Seeing, in the city

I wonder if, on the other side, when change and tears are past, when what is between us is forever destroyed, will there be parks like this?

What will it be like to see each other then? When we see with holy eyes, will we see the whole, holy story? Will we be able to see each other, wildly different, wildly redeemed, and understand; truly understand the wholeness of a person, the full story, the gracious work of God in each person’s life?

---

written 8/13 in St. Louis

I sit in oustide a city park, country girl in the big city. A waft of greasy catsup invades my nose, only to be pushed away by a cloud of cigar smoke. I miss the cows and the corn.

It is challenging for me to find beauty here, but it is not impossible.

They walk by-- the stories, the people. Drama, tragedy, comedy, romance-- multi-colored stories parade past me, moving even more quickly than the smells. Exhaust now fills my lungs, but I will sit in it if it I must, so I can watch the stories.

I bet that one used to be in a fraternity. He is tan, in a baseball cap, and his cardinals shirt stretches over his middle-age belly. His calves are perfect, and he holds a beer. He walks with his shoulders back, chest up, belly out. Or is the belly dragging him along?

That one has too-big shorts and an afro, and a baby on his back. He pushes another in a stroller, and a third walks beside. We have much in common, I think.

That man must have be been a pirate. He still has muscles from hoisting sails, maybe just last week. I wonder what he did with his parrot?

A man, asking for money for “homeless children.” I don’t give, but I wonder if I should have. “Have a nice day m’am,” he says.

That little guy must be two, like Peter. He holds his body with the same confidence, belly-out, jumping, running. His skin is a deep black, and I bet it is soft like my son’s. I want to go pick him up, but that would seem creepy. (I wonder what Peter is up to.)

On the street corner, a heavy, well-dressed white man, holds his sign and his chin up high. I don’t know whether to argue with him or pray for him. I am glad I do not have to explain him to my children, not this time.

A mom heavy laden with bags, on her back, in her stroller. She pushes while the children play. Her daughter lifts up her dress to potty in the grass. Mom is mortified. I give her an look of understanding but she is hiding her face.

Well dressed and smoking, that man is taking a break from a job he hates, I bet. He does not notice the children in the fountain.

Rarely do those on the street make eye contact, except perhaps to exchange a tight-lipped smile. Their stories are locked in tight, and the skulking writer is left with her guesses.

------------

Still looking for beauty, but here in a different city. God is training my eyes to see. I am eager to read the stories in their glorious completion, and yet, there is much to celebrate even now, between chapters.

Beauty in the city. (more coming soon)

Have you seen any lately?

let her sing!

Once, in a college class, we were discussing finding God in nature. I was asked to look outside at a nearby tree, and tell the class what it told me about God. "Um... it's reaching up to the sky to show us we need God?" Maybe. Or maybe it has outstretched arms to teach us to embrace the whole world? Or perhaps a tree has disorganized branches because God loves wild spiky hair and hairspray is an affront to God?

Point made, professor. We can be inspired by nature, but we can't "read" it.  Without revelation, there is little we can say for certain. But we have the Word of God, and by it we know He is the author of this world, the creator and maker of all things.  And that which He has made is not silent.

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. 
Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge. 
(Psalm 19:1-2)

Read the rest of this article over at Sisters of Katie Luther

sky paint

The sky looks like a rainbow at first, with a bright orange center above the horizon. Brilliant pink clouds rest above the tree line.

Do you think God gets to paint the sunsets each day with his giant brush?

We sit together in the back yard under the changing sky.

I sit with my son, He-Who-Notices, and in the quiet, we do nothing but notice.

“Mommy look, it's getting darker!” 
 We see the subtle the color change. 
The pink clouds turn purple.

Does God have a special brush for the soft clouds? 
How does He make them look like cotton candy? 
When it's foggy, does He just use that brush for everything?

The orange glow melts away, and the blues become deeper. We look all across the sky, taking in the change in the shades of blue. We spy a small strip of green, and the clouds are turning gray. The tree tops reach into the fading yellow.

“Mommy, look! It's a star, the first one!” He jumps with the excitement of noticing.
I pull him back on to my lap, resting my cheek on his while we look together.

