the "more" He has for me

     When the ground started to shift at the other place, I spent some time hunkered down in resistance, clawing at any root I could find. I set my jaw and crossed my arms and leaned against a rock of unwillingness. 

Slowly, the love of God soaked into the ground underneath that giant rock. It went all the way down to where the fears lived, like I Can’t Do This Again, It Won’t Be Ok, and What About the Children? 

The love of God soaked all the way down to the hard, brittle parts of me that think it’s their job to Make it Ok, Keep it Together, and Get it Under Control.

And the love of God seeped down deep, and like a holy acid, broke down all those strong supports that held up the rock of unwillingness. And one day there was a decisive storm, a flood and a great collapse. The rock of unwillingness fell down, over a cliff into a deep valley, against my will but also somehow freeing it.
I found myself on the edge overlooking a great expanse. I have more in store for you. 

“But what? and how will it be? and will it work out? and what about the children? 

No answers. Only Presence. 

And then, we just sat there. For a long time. Days, weeks, months of the tension: trying to live present in one place with awareness of shifting ground and things on the move. 

I remember the dizzying feeling, sitting on the heights with the Lord, trying to imagine what’s next for me in the valley.  We sat there as possibilities came and went, fog rolled in and out.

We’re approaching one year in this new house, in this new life. I am still unpacking all the “more” He has here for us. This week I had a wonderful sing-and-ride on my motorcycle: 80 degrees, open fields, spring bursting out all over Illinois. I sang through all the wrenching aching love I have for my people in other states; danced through the joy of being present here. I drove over a bridge and caught my breath at the beauty- St Pauls, from this angle! Our new church home, the most recent place where we have found extended family!  It took my breath away.

I stopped to take a picture, to help me hold on to God’s gracious “I told you so.”

Holy Week

 

Jesus said to Peter, “Put your sword into its sheath; shall I not drink the cup that the Father has given me?”
(See how he trusts God going into the darkness! Yet I have so many swords, so many ways I fight the cup God has prepared for me with teeth-gritting resistance.)

“We want Barabbas!”

(How humanity has always- how I have always- begged for that which would harm or kill me)

from the sermon: God works to END our own attempts to make things right in this world. Our best efforts come to nothing. Only God can make it all right.

And how Jesus sets his face towards suffering, towards pouring out

(while I squirm and flail and avoid my own crosses)

and He walks the path through hardship towards peace… for me

and pours Himself out still.. for me

may I be found with open hands, beneath his flood.

That boy with his back towards us,

he’s walking out into open spaces,

finding his own footing

we don't know where he is going

he’s getting smaller every minute

I’m getting smaller in his life

he’s getting bigger in his own

and this is as it should be

meanwhile I try to pretend I’m ok with this

with the sheer speed of it all

I grab the passenger door with the speed of it;

he laughs at me

and wishes it would all go even faster

I know how his heart lifts out there in the fields

I know how he breathes in the country air

he turns up the music and rolls down the windows

and he looks up at the stars when they are shining in their glory

He captures sunsets, lovesongs, and hymns

and pours them out again through his fingers at the piano

combining, embellishing, and leaving his own imprints of beauty

I don’t know where he is going

but I know Who is forming him

still wonderfully making him,

right before my eyes

for a little bit longer.

Day 7

 

Day 7: For Work, Rest, or Play by Joel Biermann
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This book is an invitation to meditate on the biggest questions of life: What is God doing? Why am I here? Where is this all going? Dr. Biermann focuses on Day Seven of Creation and its implications for life in Christ today. On Day 7: “Creator and creation are living according to God’s good plan. And Adam and Eve are right in the middle of it all, celebrating with God. This is the underlying context for what will eventually one day be called the Third Commandment."

“God marking the completion of his extraordinary masterpiece. God sets aside an entire day simply to soak in the sheer joy and delight of the perfection he had accomplished.”

In this light he ponders important topics: work, rightly understood, as essential to human flourishing, along with rest, leisure (schole), and play.

This book includes a wonderful reflection on play as delight and even “an intrusion of eternity into this world,” as well as a call to appreciate the transcendentals (goodness, truth, and beauty).
There is even a beautiful reflection on the absurdity of sleep, which the author describes as “daily declaration that humans live only and always as God’s contingent creatures.”

