Quempas echo

Christmas eve, and the lights in church are low. The saints hold candles and sing of Jesus, they circle the church, singing from all corners, echoing praise back and forth as if from every corner of the world.

I snuggle a sleepy little saint while they walk by with the candles and their Quempas Carol.

The song itself is light in our darkness, but it’s not so bright that it wakes the sleeper. Not yet.

God’s own Son is born a child, is born a child;

God the Father is reconciled, is reconciled.

Each saint who goes by, each familiar face made even more lovely by soft candlelight, inspires affection, gratitude, prayer in me. I join their song, grateful that the average pew sitter is invited in as part of the echo. I envisage God’s great gathering of us all; how our lights will shine then; how my own voice will be more lovely, more confident.

But when he walks by there is more affection, more hope, more aching prayer.

For he’s mine, my husband, him whom I have loved in this life.  

It is with a mix of deep affection and selfish possessiveness that I use the word “mine:” God isn’t finished with me yet.  He is pastor, he is daddy, he is many things to many people, but at the end of this day, he is mine.

He walks by in his robe with the candle, singing with the saints as we are all  being gathered

The sheep are safe, He will indeed take care of them.

Safe. The sheep are safe. How his shepherd heart must ache for that day when all God’s sheep are finally safe and gathered in. I ache for it with him.

I try to imagine it:

He’s part of the heavenly choir, and I see him walk by singing sanctified praise, but with the voice I know, the smile that I have loved. There is more joy in his smile.

He will not be mine, then, not exclusively to possess as husband.

With others I will love him, see him, and rejoice in what God has done.

Will I still be allowed to speak of him with the “mine” of affection?

Will there be an amused “I told you so” in his glance, or in mine?

Will there be a silent mutual apology for not loving better? If there is, surely there will be mutual grace to consume all regret or pain, to swallow it all up in forgiveness.

Will we share a glance that nobody else could possibly understand, rich with memories and tearful nights and joys and fears we shared in this life, amazed to see how God has redeemed every bit of it all?

“Confirm for us the work of our hands:” we have prayed  this many times.  Will we someday see God’s answer?  It will all be done by His hand, we will see clearly then.

And yet He has used our hands to “help,”

Used pastor’s words to convict, comfort, heal, uphold

And mine too, in my own way, though all of the grace and the beauty were borrowed.

Will we get to trace the paths of His Words on our lips, see how God took our imperfect efforts and (miraculously!) watered and grew and reaped a rich harvest?

I have shared his burdens in this life; will I get to be with him to see those burdens made beautiful?

These saints we walk with and their griefs, will we see the finished artwork when they are finally healed?

We cannot picture, cannot fathom what is to come. So for now, light candles together, we join in song, and we receive glimpses of hope from our God. And we wait until the new day dawns.

The sleeping saint in the pew stirs under his coat-blanket.  I try to coax him into holding a candle and joining the song but he is too weary. It’s ok, son, we will sing for you, for now.

Rejoice in his goodwill; The Savior came in meekness

For you, for you, to bear your flesh in weakness.

God’s own Son is born a child, is born a child;

God the Father is reconciled, is reconciled.

12/17

Christmas snapshots 2017

Four services in 24 hours: a marathon, and we attended every one. Solidarity with pastor-dad, Praise to the Lord, Joy to the World, and so forth.  I gather an amalgam of Christmas moments, shared in no particular order:

Everyone knows where their shoes are this year. It’s a miracle, made possible in part by my willingness to overlook the fact that Peter’s are slightly too big. If his brother doesn’t care, I don’t care; we’ll call it a win.

Snow falls, and the cold rush as we leave makes us all excited and invigorated. They squeal; we put our faces up to receive its cold shower. I quote a song we know, “Isn’t it love? This rain that falls down on the sinners and the saints!” but the snow is grainy and cold; it doesn’t feel as pretty as it looks.  Lorraine laughs as I sputter and wipe the “love” off my cold face. The walk to church is quick and cold.

Lorraine looks gorgeous in her gold dress; she takes my breath away. I’ve heard some moms feel like their teenage daughters have stolen their beauty, but I'm not one because I never had that kind of beauty in the first place. Hers is a beauty all her own and I just smile as I watch it shine.  She is wearing my high heels- the ones I am not graceful enough to wear.  She walks into church, a tall, elegant, a lovely young woman, but her heel slips, ankle twists, and she barely catches herself. Her smile says, “I meant to do that” and we both giggle like crazy in the front pew. “Did you see that banana peel someone left there mom? How rude!”  Her light heart is gorgeous, too.

