Lean (Lake Michigan free write)

11pm

Cool sand runs through my fingers and fills the back pocket of my jeans as I recline on the beach.  My head rests on my son’s chest- he’s not afraid to get sand in his hair, but I’d rather not.

Instead I want to get this beauty, this night, into all of me. I breathe in deeply, open heart and open eyes and open hands.  The clouds break up in patches, and he announces every new star he sees.

“What would you change about this night, mom?” he asks, and I cannot think of even one thing. 

The temperature is perfect, the wind is steady enough to deter all bugs, the sound of the water is the sound I will try to hear again when I close my eyes on my bed and search for calm beauty.

I can’t breath deeply enough to get the beauty IN, but I drink in what I can, and I savor the promise. 

“We shalll get in,” I hear Lewis say.  

Eldon is Lorraine’s pillow while Marcus is mine.

The breeze blows the sand out of his curls as he sits up. So does she, and they face the water together. The wind and the sheer beauty of the night overpower all our conversation. He rests his head on her shoulder as she hugs her knees, and togehter they stare out at the dark water.. What thoughts are going through her mind? And his? She responds to his snuggles with sisterly affection and they watch the waves break, shoulder to shoulder, head resting on curly head. 

The thought comes unbidden:  this sister’s relationship with her brother will outlast her relationship with me on this earth (assuming the normal ordering of things.)

The thought takes my breath away, and drives me to prayer: that they will lean on each other for years to come. I pray for this thing, for an extension of this moment, and the leaning, into the future I will not see.

Behind them I feel the sand running fast through my fingers. 

Marcus offers to bury me, but I say no, son. Not yet.

I bury my own feet a little, and I ponder my Maker and theirs.

I’m not afraid. 

“Look around at how luck we are to be alive right now,” Eliza sings in my head, but I know it’s not luck.  It’s gift, it’s all grace, and it’s passing away. Yet it’s being remade even now: these kids, this beach, my flesh with its wrinkles and spots. “Don’t worry, you’ll get more,” says N.D. Wilson

The heavens declare the glory of God and the stars declare our smallness. The wind and the sand proclaim times of cool resfreshing, and of changes to come.

What would I change about this night?
Change itself, I might have said a few years ago. 

But I am learning to let go, to trust the Lord of the wind and the waves. 

I am learning to lean.

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"Every last material creature on this globe will come to an end. If God has the authority to invent sperm, to invent eggs, to invent DNA; if He has the authority to choose me out of a near infinite number of possible human combinations and call me into existence out of nothing; if He has the authority to choose my parents, my race, my birthplace, my height, my intelligence, the size of my tonsils; if He has the authority to design my teeth from scratch, then He has the authority to choose my end. God has the authority to shape a soul with His voice, bind it to matter, and send it into history. And He has the authority to sever my soul from my body and call it to another part of the stage. He has the authority to reuse the matter from my flesh in daffodils. I’m not worried. I’ll get more."

N.D. Wilson, Notes from a Tilt-A-Whirl

Ten years

"Ten years. That's a long time to stare at her head and wonder."

Ten years ago today, we kissed her goodbye, commending her into the hands of God and the care of the surgeons at Cleveland Clinic:

For ten years, we have been free of seizures.
And today, this girl is a lovely young woman, thriving in life and in school, and recently proving that of all the family, she has the most grit and determination when being dragged behind a boat on a tube.

We call her the best hanger-oner.
With a smirk, she calls dad the best "flipper-offer."

Today we are giving deep, fervent thanks for the life and health of all of our children, and the miracle that is Aggie.

sitting on beaches

Old people sit quietly on beaches, and children play. Children have fun, while adults sit and watch and wish they were children again.  So I imagined, at least.

For many years, I have judged the “age” of a person, rather, their capacity for childish merriment, by the level of activity and excitement around water. 