This is a grace-filled reflection that leads not to inventing rules or guilt-driven ways of practicing “sabbath,” but instead offers a clearer glimpse into the heart of God for His Creation, His aims in redemption, and His invitation to His people to taste the first fruits even now.

Highly recommend!

(Looking for people to discuss this one! Maybe a future book club pick!)


View all my reviews

The heavens declare...

 The heavens declare the Glory of God

yet not even the heavens

say everything 

all at once

The heavens declare the Glory of God

yet there is more glory than can fit

in one sky 

in one season

in one lifetime

The heavens declare the Glory of God

one note of an eternal song

one brilliant canvas displayed 

and then gone

The heavens declare the Glory of God

in one modest, majestic way

by being just as He made

which is enough

for today

*photo by Eldon

to Marcus on his 18th birthday

What in the world do I say to Marcus on his 18th birthday?

All I can think is, how did we get here so quickly?
Can’t we skip this milestone,  or have a one year do-over? 

My arms and heart vividly remember the days when I called you “bud” and flipped you over my shoulder, but now, you tower over me with your man-self and I can’t for a second pretend you’re still my little “bud.” You’re something new now, more solid and more capable;  and more other adjectives you have yet to define. 

Why did you power through high school and graduate early again? I know there were reasons but I can’t seem to remember them as I pack away your checklists.

Last year, you proved you could keep up with college work; you settled deeper into your skin in the rooms of auto mechanics. Your future plans started solidifying, and then we blew them all to dust. Your dad took a call to St Louis, and we moved you in your senior year.

When you move a piano, you’re supposed to let it settle for a while before you try to tune it; it takes time to adjust to the humidity, the air of a new location. When you move a Marcus, there is no manual to consult, but if there were, I think it would have similar instructions.  

What to say about this? I’m sorry?  That’s not quite it.
One part of my heart insists, “I know it was right and good for you and for us, the Lord’s plot twists always are, even when we don’t understand them.” Another part sighs; we have both felt some intense demolition crews come through during this time of remodeling; and we are both still in the process of being built up again. 

Remember an early night in our new house, when you got out of the shower and opened a door thinking it was your hallway, but found instead the black yawning chasm of the basement? You were so offended! You may not like that part of the property, but you seem to like being in the country, and you definitely like having a huge pole barn. 

All summer until recently you’ve been working to finish your high school requirements.  “Read this, watch this, let’s talk about that.” We’ve got in a lovely habit of getting coffee and then sitting by Silver Lake to talk for hours. Remember that time it took us 5 hours to get through a 2 hour podcast because we both kept stopping it to comment and argue?  The last 2 days of school, we took the motorcycles to the lake to talk about your last assigned book, and I felt like the luckiest mom in the world to have that time with my senior. 

I love watching your brain make connections, challenge ideas, and imagine how it could be different. I suspect you will always question systems; you will rarely be willing to do things one way just because that’s how it’s always been done. 

Your skepticism, your curiosity, and your work ethic are going to be gifts you bring to wherever you go next. I can’t wait to watch it all unfold.

Love, mom

gaping upward

 

Sitting next to the field at sunrise, I keep turning my head. The sky is so big I can't even take it in all at once. In my camp chair by the field, I’m wrapped in a blanket. The stars are still out, seeing the slow and gradual beauty as a new day dawns. Spectacular, every day. 

See, all this beauty God is making, this gift. And he didn’t need my help for any of it. 

I'm right where I belong, here, gaping upward, receiving, and giving thanks.

I’m learning much these days about being welcomed but not needed, as my role in my family shrinks. And in all the rearranging, I am being invited to sit more deeply and comfortably in a posture of receiving, of simply accepting beauty and grace. 

Things will get more tangled as the day goes forward, as others get out of bed and there is work to be done. There are always competing priorities, open questions;  the way never seems to be clear and straight. We muddle through and the sun goes down and we prepare to do it all over again.

But then a new day, a new invitation.
See all the things God is doing without my help!

I'm right where I belong, here, gaping upward, receiving, and giving thanks.

the bird

 If his eye is really on the sparrow, why is this bird dying on my porch?

this bird that woke his nurturing side, that seemed to be calling him out of his depression into service and joy

for like five minutes

and now he’s in his room not responding

and I’m crying on the porch with a little bird’s failing heartbeat in my hands.

Do we ever get over things, or do we just get through?
And how does a soft heart avoid growing bitter?
How can we resist turning into a concrete tower or a phoney or a total cynic or just a weeping puddle on the floor surrounded by losses?