Does God use a special brush for the stars? 
Maybe He uses twinkle paint.

The blues deepen. Near the star appears a sliver of the moon, barely visible.

“It's a smile, Mom! A smile!”

That “smile” made more smiles, and the God who made all of them calls each one good.

-  -   -   -   -   -

Night falls, and the noticer is in bed, but my heart still bursts with the thrill of our sunset moment.

I try to paint the sky, but I do not command my brushes like God commands the world. So I write the sky, but my words are but a cheap imitation of the moment.

I am left with nothing worth hanging on the wall, yet even so, my soul feels larger.

God did not make the sky so that I would DO something about it.
The faint echo that flowed from the seeing and saving is not the reason God made the sky!

Tonight, God's good work in the sky over that cornfield has been seen and savored by at least two of His creatures. God's good work, received with joy from His hands by His deeply-loved children. 

Does God use a special brush for mothers' eyes, to help them see like children?
If so, it is the same one that fills hearts and lifts them to Him with gratitude.

-  -   -   -   -   -

Great are the works of the LORD, studied by all who delight in them. Psalm 111:2

Death by Living

buy it on Amazon

I was given a free copy of this book for purposes of review. All opinions are 100% my own

Death by Living, a book by N.D. Wilson, is a rich experience for the imagination, for soul and mind and spirit.  The writing in this book is so beautiful and powerful that you find yourself wanting to agree with every word.  This can, of course, be dangerous. Let the the reader be advised to carry his brain along with him if he allows his soul to be moved by these words.

I would make one addition to this book, and it is a matter of emphasis. To live in such a generous, poured-out way as the author describes is impossible on our own, if our own hearts are the wells from which we draw. We must abide in another, live with hands open, ready to receive from God.  And we do receive, as the author so beautifully describes, through the daily blessings that surround us. But even more than this, we are told to receive God where He has promised to meet us: In His Word.  This seems to be assumed, and is occasionally demonstrated in this book; yet, it is such an important concept, I think it needs to be stated explicitly.

Life is Meant to Be Spent (so says the subtitle of the book,) and Wilson makes his case not by preaching or argument, but by engulfing the reader in a new way of seeing.  

Through his eyes I saw the floating specks of dust, the cosmos, and my grave, and I was made tiny.  Through his eyes, I saw the thread of grace and of Providence that began at Adam and runs right here to my kitchen table. I saw The Story, the Body given for me, the God who stoops, and who even now, fills my hands and gives me my lines.

Through his eyes, I saw my children, hungry for story, for soul-food, which I am now eager to give.  I saw the wet concrete of today poured out before me, drying quickly.  I saw God’s spoken words, his art, everywhere, and I meditated on His meditations.

He showed me the river, the one I can’t stop from moving, the one that refuses to allow me to put down my anchor. He understands why I gather moments, and knows it is both futile and necessary.

And the finish line: he made me look at that, too.  Though his eyes I saw death’s color over all of life, the threat and the inevitability, the grief, the dust; and I saw the Conqueror and the triumph, and the resurrection.  I heard the whooping and the music from the parade.

Then, Wilson left me back in my kitchen, here in today.  But my vision has been corrected, and his words linger.  Arms in the dishwater, I am living my story, and I can still hear this challenge:

Live fully and loudly; live receiving and giving; live as created, loved art, made by God who gives, God who stoops.  Life for and in and towards Jesus who died and lives for you.  And prepare to die, because you will die. But today, live.

Lord, we flail.  Forgive the lies we tell from purple thrones on TBN. Forgive the lies we tell in shrines. Forgive every attempt at self-redemption, the holy efforts we call our own, all the clawing we call resurrection. Bury us. Take us to helpless dust. Then roll away the stone and call us by our names. Make us all Lazarus. (125)

By His grace, we are the water made wine. We are the dust made flesh made dust made flesh again. We are the whores made brides and the thieves made saints and the killers made apostles. We are the dead made living.

We are His cross. (167)

Bear us home, Jesus, and may our stories in your Story be written well.

-------------

Get the book on Amazon

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Wookit!

