a word about words

Flying Away

2012-02-15T11:14:00.000-08:00

I was looking for an old post in which I posted photos of my father-in-law, and so doing, somehow, accidentally published a draft which had been languishing in the drafty closet where all my unwanted, unfinished drafts languish. So you got two for the price of one yesterday, and saw all those lovely photos of my mom, sisters and me. And, oddly, my current computer is also on the fritz, I am, once again, using Beve's, and could feasibly have found those pictures just yesterday. But I didn't.

Yesterday was a different sort of day all together. Yesterday Thyrza and Beve got in a car and drove away, the first leg on their trip across the country. Thyrza closed (and carefully locked) the door of her somewhat empty apartment (we still have a bit of moving to do--and she told me three times to 'ship me anything you think I might want!'), then went over to the care facility to say goodbye to Grampie. On Valentine's Day. Their 19th Anniversary. Beve told me later that those last moments were rather anticlimatic after the fraught-with-confusion-and-emotion ones of the evening before, which I think was a huge relief to him. Maybe to all of us. There has been so much sadness in this. So to simply say goodbye calmly, then be wheeled in different directions--it was like God, the comforter, stepped in, put His hand on each shoulder and reminded Him that "this separation is but for a moment...weeping may last for the night (the night of life on earth) but joy comes in the morning (the morning of being in His throne-room with the great throng worshipping Him!)."

They stopped by here quickly on their way south and while Beve retrieved the clothes I'd packed for him and gave me a quick kiss goodbye J and I each hugged Thyrza goodbye (quick and without ceremony, which suited J quite well) then they were off--only two hours later than Beve'd hoped. That's not too bad, considering how slowly this ninety-three year old moves. Off to sit in rush-hour traffic, then to dinner with the girls. And finally to bed near the airport because the flight was early and Thyrza gets up at 6 AM for an 11 AM doctor's appointment, just to get herself ready.

This morning, Beve texted me just after passing security that Thyrza had set off the RED Security Alarm, and her stuff was being combed through. A second text said she'd been taken to a room to search her for explosives. "No kidding!" he had to tell me, because seriously? She actually looks like a security risk? I could imagine her having a meltdown at the people daring to strip-search her. Obviously, they came up empty, and THANKFULLY, she was went with the flow. She was living on one hot chocolate high after another, Beve said. He intended to get her another just for surviving that (making it her third cup of the day).

So now they're winging their way across the country. Enroute to Baltimore, by way of Dallas. Of course. If you look at a map of this country, you'll realize that to get to Baltimore the fastest route is through Dallas. Just like the fastest route to Pittsburgh is through Atlanta, or to Boston is through Charlotte. I wonder if airlines actually HAVE maps of the United States in front of them when they plan air-routes.

Anyway, I'm proud of this work my Beve does today. It's the hard work of a son who loves his father. I guess you could say, it's his Valentine to Grampie--this practically caring for Thyrza. The packing up of her life, and now the actually carrying her to her new life. He's a good son.

A trip back

2012-02-14T20:55:00.000-08:00

For the fun of it, and because I'm using the Beve's computer until my new AC adaptor gets here, I retrieved some photographs from his hard drive. My sisters and I took Mom to the beach for her 76th birthday, and had a miserable time with her. She was definitely being Al's hammered by then, as Grampie is fond of putting it, though she refused to admit it, and her reasoning skills were totally mixed up. She's always been a morning person, someone who rose before the rooster crowed, ready for whatever the day had to offer, so one morning at the beach, she decided to take a walk on the beach by herself before the rest of us woke up. This was a very, very bad idea. She got completely turned around, wandered on that beach for quite a while, and when she finally did find our condominium building, couldn't remember which unit was ours. So, instead of going to the front desk and asking, she simply pulled her key card from her pocket and tried it in every door on every floor until it finally opened something. She was very proud of herself for thinking this through. We were quite dismayed with her for such eschewed thinking. After that, we never let her leave the place by herself.

It's odd to look at these photos now and see the life in her eyes and smile. She was looking straight at my camera with no prompting, no clapping like one would clap for a baby, as she had to be clapped for a year ago. She was very present with us on the beach that spring, even when she was miserable and making everyone around her miserable as well. The Dump showed up a day late, and surprised her, and when she walked in, for a single moment, there was a pause as if Mom didn't recognize her middle daughter, but it was simply a flash. Behind closed doors, when Mom had gone to sleep, we commented on how strange that was. None of us imagined that a day was only four years off when she wouldn't speak or lift her head or be any more than a shell of a human being.

I love this photo of my sisters and me on the boardwalk at the beach (Seaside, Oregon, for those of you who don't recognize it). For all the difficulties of that time, we always love being at the beach. We got that from our mother. I'm actually surprised at how much we've aged in the last four years as well. Life has come at us hard, I guess. As life has a way of doing at times. But here we are, and still doing it together. For my fortieth birthday, Mom made me a photo album of pictures of of my sisters and me. We've been friends almost as long as we've been sisters. Not all blood relations can say that, so I know how incredibly blessed I am. These are women I probably wouldn't know if I wasn't related to them--our lives have not run parallel paths--but how much poorer my life would be without them. I can't imagine.

We're all dressed up to go out to dinner for Mom's birthday. Look how happy Mom looks. Unbelievable. I'm actually posting these photographs today for my family--siblings, children, aunts, cousins--who have lately seen the shell and may have forgotten that she was ever like this: animated, excited, thrilled to be the center of attention. I know exactly why she's so full of mirth in this picture. You can tell by the way my middle, tallest sister is standing. We call that our 'Grandmomie' pose--head up, chest out, which tends to crack us all up, every time. Mom most of all.

When I first saw these pictures four years ago, they were simply pictures. In fact, the trip had been hard enough, with enough catastrophic over-reactions from Mom at every turn, that I put the pictures aside and didn't glance at them again. But now...well, now they make me smile. Now I'm grateful for them. Grateful that we took this trip, even if it was hard.

A Valentine Story

2012-02-14T11:21:00.000-08:00

Twenty-eight years ago was my first Valentine's Day with the Beve. We were in Holland, going to a YWAM Discipleship Training School. We'd been friends most of our lives, even then, had never had a single date (other than that one awkward one my well-meaning sister had coerced him into the summer before) and...we were newly, though secretly to those around us but not to our families back home, engaged and planning a wedding in May. Our relationship was supposedly secret there because students at DTSs aren't supposed to be in what are called 'special relationships'. However, we were given a whole lot of latitude because we didn't fit the norm. Having known each other since we were kids, having grown up on the same street and being clearly very good friends when we arrived made it clear from the start that we were unique. In fact, from the beginning, many people, including those in leadership, assumed we were already a couple, which was a huge source of embarrassment (at least to me, because it so mirrored my hopes) and amusement (to us both). We knew each other's histories, got each other's jokes, and could finish each other's sentences. Hmm, just about like we do today. And God seemed to be moving us closer to each other constantly. When the list of small groups were put up, there we were, in the same small group--despite the huge odds against it. And when the outreach lists came out, there we were, on our way to India together. I spent every day trying to surrender my feelings for this man, and every day, God put him more in my life. So when our relationship changed, we went to the leadership of the DTS, told them, and they merely told us to not tell anyone about it, so that there wouldn't be alot of other relationships springing up. Needless to say, however, by the time the DTS ended, it was the most well-known secret on the base. Not only that, we spent a night at the YWAM base in Brussels on our way home that March, and they'd not only heard about us but wanted to know the whole story. Told us the whole of YWAM Europe was talking about this couple who'd been childhood friends that God had brought together. It'd created quite a stir, apparently. A Valentine stir, I guess one might say, God being the ultimate cupid.

Living on that YWAM base was pretty intense. There were 250 people surrounding us all the time. We took long walks whenever we had free moments, but those moments didn't happen very often. We went to school, worked, prayed, rode bikes between and...wrote each other copious notes and letters. Every single day. This was pre-, you understand. Pre-cellphone, texting, pre-everything but paper and pen. And we used them. Used them and used them.

These aren't, in the narrowest definition, love-letters, though there's a whole lot of love expressed in them. Maybe it's indulgent of me to share them with you. But today is Valentine's Day, and my great big Valentine is taking his father's wife across the country (and this is also Grampie and Thyrza's 19th wedding anniversary), so for once, I thought it'd be sweet to let our children hear their daddy's voice--his Valentine's voice--as he spoke to me all those years ago when we were first making our way into what would be the rest of our lives.

First, a snippet of the note/letter that began the change in our relationship: (this was written while we were on outreach in New Delhi, India) Yes, God moved us around like chess pieces while until we Steve realized what was really going on between us.

"As I've reflected back upon our relationship, it's been clear to me that I've failed to be all that God's desired me to be. Yes, He has changed--in a good way--and deepened our friendship. I've seen some tremendous steps occur in it. For example, when we talked about the way we've viewed each other in the past and how we let those outdated conceptions affect our present relationship/friendship. Do recall that talk at Heidebeck? I believe it was just before Kevin arrived. [Ed. note: Kevin is another high school friend--also from our neighborhood. And...Like I didn't remember every single conversation we had--I was already all in by then!] But in other areas I've neglected to practically apply some of the things we've talked about (i.e., a willingness to share weaknesses and strengths.) I appreciate the fact that you called me on that whole thing the night of the movies...You asked me if it was easy for me to give people verbal compliments, and I said something like it was easy to do it for some and not for others? Beneath that statement I was saying that it was for most people but not for some (ie, you!) Why? Probably because I've never done it in the past with you and so I felt the pressure to keep in my personal comfort zone. And yet neither you or I would grow like we could because I was worried about what you'd think. So I hope to begin stepping out of that comfort zone..." (December 21, 1983)

My response, which bears sharing--"Thank you for your letter. What a thing to greet me as I woke up this morning. I really appreciate your openness...but I have to admit I feel a little confused by some of what you have to share. Maybe it was just the late hour for you or something. In any case I would like to talk to you about this. It seems to me that we talk easily about everything under the sun (and Son) except our own friendship. Maybe that's the comfort zone...:? I'm not going to write my thoughts and response to your letter--because every instinct tells me to and it would be much simpler for me. But I have some things I need to share face to face. Could me make some time?"

As it happened, our lives in New Dehli were so complicated that we didn't even see each other for two days, though we lived in the same community, and generally ate meals together. God intended that, I think. Maybe to give each of us time to settle. To think. And mostly, to pray our hearts out. But finally, we had that conversation, and by the end of it, we'd each admitted that we were more than friends and were already headed toward marriage. Had been. Without a single date, or kiss or any of that so-called romantic stuff. But it was just about the most romantic thing I could imagine (can still imagine)--that God would be so intimately involved in our romance. Would care so much He'd drag two old friends around the world to show them He wanted them together.

So, a few others, from our days back in the Netherlands:

"God isn't frantically rushing here and there, trying to ward off the schemes of Satan. There isn't a fight going on between good and evil now who's outcome is not known! Our Father isn't biting his fingernails, trying to jockey His angels into defensive position, hoping not to make a mistake. NO! He has defeated Satan once and for all at the cross and the grave. He has risen and is the Lord of the universe. And He does cause ALL THINGS (even those we can't understand) to work together for good (His and ours!). He's with us completely, even when we can't feel Him. Fact: God has called us together. Fact: God has all events and happenings in our lives under His control. Fact: God has our best at hand and will bring it to pass as we yield to and obey Him. Fact: God is faithful to fulfill His calling in our relationship. Fact: since God is love, what do we have to fear? Let's be happy and not fearful. God is with us." (Jan. 30, 1984)

"Best friend--You are precious and beautiful to me...and much more to Father God. I've been thinking about the fear you've struggled with--that of being rejected by me or others. Or by God. Don't believe it. It's a lie of the great accuser. Believe in God's assessment of you...Don't turn back to the old plumbline of the past but put your trust and self-image in God's evaluation and opinion of you. He loves you with an everlasting love. " (Feb 13, 1984)

"Time to get you a note. I was thinking today about 'work' and my mind went to, of all things, my work supervisor, Cees D. (he's the Dutch dude with the dark hair). I was thinking about how patient and long-suffering he's beem with me. And believe me, I've made a few mistakes on maintainence (yes, I never scored very high on those mechanical reasoning tests in high school.) And yet inspite of my blunders and mechanical miscalculations, Cees still loves me and is patient toward me. What that communicates to me is that I'm more important than some project or object.
As I reflected on all of this, I realized that that's the way our Father is with each of us. In some ways the Lord could care less about what mistakes we make. Those things, those mistakes, are temporary--here today (sometimes overwhelmingly so), gone tomorrow. He's much more interested in forming His character in our lives. And to do that, we must be secure in Him. And to be secure in Him we must come to a realization of the fact that "our value doesn't determine His love, but His love determines our value." (February 23, 1984)

And finally this, "Good morning! I want you to know that I like God's evaluation of you. You're unique, valuable and special in His sight. I agree, you're that to me, too...I want you to know that I"m committed to you and to seeing you become ALL that you can be in Christ. Don't worry about being anything other than yourself. You, CC, are beautiful and precious to me, just as you are right now--no strings attached! Can you rest in the security of that? Better yet, can you rest in the security of who you are in Christ?" (January 13, 1983)

Happy Valentine's Day, Beve. You're still my Valentine.
Happy Valentine's Day, JESKMOM. This is who your Daddy is.

About babies

2012-02-13T10:55:00.000-08:00

I'm going to pretend I can sit up long enough to write this post, which is by no means a certainty. The back I 'put out' a week ago has gravitated, as such things are wont to do in my compromised system, to the nerves in my left leg, making what is already a 24-7 life of pain a 24-7 blitzkrieg. I do fairly well when I'm standing, and can tolerate lying down, but sitting is excruciating. Beve, who knows me well, observed that had I not continued to help pack (ie, lift boxes) when I first had the back spasms, this might have been avoided. But I'm stubborn about such things. My need to prove I'm not the weakest link ends up revealing my total weakness. And trust me, this isn't the first time we've been around this dang block. I see the doctor Wednesday, but until then...well, let's just say I'm not getting much done.

