another launch

 I didn’t get a goodnight hug on the last night he slept at home

but I didn’t even notice

we dropped that ritual years ago

we traded it in for long walks through the neighborhood and talks about life

and the way he’d refill my coffee cup when he’d come to say hello in the morning

his car won’t be leaving oil stains on our street anymore

his boots are not on the stairs

he took his piano books

and I took his name off the chore list

his brothers are all upgrading their bedrooms

and everything is being cleaned, reimagined, rearranged.

it’s that familiar dance: 

releasing what was

embracing what has come

letting the world shift and expand

“thank you for your service” we say to the clothes we have outgrown

send them off- let them bless someone else.

“thank you for your service” to the season that is ending

send him off- let him bless someone else. 

i send him off with more tenderness

and an expectation of meeting up again. 

we will schedule time for walks through the neighborhood

and he will refill her coffee cup in the morning.

come see this

 Col 3: 2 Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth. Yesterday I carried the question: what lasts? what will remain ‘above’ when there is no more ‘on earth?’

“Mom you have GOT to come outside right now” my17yr old insisted as he was about to drive his brother to a thing for me. GLORY- sunset- bright pink skies and a son who KNEW i would appreciate just staring at it. He makes a goofy face while I take the photo; I pray for their safety as they drive off and I keep staring at the clouds.

That sunset didn’t last. Fear in watching kids drive away, flashes of accidents and broken bodies? That won't last either- part of the dying earth and will someday be totally gone.

But God displaying beauty? Definitely part of eternal life together with him. There will be more sunsets. Enjoying beauty with others- telling each other “you have got to see this!” I expect that will be part of the praise and glory as well- likely with more singing, and maybe even some skipping or even dancing about it.

potholders

I scoffed at the raggedy old potholder you could see through, “Mom why in the world do you still use this?”

“It was my moms,” she said.

I teased her. “Does getting burned every time you use the oven help you honor grandma somehow? I’ll buy you a new potholder, for heaven’s sake.”

I didn’t get it, but I'm starting to. 

I feel small these days, with these blooming young adults around me,  all healthy and beautiful, eyes looking outside of this house where all the life is…

the anticipation of launching is just so loud, the futures are so bright

I don’t want to add even a little gray cloud with my unspoken question 

(what about me?)

so I cheer them and i smile

and I feel a little threadbare, 

like a used up old dish towel

(Am I still precious? in this state even?)

and l know in my teenage life

I’d walk past my mom like she was a potted plant 

with my eyes out towards the future

and one day as I’m folding socks and heavy with thoughts of change and shifting seasons of laundry I suddenly understand why the see-through potholder kept its place of honor in the drawer.

we love our people

and time gets used up

and we miss so much of it while we live our own lives

so we keep the potholder

and we hold it tenderly when we can’t hold them

because worn out, worn through 

any little thread of connection 

any tangible memory we can hold

is loved, 

precious, 

because they still are

and they always were

Lorraine has that silly picture I painted years ago hanging in her living room. And this year I hung up their old thanksgiving decorations in the hallway, construction paper crafts and finger paintings, remembering when they were bursting with pride over these offerings. They roll their eyes now, and that’s ok. 

Seth wanted to go to coffee with me and as he talked I couldn’t stop seeing the way his jacket brings out the green in his eyes full of hope, and the way he’s nervous and ready and asking “do I have what it takes?” and he let me see the fear and the weight for just a tiny beautiful second. I want to pause this whole thing before I have to see those eyes cry when he says goodbye to a grandparent (or to me.)

and today everything is lit up with glowing preciousness, 

every human around me

the new and the shiny ones with the future all ahead

and the quieter threadbare ones too

I saved the box with grandpa's handwriting for as long as i could, 

and I still have grandma’s tea set.

The teacup burns my hand when I use it 

but I use it anyway. 

--------

Will the potholders and the people be made new, reborn in the way of Jesus?
Is there hope down this way, down through the tunnel of stripping and letting go and getting smaller? 

Is there more life down here, down this way that feels like death?

Could it be that these joys, released with tears, are like seeds planted that will grow into more beautiful fruit than we can imagine?

I hold both memory and hope in my burning hands.

For now, we wait. 

rest, softly.

The first time I took a personal retreat I was falling apart; the duct tape I had been using to uphold the pace of my life was no longer working- so at my husband’s urging, I headed to the woods. I packed a small library, all the comfort things, and determined,  “I’m going to rest SO hard!”

The hours went quickly; I sensed them passing the whole time as I read and walked and wrote and prayed; I did everything with an awareness of the clock ticking, a subtle urgency to get it all in so I could be put back together again, patched up in a way that would LAST as I returned to my busy life.

I learned a ton. I stared at the water. I cried and let God see all my sore spots. 

And I let him see my fear that it wouldn’t be enough. 

- So what if it isn’t? 

What if you have to go forward, still fragile? 

What if it’s time to hang up the super-suit and accept that you have limits? 

What if it’s time to set down the hustle and learn a new, gentle way? 

This year, when i took my (now) annual trip to the woods, I packed less. 

I still brought questions and sore spots and unfinished work,

but I asked Urgency to stay home this time.

I didn’t go to “stock up” on extra peace and grace, with the illusion I could come home stuffed and sail through December without needing more. 

I went so I could breathe, and look up. 

Rest, softly.