100 times a day, Eldon says, “mommy come see!”

Eldon notices things. He notices the hummingbirds and the butterflies and the cicada shells. He notices the cloud that looks like an alligator.  He notices the single red leaf in our yard, and he notices that there’s a little bit of orange in it too.   He’s the one who hears me when I thank God for the sunshine. How do I know? Because the next day, he points it out to me, with loud joy, and his wild hand gestures and running feet sing praise God in his little way.

He makes sure I notice, too, as if it’s a task he’s been given by God Himself.

 “Mommy, Wookit!” (Look at it!)

“Mommy, come SEE this!”

Though I don’t always appreciate it—the interruption of my “work” to “lookit”—I see that he blesses me in this way. He is part of the answer to my prayer, when I pray, God, help me to see.

Do you need help slowing down? Do you long to see?

Please read these 2 wonderful blog posts from handsfreemama.

Notice the Good

The day I stopped saying "Hurry Up."

Summer, A Woman (motorcycle free write)

I return to the cottage with red cheeks and tangled hair; disheveled and wild.  

Will I ever get these knots of of my hair? Was it worth it? I ask myself, for the thrill of riding on the back of a motorcycle with my long hair down, letting it dry in the wind?  Of course it was worth it, I decide, as I always do. The thrill of life is worth the tangles.  Of course it is.  The life, the tangles, the work and the thrill; this house is disheveled and wild, but it is alive.

It was a terribly hot day for a motorcycle ride, even if I did start the ride with cool wet hair.  The seat was hot, his back was hot, and his shoulders were hot, but they are still my favorite shoulders in all the world.  Quickly we left the backroads, quickly he opened the throttle, and we raced toward relief from the heat.

I closed my eyes so that I could better feel the wind on my skin.  Gusts came from the left and the right, some stifling, some sweet and cool.  The temperatures seemed to fight each other. I breathed what was given.

The air was hot and alive.  The earth has grown from spring into summer.  She has put behind her the ways of the little girl- the sprouts, the playing of the fawns, the cheerful tulips.  She is fully developed now, a rich and fertile woman.  Summer is a woman and her embrace is warm.  And my long hair flew behind me, blown by her breath.

On the side of the road stood a man with a flat tire, in a small t-shirt stretched over his belly.  What did he see when we flew past him? Did he see a woman that looked a little like Summer, her hair dancing like the wheat?  Did he see the sexy young couple from a few years ago, the one we still feel like, the one we still are?  Or did he see a disheveled mama flying from her children, desperate for a moment’s peace?

And God played with the clouds.

I closed my eyes again, waiting for more insight, inspiration.  But this time as I breathed in summer, my mouth opened slightly.  The wind grabbed my lower lip and forced it down, out, exposing my bottom teeth.  My mouth received the forced air, and my cheeks flapped. I wanted to smile at the silliness, but instead I let the wind continue to play, and I thought of my dog at home and the way she loves her truck rides, and her jowels flapping.  

Suddenly the air gusts cool, much cooler. The sky is a wonderful gray.  Already my eyes are relieved, my skin is refreshed.  Suddenly, a rock strikes my cheek, then another my arm, and I realize it is only the rain.  I try not to flinch, try not to recoil from the gift.  But it stings, and I curl myself small, behind his back (my favorite back). Times of refreshing can be painful.  I am grateful for windshields and husband-shields.

The shower was short, and my hair is dry again when we park the motorcycle.

I return to the cottage with red cheeks and tangled hair; disheveled and wild, refreshed, alive.

I write before I bother to brush.

Underwater freewrite

The evening sun will soon be pink.

The girls do not care to watch a movie, and they know this pleases me. Instead, we swim. My muscles are weak, but they remember, and my movement is easy. Just below me-- my shadow. She is graceful and light.

An underwater squeal- I turn my head. My girls are not girly. They see fish,and they are delighted, chasing.

Aggie chases fish like she chases butterflies. She will never catch one, yet nonetheless, for her, it is still all joy. Joy in the discovery, joy in the chase, joy in the letting-go-- joy even in her smallness-- it is all joy for her, and I see it shimmering, rolling down her face, and shining from her big toothed smile.

