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

I just need a minute

 Sometimes, I just need a minute.

I need a minute catch my breath as the milestones whizz by

to name what is good, to name what is ending.

I just need a minute to not be in a hurry; 

because I’ve missed some of it, raced through the season without even noticing and I can’t go back but I can take a minute to notice, now.

The way he stops at the store to buy bananas for his sick brother

and that green jacket brings out his eyes, especially when he smiles at her

and his grass covered shoes are sitting outside the back door

and how he’s still home for dinner sometimes

and he filled my coffee before he went to work this morning, 

and he checked in with me, for a minute. 

I just need a minute to hold the gifts, 

One more time.

To trace over the edges, to feel the weight in my hands

To remember when the gifts were new

And small

(small enough to curl up and sleep on my chest, 

snoring tiny snores and leaving tiny puddles of drool)

I just need a minute to wonder,
When was the last time I got a “good morning” hug?
The last zoo trip? The last chapter of the last read-aloud? 

The last time I made his day by handing him a popsicle?

The last time he drove me to the store? 

I just need a minute to sit in the empty room

before I flick off the light switch for the very last time

sitting with the weight of the gift and the reality of its ending

I just need a minute, 

I just need a little time with the never-agains

before i tuck them into the box of memory

with gratitude and tenderness and thanksgiving

My hand is almost ready to open,

But not quite; 

don’t rush it please…

I’ll get there

(help me God!)

I just need a minute. 

What it felt like to be set right

 What it felt like to be set right

It felt like finding her center- she never knew she had one

(she was more like smoke before)

Dispersed like the winds, always spread thin

Blown around by the whims of others

The ping pong ball, sent flying by the slightest tap

Spinning, bouncing in any and every direction at once

It felt like being protected (finally), and planted

Given roots, and her very own soil, and nourishment for her soul

Cool waters and stable ground 

Permission to take up space, space meant just for her.

She was settled in, planted where she could finally grow

Finally stretch her arms up toward the sun

Nourished to her core; steadily growing taller 

She still feels the winds

Sometimes she bends, and sometimes she resists

And she worries about it all a little less;

her face is up toward the sun

Photo by Eldon

life on life terms at the dentist

“accepting life on life’s terms”

Sounds like riding the waves, embracing the ebb and flow like some majestic surfer with perfect balance.. and maybe sometimes it is like that.

But sometimes it’s like sitting in the dentist chair, and there is really no reason to clench your hands but there you are doing it again. Teeth scraping: THIS is life on a weekday morning and it’s just plain unpleasant. Life on life’s terms, here?

And as I sit there I can’t escape into a puddle of blissful serenity; it’s physically not possible. I have to keep some tension in my jaw or the scraping couldn’t happen;  a little resistance is required for any progress to be made. 

But squeezing my hands together helps nothing. Looking at the clock, tensing up my facial muscles or back, these are all bodily expressions of non-resignation to the moment; a futile attempt to block or hurry the process. Letting these reactions reign just makes me more uncomfortable, guarded, impatient; I'm fighting the moment, fighting reality.

Notice. Allow. Release. Surrender. 

It’s a hard dance to do in the dentist chair, or anywhere, if I’m honest.

These questions I have been carrying for months sat with me in the dentist chair:

What could it mean to live awake to discomfort without squirming to escape?

To feel the necessary resistance that comes with progress, change, or growth?

To believe that hard things can be good, that pain can be the way forward to something better?

To refrain from futile fighting, to unclench and allow the moment?

To “accept hardships as the pathway to peace?”

To commend self, life, body, moments to God on a regular weekday?

God grant me the serenity To accept the things I cannot change; Courage to change the things I can; And wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as He did, this sinful world As it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things right If I surrender to His Will; So that I may be reasonably happy in this life And supremely happy with Him Forever and ever in the next. Amen.

Richard Neibuhr

to Seth on your 18th birthday

 Seth-

Remember when you used to be my shopping buddy? You were always organizing my cart, following me around so I could shop like a queen, hand you my things, and trust you to file them neatly. Sometimes I’d feel snarky and chuck something wantonly in the cart, just to trigger your lecture about categories and order and efficiency. Then I’d watch you indignantly unload the groceries on the belt, in all decency and order. At home, you’d command your brothers to unload alongside you, supervise putting away, and ensure a satisfying conclusion to the operation. And I’d say something small like, “Thanks for the help.” 

Meanwhile, in my soul, I was really learning to see you, to marvel, and to stop fighting who you are by asking you to read fairytales with me or dance in my kitchen. God was teaching me a new dance, one that went more like, “Wow, look at you, learning to embrace the person God made you to be.”

Sometimes you’d go too far, give orders too harshly, or threaten to beat the brother that didn’t cooperate. And sometimes I’d yellingly cancel all the efforts towards growth for everyone, “Stop fighting and just go to your rooms!” We’ve both had to grow so much over these years, and growing is a loud, messy process. 

Remember that time we were fighting about physics but it wasn’t really about physics, and I got teary? And you stayed calm and said, “I love you mom; I probably don't say that enough.” The universe shifted for me in that moment. Since then, you’ve had to handle more of my tears than any of your siblings, especially during our emergency trip to Michigan when Bump was sick; I’ll never forget your solid, loving presence in those days.

Speaking of tears, I cried the other day because you brought the trash up to the house without being asked. This is getting out of hand! But Your launch day is so close, your engines are revving-- they’ve been revving for years-- and every moment before the flag drops is precious to me. 

I keep thinking of Mary and how she must just really get it, this ache I feel around my sons. Watching Jesus pour out like that; doing his duty to his own harm, pulling away from home and from her, literally spilling his life blood.  “Didn’t you save any for me?” (Did she think this as his body lay lifeless on her lap?)

Did she feel the pull I feel, between the love of him FOR the way he pours out, for the duty he sees in service to others, for the manly determination and self sacrifice,  AND the desire to soften it, to save some of him for herself?

She watched him go out, away, in love and service.  And then He came back to her; He came back for real and for eternity, to her and to us, the church. 

And now we join the dance of loving and releasing; now we send our husbands and sons off, and we are wrought with pride-fear-sadness-joy as they bring light elsewhere, doing their duty, and we wait. 

On Whom are we waiting? We wait on a generous God, who takes what we commend to him, multiplies it, expands our worlds, and blows our minds with his provision. This God who comes back, who brings back, who gathers and makes all things new; He can be trusted with all that is precious. 

The generous, pouring love of our Lord lives in you, and it’s almost time for you to pour elsewhere. I’m grateful that we got to have you for ourselves, for a little while. 

Keep standing under the waterfall of his grace and letting cover you, and spill out from you onto everyone in your life.  I can only guess what your pouring out might look like: making order of chaos, tweaking systems to make them more efficient, or keeping other people in line? It might also look like being a calm loving witness to a flood of someone else’s tears, and it might sound like music,  or it could even look like putting a protective fence around a garden of wildflowers.

I can’t wait to see what God’s grace pours into your life and what flows out; may you abide in Him always. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here with the wrinkly Nana-face and the teary eyes that are marveling at the work of God, and saying something like, “WOW, look at you.”

Love you lots,

Mom