Sitting next to me, Marcus keeps forgetting to listen and follow along. I nudge him, point to the hymnal, direct my spoken responses to his ears so as to verbally pull him along with me into the story God is writing in us. He steals my pen and decorates his thumbs. “Mom, I’m ready for the next thumb war, now, look they have faces!” as if I’ll be proud. I’m not, but I’m not mad either.

Sitting by Aggie is at Christmas is like sitting by Elf. After communion she has so much to say; I hide in kneeling prayer as long as I can, but I can’t hide forever; so she loud-whispers to me about the gifts she will give and her band schedule and straightening her hair and then she gasps “oooh this hymn is my favorite!” Her song is strong and sincere, and she is focused, until it ends and her stories begin again. Finally I say, “Can you please stop taking for a bit honey?” She does, but the organ plays a tune she knows and she bobs her head and taps her foot, and I am amazed that she can make even silent movement so loud and joyful.

Pictures by the Christmas tree: Peter farts and everyone makes a huge deal about it. And Seth doesn’t want to be in the picture; I use my mom voice and when that doesn’t work I threaten to get dad involved.  “We can do this now or we can do this later but you’re gonna do this.” He does begrudgingly, and as soon as I say “now, a silly one!” he runs. Later, I follow him with the camera and take action shots to make up for it.

We have a crazy idea this year: Let’s let (make?) the kids stay up until late church: 11pm. Dad is sure they can do it. Of course, this same Dad also takes a nap a 8:30. He has to preach, after all.  Home Alone and Christmas snacks sustain them for a time.  I drink tea and record moments.  Come, Emmanuel.

It’s hard to stay awake. Behold! God has sent buckets of snow from heaven! Eldon and I go for a night walk; we make the first tracks, running tracks, laughing at the way the wind has made just one side of our faces cold. I promise to snuggle him later, and I do: we keep each other warm for all of the late service. The tree, the candlelight, the beauty of the late service is overpowering. But Peter is asleep before the opening hymn. Seth and Marcus stare sleepily ahead. Aggie joins the quempas carol and shines bright.  Lorraine plays handbells, and experiences wonderful moments of holy goosebumps. Heart-overflowing tears are my Christmas gift; I blink long and grateful.

Christmas morning:

Daddy wakes first and makes coffee: the best in the world, oh how he cares for me!  A few gifts, excitement, arguing, and breakfast. And the snow is still falling, just like grace: it’s time for another service.

Another service: I am grumpy about the clutter closing in at home, but I don’t want to be; annoyed the the wiggly boy next to me distracts me from the sermon, but pastor tells of  a welcoming God, welcoming even me. Pete lifts my arm to snuggle under-- my arm rebels in annoyance-- then gives in and tries to be welcoming like my God. My imitation is weak, but the boy rests his head on my lap and finds rest there.  Big sister’s lap is welcoming to another little boy; the sight softens my heart further.

Pete knows how to follow along in the bulletin now; he argues with me when dad forgets to tell everyone to stand. I whisper, “He’s the pastor, he can overrule what’s in the bulletin.”  He finds the songs in the hymnal for us and sings along; we both sing the wrong verse and he giggles. He makes sure I’m folding my hands when it’s time to pray.  He who has been managed by so many in his life is now managing me.

Seth has Official Business to do: he runs the sound board and does well. He’s looking quite handsome in his gray suit.  I hemmed it for him, as his dad suggested-- I almost didn’t though. I recall Josh’s input on the right way to hem, Seth’s anxiety that I would do it wrong, so many suggestions from those two chiefs, and me finally snapping, “Do you two want to do it yourselves?”  And I felt like my own mom in that moment; today it makes me laugh.

And the whole thing is covered in grace, all the memories and the moments, just like the junk in our backyard is covered with pretty white snow. I ponder these things in my heart.

Oh Come, Emmanuel, we sing, and we live His coming.  His songs on our lips when we wake, His Words in our ears on our way, His peace in our hearts as we sleep.  His grace that binds us up again after tempers are lost, that covers over the greed and the distraction of the season; His Son that dwells with us here, now. HIs light that shines and gathers us to Him along with all people. Come, Lord Jesus.

Merry Christmas.

grateful ache and home movies

We watched a few home videos this week, from the days when home was elsewhere and my babies were babies.

They were so little once. And it went too fast, those days when their tiny hands made prints all over my walls. I watch a video and hear their tiny voices; I remember, and I ache.

I ache; but for what? Do I want to go back?  At this moment, two sons watch a cowboy movie with dad; a daughter is discussing Algebra online with her teacher from England and friend from Nebraska; another daughter cleans the kitchen and sings. A frustrated son fights with his spelling homework, and the youngest plays piano upstairs; already he knows more than I do.  I look at these big kids and see what they have become, and I cannot wish it all undone.

