heartbeat was quite evident. The medical team attributed it to a faulty diagnosis or unmeasurable levels—regardless there was an attempt to explain away their assessment, but my children were assured that this was now a viable and healthy pregnancy. Collectively we all breathed deeply. Sighed with untranslatable utterances. Hope expanded the space inside us.

God can call what is not as if it is*. God is not limited. His knowledge is not impaired. God sees the IS rather than the NOT.

I think of this sweet baby now as our Little 5%.

This affirmation was more than enough. But God Most High always does more than enough.

A couple of weeks ago my daughter went for another appointment. I waited for the affirmation that she had heard his heartbeat and all was well. I didn’t know another ultra sound was scheduled.

When the image of my grandson’s hand came to me I grasped for words, for an explanation of the infinite enormity it created within me. I couldn’t get my mind to form words on my tongue. It was just too much. His hand, the palm, extended out in this affirmation of his existence, of his presence. His little hand testified he had defied the statistics and predictions of science. A witness to the fact that there are still things that must be experienced rather than predicted or studied or proven. Atlas’ tiny hand is most likely no bigger than the flattened pad of my thumb and yet so perfect. So intricately designed. Through the haloed space of that ultra sound image I studied his splayed fingers as they were pressed against the glass of his Mama’s womb. Somewhere behind that space was a little face. I swallowed down hard as I traced the lines of his palm. In that moment I knew Atlas—this little boy who will possess great strength and be the 5% proof of the grace of God.

 

Atlas Jensen Rector

 

This image became the affirmation of the IS of Atlas for me.

Mary understood this IS of God.

While her womb was untouched and cavernous—waiting to someday hold the son of Joseph—she was told she would conceive. And before the conception she was told her baby would be a boy. Before the XX chromosome and the XY chromosome were even considered she was informed she would deliver a son. Her ultrasound wasn’t through sound waves passing through amniotic fluid, but announced and assured by the messenger of God. Gabriel appeared to Joseph in a dream, another confirmation of the first ultrasound. Mary will have a son…

Through Mary God sent the proof of his IS into the world.

Father God looked down and saw that tiny little hand pressed up against Mary’s womb. He saw his Son turn and twist in the tight confines and narrow cells of human space. God the Father traced the lines in the palm of his Son’s hands and knew someday they would be marred by scars.

One day this Baby’s hands, calloused and broad, would extend out as the affirmation of his Father’s existence, of his presence and of his favor. This Baby would be the testimony and the witness to the invisible and the unknown. To the mystery. He would reveal to God’s people that there are still things that must be experienced rather than predicted or studied or proven.

In the spring I will hold Atlas in my arms, and I will rub and kiss the creases of his little hand. I will snuggle my cheek against the ISness of him—the very presence of him.  And I will thank God.

I am waiting. Anticipating. Trusting.

My waiting for the coming of Atlas is much akin to the real Advent. Hope is affirmed in the waiting. 

God is able to call what is NOT into what IS.   

Father,

During this season I pray for those who are facing what seems like a 5% situation. Oh, Father, remind them as my friend reminded me: You are the God of small percentages. Father, I pray for those who are in circumstances that seem to be NOTS. Father, you can call any circumstance from a not to an IS. Any. Father, I pray during this season you would help us to wait and in waiting to trust you to take every situation of ours and transform them into proofs of your incredible ISness. Father, may we see in the creases of a baby’s hand your sovereignty, your design and your grace. Enable us to see the scars in your Son’s hands and know they are there because this baby of Advent became the Lamb of God.  Amen and amen.

 

 

 

*This concept based on Romans 4:17

 

 

 

 

 

Advent: Change of Plans




*****

 

Today while I was at work someone asked me about Advent. She came right up to the counter and asked boldly and without hesitation. Embarrassingly I didn’t know quite how to explain a tradition to her I only became aware of in the last five years. I felt like a student being handed a pop-quiz. I fumbled. Rambled. Stumbled.

I looked up into her face. Such earnestness in the asking. Such purity in the inquiry. She stood waiting.

Expecting. Anticipating. Trusting.

Trusting me, this on-the-journey-with-her pilgrim, to direct and guide her.  And I got a little scared. A little intimidated.