In other news (as broadcasters would say), this weekend brought a spate of diverse interactions. Here's one. Saturday, E and I went to the baby shower of a much beloved friend who's the much beloved daughter of a much beloved friend. It was life-giving to me to be at a life-beginning event. We're so beseiged by endings around here. And I've been somewhat blind in thinking how similar life's beginning and ending are. The likenesses are striking in many ways: the dependence on others, for example, the inabilities to speak, walk, contain one's bowels. All very alike at each end. However, what is patently different is the accompanying emotion at each end. The beginning is full of joy and hope. Any tear shed (assuming all goes well, as it most often does) is a happy tear, a thankful one. There is no guilt in the beginning either. All is new. The joy in that room Saturday was life-giving to me, even as consumed by the other end as I have been. The hope of these young parents and grandparents is a living, almost-breathing little girl, about to make her appearance. So close they can almost touch her. And all their fears--and there are those, too--are about hopeful things, if that makes sense. How the labor will go, the health of the baby, how they will parent. About life. And about Life in Him for this child. About the endings, I needed tell you much. It's hard and sad, and full of far different emotions. So complicated and endless--and I've been writing about it for weeks (years?) now.

Afterwards, the brother-in-law of this young couple (also a soon-to-be father, and an always serious, intentional young man) asked if 'the wisdom of the elders' is imparted at baby showers. His wife laughingly said such advice is given the whole nine months, which I remember well. However, it sparked my always- thinking brain. So if I'd been asked, this is what'd I'd tell these young couples: get to know your child. Pay less attention to what you ought to do, and more attention to who your child is. Pay attention the In-His-Image child God has created. Train accordingly. For instance, with my oldest, all it took was the snapping of my fingers and a certain look for her to obey, because she wanted to obey. She still does. She likes to color within the lines. Stay in the boundaries, know her place. I thought I was the best mother in the world because this was so. I thought it was me. It wasn't. It was how she was made. Then God gave us a rambunctious little boy, who once he walked, ran into walls, climbed onto the roof (at 3 years old), built things so he could knock them down things, but also bought gifts often, cried at movies, thought of others, loved lavishly. He didn't care a bit about coloring, let alone staying within the lines. And I had to learn that. Had to learn a whole new way of parenting that worked for him. Had to get to know him. It isn't a one trick pony, this parenting gig. And, no matter what the law says, the most important thing is NOT the carseat. It's loving them. Marinating them in love, saturating them in prayer, and letting God be the gravity that keeps them tethered to the earth. And train that child in the way he or she should go--not the way YOU want them to--but the way of their passions, interests, talents, abilities. Watch for what makes them tick and train them toward it. Trust that God made them that way for a purpose, and trust that He intends good for it. Then, when they are old, they will not depart from that way, nor from Him. This isn't ME talking, this is scripture. "Train a child in the way that he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it."

That's what I'd have told them about parenting. Oh, and don't keep the house dead quiet while they sleep or you'll create a monster. Teach them to sleep through anything. You'll be glad you did.

Shoes

2012-02-10T12:40:00.000-08:00

For no apparent, earthly reason, I am thinking this morning about shoes. A whole huge pile of them. Mostly used up, well-worn, dirty old shoes. Now I am not unfamiliar with shoes. I have long lived with some shoe-hogs. Or perhaps I should say, shoe collectors. Some of those size 15s that threaten to clutter up our closet are pretty overwhelming at times. And my own collection of Crocs (my spring and fall slippers, though I rarely wear them out of the house) and Keens take up plenty of space themselves. Not to mention the Fat Babies I 'borrowed' from the daughters who left them when they moved away. But really, it's those daughters who have the shoe collections. The HUGE shoe collections. Or perhaps I should say, the one MASSIVE shoe collection, now that they're living together in Seattle and sharing a room again (coming full circle to the days when they had no choice). They have sneakers, boots, stillettos, flats and various things between. Name a brand (within a middle-class budget) and they can pull out a shoe with that label. I don't actually know how many pairs they currently have, but it's well over 100 between them. And they'll likely be more embarrassed that I'm telling you this than just about anything else I've ever told you about their lives. But as E would say, "That's a first world problem."

So the pile of shoes I'm thinking about could well be their pile. Anyway, it's a heaping pile. Think of it as all the shoes my daughters might be sending to Good Will. All the shoes they should, anyway. Think of all the shoes you no longer wear but have at the back of your closet because you bought them one time for that one occasion but that occasion passed and another has never arisen, so there they sit. Or perhaps they're shoes like Beve's Friday shoes. These are a pair of sneakers--I think they're Nikes, but I'm not sure--made of medium blue patent leather, with a white toe guard and sole. For many years, Beve wore them to school on Fridays, when he'd wear jeans and a shirt with school ensigna on it, and often commented that it was like he was invisible the rest of the week. But put those shoes on, and students stopped him in the halls right and left, "I love your shoes," they'd say. Or they'd just look at his size 15s and smile. Yep, those Friday shoes got more students in his door than just about anything else he could have done.

But those shoes have bitten the dust now. They're beyond worn out; they're just plain dead to rights. Beve really should throw them away. But he can't bring himself to do it. So they sit in his closet. He keeps looking for new "Friday shoes" to take their place, but hasn't found any with quite the pizzaz. The old has faded away...he's still waiting for the new to come.

All these shoes remind me, I guess, of what Paul is speaking of at the end of 1 Corinthians 13. During this age when we are on this earth, we are God's shoes. We are His hands and feet and mouth. He calls us to do His Kingdom work for the span of our lives--as long as our earthly shoes fit, so to speak. And then, those shoes wear out. And when our work is done, when the great collective earthly work of the Kingdom is done, all our shoes will be piled in a heap. Prophecies will fade away. Tongues will cease. Indeed, ALL the gifts He lavished upon us will be cast off shoes...because we'll be walking in the throne room of the King Himself. We'll be face to face then. We won't have to peer through a foggy mirror at Him when we worship, because He'll be right there. RIGHT THERE.

There will be no need for shoes then. Not our old, well-used ones, our Friday ones, or even our Sunday best. In that great day--in those great forever days!--we'll take our earthly shoes off once and for all. The ultimate holy moment.

But what will last? Actually, what will come to completion is our faith, which is "the assurance of things hoped for, and the conviction of things [yet]unseen" (Hebrews 11: 1), our hope-- Jesus Christ Himself is our hope, of course--and love. And the greatest of these? Obviously, certainly, eternally--the crossed-shaped, resurrection completed, salvation-accomplishing greatest of these is LOVE.

Leaving behind childish things

2012-02-09T23:15:00.000-08:00

When I was a child, I was a follower. A wishy-washy, 'want-to-be-liked', crowd follower. Avoided confrontation at all costs. I learned that bent over my mother's knee. Only one person was allowed a strong voice in our house, and though we share the same initials, it was patently NOT me of whom I am speaking. It was my mother.

When I was a child, I did not know how to tell the truth. Not for the right reasons, anyway. I told the truth when the truth would serve, and told lies if I thought they might keep me out of trouble, and any combination whenever necessary. When I was a child, I held on to things people said about or did to me, worried about what they thought about me, and wanted (desperately!) to be accepted. I remember well my sorry manipulative behaviors from middle school--like standing at the edge of the schoolyard, singing toward the wheatfields, hoping someone--almost anyone--would come and ask me to join in their group. Oddly (or NOT), such silliness did not ingender the response I hoped for. Manipulations seldom do, of course. But then, I was a child... and I thought like a child.

That's it, of course. These things are about thinking like a child. Reasoning like a child. Acting like a child.

When I became a Christian, one of the things God had to teach me was to stand. Just that. Just to stand up. This was a harder lesson than you might think. If you have only known me for even the last couple of decades, you are probably reading this with quite a bit of disbelief because what most people see in me is my certainty. But this certainty was a long time coming. And only came with the Holy Spirit giving me His backbone. HIS backbone. He is the rebar in my body. Yes, that's the truth, He is the rebar in my life, helping me to stand up when all of life seems like a messy puddle.

I learned to stand up. And then I stood up tall and strong. And spoke my piece loud and clear. I became an adult. God gave me the courage to stand up to my mother for the first time in my life--when I was in my thirties!--for the sake of my children. It was hard and good; a much prayed-over, talked over, muddled-over decision before I ever attempted it. The fall-out was hard and not so good, at least in my mother's mind. But that learning to stand up, to tell the truth: that was from God. I believe that.

I became an adult. And with that came the decision to speak the truth. But here's the other reality: being an adult also means knowing when to NOT speak. I am learning this truth this week. This has been an excruciatingly hard week, because we've packed up and shipped off Thyrza's things to Maryland. But here's the thing: among those things were many things connected to Beve's mom. This is a grief for Beve and me. Grampie and Thyrza married so quickly after Beve's mom died that we were swept out of grief before we were ready. And while her things were still there, it was one thing. But now Thyrza's taking them away. And I want to tell her that she shouldn't do that. And tell her that we're losing three people at once. That's how it seems. She's leaving nothing of Beve's mom's and nothing of herself. SK said the other day, "We thought of her as our grandmother, but she didn't think of us as her grandchildren." I want to tell her that.

I want to.
But...for all the standing up and truth-telling I've learned along the years, God also has to teach me (over and over) when NOT to speak. To learn to forgive when the other person doesn't even feel they have wronged us. To learn to forgive as Christ did. That's the point. He didn't wait for us to ask, or flay us for our wrongs before He forgave us. He caught people offguard with His forgiveness. Didn't He? They came looking for healing, and He offered forgiveness. Time and again. Read Mark 2, if you don't believe me. Not only was that lame man surprised by Jesus' forgiveness, but those friends who'd lowered him through the roof were probably just as shocked. But that's how He does it. And so must I. Not telling people first. Not calling them up to confront them, just to feel better. Not chewing them out even if they deserve it, from my (very mature) point of view. But forgiving them, even if they take all my toys and go home. If they take all the treasures that make my great big giant of a Beve miss his mother--practice that forgiveness in the most ordinary of ways. Day after day after day.

Yes, practicing forgiveness, no matter what a person does or will do to you--this is how we leave our childhood of faith and become mature adults in Christ..

The apartment is denuded now. And I am again leaving behind childish things.

Lucky Eleven

2012-02-06T21:43:00.000-08:00

E tagged me in some kind of blogger 'get-to-know-you' list, and though I probably won't play the whole game (as much as I love my daughter), I will play part of it. Sorry, E. So here's my mutation: First, 11 things about me (as if I haven't spent the last three years of my life sharing compulsively about my life!):
1. My earliest memory is of a wedding, the same month I turned two. My father's middle sister was the bride. I also remember--from the same day, I believe--a baby in a basket. That baby was my sister, Dump.
2. When I was a child and we were served peas, the only way I could swallow them was with a large gulp of milk. However, usually I let them drop onto the floor because our Norwegian Elkhound pup fortunately loved peas.
3. I still have the first (maybe only?) pair of hiking socks my dad ever bought for me--the ones he bought me when he bought me my first pair of hiking boots.
4. The last time I cried was this afternoon when I saw two little plastic cups (one pink, one turquoise) in a box Thyrza is taking to Maryland. I remembered the day when Beve's mother, B, bought them for our one-year-old E and her two cousins so they could have cups of their own in her bathroom. It just got to me.
5. SK is home this week, helping us pack, and E left yesterday, having helped us pack all weekend, so I've spent all day calling SK: Elizasteph.
6. I'm allergic dairy products. Not lactose intolerant, but actually allergic. Just in the last couple of years. An all out, mouth and throat itching allergy. DANG. And I LOVE dairy. I mean, CHEESE? Sigh.
7. I just read The Hunger Games trilogy in about 36 hours. It isn't even a genre I thought I liked, and I couldn't put it down.
8. I rooted for the Giants in the Super Bowl--both times. And watched every down--both times; and yes, I am a Manning fan. Both Mannings, in fact.
9. And speaking of the Superbowl--loved the Doritoes commercial with the Great Dane. LOVED it.
10. J has moved home for the indefinite future. It isn't what any of us expected, but we're all very glad he's here.
11. Beve and I are going to Hawaii in April with some friends. And when I made the reservation thirteen months ago, I never imagined how much we would need a respite. But now...it reminds us how God knows better than we do what we need.

Now to answer E's questions:
1. What is one thing you can't leave the house without? My water bottle
2. Tell me the best place you've ever visited or vacationed. Visited: (at least the most interesting) India; Vacationed: Cancun
3. You have to sing karaoke to save my life. What song do you choose? "I'll praise you in the storm" (a sentimental favorite)
4. If you could change one thing in the past week, what would it be? Not lifting that quilt wrong so I didn't put my back out...and therefore, being a better me when facing Thyrza.
5. What have you been eating a lot of recently? Toast with peanut butter and bananas
6. If you were going to be famous for something, what would you want it to be? A writer, or teacher, for the Kingdom
7. What is your least favorite chore? Unloading the dishwasher
8. If you had to live one place the rest of you life, where would it be? Right here in Bellingham
9. What shows do you watch regularly? New fav: Downton Abbey (thanks, E!)
10. Do you have any big trips coming up? If so, what? Kauai, Hawaii--well, and to Whidbey with the family.
11. Who is your hero? Beve...his dad...my dad.
Jesus.

The more excellent way

2012-02-05T23:51:00.000-08:00

My personal laptop is still sidelined, now sent off to the manufacturer because what appeared at first glance to be a mere power cord issue is an infernal internal one. So I'm at the mercy of other whatever other computers I can get my hands on--far fewer than back in the days when we were a populous crowd in our home and the laptops outnumbered us. And that's just about all the disclaimer I need, though there is plenty more, if you'd like: the Super Bowl, for one thing, which doesn't usually live up to the hype but managed to today. More importantly, I put my back out Friday. Not doing anything strenuous, just lifting a quilt, but it's wrecked havoc on a weekend that was supposed to be full of packing.

That bad back made me so stinkin' cranky when I went over to the elders' apartment to help with the moving, that when Thyrza got upset, I got upset right back. Even as I heard myself, I knew better. Her memory, faulty as it is, tells her she KNOWS the truth so she doesn't back down. I've been around that block about a hundred times, understand the best course of action is to be patient and gentle, to respond to her anger with kindness. But I didn't do this Friday. The combination of pain and muscle relaxants were enough to make me less than I should have been. No, that's an excuse. I simply failed to love her. The end. Afterwards, Beve suggested that I stay home this weekend and allow my back to heal. We both knew I'd been a menace--and that that was what he was really telling me. I need to admit it. To face what I am in my worst moments.