And yet, I ache for when they were little. I wish I could know them as babies and as big kids all at once; to see the varied stages of their beauty wrapped up in the whole person in a way that transcends time. That wonderful toddler who wore cowboy boots with his shorts and always carried a slingshot-- is he really gone? It makes me sad to think that. Maybe he’s still somewhere inside the big kid. And maybe he’ll lie dormant for awhile, but someday when he has his own little daughter and she puts on cowboy boots and tries to ride her sled down the stairs, maybe that look in her eye will awaken that part of him, and he’ll forget to scold her, and he’ll join her instead.

On the screen: the littlest trying to walk, wearing those overalls that I used to grab from behind to make him “fly.” Oh babies, when I see you on the screen, in your tiny bodies, I want to hold you again. Did I hold you enough then?  And I wonder about the mommy behind the camera, the one laughing along. I wonder what you will remember about her.  I wonder where her heart was that day, and all the days.  I wonder… did she do ok?

The river beneath us keeps moving, and we ride it together (for now.) I want to ask the little ones on the screen; “Did I love you well? Did I do ok?”  but they’re too busy playing in sprinklers and wrestling the dogs to make time for my question.  Besides, we’re here now, not there. So I put my arm around the one nearest me, and we laugh as the yesterdays float by.  The days on the screen seem saturated with more grace than I remember; less exhaustion, more joy.

What is it that moves us forward?  Does a cruel river of time and fate push us along? Or are we carried, gently, by God; this God who pours out grace from heaven to carry us to heaven?

Tonight, they say goodnight while I work downstairs. “You don’t need to tuck us in, mom. Goodnight. Love you.”  And part of me almost got up to tuck them in anyway, as if tucking were an anchor that will keep them little and keep me young. Instead, I gave long hugs to each one, and then I sat down with my grateful ache.

Thank you God for yesterday.

And help me love them well today.

Advent morning

“For Christians the beginning of the day should not be burdened and oppressed with besetting concerns for the day's work. At the threshold of the new day stands the Lord who made it. All the darkness and distraction of the dreams of the night retreat before the clear light of Jesus Christ and his wakening Word. All unrest, all impurity, all care and anxiety flee before him. Therefore, at the beginning of the day let all distraction and empty talk be silenced and let the first thought and the first word belong to him to whom our whole life belongs. “ 

(Bonhoeffer, Life Together p. 33)

Wake, awake my soul, a new day dawns,
a day your Lord has made. 

Look first to Him,
before the noise of the day begins,
stretch and yawn before Him,
stand before Him,
created before her Creator. 

Begin your day in repentant expectation,
hastening the coming of the Lord.

Remember your smallness 
and number your days.
Recall your need,
and open your hands for His provision.

Open, soul, like a flower
for you have been planted under an open heaven.
Your God showers down his mercies,
new, again, this morning.

This is the day the Lord has made.
Let us rejoice and be glad in it. 

Upheld (depression, again)

Let me tell you about a girl I know.
She has eyes that see the brokenness of this world and a heart that deeply hates what she sees.  She is burdened, maybe even suffocating with the grief she carries.  She wants to make it better, and she tries to, but her efforts don’t seem to make a dent in anything.  And what bothers her even more than being ineffective is that often, sometimes even as she works to right the broken parts of this world, she finds herself tripping over her own brokenness, her plans foiled by a mess that she made by her own self.

And her arms and legs and very heart are caught the web.  Any movement on her part is just wild flailing, but what else can she do?  She could give up in despair, try to sleep it off, and hope that she will wake refreshed and not with fang marks in her neck.  Flail or collapse, pointless activity or abject despair: these seem to be her only options.

This girl is me, when depression takes hold.  It hits me like a storm that comes suddenly and then passes over, It is ugly and dark and scary, but it is over (for now.)  And again, God has been faithful.  I am upheld.

I say that often to my close friends, when the question “how are you doing?” can’t be answered well in a word.

I am upheld.  What do I mean by that?

It’s complicated, this awful grace-filled life.  And when it’s not the time or the place to unburden my soul, to pour out the griefs and complaints, to recount the the faithfulness of God mixed in, to divulge the tangled mess of a heart that doesn’t even know what’s good for its own self and yet is still carried forward by her Father to be at this job or doing this mom thing despite all these glaring weaknesses… I say, I am upheld.

Sometimes, I am a house of cards and I’m sure one more thing will knock me right over, but I haven’t fallen yet.  Every moment that goes by, every push against my house that does NOT make me collapse feels like a miracle, reminds me that God is my helper, and I am upheld.