You see I planned to write about something else in this first post of the Advent season. I had another devotion partially written in my head.  But God was ahead of me. He knew my point of view wasn’t quite right yet. It didn't take him long to remedy the situation.

Tonight I saw in this young woman the very essence of Advent—she stood waiting expectedly, sincerely seeking. I couldn’t help but stare into her face—in the moment so madonna-like. She embodied Advent. She asked; she waited to receive. She anticipated; she waited with eagerness. She trusted; she waited for someone she trusted to show her the way (Oh Almighty God, help me!).

This is Advent.  

Father,

We are standing on the cusp of Christmas. On the periphery. I pray you would empower us to wait for your coming this Christmas. Father, may we embody Advent—our spirits animated with eagerness and anticipation of your Incarnation. May we expect you to come into our lives and be with us. May we wait to receive the revelations you have for us. Oh, Father! Come. Come to us. Arrive in us. Swell in us this child-like anticipation that we are going to see and experience you in this three week journey. We are trusting you to lead us. Expecting you to arrive. Amen and amen.



***** Photo credit: zengardener.com

 

 

 

Announcement!

Today.

Advent. The arrival of God With Us. Of the Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us. Of Jesus entering our realm.

Yes, Advent is about the coming, but it is also about the waiting: the hushed waiting of a candle being lit. The eager waiting of a child's wishes. The sad waiting of the season to be over. The bitter waiting of longings unmet. The anticipatory waiting of dreams.

My questions? In these 24 days What are we waiting on this year? Where are we waiting? When are we waiting? How are we waiting? Who are we waiting with or for? Why are waiting?

Tomorrow I begin a new Christmas Advent series here in the Chambered Nautilus:

Five W's and H.

Would love for you to join me!

Broken Teeth

A year and a half ago during a very busy week, my husband’s oldest daughter’s wedding week, I broke a tooth. It was a back molar. The inside quarter of the crown snapped right off in my mouth while I was eating chocolate chips. This will seem funnier later.

Because it didn’t hurt and it seemed to be okay I decided I could ignore it and I didn’t need to have a dentist look at it.

I told no one.

Why?

Pride? Fear? Who knows?

I just know for over a year I knew I had a broken tooth hidden in my mouth that no one else knew about or could see. But I knew about it every day of my life. When I brushed my teeth, when I rubbed my tongue across its now sharp edges and felt the broken space, the emptiness, I knew.

Briefly I thought that this might be an issue. But a month went by, three months, six months and then a year. Nothing. Just a broken, jagged tooth. I dismissed the possibility of it becoming a problem.  

Until last month.

Last week I woke up with horrible ear and jaw pain. I endured both for three days. Finally I went to the walk-in clinic. I had an ear infection. Not a flaming one, but the beginnings of one. Way too much fluid in my ear, and definitely the wrong color. So, the doctor put me on an antibiotic and said if the pain in my ear and jaw were not markedly better in two or three days then I needed to see someone else.

Sunday and Monday the pain persisted. Dose after dose of antibiotic. Does after dose of ibuprofen. I woke up Tuesday morning and the pain was far less severe. I was quite happy. All this time I had this niggling feeling that this broken tooth of mine was causing the problem.  

On Tuesday I went to school and taught. Ate lunch, and then went to work. In the next hour I thought by jaw and ear were going to explode. Stabs of pain. Pulsating and hot.

Enough was enough.

I called the dentist. Asked for an emergency appointment. They accommodated me and got me in in less than an hour and a half.  

I explained the whole ordeal. My teeth were examined. X-rays were taken. And two more tests were done.

My tooth was dead. The tooth I had worried and hidden was dead. And it was the culprit of my ear and jaw pain.

I had two options. Leave it in my mouth and do a root canal and crown or extract it.

I laughed.

One option.

Extract it.

Take it out.

The tooth that was once strong and healthy became damaged, and I failed to take care of it. Now, it was causing me pain and visible to everyone.

I’m not sure I tried to deceptively hide this; I just didn’t bother to tell anyone.

But as I lay there in the chair, being numbed with giant needles and then for thirty minutes as the dentist attempted to get this broken, dead tooth out of my mouth, I prayed. This constant litany of prayer. For me. For him.