Sunlight dancing on the seaweed, the rocks, watery silence just below the surface, arms and legs gracefully buoyant, wonders of the worlds below passing before my eyes--oh, how my soul breathes in this place!-- the peace of the underwater world, just the girls and me, swimming along the shore, floating.

Green Magyk

Do you understand photosynthesis? 

Espeically the whole making-trees-and-leaves-and-fruit-out-of-thin-air part?  

Go blow on that bush. 

You can't see it, but the bush will turn your breath into raspberry juice.  

We could improve on the name. 

Photosynthesis. 

I've suggested Green Magyk, but no one listens to me.

(Notes from the Tilt-a-whirl, ND Wilson)

Or tomato juice.
Or pizza. My children like to imagine that this is how God grows pizza for us.

The smell of tomato plants reminds me of home-- the old one where I caught earthworms for fun while mom planted flowerse and dad grew tomatoes and rhubarb.

Have you noticed, lately, the miracles that God is doing in your own garden?

Or do you reap the benefits of this Magyk through the grocer?
It is no less amazing.

The sun shines, but you cannot simply open your mouth and drink it.  

You require the help of these- these green machines miracles. 

They are more impressive than machines. 

Broccoli, harvested too late. 

I feel guilty about that, since it's grown so big.

But there are flowers, and beauty comes even from this vegetable.

Grace in my garden.

2 potatoes sprouted in my cupbard by accident.

They gave us these:

See the one with eyes?

Green Magyk in God's creation. 

He blesses our bodies with the fruits and vegetables of the earth. 

He makes them taste good, and sometimes, for the fun of it, he makes them look funny, too.

Thank you God for the fruits of the earth.

Wheatgrass. Really.

 What kind of crazy hippy have I become? The kind that grows her own wheatgrass. Yep, that's me.

How to grow wheatgrass.

1. Get wheat.

2. Put it in dirt.

3. Get it wet.

4. Wait.

While you wait, magical things happen inside the pot. Sun, air, water, and wheat mold and meld and mix and the nutrients change and the grass grows. Amazing stuff.

Or, forget about it while you go on vacation. 

Leave it outside, and come home to something like the picture above.

After vacation, who looks more frazzled, me or my neglected wheatgrass?

Why do I throw wheatgrass in my smoothies?  Click here.

Have you ever tried wheatgrass?

What's your favorite green?

Life Resting

We walk through the air that smells like life and growth.  Boys run ahead. The smallest one stays to hold my hand, but only for a moment. He races ahead on the uneven ground, doing the best he can in his little body, in those little, fat shoes. 

"Respect the corn!" I say, catching up with them.  Respect the corn, the farmers, the life growing here.  They slow down, walk carefully. 

The warm air is full of life, but behind the bright corn field, I see the shadow. I see the seeds that have been planted in love and in grief; seeds that have not stirred. Not yet. They need more help than the sun can give.

The earth is warm and fertile, and God gives life and growth.  He gives to some and not others. Questions ache, and mix with the beauty.  The waiting is hard. 

Walk softly, boys. Life is resting here.

Yet the blood pumps in my veins and I breathe deep.  Today, life flows in and around me. I am one of the chosen receivers, one sustained by His Word for this moment, this day, this scene on this stage. 

My flesh is unstable, weak, dust. And yet I--what grace!-- I am grafted into the ever-living vine.  I receive my eternal breath from Jesus, I drink from my God who is stable and strong, stronger than death.

I will die, and when I do--whether it be in my bed as age creeps over me, or struck by lightning, a meteor, or a UPS truck--when my body and soul find their divorce, His hand will be the one that cuts the thread and shows me the path He blazed through tragedy.  

(N.D.Wilson, Notes from the Tilt A Whirl)

Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: 

"Death has been swallowed up in victory." 

"Where, O death, is your victory? 

      Where, O death, is your sting?"

 The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.

1 Corinthians 15:51-58

Our Arms Cannot Contain It (Lake Michigan freewrite)

“Mama, are we going to go to the big lake while we are in Michigan?  Can we please, please, please?”

