on measurable things

 

Instead of hours, let’s measure the days in words that rhyme, in flowers, in gifts given and noticed and treasured

Let’s measure the days in conversations that get to the heart of things,

in sermon reflections, books in the park, 

morning devotions, seeds planted.

Let’s measure the notes from the piano

the snores of the old dog

the pages of Harry Potter read aloud

and the bottles and bottles of ranch dressing

Let’s measure the long kisses in the kitchen

and the eyerolls from the children

and the inside jokes we will not share.

Instead of weight and sag and stretch

let’s measure life poured out and given

this wild garden, planted, watered, fed,

but still wild, preparing to fly

Let’s count not the pimples but the persistence,

the patient perseverance of the pianist

and the pages turned by the reluctant reader.

Instead of hours, let’s measure the days in growth of the human spirits under this one roof.

Can you measure the height or the strength of a soul,

or the courage mustered to inch out of the comfort zone?

Can you see that the soul that is bowed down now is only just cocooning before transformation?

Can you measure what matters?

dandelion, waiting

the dandelion shimmers in the morning

soaked

tears on all the seeds 

that will soon fly

but those tears will be gone by noon

and will the seeds be ready?

and what of the stalk that is left? 

will she release with gratitude? 

who will hold her tears when the seeds are gone?

will she die well, for them?

all is blanket tent

2014

The children are napping, and all is quiet except for the toll of the bell. Through my window I hear the slow, sad bell, and I know the people are leaving the church, and heading to the cemetery.

This is the third funeral this week for our church family. They gather, again, to give teary hugs, to feast, and to remember. They gather to lay a body to rest and pray for rest for their own souls.  Among them is the widow, walking wounded, upheld by her children and her God.

Earlier this week, with children upstairs, downstairs, and underfoot, I gathered with the women for our Bible study.  In this place so full of life it is hanging out the windows, we sat heavy under the weight of grief and death.

And the Scripture did what it does-- it forced us to zoom out, to trace the lines of the work of God from the beginning until now.  We saw the world made, and broken, and God broken for us to remake the world.  We sat together in my living room, in grief and questions, protected by God's faithfulness, nestled in the blood of Jesus, and sealed in the Spirit.

This world is passing away, but the Word of God will not pass away.
And with this Word He made us His own.
Let us cling to His Strong, Solid word,
even as all else crumbles.

By grace we have been saved, and by grace we draw near to God through Jesus,
when we are overwhelmed,
grief-stricken,
and heavy with life in this world-
we draw near.

Therefore, brethren, since we have confidence to enter the holy place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way which He inaugurated for us through the veil, that is, his flesh, and since we have a great high priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water. (Hebrews 10:19-22)

We are the baptized, drawn near.
We are washed, clean, and ready to see Him face to face.

But now, we must wait, and the waiting is hard.

All the world is an airport terminal,
and all the church in this world is waiting.

The little ones are restless, and I am restless, so we make a tent out of blankets.
We play while we wait, and we read and we eat and we love and are loved.

And we sleep in our blanket tent,
because in this place, everything is blanket tent.

In the meantime...
Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful;
and let us consider how to spur one another to love and good deeds, not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another; and all the more as you see the day drawing near. 
(Hebrews 10:23-25)

The bell has stopped tolling, for now,
but its music rings in my ears, full of tears and hope.

The day is drawing near, and even now our plane approaches the gate.
Let us hold fast to Jesus, and each other, here in the meantime.

(This seemed like a good repost for Easter Saturday. I am remembering when we laid dear Pastor Brandt to rest on this weekend many years ago, and all the other saints who rest in the Lord. It is dark, here, but the Lord is here with us, and He is leading us out.)