And I shook. My whole body. The nurse later told me she could see my jaw quiver. Somewhere in the midst of the whole ordeal the dentist patted my shoulder and said, “By the way, you’re doing great.” His words barely registered.

I remember at first just thinking I wanted to be strong. Unafraid. I didn’t want to flinch or react. This had to be done. It had to be removed.

About midway through the dentist and I realized that the roots of this tooth were deep. Deep and curved.

About three-fourths of the way through he realized the tooth was going to have to be cut in half and pulled out in two pieces.

My mouth became somewhat of a war zone. He pushed and pulled and wiggled my tooth with such force that I could feel it in the other side of my jaw.

At last one root popped and came out. Then the other.

And it was done.

I was still shaking. Still praying.

He explained why it had been so hard. Because the tooth was broken it was very hard for him to get a grip and a purchase on it. Then the other half of the crown crumbled as he tried to pull it out. But it was extracted. All of it. No roots left. No roots to set up a bitter infection. He looked at the nurse and said let’s get her cleaned up.

At that point my face must have registered some serious confusion. She began to clean my face. TMI I know, but there had been blood in the fray. And shrapnel. Pieces of the tooth were on my face and chest. She was gentle and very sweet.

The dentist told me I could sit and relax.

The nurse asked me if I wanted to see the tooth. I did. Such a tiny thing. Two tiny pieces of bone. And they caused so much havoc.

They explained how to take care of the wound. Of the hole. Of the socket where the tooth had once been.

Finally I felt steady enough to walk out. To leave.

And I did.

Over the course of the next few days I would play the day and that scene over and over again. At one point I stood up to get something and I discovered my hip, knee and ankle on my right side were incredibly sore. What in the world? I sat down in the recliner to relax and watch a little TV. I crossed my right ankle over my left and then shifted my weight. That’s when my hip, knee and ankle really hurt. I looked down and realized that the recliner was much like the dentist chair. During the whole procedure I was in this exact same position. I tried so hard to handle the situation well that I tensed my whole body in a position that looked relaxed, but in reality my ankles were locked together like a dove joint. 

Somewhere in my review of the day I realized the Holy Spirit was speaking to me. I

illuminating. Exposing. Revealing.

First, I believe the enemy did a great many things to deter me and derail my focus from some very important events. He caused me to look inward to the pain. But what the enemy means for bad, our Mighty God always can show you the good.

Second, I believe my tooth was and is much like the idolatry. Originally our idols may  have been something healthy and good, but if they get damaged and then hidden? Well, then they deteriorate and decay. Then they die and they cause pain. And sometimes we can’t tell where the pain comes from. We treat other things. And the pain continues, until we find the source.

Third, when we recognize that damage has been done we need to go to God. Immediately. We are not to wait and roll our tongues over the edges and see just how sharp they are. We are not to assume that just because it seems to be causing no problems right now that it will continue not to do so in the future. That’s a very faulty and dangerous assumption.

Fourth, I believe we need to lay down our pride and this staunch stoicism of wanting to appear strong. To appear unfazed. To appear in control. To appear confident. To appear flawless.

Fifth, I believe we need to pray. Pray. Pray. And pray some more.

Sixth, it's amazing to me the tools God will use to teach us.

#MyFaithHeroines

My precious friend, Terri, challenged me. She has challenged me before, but I have failed to rise to those challenges. This suggestion, however, has not gotten lost in the endless stacks and shuffles of paper and books that line every horizontal surface in my house. No. This one stayed.

Terri sent me a message.

Do it. Do it. She said. And she sent me the link explaining what she wanted me to do.

This blog post is part of Michelle DeRusha’s #MyFaithHeroine contest, in connection with the release of the book 50 Women Every Christian Should Know. 

Michelle DeRusha asked us to blog about our faith heroines. To recount the women in our lives who helped to solidify our faith, who added to the water in our faith bucket and who unknowingly caused us to reach deeper and want to know our Almighty God.  