“Oh honey, don’t worry about that… if we don’t find time to go to Lake Michigan I’ll probably shrivel up and die. We will go.”  She looks at me with big eyes, suddenly not knowing this mama who speaks with such drama.  I smile, and turn up the music—a pop song.  We must go, or I will shrivel up and die. The thought spilled out of me as if I were my teenaged self, prone to jokes about death and hyperbole.  Just thinking about the lake makes that person want to rise up in me- the girl who jumped off the pier even though it was against the rules; the girl who ran down sand dunes, flailing and yelling like a maniac, in a body full of life that had not yet carried life.

Friday comes, and we go, and as I drive I can feel the lake approaching even before I can see it. My feet are restless to shed the shoes and run in the soft, smooth sand.  I remember how the sand squeaks when you walk just right, and I wonder if my children will notice.

But the stuff must be carried, and so we carry the stuff. As I carry I breathe, and the air is sweet and full of memories and water and youth. The children hobble on sand with arms full, bare feet awkward but happy. They finally approach the water front, drop all things in a pile, and they run.  They run with arms spread wide and fingers splayed, as if they could embrace the vastness of the beauty.  Their arms cannot contain it, and their small legs are slowed by the weight of the water. They flail and fall, and the water is freezing.

The sand is so soft, and my son has noticed. He sits and lets it fall through his fingers, over and over.  This is exactly what I would like to do with glorious days like this one. I want to let them run through my fingers, to examine them in my hand, to set them down and pick them up again.

But new blessings come to distract us both. The sand is forgotten and he runs for the pier.

I watch them with mother-eyes, seeing the danger that was once invisible to me in this place.  These eyes cannot be closed again, and there is sadness in the realization.  But, as the memories of this place play before my eyes even as I watch my own children, my mother-eyes see a new depth in the memories. They see little me, protected with sunscreen and a hat and a lifejacket. They see my own parents struggling with the tension of letting-go and holding close. They see a child oblivious, yet loved.  They see prayers answered and grace poured out.

I see my dear mother with her wind-blown hair that matches mine. What is it like to look through grandmother-eyes?  Does she see layers upon layers?

Memories flood, and my face flushes, but this time, not from the sun. I see the danger with which I flirted, and the boys.  I wallowed in more than just the lake when I was a teenager. 

 Remember not the sins of my youth, Lord, I pray with David.   

The past can chafe like wet sand if it is not washed away.  How often I have prayed such a prayer? And my patient Father has answered, once for all.  His answer came once in His Word made flesh, and His promises echo through history to me on this pier on this day.  The sins of my youth, the sins of this morning, all have been laid on Jesus.  My “stuff” has been carried for me, across the sand and onto the cross and through the tomb and into the depths of the sea.

The memories mix with the present moment, and the cool breeze of God’s grace blows through everything.  This day, this God-- it is all too big for me to get my arms around. 

I see my children running ahead as we return from the edge of the pier.  They run, looking for the place where the pier meets the sand, where the running-jump makes a heart leap before a body hits the soft sand below. 

Arms up, free, open heart and arms and splayed fingers, we jump.

Jesus said,

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,

    because he has anointed me

    to proclaim good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners

    and recovery of sight for the blind,

to set the oppressed free,

    to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

Luke 4:17-19

Linked with Just write

In God's Sandbox

To Marcus, on your "best day ever."

We told you that we were taking you to a sand mountain, but none of you really understood what that meant. When you Sleeping Bear Dunes, you all were shocked. “Can we climb it?” and I said “Of course,” and I could see in your eyes that you had no idea mom and dad would ever let you do something so awesome.

Marcus, ever since you were a tiny baby, you have had a certain sparkle in your eye.  It is as if you are amused by everything. Now that you are older (five,) I understand the sparkling soul behind those eyes a little bit more.  You see it. You see the wonder, the absurdity of this place we live in. You see the irony and the hilarity and adventure around you (and if you can’t find it, you create it.)