Not a bird falls without his knowledge

but many do fall with his knowledge 

and somehow we have to live here

and try to keep loving fragile things

and try to keep trusting Him who gives and takes away.

I have never been able to resign myself to this

and maybe I’m not supposed to.

I live defiantly

making lunch for the living boys in my home

and I don’t want to pet the smiling dog as he comes wagging up to me

but I stretch out my hand and do it anyway

and I refuse to close my heart. 

And what of the children?
Will they find a way to hold hope?  It is not in the bird; it is not in wise parental words; it is not in mindset shifts; it is not in denial or hardness or hiding in bedrooms. If they are to find hope and strength to keep loving what can be lost they will have to find it in Jesus. May His love strengthen and fill our hearts. 

Jesus, receive this little bird into your ground- dust to dust- along with all of our questions and struggles about life in this broken place. We commend to you every loose end, every sad part. Help us, as we live in this fragile place, to love what we cannot keep, and wait with hope in Your redemption. Help us remember your heart, Your longing for the New Creation, Your whole-bodied commitment to making all things new.  Amen

A sonnet about sons

My darling’s smell is nothing like a rose

A squirrel is far more soft than he is soft

His bedroom air is painful to my nose

I hold my breath as through the hall it wafts

I've seen some jocks inspire and reach great heights

But no such skills are in those with my genes

And in some banquets there is more delight

Than in the treats created by my teen

I love to hear him speak and pick a fight

Imagination, snark, and wit collide

I grant I never saw a manly knight

He’ll sidle in a room with awkward stride 

And yet, by heaven, I think my son more fine

Than any other son that isn’t mine.

Inspired by Shakespeare's Sonnet 130

on coming back home to White Creek for the 185th anniversary celebration…

The family is shrinking these days; we came back with only our youngest two of six; the two who were born and baptized in this place; they tower over me now. 

I wonder if they have a sense of coming home in their bones, like I do:

“The very spot where grew the bread that formed my bones, I see. How strange, old field, on thee to tread, and feel I’m part of thee.” Abraham Lincoln

but mostly they are thinking “who are all these people that know my name and keep talking about me as if I were just a baby yesterday?”

This is where it all started, for them

Where they were fearfully wonderfully made

nourished by Indiana harvest,

carried helpless to the the font and bathed in the Word

called by name and welcomed into the Family

These two boys would move three times, live in three more states before they graduated high school. 

And yet they would hear these same words, this same gospel

spoken over them and to them in each place. 

God’s faithfulness holds.

and today, they are still standing in it

back here, where it all started.

------

I see us, fresh out of seminary

when it was still weird to hear him called “Pastor Cook.”

with no idea how much we didnt know

scanning the playground while talking, counting children,
hoping they wouldn’t break anything or knock anyone over

I see my boys in their small bodies running laps around the parsonage

and my little girls playing volleyball, swinging on monkey bars, hosting sleepovers

it is good to visit where others remember that, too, and marvel with me at how they all have grown

I didnt know how quickly we would all grow, how many paths would part

and how much everything would get rearranged

I can still feel the feel of my face in the carpet

on a weekday alone in the sanctuary, sobbing over her seizures

I didn't know God would heal her (eventually) and take care of us so specifically along the way, through His people 

and that time our dog got into the school and my face burned with embarrassment

as it would every time my mask of “I have it together” slipped
which turned out to be often.

(i wish i had let it slip sooner and more completely

I was trying to act like such a big girl;
with the grace of God around above under and before me

I didn't know how safe I really was.)

and really, I didn’t know

how to serve well without playing God

how to accept my own limits

how to love well and receive well

and I didn’t know what to do with the hard parts,

the rifts and the wounds
and now God has now healed many of them
May He keep going, and heal all the rest. (I think He will.)

the best part is; God knew

all the things I didn’t know

and He took our stumbling efforts and added His touch 

and He worked for good even when it felt bad
and I can see that a little better now

and this week He let me see my husband as just one pastor in a long train

and the church as she has been there, 

solid, imperfect, alive,

roots planted by the River of Life for 185 years
and the grace of God before and above and around and after 

the Word of God as the lifeblood flowing through.

And even as I have a sense of our family shrinking 

as we launch children left and right;

it is true at the same time that our family is enormous,

and growing.

“How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of Hosts!” Ps 84:1