Sometimes it means: I have just found my way out of the pit and I don’t even know how it happened. My head is lifted up, there is some light in my eyes, and this isn’t my doing. God has again been faithful and sent relief, and yet I know my weakness afresh and its scary. But God is holding me (and He was when I couldn’t feel it, too), and so, I am upheld.

I am upheld: I crawled my way to church (on the inside) and Jesus met me there: He held me and covered me in his own robe, like a soft blanket, he fed me and restored me, He listened to my complaints, and I am upheld.

It is by pure grace that God holds me up, and oh how I need it.

I am re-reading one of my favorite books with my Sunday night book club, Grace upon Grace. And it occurs to me that I am STILL fighting some of the same battles with myself that I was fighting years ago when I read this book.  I am weary of my own weakness.  I want to graduate. I want to say that I WAS weak and loved, but now I am strong and loved and independant, too! I grow weary of being a beggar, of being reminded that I am utterly dependant on God for everything.  I wish I had just one solid mature independent area in my own self that I could count on to be stable and right and GOOD in my own strength. I’d sure feel more secure, or at least happier, that way.  But that is not the way of faith, the way of grace and trust and reliance on the gifts He gives.

Insead, we are invited to be upheld. We are invited to be children, and to be held.

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
    my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
    too great and too marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
    like a weaned child with its mother;
    like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, hope in the Lord
    from this time forth and forevermore. (Psalm 131)

I think of my son, who cries when he’s tired and takes comfort in being held. Tasks undone, questions unanswered do not bother him in the least: he is held, and so he rests.

This same posture is taken by one Benedictine sister retired from a university professorship on account of a debilitating illness who said, “For so many years, I was taught to ‘master’ subjects. But who can ‘master’ beauty, or peace or joy? This psalms speaks of the grace of childhood, not of being childish. One of my greatest freedoms is to see that all the pretenses and defenses I put up in the first part of my life, I can spend the rest of my life taking down. This psalm tells me that I’m a dependent person, and that it’s not demeaning.” (as quoted by Kathleen Norris, THe Cloister Walk p.106)

We have not outgrown childlike dependence on God. We have not graduated. But take heart! God does not demand that we graduate- He invites us to watch Him provide! He calls us as His children to trust in Him, to wait on Him in hope, to look to Him for provision.  We are his children, holding on to Him with our feeble grip, even as He holds us with the almighty strength of His love.

It is by pure grace that God holds us up, and oh, how we need it.

Be held, and upheld in Him today.

Tangled

            Every year those Christmas lights were tangled.  Every single year, when the boxes came out, the complaints started.  "How did these get so tangled?  This is going to take all day!"  I remember sitting on the carpet with lights piled in my lap, tackling the mess with impatient little fingers.  If my mother dared offer help to her frustrated little girl, I would refuse, and storm into another room with my project, determined to untangle at least one strand all by myself.

            As an adult, I still hide away when there is untangling to be done.  I have learned to accept help with Christmas lights, but when it comes to the tangled mess of my own heart, I often revert to childish methods.  I wrestle in frustration.  Offers of help scare me away, and I take my mess into a secret place where I can dwell on it in peace.  I set my problems on my lap, and I try to sort everything out.  I know I need to go to God for help, but I do not want to go unless I can get my thoughts organized first.  I imagine myself untangling things, lining them up, and sorting them into piles:

Let's see...   I’ll put the sins in this pile, the hormonal glitches over here, the good works over there, the medical problems here, the fears over there, the understandable weaknesses here, and the legitimate complaints I have against other people right there. 

Good.  Now, I have a nice organized list of things to bring with me to God.  Now, I can tell Him exactly what solution I need for each of my problems.

            Of course, it never works out that way.  As I wrestle, I feel more like the child who is trying so hard to untangle Grandma’s Christmas lights.  I pull and tug and make every effort, but I never find the beginning or the end.  I work, unceasingly I work, but my efforts only make things worse.  It is still a tangled mess.  The pile changes shape, but the knots are still there. 

            I do not bring an orderly list of concerns and requests before God.  Instead, I take the tangled mess, and I throw it at Him in frustration.  I demand that He sort it out, that He makes it right.  It lays at His feet, I sulk on the floor, and I wait.

            He bends down low and embraces His tangled daughter.  The white robe He wears envelops us both, and it swallows up all of my tangles.  For a moment, I quit fighting, and I rest in the presence of Jesus.

"I will greatly rejoice in the LORD; my soul shall exult in my God, 

for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation; 

he has covered me with the robe of righteousness, 

as a bridegroom decks himself like a priest with a beautiful headdress, 

and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels."  

Isaiah 61:10

originally posted 11/26/11