This takes me straight to 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8. In the first scene of the movie "The Wedding Crashers" (which Beve and I only saw about 10 minutes of, then had to turn off because it was too crass for us), the two crashers took bets on whether the readings at the wedding would be 1 Corinthians 13 or Colossians 3. I was surprised by this apt reference in a Hollywood movie to the very passages in scripture I also associate with weddings (Beve and I had Colossians 3: 12-17 at our wedding). However, if we look carefully at either of these passages they aren't precisely aimed at the relationship between a marrying couple, though one could make the case that a marriage is the first and primary form or community for any believer. These are passages about living in community. And 1 Corinthians 13, coming on the heels--as a 'therefore' almost--from what we call chapter 12 (though chapter markers did not, of course, come from Paul, but much later) emanates from our understanding of what it means to live in the Body of Christ, to work for Him, to use our gifts for building up of His Body.

And...as we live in His Body, we do so in LOVE. Seeking Love, which He describes in these central verses of the 13th chapter. Do you want to understand the characteristics of Christian love? We can do well to look no further than 1 Corinthians 13. And what we come up with is the opposite of selfishness at every turn. First, it's the description of love (and opposite of selfishness) in attitude, what it is: patient and kind; and what it isn't: not boastful, envious or proud. Then it's the opposite of selfishness in action: it does not dishonor, seek self, anger easily, keep a record of wrongs, doesn't delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth. And then it's the description of love comprehensively: always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres and never fails.

I read this description of love and am intimidated by it, knowing how far I am from having the attitude, practicing the actions and living the comprehensive life of love of which Paul writes. But I'm not alone in this. In fact, only one human who ever lived, lived such love perfectly. The Incarnate LOVE. Jesus Himself. When we look at His life, we see such love. When Paul calls us to seek such love, He is, in fact, telling us to seek the only One who love thusly, the only One who can Incarnate that love within us. Without Him, our shabby human love will fail right within our own chests. We'll give it our best shot, perhaps, but come up short. Find some people easier than others. But have no staying power, not experience the patience He demands, nor the permanence these words insist upon.

So where does that leave us? How then shall we love? Do we simply give up? Decide we aren't made to be kind, and that's the way it goes? Say we've always been the jealous type? Decide we can boast a little as long as we're among friends (or family)? As Paul would say, 'by no means.' We are told to seek a more excellent way. To seek the way of love. If it wasn't possible to be changed, to love as He loved, He wouldn't have told us to. I believe that. Every day, we are put in situations where we get to practice His love for others. And in every situation, we can either make the effort, or allow Him to love through us. Which we will choose will determine how successful we are at this love of which Paul writes.

And at the same time, we can pray. Paul writes in Ephesians 3: 17-19 "And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love [or, perhaps, in the One who is Love], may have power, together with the Lord's people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge--that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God."

That's the path to the more excellent way of Love, folks. The only way. He promises He'll give us power to know it. Without our effort, but His. In the first chapter of Ephesians, we're told that the very power that raised Jesus from the dead is the power available to us. That's world-tipping-on-its-axis power, and He means it for us, so that we can love each other, and His world.

Hot Dog

2012-02-04T22:20:00.000-08:00

Eighty-eight years ago today, my father-in-law was born in Bremerton, Washington. He was the first child of a man who'd served in the 'Great War', came home a little worse for wear, settled down with a woman and had this son (and then another son 16 months later, and called it good!). This first son of these hard-working folks--he a postman--grew and grew and grew some more. He always was the biggest kid around. Bigger by a head than that little brother of his. To look at them, you'd think they were three years apart in age. And this giant of a boy, who stood head and shoulders above his friends had to work hard but played hard too. His parents saw to the working. His dad saw to the working especially. Before that boy's age was a double-digit, it was the depression and even in Bremerton, where the naval shipyard meant men had jobs, times were lean. But the family had a garden and where there was a garden, there were always vegetables to sell, and enough left over to fill a growing boy. But he learned, and learned well to 'be a clean plater." It was a lesson he hasn't forgotten in all his 88 years.

By high school, that boy had earned a nickname--Hot Dog. It came from his job selling hotdogs at the local baseball games, his voice so loud and far-reaching, his mother could hear it from home several blocks away. By that time, the basketball coach had already sought Hot Dog out, coaxed him into putting on a uniform (including short shorts complete with a belt) and picking up a ball. It was like offering candy to a man addicted to sugar. From the moment that basketball was put into Hot Dog's hands, he never looked back. By the time he was a junior in high school, Hot Dog's prowess on the basketball court was so overwhelming, he led Bremerton to the Washington State Basketball Title (and there was only one title back then--no divisions for different sized schools). The next year, Bremerton returned, only to lose in the title game. By then, however, Hot Dog stood 6'8", and was the tallest kid to ever play the game in the state of Washington. Oddly, though his mother never missed a game, his father never once saw him play. NOT ONCE. That hard-working dad of his just never understood why he was wasting his time on some silly game.

He didn't get it when Hot Dog was recruited by schools in and out of state, and decided to go to the University of Oregon--the first player to ever go out-of-state in these parts to play basketball. Back then, local was the be-all and end-all for choosing schools. But Hot Dog went to Oregon. Spent some of the best years of his life playing on the hardwood of Mac Court, the Big Man on campus, the big man under the rim. He shot foul shots the old-fashioned way--the Granny shot, they called it--but hardly ever missed.

But those were the war years, so Hot Dog tried to enlist. But the navy--his first choice--said no. He was too tall for ship bunks. And the army said no as well. But he couldn't bear to sit on the bench while his buddies were off fighting for this country. So with the help of his mother and a state senator, letters were written to the war department, asking for a dispensation to allow him to join the army. So in 1943, Hot Dog went off to Burma to spend three + years building roads in the CBI theatre, and to play enough pick-up hoop games on the side that a tournament was put on, just so other army men could watch him play (and no, not even after all that, did his dad ever see him shoot a single basket).

He came home, took off that uniform and put back on his Oregon one for a couple more years. Met the sister of another Duck-hoopster alum. A 6'1" doe-eyed woman tall enough to match him. They married two months after he graduated. Two months after he took a job teaching rather than playing in the NBA, which was the other job option he had at the time. That teaching gig seemed better for a married man--with better pay and more stabilty. One of his reasons is still true, of course.

This tall couple had a quartet of giant children. The smallest--their daughter--stood 6 feet tall. He became a gaint gym for them and their friends. "We can't get near our own dad," they'd say to their mother. He taught them to swing baseball bats, to make lay-ups, to drive the family station wagon. Made sure they went to school every day, and church every Sunday. Tow the line in between. He had high standards, but none that he didn't live up to himself. And they knew it. They practiced what they saw in him.

The sons all played hoop as well, though none quite like their dad (no granny shot in sight, and only one was a lefty like Hot Dog--my own Beve). Hot Dog became a college professor with a PhD in Physical Education, earning him a new nickname from his kids--Doc-the-Rock. Doc-the-Rock became the department chair in Men's PE at Washington State University for 30 years. He chaired committees, settled disputes between faculty members, started a computer program. He took an interest in the rec programs in town, in the camping program for special needs kids, in the national organization for physical educators. He took an interest in people. That's about the size of it.

He was always busy. He was invited to be a guest lecturer at West Point for a year. Was president for that national organization for a year. He got those children through school, then through college, watched them marry, played with their children. Had a few parties--weekly. Monthly. Liked people. Was a great host. Learned to relax. Cultivated roses.

Watched his wife die. For a whole year that was about all he did. Talked to doctors, sat with her through treatments, surgeries, while she sat gingerly, laid low with her. Watched her die.

Then he let her go.

Then he learned to love again. Married again. Maybe too soon for us, but not for him. Traveled. Enjoyed his grandchildren, his roses, puttering. His computer.

All along, he was himself. True and strong with the same clarity of vision and internal compass that kept him headed toward right and ultimately, toward God.

The older he's gotten, the sweeter he's become. When I first knew him, I used to call him a roasted marshmellow, Crusty on the outside and sweet on the inside. Now he's merely sweet.

Hot Dog won't live to see 89. Tonight we took him to Olive Garden for his birthday. He slumped in his wheelchair his head almost on the table. Beve had to feed him, though he's still working hard to be a clean-plater. He didn't know where he was or why he was there, didn't know it was his birthday. But loved the food, especially what he calls that 'chicken and dumpling' soup.

When I was a child I knew him, of course. His shadow was long in our town. I knew he'd been someone back in his youth. But I didn't know he was someone then. That is, I thought it was what he'd done that made him someone. I thought it was the list of his accomplishments, like I just listed them here, that made him special. But it isn't. Not essentially. What he is, no matter what he's done, counts. Don't get me wrong, I love his history, find it fascinating. But what is more amazing is that his history isn't a big deal to him. It never has been. He doesn't think he's something because of what he's done. He simply is. Grand and loving and present and sweet.

So I honor those qualities in Grampie today. Even when the real him is dying in increments. Happy Birthday, Doc-the-Roc. Happy 88th, Hot Dog.

A fingernail

2012-02-01T10:23:00.000-08:00

Because of my recent surgery, this morning I got to thinking about those organs of the body that we seem to be able to do without--I'm doing quite well without my gall bladder, thank you very much. However, I might never again eat fried foods as I once did, though that's both very good for me and perhaps merely psychological. And I've never missed the appendix that was removed late one spring Monday after an excruciating day doubled over with knives in my stomach. Thirdly, though I am thankful for the uterus and ovaries which helped produce my children, I was not sorry to see them go. And have not missed the mess or pain associated with their presence in my body.

So the pertinent question I pondered as I looked out the kitchen window, waiting for the tea kettle to boil, was--are there really superfluous organs in the human body? Of course, having no medical training at all, I am not qualified to answer this in any scientific manner (though I have managed to diagnose (and self-diagnose) a plethora of maladies--both correctly and incorrectly), so I can only respond from a layperson's point of view. But what strikes me from this purely non-medical point of view is how formed together our bodies are. How fit and perfectly functioning all our parts are and must be in order to make us live and breathe and keep doing so over the long (or short) span of our days. And how, if one bit of that body is off, the whole of it feels it. An inflamed toe can make it impossible to walk well (ask SK about a memorable trip to Disneyland, if you don't believe me!). And floating bacterias can fell the whole of it like a house of cards for twenty-four hours, at the very least. And our very own cells, gone awry, can destroy us.

I'm sure you know where I'm going with this. I'm writing my way into 1 Corinthians 12 where Paul equates the followers of Christ to the human body. We are His Body. I realized this morning that it was all very well for me to write that none are let off the hook from Paul's admonition that we seek the more excellent way of Love; but unless we understand that each of us really does have a place in the Body, none of 1 Corinthians 13 is anything more than pretty words read at weddings.

Here's the fundamental truth of 1 Corinthians 12: 12 and following, as Paul writes it (in the New Living Translation): "A spiritual gift is given to each of us so we can help each other...The Body has many parts, not just one part...The foot can't say to the hand, 'I am not a part of the body because I am not a hand'...Our bodies have many parts and God has put each part just where He wants it. How strange a body would be if it only had one part!...The eye cannot say to the hand, 'I don't need you'...Some parts of the body that seem weakest and least important are actually most necessary...God has but the body together such that extra honor and care are given to those parts that have less dignity...You are Christ's body and each of you is a part of it."

Each of us is given a spiritual gift because each of us is part of the Body of Christ. And we each need the other. I don't know what your gift is (or are). And perhaps you don't either. But that doesn't mean you don't have one. Do not make the mistake of EVER assuming you are giftless in the Body of Christ. EVER. God doesn't care what the world tells you, what education or school of hard knocks or bad hand you've been dealt. He isn't interested in what you aren't. When you came into the Kingdom and the Holy Spirit was given to you, He didn't come empty-handed. He came into your life with a gift. And that gift is meant to serve the Body, extend the Kingdom and enable you to give glory to God by doing.

It's in light of this understanding--this undergirding that each of us is part and none is left out--that we must talk about love. Because the love of which Paul speaks isn't primarily romantic love, but Body-of-Christ love. But I get ahead of myself. That's tomorrow.

Today, let's sit with our gifts and the beautiful picture of us as Christ's Body. I might only be a single fingernail, but by His grace, I'll help the finger and the hand and the arm raise in worship and the Body of Christ praise God from whom all blessings flow.

Empty on one hand, noisy on the other

2012-01-31T23:09:00.000-08:00

I've sat under some amazing preachers in my forty-five years of walking with Jesus, some so inpressive that when I kneel before the throne, along with every other pair of knees, confessing that Jesus Christ is Lord, those preachers will be the reason. Among those who are credited with drawing me to that throne room are a few who came without eloquence, ones resolved to know nothing but "Jesus and Him crucified." And that was exactly what God used to impact my life--and the lives of many, many others around me. I think of the man with the Texan drawl and wide shoulders of a football player (which he'd been) who spent more hours in his week caring about kids, and thinking of ways to share Christ with us, than he did his actual, for-money job. The Texan, who was my very first real pastor, wasn't nearly as good a preacher as my baby-Christian self believed him to be. It didn't matter though. What he taught me transformed my life.

Another example was the preacher at the church I attended in Eugene, Oregon when I was in college, who discipled so clearly from the pulpit, I filled countless notebooks with his sermon notes. I no longer remember very much of what this man preahed, but at the time, I not only could have listened to him all day, but always felt a little sad when a guest preacher stood up on a Sunday morning. And, I was so inspired by this man, I actually decided to get re-baptized...because it meant something then. It didn't matter that I'd been sprinkled on as a child. That immersion experience, while the choir sang, "For those tears I died" (Why do I remember such things?) will forever remind me of how much I loved sitting under the authority of this preacher. Years later, when I was a married woman with three young children, I heard that RH had crashed a plane into the side of a mountain. It was as sad as if I'd just heard him the week before...and as happy. Because I knew--I really knew--what he believed about heaven. He'd taught me that.