I learned a ton. I stared at the water. I cried and let God see all my sore spots. 

And I let his presence, for a moment, be enough. 

- Thanks, Father.

- Anytime.

false shelter

 She heard the call:

Let your false shelter fall

but she’d lived in it so long-
the walls bore witness to her story, her pain
they held up her medals, her lists
and the scores she’d kept all her life;
they kept out the cold fears (did they?)

And the outside, carefully painted
“she has it all together”
and “everything’s fine here”

plus, all the people like her like this
there is a seat for everyone on her porch
and all their drinks of choice in her fridge

yet in the wind she heard: “YOU, come- take and drink…”

out there? How could she leave?
she needed
the walls, with reinforcements
to keep out the ugly, the evil (did they?) 

she needed

it’s scary and unpredictable out there, after all.
She closed the shutters against the wind,
Leaned on her wall to steady herself
against the holy threat

she needed

And Jesus, looking at her, loved her.
“Leave all that you have and follow me.”
he said, with gentle eyes and an extended hand

And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.

mom as a visitor

I didn't know, when mom came to visit me, 

how weird it is to be a visitor at your own daughter’s house

to let her make the meals and get out the towels

and to not know where she keeps her forks.

and how happy a mom can be that she has found her people
and sad at the same time, that we no longer have “our” people
and how a hand that lets go has to be forced open again and again
and every time it’s a prayer of grief-gratitude
like bubbles popping, or balloons launching into the air while I watch from the ground.

I didn’t know when my mom cleaned counters or did laundry for me
It wasn’t judgment on my housekeeping
but it was a chance to love again, in the old way

and even though it’s not necessary anymore
it’s a little offering, from the old days,
a quiet “thank you for welcoming me still, into your new world.”

---
In church my heart goes out to the sheep on the ground, the one looking up at Jesus carrying the little lamb. She’s glad Jesus has her baby, of course. She’s asking, “where are you taking her? Do you need my help?”
---
I sit on the pier staring at the glimmering lake. God asks me to leave her here at this altar and is it really so hard? With the sparkling lake and the husband who loves her and her face turned up to the sunshine?  I no longer get to see and document every second of it, or to call my mom to tell her about each new milestone like I did when she was tiny.  I have other things to do now, and so does she. It is well.
---
One more glorious morning coffee date, and then the goodbye hug. I’m an amateur; I forgot to pull my sunglasses down before the tears started. All the while I’m aware that I look just like my mom, who still cries when vacation ends, and I will never apologize for that.

I stare at the lake for a little longer, with awareness of God’s presence in this place. I have a grown child who loves what is lovely, and she dwells in His house even when she’s far from me. 

Eventually I turn my face away from the lake towards home, where He has more for me, too.

---

How lovely is your dwelling place,

    O Lord of hosts!

My soul longs, yes, faints

    for the courts of the Lord;

my heart and flesh sing for joy

    to the living God.

Even the sparrow finds a home,

    and the swallow a nest for herself,

    where she may lay her young,

at your altars, O Lord of hosts,

    my King and my God.

Blessed are those who dwell in your house,

    ever singing your praise!

(Ps 84:1-4)

fired

 I’ve been fired from my job

my (self-appointed) job of running the universe.

God did it.
He found me spinning, frantic
Dousing all the fires
Taming all the rollercoasters
Trying
Trying so much
To stay ahead of it all.

“You’re fired,” he said
or maybe it was
“You’re tired.”
(I’m not sure
I wasn’t looking at his face)

I don’t remember how it went
I just remember rest, received
like a gift, like a nap
Like falling into strong arms with resignation
and relief.

“I quit.”

the mercy of sacrifice

 By the mercies of God, present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. (Rom 12:1)

Does God desire death, sacrifice, as in utter forfeiture of life? Yes -our lives are not our own- Yes, and death in Christ only leads to life, the death of the old Adam that rises new and well and whole. 

This is the ‘sacrifice’ of the tree planted by streams of water (to stay put and not go drinking from other wells);
the sacrifice of the prodigal son who stays at home and eats food at his fathers table;
the sacrifice of the child who allows herself to be gathered in dad’s loving arms;
the sacrifice of the woman at the well who gives up her search for water in the wrong places and drinks in the living water for the rest of her life;
the sacrifice of the the one who has let go of a beloved, still seated at the waterfall of his grace with hands open and the expectation that God has more;
the sacrifice of seeing those false comforts for the distraction that they are and launching them over the cliff, letting them go, hands free to embrace Jesus instead.

What could it mean that our bodies are holy and acceptable? I look at my aging imperfect frame and this seems to make no sense. Unless the word has made it so- unless it’s a decree from heaven that contains the gift it promises. In Jesus we are holy and acceptable; as beloved children, being redeemed and remade, we are loved in soul and body by his mercy, even now, even imperfect. 

Living out the truth of what He says we are- holy and acceptable to him- we can release the false ways we strive for holiness and acceptance and learn to settle our identity in him. We give the good gifts right back to him as our embodied spiritual worship. We learn to live and love and BE as he intended us, which is also more fully ourselves.

This is why something that sounds so hard (sacrifice) is a mercy of God- a life sacrificed to Him is a puzzle piece clicked into the place where it belongs; a flower finally planted in the soil she needs, a bone out of joint finally set right. 

Into your hand I commit my spirit;

    you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God. 

David Psalm 31:5