Truthfully I would put Terri near the very top of my faith heroine list. I considered just reposting my tribute to her, but I know she would fuss at me and encourage me to do something different. Out of respect for her and our decades of friendship I will be true to her suggestion. But she needs to understand it was a hard choice to not include her (I guess I just have. If you want to know about her read Quarter of a Century).

Two Heroines of Faith

I should have known. God lays groundwork long before it is needed. He builds foundations long before you need to stand on them.

This assignment is to share about my heroines of faith. Immediately two particular women come to mind. As I look back into my childhood and college years I realize I should have understood what God was doing, but I was too young both times. The first time I was chronologically too young. I am not sure I have actual memories of the events or if I simply hold onto others’ stories. The second time I was chronologically old enough, but spiritually I was still very much of a newborn.

Mamaw Mandy. That’s what I called her. My maternal great-grandmother. My earliest positive memories revolve around her.  She was old before I was born, so by the time I have recollections of her she seemed quite ancient to me.

Mamaw Mandy was a frail and tiny woman. Her long gray wisp of a braid wound in small knot at the back of her head. Her fingers were completely crippled by rheumatoid arthritis; they opened only wide enough for her to clasp them around the handles of her metal walker. My only personal memories of her come as snippets:  her bedroom where she spent almost all of her time, the couch where she would allow me to stand behind her and brush out her long hair. I was a boisterous and talkative child (surprise anyone?), but she indulged me. I cringe because I know with hindsight I didn’t treat her with the respect she deserved. Even now it bothers me. But she loved me anyway.

What was the evidence of that love?

She prayed for me.

I know about these prayers not because I heard them, but because of my grandmother and mother’s accounts. Over the years they shared recollections of Mamaw’s prayers too many times to count.

The stories always follow the same telling: as a child I played outside in my grandmother’s front yard. Mamaw Mandy’s windows and front door opened onto a porch overlooking a wide, tree-lined front yard. I played alone. I was an only child, and the trees were my playmates.  

During these childhood recesses Mamaw Mandy would hear me playing outside and rise from her bed, pull her walker to her, wrap her gnarled fingers around the handles and then shuffle to the front door.  She stood—a bent sentinel—watching and craning her head to follow me in my imaginative play. In the physical realm this woman seemed weak and far too frail to cause any ripples in the cosmos, but I know now she did. She rippled her great-granddaughter’s world because while she stood at that front door she prayed for me.

I don’t know what she asked. I don’t know what she pleaded over me. I don’t know any of the words. The words were not preserved for me in my awareness.  Mamaw Mandy’s prayers, however, were and are not limited or bound by time or space. Whatever she prayed as she stood guard at that door hovers over me today.  Those prayers still rise before the throne room of the Almighty. They continue to add to the volume and rise of golden-bowl incense before the Father.  

I believe her prayers assisted the course and path of my life.  

Long, long before I understood prayer or prayer warriors my great-grandmother prayed for me. She warred for me. I believe those prayers are now a part of my spiritual armor—those words she spoke on my behalf before the Father are now links in the chain mail I don and wear in my daily life.

Perhaps her prayers were merely sentences sent up to heaven. Maybe, they were a few words spoken a couple of times. Whispers. Neither affects the outcome. Truly I am writing these words now partly because of her prayers then.

Fast forward fourteen years.

My sophomore year of college I enrolled in a required class titled Music Appreciation. It was a strange and peculiar music I was asked to appreciate. My Bluegrass DNA had never experienced this wordless and complicated genre. During that semester I realized the crazy strains of music that accompanied Tom chasing Jerry or Bugs Bunny rubbing Elmer Fudd’s head were actually great scores composed by Mozart and Beethoven and others. But as the semester lengthened I realized I was not enrolled in this class simply to learn to appreciate the geniuses of the classical music world.

No. Of course not. The Lord almost always has a double-fold purpose for all things. And this class certainly was no exception.

The professor of the class was Margaret Therkelsen. She was an arresting and handsome woman, long-limbed and large boned. Assuredly she was the tallest woman I had ever encountered, at least 6’0.  

I was mesmerized by her grace. Certainly I was taken by her physical grace which belied her stature, but far more by her powerful spiritual grace. Each morning I attended her class with anticipation, an eagerness and a hunger. She would walk in, come to the front of the class and open her small leather New Testament and thumb through the tissue paper pages until she found the passage she wanted. The book was so worn that it draped over her hand, and somehow I knew that the state of her small Bible was the result of use not abuse.