And these are only two of the many, some only for a single Sunday, or a weekend retreat, whom the Holy Spirit has used to leave His mark on me.

But there have also been a few such preachers who have been exactly the opposite of life-giving, Kingdom-extending. I once lived through an excruciating period with an interim pastor who somehow thought that YELLING from the pulpit was the only way to make his point. And he had a whole lot of points to make, complete with bulgin veins and red face. The first time he did it, I felt like we were in a cartoon and all that hot air was blowing our hair straight back from our heads. And I'm here to tell you once he started yelling, I couldn't hear a word over the noise of his voice. Though he seemed to like the sound of that voice well enough.

But more than him, who wasn't very sneaky, have been the preachers with honeyed tones signifying nothing. I'm sure you've met a few of them over the course of your lives. If you haven't, you've been singularly blessed. Thank God for it. These people speak fluently, and before you know it, you've agreed to things you would have vowed you disagreed with walking in.

It seems to me that it's this kind of preaching that Paul writes about in the first words of 1 Corinthians 13. This chapter is easily the most poetic of Paul's writings, and the first three verses with their exaggerations, are hyperhole at its finest. "If I speak with the tongue of men and of angels, but have not love, I am nothing more than a noisy gong or a crashing cymbal," he tells us. Preachers with not merely beautiful words, but even with the perfect words of the mostly heavenly sort. The angelic sort. But here's the thing: we cannot separate this sentence, indeed this entire text, from the preceding chapter. The critical issue isn't that a preacher--or teacher (how this gift is listed in the previous chapter)--can teach, but that his or her teaching is imbued with the 'more excellent way.' A teacher/preacher who isn't in love with those being taught will be merely noise. Using God-given gifts without love mean we are always empty on one hand and noisy on the other. That's the point in these first three verses.

It's easy, however, to sit in a pew and point fingers at preachers, to evaluate sermons, write notes or emails or even criticize them to their faces. To call them clashing cymbals. And that function--our willingness to point out the flaw in our pastor--is as insidious as the preacher who preaches without love. So Paul makes it clear that NONE of us is exempt from the possibility that we take our spiritual gifts and use them for personal gain...or at least, use them without seeking 'a more excellent way.' Though he only writes of three spiritual gifts (or perhaps four, if you consider prophecy and knowledge two different gifts), it's fair to infer that we must place ourselves and our gifts in the mix as well. The construction of these sentences are easily identifiable--cause and effect--and all ultimately come down to the same thing. If you do this, or have this, or practice this, gift without love, you do, have and gain NOTHING. In fact, you ARE nothing without love. That's the point.

You're merely yelling. Blowing hot air. Giving away a whole lot of it. And that means failing. We often think that the gifts of the Holy Spirit is the most important thing we're given. However, though these are given freely, though they're given at our salvation, the other gift was given then too. I speak, of course, of LOVE. That's what we were given the day we met Jesus, and said yes to Him. We already have Him. If this is true, then we have no excuse for not loving as we extend our gifts on His behalf. Gordon Fee says, "Possession of the gifts is not the sign of the Spirit; love is." The question is, are your gifts merely hot air, or are they saturated in the LOVE of Christ--and therefore, the love of Him for all those you come in contact with?

Until further notice

2012-01-29T17:50:00.000-08:00

I'm going to be offline for the next few days. A mishap involving a Springer Spaniel, a Kindle Fire and my computer resulted in the power jack to my computer being bent completely in half. The good news is that only that piece was hurt, and I'm actually writing this on my computer. However, I'm rationing the battery while awaiting the new power cord, which gives me the perfect opportunity to practice what I preach about turning myself off from technology for a while. Spending the time meditating and studying and saturating myself in books with actual pages to turn, writing on paper with...what do you call them? Oh yeah, pens.

So while you all enjoy the world wide web, I'll see you later in the week.
In the meantime, because I've had a few conversations recently with people who have wanted to pigeon-hole me (and all Evangelical Christians) here are five things which makes it difficult to align myself with any political party. I realize these are not necessarily popular views and, though they aren't make it or break it issues, but what I believe.
1. The Kingdom of Heaven is far more important than the United States of America.
2. I believe in the sanctity of life--in the life of the unborn, the elderly, the accused and even our enemies. For each of us and all of us, God is sovereign. To be more blunt, I am pro-life, anti-death penalty.
3. I take seriously that the words of Jesus, "Give to Caesar that which belongs to Caesar..." means ALL people. There are no loopholes in His economy. Not for the rich, the poor or the in-between. (By the way, I also find it unbelievable that corporations are defined as--and therefore given the rights of--individuals!)
4. We are told that "In the world you will have tribulation, but be encouraged, I have overcome the world." Jesus tells us that in the old covenant an eye for an eye was the given way, but as His followers, we are NOTto respond in the old way. I see no way to read His words without believing He means us to practice peace. So yes, I am a pacifist. That said, I respect those who fight, who feel called to fight, especially those who believe in 'Just War' as a theological ideology. And I pray for them. Of course.
5. This world is God' Creation. He gave us responsibility to care for it. We don't care for it because we own it but because it's HIS. And we must care for those who live in it.

Ultimately, when we look at any political issue, we must look at it through the lens of scripture, knowing our citizenship is in Heaven.

And, because J and I watched "Forrest Gump" this afternoon, I'll say, "That's all I have to say about that.

Surprise visitors

2012-01-27T12:05:00.000-08:00

So as my mother would say, 'the road to you-know-where is paved with good intentions!" And good intentions is exactly what I had yesterday about beginning my 1 Corinthians 13 reflections. However, stuff got in the way. And by stuff I mean people. Like having a great conversation with my son, then deciding to watch the BBC show "Sherlock" with him (and can I just say, brilliant!). While doing so, without even the barking fanfare our dogs usually bring, in walked E, though apparently J knew she was coming up to do laundry. About a half hour later, he got a phone call that a couple of Beve's nephews were about an hour away. Wanting to visit Grampie.

It was a great afternoon and evening. Grampie was delighted. "Pleased as punch," as he would say. We took a whole lot of photos, of course, with him front and center with those four grandchildren, proudly wearing the bib I made him for Christmas. It does have a large WSU patch on the front, so along with his Cougar slippers (which he's been known to wear inside, outside and even in bed) everyone around knows where his loyalties lie. Grampie doesn't quite know to smile for the camera anymore, so when Thyrza and Beve got in the shot, I told everyone to say, "Happy New Year!" and "Happy Birthday, Grampie!" and that did the trick. It's very like how we used to make faces for our babies to get them to smile for cameras.

There were a few moments of confusion, of course. He didn't recognize the room, didn't know it as a nursing home at all, let alone as somewhere he belonged. And he couldn't figure out what was going on in that room across the hall where a man had a TV on. Such things are too much for him now. And then there was this: one of us--Beve? Thyrza? said something about Thyrza packing. Grampie wanted to know where she was going. "She's moving back to live with S," Beve told him. The rest of us held our breaths. What if this time, he had a different reaction than he had Monday night? But Grampie never disappoints. "Good for you," he told her, patting her leg. And the outlet breath probably raised the CO level in one swoop.

We left Grampie and Thyrza soon after that. Went out for dinner with these two young men. The older one is such the spitting image of Beve, if not for his coal dark eyes (from his Hispanic mother), it's like looking at Beve 28 years earlier. Not that they're much alike apart from those superficial qualities of bone structure, but it's a little strange to me, to be honest. And even each of them can see it. Genetics is a fascinating thing, it really is.

Anyway, we had a great conversation over dinner, really talking about family dynamics and how these young people feel about their lives. I love being a part of such conversations. There's nothing better in life than sitting around a table talking getting to the heart of things with people. Long after they drove back down I-5, I was replaying the conversation. Perhaps remembering the whole evening because I know that Grampie will wake up today and likely not remember that it happened. Maybe that's what I can do for him now. Be keeper of the memories he no longer has. And I'm okay with that. Glad to do it.

And now, on with my day.
Today Beve's brother (the father of these young men) is arriving to visit Grampie. I have a hunch we might have a whole lot of family stopping by in the next few weeks--months?. And that's okay with me. More than okay. Come, family, come.

And yes, Maranatha as well. Come, Jesus, come. More than anything, we need you here.

1 Corinthians 13?
I haven't forgotten. It's percolating in me, as Beve likes to say.

Who I am

2012-01-25T10:42:00.000-08:00

For our second birthday after we married (which, for those of you who don't remember, fall on July 30 and 31), Beve and I were given tennis rackets by his parents. By the way, because I have this strangely precise memory, I can also tell you that they gave us pillows for our first. Anyway, Beve's parents knew their son loves (and excels at) all kinds of ball sports. And they even knew I'd taken tennis lessons a time or two over the years. That, actually should have been their first clue. I'd needed tennis lessons--more than once, at a most elementary level. Anyway, Beve and I took those tennis rackets out for a game exactly once. One single afternoon. That day I watched my very coordinated, very athletic husband go from playing tennis to teaching tennis, to batting tennis balls gently across the net while his poor hapless, definitely uncoordinated wife managed to miss or send into the net or send sailing over the fence tennis ball after tennis ball. I felt so badly for Beve that I almost cried. It wasn't that I was so terrible--I already knew I wasn't any good at tennis. It was that he was light years better and hadn't a chance on earth of playing sports with me. Probably any sport, come to think of it. Afterwards, I suggested that he find someone else to play with. He tried to tell me that he loved playing with me, but those tennis rackets never got used again.

Years later, while on a family vacation, my then 8-year-old son picked up a tennis racket for the first time to try his hand with it. Across the net was Beve. Beve came back to our condo and said, "You need to watch him play." By that afternoon, I was sitting on the sidelines watching J put spin on balls that he should have been missing with regularity for someone who'd never had a lesson. It was clear he'd gotten his eye hand coordination from his father rather than his mother. Thankfully.

Yes, thankfully. I've never been a jealous type. Not about such things, anyway. I mean, it would be ridiculous to be jealous or envious that Beve (or J) is a better tennis player than I am. I'm glad they're good at sports--just don't make me hold them up. I grew up in a home of very smart people. And shared a room with one of the smartest. When I was in high school, teachers would stop me in the halls to tell me how smart this sister was. Teachers I'd had the year before she did. "You aren't much like her, are you?" One asked. I laughed at that comment, because it was so glaringly true. And how proud I felt to be her sister. I couldn't compete with her brain, and didn't really want to try. I loved that she was one of the smartest people I knew. That she still is.

I bring this all up because a friend asked me yesterday if it made me jealous that Beve said that my friend was the most beautiful girl in our high school rather than me. I began to laugh. How ridiculous a question. If he'd have answered my name when I asked him, I'd have rolled my eyes at him because we'd have known he was merely being loyal. Not because it was anywhere in the same ballpark as true. I'm not looking for that from Beve. I'm not looking to be someone I'm not.

This morning I was thinking about what Paul means when he says, "Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ." (1 Corinthians 12: 12). It means that even in these ways, we are given gifts for a purpose. Athletic talents, intellectual ones, the gift of physical beauty. Or creative talents. And these gifts are His. We're born with them and must assume that they're purposeful. For me to look at someone else's and wish for that is to decry His purpose for me. And it's critical that we understand that HE is the one who determines why we are what we are. He forms us. He gave us beauty or ability because He intended we use it to glorify Him.

And to build up His body. "The body is not made up of one part but of many." I need whatever you are, however you've been made, just as you need me. I'm thankful that I don't have to be or do or have it all. Thankful that we are in this together, that we get to rely on each other for the gifts and talents each brings. So the one with the good eye can see, and the good arm can swing and the good mouth can speak. We need each other. That's the word of 1 Corinthians 12.

However.
We are expected to EACH cultivate 'the more excellent way.'
1 Corinthians 13. The way of love.

I've been thinking that for the however-long-it takes (interspersed with my usual musings of life around here) I'll delve into this chapter. This tends to be read as the great text at weddings, but I kind of think it's the great text of living as His disciples. We'll see where it takes us, shall we?
Oh, I guess you don't get a vote.

For today--who and what you are is from Him. In every sense. Be thankful for it. Look for ways to allow who you are to impact those around you.
For tomorrow-desire a more excellent way.

Beauty

2012-01-24T00:44:00.000-08:00

Another of 'the girls' has a birthday today. About a year ago, Beve and I were talking about beauty. So I asked him who he thought was the most beautiful girl we'd gone to high school with. His answer was instant and unequivocal: my friend, MP. It's true. She was (and still is) very pretty. And this beauty of hers was legendary before she'd been in town more than a week. Seriously. She moved to town our eighth grade year, and I'm pretty sure about half the boys in our class were infatuated with her before that week was over. I remember meeting her at the little rental where her family first landed down the major road on our hill before her family moved to another hill to their permanent home (just down the street from another of the girls, W-squared).

However, her beauty isn't what is profound about MP, at least not to me, (though I suspect more than a few--very superficial, nameless males mostly--think of this as the most important thing). When we were in high school what I remember most about her (besides all our shared experiences, of course) was her passion. And who she was then has grown and matured with age. She had strong, passionate opinions and now has strong, well-hewn beliefs that she stands on. She's the most willing to debate in politics of the girls, the most willing to take on all-comers about a host of 'hot-topics,' not mean-spiritedly or with an agenda, but with a strong sense of herself and an innate curiosity about the world and her place in it. She's also a loyal friend, a person with a deep well of humor always at the ready with a story sure to make us laugh until we cry, complete with hand gestures and a mobile face that makes us imagine the scene she paints with her words. And she'll laugh right with us at our stories as well.

But there's more to MP than this. And it's the big thing. The thing that has not only touched me (all of the girls) but moved and impacted us as nothing else could. Fifteen years ago, you see, MP was a mom of three young kids with a husband she loved, a life she enjoyed. But she tired easily, too easily for a woman so young. So she went to the doctor. Then went home, and tried to climb the stairs. Then the doctor called, told her not to pass go, but go directly to the hospital. MP's life changed at the ring of that telephone. She went from a too-tired mom to a cancer patient at a single sentence. "You have luekemia," she was told that day.