When my husband and I were dating, we happened to be near the ocean during a rainstorm.  I was energized, delighted; I forced him to swim with me in the rain in the ocean.  It was a test of sorts. He passed.  (He later failed the dancing test, but I was so hooked at that point I did not care.)

The hours spent playing in the cool waves of Lake Michigan are some of my favorite experiences.   Years later, I returned with my children to that place, and played with them as they experienced this delight for the first time.  Oh the squealing, giggling!  The cool clear water over heads, in ears, in noses!  Sand in all parts!  Children clinging in fear and splashing in delight!  Adrenaline and roar of waves crashing!

 I jumped, dove, frolicked with them, new memories mixing with the old, sparkling and engulfing me.

I played hard, but then I had to sit down.  Rather, I wanted to sit down.  I wanted to still my body so I could better watch their happy little bodies. 

Gifts received by my own children are in a way more wonderful than any gift given directly to me.  I sat in the sun, let sand run through my fingers, and watched the gifts of God being given to my babies.   WOW, He actually did it AGAIN!  And He blessed THEM, my own sweet babies!

I sat, and I saw grace in the water, sun, air, waves.  Soft sand on my feet, squeals in my ears, joy overpowering, radiant grace pouring into all senses and all corners of my heart; Oh God, you are good to your children!

Children experience with their hands, their bodies, right in the midst of it.  Adults observe, we remember our times of bodily experience, and see it all over again, and more clearly, as it is poured on others.  This God who loves us, He knows how to give good gifts.

And then, grace upon grace, HIM, my dear husband right there in the water with our babies.  The one God brought back from Iraq, here with our children, experiencing and delighting.  He caught my eye, wondering with a smile, did I see that epic battle of boy vs. wave?  Did I see our superhero eating sand and laughing?  He smiled the smile he used in college to win my heart, and that smile is full of more memories and more love now.

Overpowering joy, grace received by all the senses, flooding heart and mind, making me stagger… making me need to sit down for a minute.

I do not sit because I am old and weary, not today.
Today, I am forced to sit because the crashing rush of grace has engulfed my being and knocked me over.

I need a second to catch my breath.

(originally posted 7/2011. This flavor of God's grace re-gifted again today in 2019.)

Disruptive Grace

Mind your prayers, people. They can be dangerous. 

God opened the door for Josh to finish his PHD just over a year ago, and He basically had to shove us through it.  After another round of painful goodbyes, and another exhausting move, we set our minds to make the best of our short stay in Kentucky.

Leaving old friends makes one hesitant to make new ones. I saw this in my children; I saw it in myself. 

“Lord, keep our hearts open in this place,” we prayed: a dangerous prayer. 

Thus we began a year of needs recognized, and then, provision.

Homeschooling was an enormous adjustment, flattening me with the needs of the children and my own need for support, patience, more time, everything!  “God, my kids need friends, and I need people who understand!”  

Last summer I attended a practicum, hoping to be better equipped to teach a few things at home, and God made it plain to me: “These are your people.” We jumped into Classical Conversations with both feet, and we were recived with open hearts. Our hearts opened in return, and we thank God that indeed, this homeschool community is “our people.”

At the same time, we attended the closest Lutheran church, slipping in and out of the pews quietly, just like normal people.  But open-hearted people sought us out, and drew us in. God’s people once again became our people.

We had no idea when we moved here, how God would meet our needs and fill our hearts. 

That “short stay” in Kentucky? It is yet another page in my life-planner that God has crumpled up and thrown in the trash. And I’m cheering him on. Josh was installed as pastor at Our Savior last weekend. We have purchased a house. Our hearts are open and our roots are sinking down in this place.

We are marvelling at the work of God,

and giving thanks

for his disruptive grace,

for the gifts He gives,

for the way He opens our hearts to want what He wills,

always more than we asked or imagined.

*The flowers in the picture are from installation day at the church, from the gardens of parishioners. 

It’s just like God to gather His people and make something beautiful.