Then she taught from that little book. Dr. Therkelsen taught with an authority that stunned me. Never in my life had I heard a woman speak with such spiritual authority about such deep things in Scripture.

NEVER.

She taught about prayer that semester. I remember very little about the composers and the language of music, but I do remember learning the language of prayer.

It seemed as if she were a translator who unfolded, at least for me, the mysteries and power of prayer.  

I ate her words. Surely this is the only metaphorical language I can use to accommodate how much the Spirit used her to teach me. I remember taking notes furiously (how I wish I had those now). I sighed each time she closed her tattered and threadbare New Testament. I didn’t want the teaching to end. I wanted more. But then she bowed her head to do exactly what she had been teaching. Suddenly the teaching became flesh.  

While sitting in that room, though spiritually immature, I knew God was unfolding to me my purpose and calling. Certainly then I could not articulate this truth, but the fiber of me knew it. The Spirit in me bore witness and affirmation to it.

Years before this Music Appreciation class the Father used my frail Mamaw Mandy’s prayers to begin the unshakeable foundation in my life. Dr. Therkelsen built on that foundation.

Years passed before I understood that power in God’s kingdom has nothing to do with physical strength or the lack of it. Mamaw Mandy was a frail and ailing elderly woman; Margaret Therkelsen was robust and strong. The power of prayer has nothing to do with education or the lack of it. Mamaw Mandy completed the fourth grade and Dr. Therkelsen earned a Ph.D. in Music and a M.A. in psychology.

Each woman wielded a power not from their own strength but from the Spirit of God and his calling on their lives.

These two women dispelled a traditional teaching I had absorbed as a child and teen. Indirectly I was taught women were secondary in the kingdom of God, that we could never stand and hold the place of friendship with God as men did.

Mamaw Mandy and Dr. Therkelsen taught me God hears the prayers of women, of his daughters.

And answers them. Empowers them. Friends them.

These two women taught me where the battles are fought and won.

These women are two of my faith heroines.

When I read Hebrews 11 I know that the ending of that passage is not the completion of Faith’s Hall of Fame—no, it was only the beginning of it. For me Mamaw Mandy and Dr. Therkelsen are added—

By faith they prayed…

And I have been forever changed.

 

Father, oh how I praise you. How I thank you for what you do when we are unaware. How grateful I am for these two women and their presence and influence in and on my life. I thank you for placing them where and when you did. I thank you that when no one else seemed to be watching out for a little four year girl this grandmother stood guard. Thank you for putting watchmen on the porches and on the thresholds of doors. Certainly, Father, you put Mamaw at the threshold of me—praying for me. For my protection, for my safety. For my growth. For my salvation.

And Father, how I thank you for Dr. Therkelsen. Oh, that you have helped me to hold her Spirit led teaching in my mind and spirit’s eye. Father, how you used her to mold me, to set me free of so much spiritual bondage and confinement. How you used her to instill in me a deep love and appreciation for your Word. Through example you used her to show me the power and intimacy of prayer. Father, thank you that your words bring life. And decades after they are spoken they are still giving life. The prayers and words of these two women are still molding and shaping my responses to you. Father, thank you. Thank you for supplying all our needs according to your riches. Thank you that my supply included these two women. Thank you. Praise you. Oh, that you would receive all the glory for the works these women have accomplished. In the sweet name of Jesus’. Amen and amen.

 

 

Treasure Hunting: Pelicans

Gawky.

Awkward.

Ugly.

Pelicans.

Have you ever seen one up close?

 

 

At the beach I was drawn to them. My attention darted to them and my gaze fixed on them.

Rarely do they walk around on the shore. Their feathers are the color of driftwood. Their long necks and heads seem out of proportion and lack grace in the curvature. These birds sit on the surface of the water bobbing, heads bent over and chin tucked tightly to their chests.

When walking around in the sand they are not in their element.

I followed them everywhere.