One of the great regrets of my life is that I wasn't there during her long fight with cancer, a fight that included kemo, hair loss, and finally the precious gift of bone marrow from her brother. I heard from two states away about that cancer. I was busy with my own life, my own three kids, my own whatever. Nothing, though, that was as big and life-altering as that. And...
I wasn't there when, years later, MP healthy again, got breast cancer.

Yes, she's had--and survived--two distinct kinds of cancer. Lived not only to tell about them but to show and tell about them to us, her old friends, even though we weren't there. She's forgiven me (us) for that. And I'm humbled by that forgivenenss. Now I can't begin tell you what the gift of her life means to those closest to her. I imagine it for her husband--a man I've known longer than I've known MP, since 4th grade teacher was my mother--and her children who lived it with her (her oldest son is now a Marine serving proudly in Afghanistan), but I don't know for sure. They lived with the cancer but they didn't have to live with her absence, and I don't dare try to guess what they feel at that difference. But I can tell you what the gift of her life means to me.

The gift of MP is a gift of beauty. She is forged from the fire of disease to be a woman of precious metal. And there's beauty in that, the beauty of strength and a faith greater and more transparent than most I've known. She lives beyond the shadow of this disease, not taking life for granted, and reminding us to savor relationships--with God and each other as well. I will never be glad she got cancer, but will always be grateful for her example of grace in surviving it (twice).

There's a song from the musical "Wicked" that I think of, when I think of MP.
"Because I['ve known] you, I have been changed for the better and I've been changed for good."
Happy birthday, MP...and many, many more.
I love you.

Sandals off

2012-01-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite small moments in scripture is in Joshua before the whole marching around that walled-city affair, a small interaction that causes all the action of the story to stop, and so captures my own attention that I'm always on the look-out for such moments in my own life. As Joshua was approaching Jericho he encounters a man with a drawn sword. In fact, it's the only drawn sword in the whole story of Jericho. I do well to consider that along side the words of Ephesians 6 where we are told to stand and stand and stand, in full armor--HIS armor--the implication being that our God does the actual fighting for us. This moment in Joshua surely points across the centuries to that epistle...as God's word always does, of course.

Anyway, Joshua sees this man with a drawn sword and asks, "Are you for us or against us?" Now I have to say, I'd be likely to cower if I came across a man with a drawn weapon facing me on the road anywhere, but I'm not a Joshua. Not the leader of God's people. Joshua had some chops, as they say. And he wanted to know if he was facing friend or foe. But the man said, "Neither, but as commander of the Lord's army I have come." The Commander never actually answers Joshua's question, but that's often how God works. Think of Job and God's long poetic sermon about Creation when Job asks Him what's been going on. God doesn't answer directly either. It's NOT our business to question God's business, I think that's the point.
Anyway, these words make Joshua face-plant in worship. Maybe his knees couldn't hold him. Mine wouldn't have, I know that. "What message do you have for his servant?" Joshua asked from between his bowed head and clasped hands.
And this is the message: "Take off your sandals, for the ground where you're standing (or kneeling) is holy."

That's it. And those words have made me know that such moments happen. In fact, for as long as I've been a Christian, I've been aware of the holiest of moments. They aren't always big moments. Not moments you'd expect, I mean. We already know worship is holy, as are weddings. But every now and then, there's a "take off your sandals" holy moment in life, sometimes when you're merely on your way to a larger one, simply walking along the road to something that you think will be the EVENT. But God knows you need to take a moment and simply stop. And take your sandals off in His presence, because He's there. Or here. Here and now. Such moments--such stops-- never cease to astound, bless because they reveal that God is truly in this place.

Tonight was such a moment right in Grampie's room in the nursing home. We're in the middle of such a terrible season. You can't imagine. Excruciating, really. You see, Thyrza's family lives across the country in Maryland. And last week, after Grampie's stroke, when it became clear that he's in pretty bad shape, the decision was made that we've all known was coming--that Thyrza will go back there to live. Beve is going to take her in three weeks. Since making the decision, we've all been crying and praying and worrying that it's wrong, though for months we've all been praying that God reveal when it was right, lead us, etc. Thyrza's been in on all of it, Grampie less so.

The tickets are bought now. So tonight, Thyrza, Beve and I took Grampie dinner and decided to tell him, even if he couldn't really understand what we're talking about. We knew we'd have to tell him again. And we were all dreading it.

But amazingly, tonight he was clear. Lucid. More than he's been for months. I mean, months! Maybe a year. He spoke to two grandsons on the phone--and knew them!--ate dinner by himself, and we chatted about the day, the Cougars and the weather. Then Beve told him that Thyrza's going back to Maryland. And Grampie said, "GOOD! That's exactly what I've wanted you to do."
We talked about it for two hours because he wanted to know everything. He was glad to know Beve's taking her--exactly like Beve thought he'd feel, and he told us he's been worried about Thyrza. He said he's very aware that his brain is messed up and that he can't take care of himself or her and that she needs to be with her family now.

By the time we left, all three of us knew it had been a sacred, holy moment. A time out-of-time. I don't know what he'll be like tomorrow, but it doesn't really matter. Tonight we had the conversation we needed. Thyrza, Beve (and Thyrza's daughter, who we got on the phone so he could tell her too) felt a huge weight lift from their chests at his obvious relief that she'll be okay. And, it was like God gave us that one small moment of the real Grampie--back the way he was five years ago because we all needed the stamp of his approval.

I love that God does this. I love that God gives us what we need the most as exactly the moment we most need them. We know the next three weeks will not be easy. There will be many more tears ahead. But God is in this. We will lose--first Thyrza, then Grampie. Or Grampie, then Thryza. But God is in control. Loss comes. But as long as He stands before us, and we can face plant before Him, and recognize that we are seeing Him when we're looking at each other, we'll be fine. We'll be more than fine.

In fact, we might just walk around some kind of fortress and watch the walls come tumbling down.
Don't count us out. If He shows up like this, anything is possible.
Hallelujah.

Pruning, remaining, obeying

2012-01-22T13:26:00.000-08:00

Sorry about the gap in posts. We've been up to our eyeballs (or maybe even over our heads) around here and--as J just said--bawling out our eyeballs as well! Added to all the hard stuff up here, yesterday we drove S & J down to Seattle to fly back to the east coast, then stopped by our daughters' apartment for SK's birthday dinner. We got home and collapsed into our bed just after 9 PM.

For most of the two last years (other than during the amazing respite during the summer provided by his 'Finnish' brother, and a few visit by Thyrza's daughter), Beve and I have been alone in caring for the Elders. Though we've been blessed by them, it's also been hard and exhausting. Sometimes we've been the object of anger and frustration at their own infirmities. But this last week, with S & J here--at the very time we most needed them--we felt part of a team. And, even more than that, when Beve met with Hospice, we instantly became branches on their tree. Suddenly we no longer have to navigate complicated issues. There is a whole tree of people with skills to help us. When the hospice nurse told us Friday afternoon that she'd call the doctor about something I am used to dealing with, I actually fell back onto the extra bed in Grampie's new room in the nursing home, so great was my relief. We're not alone any more.

The seventh of the ontological statements of Jesus in John's gospel is startlingly apt for this current situation, I discovered as I was reading and praying about it last night. "I AM the true Vine, and my Father the gardener," Jesus says in John 15. Jesus has already told us in two different I AM's that He is Life. Now He tells us that He is a living tree of which we're a part, if we're a part of Him. We are the branches. This is an important element of the Christian life. We're in this together, as Eugene Peterson likes to say; we are the branches. Yes, the branches. Being the branches in the great vine that is Jesus is one of the best things about the Christ life. We are connected to Him at the very source. We--Beve and I, nor any of you--cannot be Lone Rangers as Christians because that's a cut-off branch. Living in community (as we have this week with S & J), gives us a picture of what it really means to be His body--to be the branches of His Vine. And, I suspect, Beve and I will gain a whole new appreciation for this as we dwell with Hospice during the coming season.

Being a branch of the Vine that is Jesus means bearing fruit. "He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit He prunes so that it will be even more fruitful." (15: 2) A vital condition for bearing fruit coming from the truth that HE is the Vine and we are the branches and we live in Him. First, it's important to understand that bearing fruit here is NOT a metaphor for evangelism. Every commentator I've read agrees with this. There are many places in the gospels where Jesus tells His disciples to go and make more disciples (Matthew 28: 18-20, for example), but in this passage, Jesus is talking about character--becoming like the Vine.

So what is this fruit? Galatians 5: 22-23 has the most (but not the only) comprehensive list of character-fruit the branches of Jesus means us to be. "But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law." These are the character qualities for every believer. You are meant to have ALL of them. There is no "I'm just not a patient person," excuse for believers. AND it's clear that one way or another, Jesus intends to see to it that this fruit is produced in us. We can produce it, we can be changed to become His branches. We must.

There are three conditions for bearing fruit:

1. Pruning (verses 2-3) I find it interesting that one way or another, each of us has to be cut. It's all a matter of whether that cut is being cut off and thrown away or pruned in order to produce fruit. Our human tendency is to avoid cuts. But this is NOT how the Kingdom comes on earth. Being pruned is one of the hardest parts of being in the vine but absolutely critical. No matter how godly a person is, he or she will still be pruned. Do you want to bear fruit? Some things must be cut out of us. There are things in each of us that repeatedly make us dirty. I was thinking about this just the other day when a single orange had begun to mold in the bowl on my counter. As it touched the other oranges around it, some of that mold was infecting those closest to it. That's what happens within us. There are things that must be cut off in order not to infect other parts of our lives--and other people around us. Jesus relates pruning to cleansing in verse 3. (Also read John 13:10 regarding being clean) Even though we are cleansed from our sins once and for all, there's also a sense in which we must be repeatedly cleansed; ie, take our sins to Him in order to remain in fellowship with Him. 1 John 1: 9 says, "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
2.Remaining (verses 5-8) --"I Am the Vine and you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." This is pretty straight forward. The choices of believers are to bear no fruit, to bear fruit, to bear more fruit or to bear much fruit (This is straight from the text). In order to bear much fruit, each of us must remain in Him. Abide is the word other translations use for 'remain.' I like this word abide. It's the idea of dwelling, staying put, setting up camp perhaps, or even building a home and living there. This is what we are meant to do in Christ. We're meant to build our lives IN Him (as it says in the parable of the house on the rock), and not leave. Not go wandering off from Him. EVER. Abide in Him. This will grow character fruit. AND, if we do this, we can ask whatever we wish and it will be done for us." WOW! Whatever we ask. Why? Because if we're our home is Him, we'll only want what He wants anyway.

3. Obeying (verses 10-14)-- Remain now becomes a command. "Remain in my love," Jesus tells us. "Love one another as I have loved you." It's His grand imperative. "Love one another." I have often thought that this should be the first "I AM" studied because it's so foundational for living with others. However, it's also the best place to end. Once we know who we are to Him, we must know who He expects us to be to each other. Love one another as I have loved you. We will not bear fruit--not grow these Kingdom-qualities--will have branches cut off, will not remain, if we do not love. It's that simple. It always comes back to that. Do we love those He puts in our lives to love?

"Greater love has no person than this, that he/she lays down his/her life for a friend." Two things about this verse. First, a snippet from my past that I can't help relating-- I was given a Bible for Christmas 1972, and my across-the-street friend not-then-the-Beve carried it as we walked home through the snow from a Bible study two nights later. Just as we rounded the corner up the steep hill to my house, he lifted it out of his coat to hand it to me but, instead, dropped it in the snow. Ever after, there were many wrinkly pages at the end of the New Testament. Anyway, over John 15:12 I wrote Beve's name--clear back in March of 1973. I don't have the faintest recollection of the conversation (or prayer?) that precipitated my writing his name, but I always connected that verse with him, even in the decade during which we rarely saw each other after high school before we married. Needless to say, I still do.

Anyway, aside from that, the Person Jesus is really speaking of in this verse is Himself. Of course. He is telling His disciples--again--that HIS love is the 'greater' love. That He is the one who lays down His life. We must end there. "Greater love has no Man than this that HE lay down His life for His friends."
Amen.

Up to the privilege

2012-01-20T00:05:00.000-08:00

It's Thursday...still. Or just barely. Lately I don't even have a moment of quiet to think about these posts until late in the evening. But this week's hard work, which we've done despite the unusual blizzard outside (though in some ways there's both a correlation between the bleakness of the ice and snow with the winter of Grampie's life; and, practically speaking, because of the weather--and school closures--Beve's had the whole week off!), makes this dwelling with Jesus' powerful words to us about Himself necessary to me. I wonder what you--dear readers (as writers of the 1800s would say)--live as you listen to Him speak such words.

Today's "I AM" comes at the beginning of the longest discourse in John's gospel. The setting is the upper room, the time is the last meal Jesus shared with His disciples. I have often thought that the memory of these words must have seared themselves in John's memory because they were spoken at that table, with those select few. It was a family dinner. And--we must remember this--twelve hours after that meal ended, He'd be hanging on the cross. The long shadow of the cross hangs over every word in this passage.

John 14. The very first words Jesus speaks fairly drip with His shed blood and sing of His victory over death. "I go to prepare a place for you." The great end of that journey will be a home--for US--in His Father's house. And not a simple shack, but mansions. "In my Father's house are many mansions," and one of Jesus' jobs is to prepare those abodes for us. Of course, Thomas (who didn't earn the nickname "Doubting Thomas" for nothing) has to have these enigmatic words clarified. If Beve had been there, his hand would have been raised right along side Thomas'. Come to think of it, so would mine. We just don't get what Jesus is talking about. I can just imagine Jesus shaking His head, saying, "Thomas, Thomas, Thomas!"

And then He says this, "I AM the Way, the Truth and The Life. No one comes to the Father except through me." (John 14: 6)
There are three distinct qualities to this "I AM the..."

