at the waterfall, alive

 The waterfall; I’m staring right at it; 

the constant outpouring of the grace of God; the way He pours and pours

the flow of time in its stubborn, forward current

always coming; always refusing be collected and held

If i cup my hands under, I don’t slow the flow, not even a little

I change the path of the water a little, but it all spills out the sides

Just as much coming, filling, passing away

at the same rate it always has

If i put my hands over my ears

move away from the sound, try to ignore the whole thing

that changes nothing, either. It’s all going away,

at the same rate it always has. 

If i cup my hands under, I don’t slow the flow, 

but I feel it

the cool presence of this one moment, coming, filling, passing away

I am here for it. 

Lord, it is good to be here. 

Opening eyes and mouth and heart to the flood of living water, to Jesus’s presence right here and now. Noticing the gifts he gives, letting them go, praising him, letting the grief-gratitude pour out in His presence as it comes.

Will there be days when this flood turns to a trickle? Of course. But I need not fear, because His presence will remain even then; my living water will not run out.

photo credit: Eldon Cook

The story of a pew

Upheld in church, supported in body by a former tree, she sits on a wooden pew. It once turned sunshine into food, life, shade; it now rests from its labors, and yet it still holds life. 

Where did this tree grow, and what did it support in its life?  The weight of birds, squirrels, even treehouses cannot compare to the weight it supports today.

How many weary behinds sat right here, after grinding away at a lifeless job all week, feeling trapped, burdened, weary?

Did a mom sit here once, making her family’s meal plan during the sermon

opening snacks, giving out threats and snuggles as needed

unable to be still for even a moment to meet her present Lord?

How many hands grasped the wood, dizzy and a little hungover

trying desperately to paint a “fine face” over shame and fear and shaky resolutions?

How many times did this back support a body ridden with cancer?

See the the drip of wax from Christmas eve candles

due to elderly shaking hands, 

or siblings threatening to burn each other’s hair.

Are there teeth marks on this pew from a toddler, now grown and flown? 

Is the hymnal marked by a crayon held by a child that now holds his own baby?

How many sat here, utterly distracted and restless

or carrying a silent heavy question, 

or simmering rage

or quiet desperation

or tearful gratitude

The rings of a tree tell the story of the seasons, the life that surrounded the tree as it grew. And this tree still gathers stories, welcoming all who come to rest, welcoming every story to sit at the feet of Jesus and be refreshed by his grace and His Word.

To every person made in the image of God, 

it quietly beckons:

Welcome, come rest,

be healed, be refreshed.

There is a place for you, right here, in the presence of God.

You belong here.
Your story has a place here. 

Come and sit; Jesus is a gracious host.

Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare. Give ear and come to me; hear me, that your soul may live. (Isaiah 55:1)

(This reflection was inspired by this sermon, where Pastor Schultz shares these ideas, but far better than I did!)

The doors of my soul are open

Jesus walks freely about the rooms

Come in, Lord, see

You are welcome here.

Breeze, blow through;

Air it out, freshen me up.

What furniture needs rearranging, Lord?

How’s the remodeling going?

Tear down, build, remake me,

Even though it hurts

Doors of my soul, open to Him

It is He who made you and remakes you

He is making all things new.

Let Him.

curriculum twist

 Last week he learned how to drive a tearful mama through the dark and snow

How to walk into hospital rooms and give long hugs

How to see strength made weak, and not crumble at the knees,

How to give hugs liberally, to hold his Nana and speak love into her heart

To sit alone in the quiet rooms of her house, to miss all the noise, even siblings, 

and to lean on his people, and to let his mom see his tearful face without shame

And he learned how to keep praying the Lord’s prayer when his mama’s voice broke, when she couldn’t quite say “thy will be done.” 

and how to wait out her grief tornado with calm loving presence in a parking lot

(as she once waited out his temper tantrums)

We noticed the subtle difference between a hurried “Do you have questions?” and a gentle “What questions do you have?” How a posture can push away or invite, can threaten or serve; the gift of an unhurried presence and a compassionate ear. 

and we learned how to ender hospital rooms with a story to tell, about life on the outside

and a psalm or prayer for emergencies

and to let people talk; let them tell and retell all the horrible twists and turns

and how it’s always ok to say nothing and just be present

and to ask ourselves what we need to keep showing up to those hard places

What is the family’s treatment plan? 

And we looked around and saw Hope and Fear

Both stubbornly insisting on being in the room, all the time

(Let them speak, don’t let either bulldoze the other out

They both need to be heard

and neither one really knows the future)

If a tender heart peeks out, and ‘I need to tell you how much you mean to me’ starts, and a chin quivers, don’t smother the uncomfortableness- yours or theirs- let the words be said, and let your tears be seen, too. 

Remember, when you are allowed to enter in to someone’s pain,

you are standing on sacred ground.

Move softly. 

Hug often.

Carry grace.