One morning Steve and I were out walking. A pelican walked on the shore too, snapping at the water and scooping something into its great cavernous bill. Then it would lift its gangly neck straight up and swallow. More gulping than swallowing. That’s when I really realized how gawky, awkward and ugly they are. Up close and personal they are a very strange looking bird.

 

That morning I followed this bird down the beach. I kept getting closer and closer. I almost got close enough to touch it. And then it flew away.

In the air this ugly, ungainly bird transformed.

 

Its neck and head shifted into a straight line, only the smooth rise of its head set above its wingspan—which was enormous. It wings spread and pulled at the air lifting it higher and higher with speed. But also with an agility and grace that was absent when on the shore.

In flight this bird did what it was designed to do.

Fly.

And dive.

To watch a pelican dive is astonishing. If you don’t train your eye to stay with them you will miss the landing, miss the scoop. That great awkward bill, which on shore was cumbersome, now is efficient and elegant. Gone was the strange, ugly bird on the shore.

We are like the pelicans.

Sometimes on shore, in places we have not been gifted, we feel and seem awkward and gawky and ugly. We are out of our element. We are walking outside our realm of giftedness. Our gait on shore is ungainly and choppy. Grace seems to be absent. Elegance seems faded.

But in the air.

In the air we are doing what we were meant to do. When we are walking in the gifts God has given us then we fly. Wings outstretched. Neck elongated. Bill lifted and extended. And suddenly we are flying. The awkwardness falls away. Our unsightly gait becomes soaring.

There may only be short seasons of this flight. Only brief moments of lucidity. Of clarity.

Often times I try to move outside of my giftedness. I attempt to be or do something the Spirit did not give. Did not bestow. During these times out-of-my-element I expend more energy, acquire more stress, become more discouraged and develop more insecurity.

I rarely spotted a pelican on the shore. Only twice.  They tended not to hang out there. Instead they spread their wings and did what they were made to do. Fly.

You and I were created to fly. In whatever matter and manner that translates. Paul explains this to us in Romans 12:6-8 (NIV)

We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a man's gift is prophesying, let him use it in proportion to his faith. If it is serving, let him serve; if it is teaching, let him teach; if it is encouraging, let him encourage; if it is contributing to the needs of others, let him give generously; if it is leadership, let him govern diligently; if it is showing mercy, let him do it cheerfully.

We are given gifts by and through the Holy Spirit for the equipping  and building up of the Body of Christ. When we operate in these gifts we benefit, but even more God’s Body benefits.  

The Body of Christ in all its various and sundry places needs its people operating in their gifts. This Body needs its teachers to teach and its preachers to preach and its prophets to exhort and its pastors to shepherd and its administrators to administer.

The pelican taught me a great lesson.

Now, when I struggle with that awkward and gawky gait I ask myself a question. Am I moving in the giftings God has given me? Am I attempting to do something the Holy Spirit didn’t intend for me to do?  Usually I have to answer the first question no and the second yes.  (There are a few exceptions: when the Lord calls me out of my comfort zone. Out of the familiar. Out of the known. In order to expand my faith and trust in Him.)

Fly, friends.

Don't spend your time and energy waddling around on the shore. Just fly. Even if it is for a brief moment.

We will be blessed when you do. We will know more of him because you do.

 

We were looking at each other.

Treasure Hunting: Not If, but When

Melissa Darsey, lovely and profound spirit that she is, shared her recollections about this particular evening. You can visit her at Tethered: His Night Song.

Profound occurrences are often profound only to the person experiencing them. The serendipity of events does not quite impact others as it does we who are in the middle.

But I want you to see God. Watch him show up.

This story must be unfolded. Fold by fold. It is a long story. Read it in parts. Take a break or get a cup of coffee and join me for a little while.

I just want you to know my sweet God must have been chuckling as he orchestrated this one. 

 

On Melissa’s last night of vacation we discovered that one of her dreams was to walk the beach at night.

Abby and I declared we would go that night. It would be Melissa’s last adventure before going home. I was so excited for her. Years ago I walked the beach on Cape Cod at night, and it profoundly affected me. Vivid details still remain. I wanted Melissa to experience something very similar.

Little did I know.

Do we ever?