I AM the Way...No one comes to the Father except through me. "The Way" means a couple of different things. Primarily, as always, it refers to salvation. "No one comes to the Father except through me," is another way of saying, "I AM the Gate, the Good Shepherd, The Resurrection and the Life." Jesus never strays far from His central message. He is The one true Way we must believe.
However, once we believe, Jesus is the way, as in the highway on which we walk. As Paul puts in (repeatedly, but this is from Philippians 1: 27), "Walk in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ." The very name we are called as His followers, is Christians--Christ-ones. This word speaks to ones who are walking in the Way that Christ walks. Doing, responding, living, BEING Christ the Way He is.
And, He is the Way of prayer. Jesus tells us numerous times in this long discourse alone that we are to "ask the Father anything in My Name." (John 16: 23) There is much more to say about prayer than I have time for here, but what is relevant is that Jesus is The Way to the Father in prayer. However, His Way is NOT simply mumbling "In Jesus Name" at the end of any old request, but aligning our desires with His so that what we want is what He wants for us. It's about using the Garden of Gethsemane as our chief model, not Gideon and his fleece.

I Am the Truth...no one comes to the Father except through me.
Truth is very important in the gospel of John, used more in this gospel than any other book in the New Testament (I looked it up one time but have forgotten the ratio if I ever knew such a thing), and is connected to worship (4: 23); being set free (8: 32); the Holy Spirit (4: 23; 18: 13), the Word 17: 17), and being made holy (17: 17). Pretty impressive list, right? A whole lot to hold on to, these things that Jesus, THE Truth, tells us He does (or will do) for us. This is not truth as a philosophical concept or some kind of moral virtue, but a relationship with a Person whom we can trust. This is the Incarnation of Truth, and therefore, we can trust it--Him. What He says He will do, He will.
He says about the Father, "Your word is True." (John 17: 13), and also tells us that the truth will set us free. Again, it isn't an abstract truth that frees us, but the Incarnate Truth. The Living Word made flesh that is the I AM Truth. HE sets us free. He alone has the power to free us from what enslaves us. There is no other freedom and no way to come to the Father but through the Truth which frees us.

I AM the Life...no one comes to the Father except through me.
This is the only time Jesus repeats one of the I AM's. So it must be important. It is important. There is no Life apart from Jesus, and He is the embodiment of Life. Here and now and everlasting. AND, He gives us life. The Life He is--in us--is spoken of repeatedly in the New Testament (mostly by John): "In Him was Life, and that Life was the Light of all people." And..."I have come that you might have life and might have it more abundantly." "He who has the Son has Life, he who has not the Son, has not Life." (1 John)
Again, don't overlook the context that He says He's The Life mere hours away from dying.. It makes these words both poignant and powerful. He knows what He's saying. He came to die so that we could have that Life. He is the Life and will give it away so that WE will share in it.

What we do each day as we go about our business--whatever that business it--is extend Christ to those around us. We get to hold out THE WAY, THE TRUTH and THE very LIFE to others. Are you up to this privilege?
Don't waste it.

Another hard day ( I begin to sound redundant)

2012-01-19T00:34:00.000-08:00

I may have mentioned this before, but I have a very tall, very strong husband. Steady on his feet, steady in his heart, with large steady hands to help more people than I even know. For example, one day Beve got an actual letter in our mail (along with the usual credit card offers and medical bills) from some unknown people from some place I'd never heard of in Louisiana. It turned out he'd helped a couple who'd had car trouble, gave them a ride across town, made arrangements for them to get the best possible mechanic, took them to a motel, even stopped at a grocery store to help them buy a few things. They were overwhelmed by the kindness of this man. And he hadn't even mentioned it to me. He was just out mowing lawns and had the time, so, of course, he'd help. Who wouldn't? That's how Beve lives.

However, his rock-steady temperament (which he inherited from his dad!), means that he doesn't get too emotional very often. Yes, he feels, but he isn't what you'd call a cry-er. Not even close. Very seldom in the course of our long years of knowing each other (45+) and being married (almost 29) have I even seen Beve cry. Teary? Yes. A little choked up? Also yes. But blurry-eyed and overcome by grief? Very, very rarely. But two days ago, when we had dinner with Grampie and Thyrza and Thyrza's visiting daughter and son-in-law, Grampie was completely himself, loving being with us, eating the Olive Garden's Chicken and Gnocci soup with great delight and trying to get everyone at the table to "just try a bite." Sure, he didn't track with every conversation and nodded off pretty easily, but he was still witty and himself. And you should have seen his face when Beve got E on the speaker phone. His grin about split his face in half. Just hearing her voice lit him up.

But yesterday, with that pre-dawn stroke, that man disappeared. He can still speak, thankfully, and sometimes he even makes sense. But he can no longer feed himself, no longer has any control over his own body. So Beve spent the night at their apartment last night, spent the day with a Hospice nurse, talking through the next step, and being his dad's personal nurse's aid.

And tomorrow, Grampie will leave his apartment for the last time.

So tonight, when Beve had to tell Thyrza that these arrangements are in place, which also means that the days of them living together are coming to an end, there was silence for ten minutes in our little universe, while Thyrza shook her fist at whoever (Steve? the Hospice nurse?) had decided that Grampie can't take care of himself any more, because he absolutely can.
And then, when reality set in, she cried. And then...
then my tall, strong, steady Beve who has been carrying all these burdens on his wide shoulders fell apart. All the others-- Grampie's falls, his illnesses, my illnesses, J's ongoing struggles, school stuff--distilled into a single pain: that he's losing his dad. And his own children are losing their Grampie. That tears him apart almost as much as losing Grampie for himself (and gets to me as I write it! He's just the BEST Grampie!).

It was a hard, good evening with the elders and S and J (Thyrza's daughter & husband). How grateful we are that they came to visit at precisely this time, and that the snow fell exactly now so that they had to delay their trip home. As S said, "God made it pretty clear that we were to stay." I fed Grampie his dinner while everyone else ate theirs, and we talked through the whole thing again until Thyrza felt comfortable. She thanked Beve for what he's done for Grampie.
"I'd do anything for him," Beve said, his eyes welling up again.

As hard as today was, there are harder days ahead. The day when Thyrza has to say goodbye to Grampie and leave with her daughter--that will be an excruciatingly hard one. For all of us. None of us look forward to it, no matter what we believe to be best. And the day we say goodbye to him ourselves. That'll be another. But, without wanting to sound trite, the only way to get through these days is to go through them. I look at Beve, feel the stress and exhaustion and grief coming off him in waves, and know he just has to go through it. I'll be with him, but he still has to go through it.

And so we press on.

Tomorrow:
John 14: 6
"I AM the Way, the Truth and the Life..."

It's all pretty simple

2012-01-18T00:26:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about this post all day today. Actually, when I think about the seven amazing things Jesus tells that HE IS in John's gospel, this is the one I get high-centered on, linger on like it's a skipping record repeating itself over and over and over. And the story in which these words are lodged is full of some of the most miraculous interactions we get of Incarnate God. It's not only where Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead but where He delays His going--after hearing that his close friend Lazarus is ill-- and says, "This sickness is not unto death but unto the glory of God." [You have to forgive me for the way my scripture quotations sound...they pour from my memory from whatever translation I learned the verse. I think that was NASB]. But it isn't the raising of Lazarus that has so long appealed to me (though seriously, pretty profound stuff--His calling a man in his moldy grave clothes straight out of a cave as an image of what He'd be doing Himself once and for all). It's the conversation that Jesus has with Martha and Mary that I love.

Take Martha. Martha gets a bum rap most of the time. She's the 'worker-bee', the one who has chosen the lesser way. But there are some amazing moments in Jesus' relationship with Martha that speak to me, that should speak to every single one of us, and have incredible application for our lives. We meet Martha and her siblings first in Luke 10, when Jesus and His band of disciples (and many others, including women 'who were helping support them' as it says in Luke 8: 1-2) when they came to Martha's home. It was Martha's home, we know, because Luke tells us so: "Martha (rather than Lazarus or Mary) opened her home to Jesus." And when Jesus came, it wasn't just one man for one meal, but a whole stinking pack of men. And I do mean stinking because it isn't as if they'd been staying in Holiday Inns every night and showering every morning. What Martha had to do was an all-out feast prep, and who knows how much warning she'd had for it.

So she was stressed. Lots of people, beds to prepare (yes, they'd be sleeping there), menus planned, food to buy (no refrigeration in those days, so everything was bought on the spot!), tables set. Not to mention the whole cooking thing. Let me be completely honest--I get stressed when I have two people I don't know really well staying in my house. I can't imagine 30 or whatever number she was facing.

And I know--because I know me!--that if my sister was just sitting out there listening like a besotted school girl while I was a sweaty mess doing all the work, I'd be really, really frustrated. Unfortunately, because I know me really well, I will also admit that in my case, I'm far more likely to be the one sitting out there listening to the conversation while my sister did all the work. And both my sisters would agree. So my reaction would be jealousy.

Martha's was not. She just wanted help. And here's the first interesting thing about Martha's relationship with Jesus: she goes to HIM, rather than her sister, with her frustration. She is completely comfortable with Jesus, so much so that she's willing to tell him the truth about how she feels. There's no spiritual jargon, no couching of her words behind what she should feel or thing, just a bald statement, "Tell her to help." And Jesus responds to her just that directly. He sees straight into her heart. In that heart isn't jealousy but anger, and that's the attitude that had to change. It wasn't her activity that was the problem, but how she was doing the activity. "Whatever you do in word or deed, do all to the glory of God." Colossians 3:17 says. Go back to your work, but give it to God. Be glad to do it. Maybe even be as attentive to Jesus in that work as Mary is in her non-working, if that's what she's meant to do. People are made of different things, after all.

The next time we see Martha, she's just about as upset as our first glimpse of her. This leads us to the conclusion that Martha isn't someone we'd want to know or be like. However, again, putting ourselves in her place, it's a bit easier to understand and appreciate her. Her beloved brother has died. And Jesus wasn't there in time to help. When Martha gets word that Jesus is approaching, she throws off her apron and goes running down the road to meet Him. And when she does, the most amazing, intimate encounter in the gospel occurs. It's something akin to Peter's great confession, really. She's out of breath, but still has the presence of mind to speak these phenomenal words.

1. If you'd been here he wouldn't have died.
2.I know even now God will give you whatever you ask.
3.I believe he (Lazarus) will rise again on the last day.
4. I believe you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who was to come into the world.
Stop with me a moment and think about these four things as she said them. Right there on that road outside her home while all the mourners sat inside with her brother already in the tomb, with people all over unsure about who this Jesus was. AND we think that it was only Mary who'd been listening to Jesus. There is absolutely no possible way Martha could have spoken these words without having paid attention. Without faith. Real faith.

And it's because of the faith that Jesus sees in her/hears in her that He speaks this most powerful I AM. "I AM The Resurrection and the Life, whoever believes in me will lives though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?"
And Martha doesn't hesitate. "YES, LORD!"

This is the moment that every single one of us must get to. Eternal life begins today. Sure, physical death will come, but eternal life starts at the point when we say YES, Lord! to this I AM.

Jesus says exactly the same sentence to Mary. And it's a beautiful thing that He knows these sisters so well that His words, though exactly the same, are different when spoken to each one. Martha, I think, was a person who thought more with her head, and Jesus spoke to her thusly. Mary was a feeler, so when He saw her, He responded with very human emotion. To her, even in speaking these words of comfort and truth, He was also willing to be in her present. Her unknowing, mourning present. This used to strike me as very odd--when I was younger and more foolish. I mean, He was a mere moment away from calling Lazarus forth. It's clearly what He'd delayed in coming so that He could do. But He took the time out of His agenda (an agenda which would bring joy to Mary and Martha!!) to mourn with Mary.

But that's how the Lord is. Even if He speaks the same words to you that He does to me, they are spoken knowing each of us intimately, knowing who we are and how we need to hear them. There are some unalterable truths that we each MUST hear. "I AM the Resurrection and the Life" is surely one of them. And we must say YES, when He asks if we believe it. However, the other promise of this moment is that He will be present in our present. If we mourn, He mourns with us--even if that mourning is but for a moment. If we feel hope, He is the hope. Whatever is our reality, He lives it with us. He may be Sovereign and live above time, knowing all things, but He walks through our time with us.

I feel great hope in this "I AM" today. I need to on a personal level.
This morning, our beloved Grampie had a stroke. Beve is spending the night with him as I write this, and we don't know how many more tomorrows on this earth he will have. This afternoon when we were talking, Grampie said, "It's amazing how simple it all is, when you come right down to it."
"What?" I asked him.
"Everything," He answered.
And I think that's the truth.
It's all pretty simple.
"I AM the Resurrection and the Life. Whoever believes in me will live..."
Do you believe this?

Sheep

2012-01-17T00:27:00.000-08:00

It was fascinating to watch the "Occupy [insert city here]" protest movement grow this fall and winter. I first saw some u-tubes of "we are the 99" before there was a single reference to any tents out here in the Northwest boonies where I live. But even in that first viewing of the various (mostly young) people talking about their lives, and ending with the statement, "I am the 99", there was a visceral reaction inside that said, "Oh no you aren't. You are the 1." When I was talking about this with a friend in December, he had a similar reaction, but his had to do with the economic reality of most Americans in relation to much of the world. That friend is currently in South Africa visiting some of the poorest of the poor, so he knows what of he speaks. But my reaction had less to do with the economics of the protest and everything to do with the gospel, specifically, the parable of the lost sheep, which is the perfect way in to the "I AM" we've reached in the gospel of John.

The parable of the Lost sheep is found in Luke 15:4. Luke has most parables than the other gospels combined. The good doctor must have found something compelling about this way Jesus had of teaching. In a class I took at Regent College, it was called, "Telling it Slant." Parables come at us sideways, give us a glimpse of life that sink between the rocks we build up into walls around our hearts so we can really 'get' something we very much need to get, in ways we might close off if simply told straight. I am always hard-pressed to decide which of the many stories I like the best, but the Lost sheep is right up there. No where am I put so directly into the story of what God's eternal plan is than in this parable. "Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn't he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home." This is our salvation story.

But it doesn't end there. In John Jesus makes it clear. He does tell us straight out. "I AM The Good Shepherd," He says, (John 10:11, 14). He gives us a full description not only of who He is, but of what it means that we are His sheep. John 10 is picture of what it means that He's our Good Shepherd.