Nana was with us, and every kid, and daddy, too. The weather was perfect- low 70s, cloud cover, and a gentle breeze. The hill climb was steep, but you ran ahead with the older three.   We climbed the first giant dune, then a smaller hill to the dune cliffs. When we caught up (I had to carry Peter for a short ways,) daddy taught you to dune jump while I caught my breath.

My foot has only been out of the fracture boot for two weeks.  But it doesn’t hurt, it only pinches a little. “Hun, be careful,” daddy said. “We can’t handle another six weeks with you in a boot."  Indeed… but dunes are just so awesome.  I think my eyes sparkle like yours in such a place.

My first jump was a quiet one, because I didn’t want you to see me learning any hard life lessons if there were lessons to learn. But I landed in the soft sand on my heels, and it was WONDERFUL. No pain, only a body that can still fly in Lake Michigan air.  I made sure all the kids watched for the next jump.  I love when I impress you and make you laugh. (Nana thinks I’m crazy to act like a kid when I’m a mother of six.. she shakes her head, and even that makes it more fun.)

I jumped 3, 4, 5 times, then I stopped to catch my breath. Where did Marcus go? On another cliff I saw you, ready to run. And run you did, like a cartoon character whose feet move so fast that you can see only dust.  And your laugh--- oh, how you laughed as you ran!  It was a giddy, almost maniacal laugh.  It was the laugh I hear when you take your bike down the hill and the pedals move so fast you can’t keep your feet on them. 

You stopped where the ground leveled a bit to whoop with joy, then you ran back up the hill to do it again. Your brothers and sisters joined you (though Eldon and Peter needed to hold a big person’s hand), and we played until we were too sand-logged to take it any longer.  (As I write this I still have sand in my ears.)

We gave you the green light to run free down the giant hill. Again, I saw it- that look that says you can’t believe your mom is so cool that she would let you do this. And I thought, what a God, who made a sand mountain like this, for children like YOU, and a mommy like me.  

And everybody ran, and I ran too. Lorraine had Eldon’s hand, so we went more slowly. I remembered how to take ridiculous giant steps down the steep sand hill, and I taught her. Even stepping feels like flying on the dunes.  But Marcus, you ran, and again I heard your crazy laugh.  Your wheeling legs worked hard, but you lost control, and you crashed, a cloud of limbs and sand and laughter.

Back at the van, I passed out water cups and your eyes continued to dance. “I will never ever forget this day, mama,” you said to me.   (Have you, son? I want to remember too, but will we?)  You told your daddy about your crash when he caught up (he’d been running slower with Peter.)  “That was a sweet wreck,” you gloated, “I will never forget this day!”  I want to remember this day, too.

And on the way home you couldn’t get comfortable, so I let you lay on me. You slept, and you drooled on me, a little, and I teased you, but not too much. I didn’t want you to move away. You rolled over to your back and rested your head on my lap.  You let your mouth hang open and your fists unclench. I noticed the rock you had taken from the beach, resting in your hand. It was a speckled rock, and you wanted to save it forever because this day was so great. 

You sound like your mother. I save days too, with words not rocks. I am saving this one for me, and for you. 

(added to my Gilead. )

Flourishing

It is good to praise the Lord and make music to your name, O Most High,

to proclaim your love in the morning, and your faithfulness at night

For you make me glad by your deeds, O Lord;

I sing for joy at the works of your hands.

The righteous will flourish like a palm tree,

they will grow like a cedar of Lebanon;

planted in the house of the Lord,

they will flourish in the courts of our God.

They will still bear fruit in old age,

they will stay fresh and green

proclaiming, "The Lord is upright;

he is my Rock, and there is no wickedness in Him."

Psalm 92:1-2, 4, 12-15

Boys in High Places

They celebrate the joy of making it to a resting place during a long hike!

Suddenly the legs that could barely hold little bodies

upright on the trails can run stairs and explore the shelter house.

Suddenly the boy has forgotten the sweat, the bugs, the complaints.

He sees the view and feels the breeze.

A little boy with parched lips, begging for water only moments before, 

suddenly finds new strength in his body,

new moisture in his mouth.

He smiles, puckers, gathers, and of course, 

spits.

And I wonder...

Did God ,who created both little boys and high places, have this fun in mind all along?