In our finite grasp of reality and space and time do we understand that the God of this universe really does hear us? He catches the sighings. He perceives the longings. He listens to the unvoiced desires—the ones we tuck away, tight back in ourselves. These are not secret to him. They are not veiled from his vision.

For years I have been tending a low burning fire for a sojourn to Ireland. There were times when the fire leaped and danced with flames high. Hot and compelling. Other times, a simple quiet fire, banked. Recently the embers burned down, ashen and powdery. The task seemed overwhelming. The finances. The time. The schedules. Slowly the fire became just a warm place in my heart. I attempted to substitute more practical things for it. Ones that would benefit far more people than just me.

Little did I know God heard, and his breath was about to blow over my dream embers.

The whole day began with a trip to the marina. We wanted to see dolphins and so we booked an afternoon outing—the marina’s advertisement gave full assurance that dolphins would be spotted.

While we waited for our departure time we visited several of the little shops along the marina’s boardwalk. We indulged in ice cream and truffles and dark chocolate covered stick pretzels (I ate the latter, not all three).
 

 

While Steve stood and watched the fishermen fillet their catch I meandered into a jewelry shop.

The small shop was filled with shelves of nautical jewelry and cases of charms and necklaces and earrings shaped like shells, fish, palm trees and ocean waves. Weaving in and out of the labyrinth I stopped at a few of the cases. Some unique piece would catch my eye.

Then I turned.

Behind me almost in the middle of the store was a rotating kiosk of Irish jewelry. Four leaf clovers, Celtic crosses, Celtic knots and pots of gold. It seemed so out of place. So random.  I spun the stand slowly. Looking and all the while pondering the question, “Why in the world was this in the middle of this store?”  

We went to wait in line to get on the boat for our date with the dolphins (another story for another post).

I forgot about the Irish jewelry.

After we docked we were all quite hungry. We were looking for something local—something with the reputation of serving really good food. We heard The Friendly Fisherman was the place to go. All twelve of us traipsed into the restaurant. If our numbers worried anyone we couldn’t tell.

Our waitress’ name was Dawn. She was from Pennsylvania: a transplant enjoying the ease of ocean front life. We could almost see her apartment complex from our table. We knew we had been given the seasoned waitress; she knew what she was doing. Feed the kids first. The food was fabulous. Other than Amy’s shrimp tacos it was the best meal I ate during the entire vacation.

Remember the random Irish jewelry back at the marina boardwalk? Here we go again.

Dawn wore a necklace. Not just any necklace. It was a large silver Irish claddagh. I know she saw me staring, so I just asked. Where did she find such a wonderful piece? She touched it, rubbing the embossed hands and crown and heart and explained that she commissioned it to be made. An original piece.

For an instant my head reeled. This absurd thought crossed my mind:  I am in The Friendly Fisherman eating clam stuffed tilapia being served by Dawn from Pennsylvania with a claddagh necklace.

The old fire stirred. The wind was blowing.

We left.

We spent the rest of the day playing and resting.

I forgot Dawn and the claddagh necklace.

Evening came. Everyone trekked back to the condo. Bedtime routines commenced.

I kissed Steve, then Melissa, Abby and I walked back down the beach.

We took pictures under the dock—leaned on the weathered wood. And the light began to fade.

 

 

We discussed which way to walk and Melissa explained she wanted to walk toward the light—in the direction of the setting sun.

Away we went. Jaunty. Happy. Carefree. Fulfilling a dream.

I kept watching Melissa’s face and praying for her. Praying God would meet her. Praying she would experience His presence in this trek in the dark with the water lapping around our feet and the sand grown cold. At first she and Abby held up their dresses, but then they let them down. Unfettered, the hems grew wet and heavy. They drug in the sand, combing it smooth as they walked.

When I walk the beach I am forever keen-eyed for shells. That night was no exception.

I saw one. Or what I thought was one. A black shadow in the sand. A large one.

Cautiously I reached down and tapped it quickly with just the tip end of my pointer finger. Just in case. Earlier in the weekend something had caught my eye in the sand and I failed to use caution. A crab bit my finger. A snap, a sting, and a narrow trickle of blood encouraged and wizened me to be careful of shadows in the sand.