First, The Good Shepherd lays down His life for His sheep (verse 11). As usual, Jesus never strays from His primary purpose--The Cross. He uses every opportunity to tell His disciples what He came to do. Of course, we have the advantage of understanding this because we have the whole story laid out in front of us and they didn't, so they didn't know what He meant until that Friday when it actually happened, but that wasn't for His lack of telling them. And it's essential that we don't stray from the centrality of the cross either. Whatever else Jesus is, He is always first, our Savior.

Second, our Shepherd know His sheep and His sheep know Him (verse 14). Earlier in this passage, Jesus speaks of the sheep listening to the voice of the Shepherd. The sheep follow because they know His voice (v. 4). In verse 27, He repeats that "My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow me." Any time Jesus repeats Himself this often in one conversation, it's worth taking particular note. And it's this simple: we get to know His voice, we listen, then we follow. This isn't rocket science (though my nephew IS a rocket scientist!). This is our lives in Christ. Jesus is clear that He knows us. It's His knowing us that precedes everything else. Not that we know Him. Our following Him is based on the fact that we belong to the Shepherd. Sheep don't pick out a Shepherd, the Shepherd is the one in control.

Along with this (still the second point), the idea of hearing His voice is one of the most complicated and misunderstood things for Christians. Isaiah 50:4 says, "He awakens me morning by morning, He wakens my ear to listen like one being taught." Many times people say, "the Lord told me," or, "I felt the Lord say..." And I think He intends it to be clouded while we are in the body--like in a mirror dimly (though that's a slightly mixed metaphor). However, we can be certain that His Word is true and that He speaks through it. Also, we must put ourselves in positions where those who are ahead of us in maturity in Christ are speaking into our lives. These are ways we cultivate His voice. AND we must not be afraid of the small voice that is much less that we expect. Read I Kings 19: 8-13. This is an example of God speaking in quiet and unexpected ways. The more we get to know Him, the more we will cultivate our ear. It's like learning a different language, I suppose.

The third aspect of the Good Shepherd is that He has other sheep that He also wants to bring into the flock (verse 16). This speaks to the world-wide scope of the gospel. We have the privilege and responsibility of being Jesus to our neighbors, co-workers and whoever He puts in our paths. He intended this. With His ascension to Heaven and the gift of the Holy Spirit, we actually get to call others into the flock. I've seen sheep call to sheep. Really. It's a rather amazing phenomenon. You can call "Bunch" to sheep, and they'll not only begin to bunch but bleat and call out to each other. They herd each other. They help each other into the herd.

It's an awesome privilege that the Good Shepherd uses us to draw His beloved lambs into the pen. We are the integral part of His work on this earth. If we pay attention to the Shepherd who lay down His life for us, listen to His voice, His love will compel us to do exactly that. Those "We are the 99"? They are "the 1" and need "The ONE" to become part of the Sheep pen, too. Who will we help to toward that pen today?

The Gate

2012-01-15T14:20:00.000-08:00

Outside my window, it's making a valiant effort to snow this afternoon. When we walked into church this morning, a man pointed to my hair and told the little girl in his arms, "See the snow, honey? Let's get your coat on and go outside." But when I think about the words of today's "I AM" statement, I imagine myself in an arid climate, standing on the side of a road, trying to catch a single glimpse a man walking along, surrounded by a crowd of people. His feet are dirty; his long, dull-brown robe ragged at the bottom from having been caught against rocks and twigs. His skin is leathery from years in the sun, from sleeping outside--even in boats. Among those in the crowd is a teenage boy with a staff, carefully keeping track of a small herd of sheep--maybe ten or twelve ewes and lambs together. I see the boy with his sheep and I see Jesus see him, see Jesus stop and wait for him. And as I envision this moment, it's here I imagine Him saying a few words about sheep.

The next two "I AM's" are related to sheep (and come in the same chapter--10), so it's good to mention this: though we talk of Jesus as the carpenter (we are definitely told his earthly dad had that profession), I am among those who are convinced that when He was a teenager, Jesus must have also herded sheep. Compared to how often Jesus talks about carpentry, He speaks about sheep a whole lot. Have you ever noticed that? Since Jesus calls us sheep, it's helpful to see, in these next two days, the two ways He relates to us as His sheep. So, metaphorically (except for my niece who is actually living in Israel this year), pull up a spot along the dusty road Jesus walked and think with me about sheep, shepherds, the Shepherd and the Gate.

Today, John 10: 1-10
Jesus says, "I am the Gate for the sheep." In the culture of 1st century Israel, sheep-pens were made with thick walls and only one entrance, which was guarded by a 'watchman.' Only the Shepherd--and the sheep, of course--had the right to enter the pen. Jesus is both the Shepherd (tomorrow's "I Am"--see verse 11f) and the Gate. This makes it a little confusing. But what is important here is that He says, "I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved." There is one gate. All other ways into the pen are illegal--thieves and robbers use them. This is a clear statement of how we enter the pen--which is His Kingdom. There is one Gate and His name is Jesus.

This statement comes at the heart of what every person needs to understand about Jesus Christ. Several years ago, my mother (already in the throes of Alzheimers) went through a phase of hoping that everyone would be saved, or--to use Jesus' words here--that there were either about as many gates as there were sheep, or that there wasn't even a pen at all. I understood Mom's desire for that to be true. People she'd loved had died and she wanted to believe that they'd be 'in the pen' when she got there. Plus, she was worried that she might not be in that pen herself, if there was only one way in--she didn't understand grace very well by that point, though she had earlier.

We who love Jesus, who have given our lives to Him, must not think that this "I AM" is easy. Not for Him to say, nor for us to tell the world. That I am separating this statement from the one I'll write about tomorrow is, in some ways, a grave injustice, because it's only in knowing what the great "I AM" did to herd the sheep into the pen that gives the Gate the grace we know it to have and be.

But we will dwell here for today. And while we linger at the thought that He alone is the way into the Kingdom, let's consider that His great desire is that each of us enter through that gate. I will say that again. God didn't go to all the trouble of the Incarnation because He only loved some of us. His desire is for each of us. Every single one of us. No one is beyond His desire. I don't care if you're a Calvinist and believe in election or a Armenian and believe in the Holiness movement, the place where your theology connects is at John 3: 16. "For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."

This is the gate through which we enter. Believing these words. Believing that God did this, believing that Jesus is that begotten Son and that IN Him we are saved. Yes, IN Him we are the sheep who find safe pasture. John 10: 9 says, "The sheep go in and out and find pasture." A pasture is where sheep are free to eat and sleep and move anywhere they wish--within the fences. This is the freedom we have when we're in the Kingdom of God--to move about, to do what we're given to do for Him, to "trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture" (Psalm 37: 3).

Gates, however, don't only provide a way in, but keep intruders from getting to us. It will become redundant how often Jesus tells us that He protects us. This "I AM the Gate for the Sheep" is definitely one of those promises of protection. A way in and a lock out for the enemy. There is no way anything can get to us if He is the only way in. If He is our only Gate, we're safe. No matter what the enemy tries, no matter how it looks, we're essentially safe.

Romans 8: 35-37 says, "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?...No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us."

Because He's the Gate.

If you aren't sure if you've ever entered the sheep pen, know this. You only need to ask and that gate will swing open. "If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved" (Romans 10:9).
And, if you have a beloved in your life who is still outside the gate--like I do--keep trusting that He is also the Shepherd. Thankfully.

Traveling

2012-01-14T11:59:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I'll return to the "I AM" statements of Jesus, but today I'm thinking about my older brother. You see, tomorrow he takes the next step in a journey he began about 18 months ago. It's the largest step, by the size of a globe and a two-day plane ride. You see, tomorrow my older brother, the one who has always liked his creature comforts and upper-middle class activities like snow-skiing, golfing and biking, leaves his very nice home for a new engineering job assignment in Bratsk, Russiaa. For those of you unfamiliar with Russian geography, that's Siberia. Yep, my older brother is going to Siberia in the dead of winter, which is always a smart move.

But let me tell you about the act of faith that brought him to this place and to the position where he not only doesn't feel trepidation at such a move (or the arduous travel involved in getting there), but a real peace that this is EXACTLY what he is meant to do right now.

About two years ago, R was working only five minutes down the hill from his lovely home where he and his wife had moved for the view, its proximity to his job and because he'd been commuting for about two decades (or so it seems to me). When they moved into Tacoma, his wife had the long commute across the Narrows bridge, against the flow of traffic (thankfully) and back out to their former stomping grounds to teach elementary school. They found a new church, got involved in a small group, loved the pastor, and enjoyed their lives together. Their sons were grown, had married wonderful women whom were sure to make their sons better men. They took walks down by the bay, spent weeks in central Oregon at their condo, got a dog. R skied in the winter, golfed in the summer, bought a bicycle to use in between. Sure, sometimes R complained about his job, but who doesn't? It was just about exactly the life R and D imagined for themselves. They felt blessed and satisfied, thought they'd live this way for a decade--until retirement. And then they could really play.

Then they went to a Christmas party two years ago. And D noticed that R's company didn't appreciate him the way they should have. He's a very smart man, my brother is. He thinks well, communicates better and has people skills out the ying yang (whatever that means!). In the next several months they spoke more and more about R looking for something different. At first it was simply talk. Then it became something of an idea. A plan.

Then our mother died. I'm not sure if this had anything to do with R's search or is just a time marker, but at least in terms of his talking to me (and my recording it in my journals), the job hunt began to take off. A world-wide company in exactly R's niche was looking for engineers with exactly his credentials. The intriguing, though a bit complicating, part was that he'd have to be away from home for long stretches at a time. Even Siberia in the dead of winter for a month or six weeks without seeing his wife. Then home for two or three weeks. Then back to Russia for a month. On and off planes for the foreseeable future. It was a rather daunting prospect, initially.

Was he up for the adventure of it all? By the time R talked to me about it, he'd already had a conversation or two with a 'head-hunter'. He and D had talked about it a whole lot, I know. And undoubtedly he'd talked to those very smart, faithful sons of his as well. But the first conversation I had with R about it all was about how we know whether God is in something. Or, to put it a different way, how we know what God wants for us. We all want God to give us a clear and certain sign that He is directing our paths. We want a neon light pointing us the way so that we don't do the wrong thing. And in a decision as large and 'outside the box' as taking a job in Siberia, that desire is not academic. It's slightly different than wanting him to show us whether to eat this cupcake or not (and I've known people who are just that trivial about such things--and trust me, God both cares and doesn't care, if you can understand that plurality!). My reaction to R that day was, "Ask God to close the door, just close the dang door." Those were my exact words. Keep walking until the door to this job shuts.

The many conversations he had with D, his sons, his small group and others all led him to essentially the same conclusion--that he'd keep going through the job process until either he or the company decided it wasn't a good fit.

Clearly you know the end of this story. God didn't close the dang door. R has worked for that international company for a year now. He's been in the North American section, working weekly in Alabama, commuting home via plane almost every weekend. He's earned enough air miles to fly business class, and has grown comfortable using planes as a place to work and nap. As he puts it, the only difference between the way he used to work and this is that rather than daily, now he kisses his wife goodbye Monday morning and hello Friday afternoon. It's worked for them.

And now the assignment to Bratsk. A Russian winter, and goodbye tomorrow morning and hello the 16th of February. It'll be a new adventure. Learning to be (as Moses named his son), "a stranger in a strange land." I've been thinking this morning about the profound ways God used Moses because he was willing to be that stranger in the strange land, was willing to obey God, when God led him away from his home and people and everything familiar. God just kept moving him and never closed the door until He finally led Moses to a bush that burned without becoming ashes. God met Moses first when Moses was farthest away from his lovely life in the palace where he had all the creature comforts one can imagine and if he didn't have them, he certainly could get them with a snap of a finger. God had to lead him away from all those things in order to mold Moses into the man He intended him to be.

So this morning, as I contemplate my brother's long flight tomorrow (and Monday--he won't reach Bratsk until Tuesday) I'm not all that interested in the job he's been hired to do there. Those kind of things have always been a little outside of my box, as all the engineers in my family would tell you. But I'm immensely excited to hear what God intends for my brother while he dwells in a land so far away. I am absolutely convinced that God kept that dang door open with a cement block because He meant my brother to go to this place to hear Him, to see Him, to become His in a whole new way. And that, my friends, is worth all the travel in the world.

Traveling mercies, RWC III. God will meet you at the end.

Go light your world

2012-01-13T23:11:00.000-08:00

It's dark out there.
We've been learning that this week. And when it's dark, life is hard. We've learned that as well.
This isn't really news, of course. I remember how I felt about the dark when I was a child. I wasn't one of those children who needed to sleep with the light on (like the sister with whom I shared a room); however, when we were at the family cabin on Whidbey Island and I had to go to the bathroom at night the dark was rather...well, dark. There was no light near that 'bathroom', you see. Nothing but a flashlight to guide me out the door and down the path to the outhouse. And you know what was flying around out there in the dark? BATS. We saw them one summer evening just at dusk and ever after I was certain if I walked outside in the dark I'd run into a bat. And, obviously, that was VERY scary!

But there is some truth to the idea that there are things to be afraid of in the dark. Or, at least, that we were not made for the dark. We are NOT bats, and our eyes don't see well in the dark. Our ears (or whatever it is that bats use) don't hear sound well enough to guide us when we cannot see.

We need light. We need it like we need air to breathe. The amazing, radical "I AM" of John 8 may be the foundation of all of them. If "I AM the Bread of Life" connects Jesus to the manna given to the Israelites in the wilderness, in saying, "I AM the Light of the World," Jesus draws us clear back to the creation of the world. In Genesis 1, God says, "Let there be light." Now Jesus says, "I am the light of the world." It's like He's taking a laser beam to reveal that He was at the creation of the world. He was involved with all that began with God's first words. The groundwork of who Christ is has to do with Him being the light. John makes this clear in the prologue when he says, as the Message puts it (so eloquently), "What came existence was Life, and the Life was Light to live by. The Life-Light blazed out of darkness; the darkness couldn't put it out."

So Jesus is the Light of the world. But He isn't just a giant flashlight or a shining neon globe. When He says He's the Light of the World, He's speaking to us, and teaching us to walk in Him. Listen to Him. When Jesus spoke again to the people, He said, "I am the Light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life." (John 8: 12) There are two distinctive marks of His followers that come from following the Light of the world.