This one didn’t bite or move, so I picked it up.

Oh, what a treasure. It appeared to be a black oyster shell (still not entirely sure). It was the most unique piece I found during the entire trip. I was thrilled.

We began again. Walking.

A woman passed us. Nothing odd. Except she was holding a shell almost exactly like my own. She noticed mine. There we stood, as if we were holding two pieces of the same puzzle wondering where our pieces fit.

The early part of the conversation is hazy in my mind. I think it was just courteous beach dialogue. But several sentences into the conversation my hearing heightened and honed.

Flames flickered.

I cocked my head and looked at her, and the words were out of my mouth before I realized I was thinking them.

“Would you mind if I asked where you are from? Originally?”

I wonder now what was going through Abby and Melissa’s heads, but then I was oblivious.

I took a deep breath as I saw her mouth open to answer.

“Ireland.” She answered.

I gasped. Whether out loud or not I don’t know. It was very loud in the cavernous places in my own head. And puzzle pieces began to click into place: the Irish jewelry at the marina, Dawn and her one-of-a-kind claddagh necklace.

I peered at this woman. Holding my breath. I wonder now if she thought I was crazy.

We began to talk. The lyrical cadence of her voice was soft. Her “r’s” trilled slightly.  In my peripheral vision I saw Abby looking at me.

We continued to talk. I asked questions somewhat just to hear her speak.

I told her I had dreamed for years of going to Ireland.

She gazed at me. Eye to eye.

“Then you will, Lady, you will.”

Tears, as usual, threatened to pour down my face. But I held them. There was something in her tone. Something in her gaze.

We kept talking. I asked her where she would want me to visit if I ever went. What out of the way place would she like for me to see? Again that eye to eye gaze. She held it longer this time.

“It is not if you go, but when. I want you to set a date.”

I blinked. Finally.

I explained I also loved the Vikings and wanted to visit Dublin because of their influence there. She chuckled and said she was from the area the Vikings first settled in Ireland.

She went on to tell me that tickets were not as expensive as one might imagine.

I watched her face. Tried to drink it in while standing in the fading light.

Surreal.

The real time lasted a few minutes. But in my head it was slow motion. Almost stop frame.

I stood in a dream. And in that dream I saw myself on the shore of the Gulf at night having a conversation with an Irish woman.

It welled up in me. The question. Bubbled in my mouth.

“If you don’t mind I would love to know your name.” I waited.

God must have leaned forward for this one. Leaned right forward and looked over the rim of heaven. He must have been laughing his great belly laugh of delight. Absolute delight. His divine appointments always change someone’s life.  

One of my favorite authors is Linda Windsor. She is the author of a beautiful series of books set in fifth century Ireland: The Fires of Glennmara. The female protagonist of the first book in the trilogy is one of my absolute favorites. This is quite important. Unlike me at the time, my dear Reader, you know what is coming.

The Irish woman looked at me and said, “My name is Maire.”

The character in Linda Windsor’s book is named Maire. (Pronounced: Moi-rah).

I spelled the name back to her to make sure I heard correctly.

I did, although this sweet Maire on the beach had to spell her name differently here in the States because no one could pronounce it. Often she was mistakenly called Maria or Mary.

Maire is a soft and musical name when spoken by an Irish tongue. I can still hear her voice pronouncing it for me.

Our encounter ended after that. We hugged. Clasped hands.

She turned to leave, but before she did she looked at me with that eye to eye gaze again.  

“You will go to Ireland. It is not if, but when. I want you to set a date. An actual date on the calendar.”

Maire turned and walked down the beach disappearing into the evening. I watched her walk away until the dusk became dark and she disappeared.

God set me up.

I can hear Him laughing still.

Little did I know.

My God. My God.

He knows and pays attention to every detail of our lives. He knows the longings of our heart.

The embers are hot now.

Red. Alive. Glowing.

It is not if I go to Ireland, now it is just a matter of when.

We’re working on a date.
 

 

BTW. A couple weeks after we returned from vacation all these events were but memories beginning to fade. One day I pulled into a parking spot at a local department store. I got out of my car and looked at the van parked in front of me. I noticed the license plate. I took a picture.

Are you kidding me?