First, we won't walk in darkness, and will be able to combat the schemes of the one who is the prince of darkness, the enemy. The enemy would like us to believe that our issues (mine or yours) are too difficult to be overcome. In fact, he'd like us to believe that he doesn't even exist. But in this simple statement, Jesus declares emphatically that yes, there is darkness but that we aren't subject to that darkness. We are "children of the Light (as He calls His followers in John 12:35)." We have been given everything we need to combat the enemy in this single clause in this powerful sentence: "will have the light of life." It isn't what we do ourselves that manages against the enemy or against darkness, it's that we 'have the Light of Life." We have Jesus. That's it. That's the thing, the one thing.

And that's my second point. Darkness cannot overcome light. You can't take a light into a dark room and have the dark overpower the light. Light always overcomes darkness. As a single match lights up a whole room, so His name can light up the darkness when the enemy tries to smother us. And that one name, that one HOLY Light-filled "I AM" is enough. It's the light of the world.

As children of the Light of the World, we're surrounded by people who don't see the Light of the world at all. Some of those we meet, talk to, and work with each day are people still living in darkness. I've been thinking a great deal about this this week. As we sat in that lock-in unit, I wondered about those who occupied the other rooms and what their hard stories might be. As we sat in the dining room at the elders' retirement facility, I wonder at those who sit at other tables, even those to whom we are re-introduced each time we appear. Do they see some kind of glow akin to a torch in a dark room when they see us? Is the Light of the World shining out of my conversation? Out of my attentiveness?

And, finally, John tells us in his first epistle, "If we walk in the Light, as He is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another." So it's walking in such ways that His Light shines out of us, walking so that we reflect Him that fellowship becomes a reality.

Light-- at creation, in darkness, in dealings, in fellowship.
That about says it all.

The Bread of Life

2012-01-13T00:34:00.000-08:00

Tonight, while I was pondering this post, the house has been permeated with the smell of freshly baked bread, because Beve was baking our weekly loaf of bread, loaded with flax, oats, millet along with the whole wheat. I love this bread. It's about the best thing since...well, sliced bread, I guess. A thick slice of it, with some chunky peanut-butter and honey? I mean, it's like dessert, it really is. But what is really great about it is how amazingly good for us this bread is. I've been eating two slices of it a day since last April, and I'm feeling like a whole new (much more healthy, smaller) woman.

And whenever it is baking, no matter how soon after dinner, or how recently I've had my last piece, I want more. It wafts through the house and makes my mouth water, because there's nothing like a good piece of bread straight from the oven, cut when it's warm, the butter (of course, butter!) melting through it. I didn't have a piece tonight. I'm a whole lot more careful with my bread-intake these days, but I watched Beve eat every bite, and I'm telling you, it made me really, really hungry. Makes me hungry right now.

The first of the "I AM"s begins with that most basic of human needs: hunger. And Jesus takes this most basic need and draws our attention to the more deeper need we try to satisfy with bread alone.

John 6: 30-35,41,48,51 is the passage I'm referring to here, where Jesus says, "I AM the Bread of Life."

But the context of this passage is important. The night before (chapter 5) Jesus has this discussion with the Jewish leaders in which He says this first so provocative statement, He had fed the 5000. When a whole crowd of people had gathered on a rocky hillside to listen to Him speak about the Kingdom for hours on end, Jesus had taken a boy's lunch and made it stretch to feed 5000 people. Wrap your brain around that for a moment. Beve's high school has about 1200 students in it. So if about 4 such high schools (plus a couple hundred teachers) got together for an all-day assembly, that's about what it'd be like. And without a single bit of food between them, except one lowly freshman who'd brought a sack lunch his mom had packed that morning. She'd known it was going to be a long day, so she'd made it plenty big for him--five small barley loaves of bread and two small fish--that's plenty of lunch for a 15-year-old but about like a drop of water in the ocean for what's needed to feed the entire crowd sitting around for all those hours, hanging on every word Jesus spoke. But that measly lunch was all the disciples could round up when Jesus noticed the restlessness of the people and heard their stomachs growling. They handed over that lunch, though not certain what on earth Jesus could do with so little, and Jesus simply took the sack lunch, gave thanks for it!!! and passed it around. And everyone ate until they were full, and there was more left over than there had been to start.
Talk about abundance.

Of course it's important that He could multiply that lunch. Of course it's the great miracle of the feeding. But His giving thanks ahead of time is just as important. Jesus already knew--with no doubt ever--that there would be provision for those people. He demonstrated it with the fish and loaves.

And then He spoke it to the Jewish leaders in the conversation less than 24 hours later (or the next chapter). These Jewish leaders have come to Jesus asking for a miracle. "Show us a miracle and we'll KNOW you are who you say you are." Then they even go so far as to tell Him about the manna miracle, the one where the Israelites were given manna in the wilderness. This strikes me as funny (in a not-so-funny way). Though Jesus has just replicated the manna miracle in short order by giving bread and fish (and they undoubtedly either knew or were even among those who had eaten some of those fish and bread), the Jewish leaders feel compelled to teach Him about the history of God providing exactly the same thing. It makes me wonder how Jesus could have responded to them so kindly, why He didn't get more frustrated with them more often.

But Jesus is Jesus. He doesn't get into a pissing contest (as I most certainly would have been tempted to do!). He simply and truly point them to the first essential truth--"I AM the Bread of Life." Think of how radical this sentence must have been to His listeners who first heard it. It's a never-before kind of phrasing, using the same set of "I AM" beginning that links God's name--"I AM" (see Exodus 3) to something completely new. In other words, Jesus is drawing a full connection between Himself and God the Father in a way that those Jewish leaders would not have missed. And He also points out that, as the most important basic provision for food, He can meet all human needs. It's profound. World-changing. "I AM the Bread of Life." Not simply manna for this day, but for all of life. Everything you need you will find in me. That's what is contained in this succinct statement. I can't imagine how it could have kept those men on their feet.

Yes, Jesus meets our human need for material things, but is interested in more than just the physical needs of people, though He does meet those as He proved so clearly when He fed the 5000. The physical need met, however, He wants to make sure that the deeper, eternal need is recognised. That is the need He is most interested in:
"If you believe in me, you will NEVER go hungry or thirsty again.

Jesus uses an absolute here. NEVER is a pretty big word. It's a word we are often (and should be) loathe to use. So it must imply a pretty profound answer to our deepest need. If the great lunch meal of the 5000 is a picture of how He cares about our welfare, we can trust that He will also care for our greatest spiritual desire. So the question is--what is your deepest spiritual desire? Do you allow your imagination to run wild with what you want from Him? Are you hungry for Him in such a way that you can't live without Him? These are the desires He wants to satisfy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say, this is His chief aim--to satisfy our deepest hunger and thirst for Him.

This "I AM" also points us toward the Last Supper, of course. We can't possibly think of Jesus as the Bread of Life without thinking of Him speaking to His disciples that last night. Holding a loaf of bread, He says, "This is my body given for you." What He says that night in the upper room is almost a repeat of what He says in verse 51 of John 6: "I am the living bread which came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world." Jesus spends His entire ministry always drawing our eyes back to His purpose--that He came to give Life.
And that He came to give His life--His body--for ours.

The Bread of LIFE. What do you hunger for? And how do you live in response to the Bread of Life that dwells within you?

A much needed regounding

2012-01-11T21:50:00.000-08:00

Life is better here today, less fraught with crisis. One would expect, therefore, that I'd be more calm as well. But 'one' would be wrong. I've been a mess today. A living, breathing, falling-apart mess. I had to stop by Beve's office to give him something and when I walked in, he was having lunch in the conference room with his counseling colleagues. They were happy to move around the table and make room for me, and I certainly enjoy all of them a lot most days. But this isn't most days. No, today I took one look at them sitting there laughing, and couldn't stand it. I mean, Beve has people, people to yuck it up with even in the middle of all this--or that's how it felt in that moment.

Instead, I walked into his office and fell apart. And poor Beve, who'd gone to the trouble of actually buying me lunch when he'd bought his own, couldn't quite figure out what was wrong with me, why I didn't want to talk about it, or to them. To him it like we were those young married kids we used to be--and I'd get so upset that he couldn't figure out why I was upset. And he had no earthly idea.

These days--this week--he understands a whole lot better. He knows me, knows the strain we're under, knows how much this season has taken its toll on us. When we finally had a conversation about it hours later, we both acknowledged that we're so exhausted from the latest crisis we hardly know how to think, but I'm such a mass of emotions that I feel everything, while he's so much more rational that he simply shuts it off. And we just have to press on with all the other things going on.

But what finally came to me this evening is that I need to ground myself in the person of Jesus Christ. That is, I've been very much a supplicant of late, asking Him to DO for me. But it's of prime importance that I remember who He is; indeed, I must pay attention to HIM for Himself for this season. If I forget, I'm in danger of seeing Him as a giant slot machine in whom I put in my nickel of faith so that He'll pour out the jackpot of my desired outcome. And that is the one thing true Christian faith cannot be. Our adherence is to a PERSON, not to an idea, a result or anything for ourselves. It's only--always--about being in relationship with Him, no matter what comes into our lives. This hits home as clearly as anything in difficulties. It's because of who He is that I love Him. So I must re-orient myself to that more especially now than ever. As I said, no matter what.

So...who is HE? And what does it mean to me, who already knows and loves Him? Frankly, there's only one place to go to really do this re-grounding necessary. The gospel of John.

One of the reasons I love the gospel of John is because that's where we hear Jesus speak directly about Himself. Even when He does miracles He does so in order to tell people who He is. And, amazingly, He describes Himself much like we do when we're asked, in large groups, to describe ourselves. "I'm creative," I might say. Or, "I am not very good at math." However, the LARGE distinction between our self-descriptions and Jesus' are that His aren't simply character traits but are so radical that they transform the world. There are seven such statements, of which Eugene Peterson says " [they] crash the boundaries of death and summon all to a resurrection." Seven times in the gospel of John, Jesus gives us amazing insights into Himself--and each time, that insight not only has to do with who He is TO US, but has the power to change us.

And this is what I most need to be reminded at this moment. There are implications of those powerful seven statements, those glorious, life-altering "I AM's" of Jesus for how I live in this critical moment, and for how we conduct all our dealings in the most lovely (and dreamed of!) ordinary of our days. So for the next seven days (give or take), I'll be looking at the seven "I AM's--the Bread of Life, the Light of the World, The Gate for the Sheep, The Good Shepherd, The Resurrection and the Life, TheWay and the Truth and the Life, The True Vine."

My prayer--for myself and for you--is that we will see Jesus in a renewed light, and not merely what He has done, but who He is will empower you to serve Him.

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders us and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with endurance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. For the joy set before Him He endured the cross, scorning the shame and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." Hebrews 12:1-2

Another surreal day

2012-01-09T23:19:00.000-08:00

This post might be the hardest post I've ever written, and that's saying a whole lot. But a couple of minutes ago, my son told me I should post about today, so here goes.

J's ever-changing battle with depression and anxiety has taken a turn for the worse in the last month. In fact, such a bad turn that a couple of nights ago, when he texted me close to midnight, it kept me awake and contending for his life for much of the night. Then last night J came here and I sat up with him for the entire night. Yes, I'm serious, I didn't go to sleep until after Beve and I had a conversation as he was walking out the door to work this morning at 6:30 AM. J fell asleep about 1:30 AM, so exhausted by the toll of simply trying to stay alive and fight the demons within that he couldn't last another moment, but I held watch. It's what mothers do. Plus I'd had a fully-caffeinated latte at 10 PM for the express purpose of being with my son when he needed me.

So today, we took our son to the hospital. Even J admitted that he was in danger. So we crowded into that emergency room with a cast of a thousand others (or so it seemed) who had maladies of so many kinds one can hardly imagine. Fortunately, Beve had spoken to J's psychiatric nurse earlier and she'd called ahead so J didn't have to stand at the triage desk, with a mass of humanity leaning in, and explain that he was in danger of killing himself. When he was finally taken to the first check-in room, I leaned against the counter while the nurse said, "So you want to hurt yourself."
J looked at her strangely. "That's not exactly how I'd put it," he said. "I'd say what were passive suicidal thoughts have become active."
"Do you have a plan?" The woman asked.
"Yes."
"And what is it?"
At that I had to leave the room and make Beve alone listen. I am a coward. I simply cannot hear these words. But when I came back in and the nurse walked past me, she reached over and hugged my shoulder. That gesture spoke volumes to me.

A while later, J was taken up to the lock-in ward where people at risk of suicide are 'housed' with people who are high, detoxing, etc. When we were let in (via a card fob) the room in which he sat on the bed was stark and depression enough that I wanted to turn and run. There was the lone bed, two chairs, a metal [non-working] drinking fountain very firmly attached to one corner and patches on the wall from some kind of violence. No posters, a horrible color and absolutely nothing that spoke of comfort or care. J said, "Now I know what prison feels like."

We waited in that room for hours. Many, many hours. A nurse brought J a sandwich (two slices of bread with turkey--no condiment of any kind, even loathsome mayonnaise!), and some apple juice. A doctor told us a social worker would give him a psych eval and make a recommendation. So we waited, and I felt those walls creep in on me.

To pass the time, J and I began to talk about sports, religion, whatever we could to keep our minds off the place and purpose of our 'visit, while Beve drove to Costco to tell J's employer why he wouldn't be at work for a while. J says that one of the biggest helps is talking rationally about things outside himself, because those things anchor him in the present. When he's alone, he tends to fixate on past failures or the future which seems hopeless.

Finally, when the social worker came to interview him, I once again stepped away, after telling her I am too emotional about it all to listen. J understands and Beve (long back by then) is much better at such things from having heard them so often--even though this IS completely different.

When I was finally 'fobbed' back into the room, J and Beve told me that J would be coming home. Like the last suicide-watch, he's better off in our home than in any facility. "Those places will make you MORE depressed," she told him. "Your support system is very well in place." She also must have said something about his intelligence, because afterwards both Beve and J said, "If only we were a little stupider!" I heard him speak about his situation often enough today to know he's very conversant in both the issues and what has been tried to help him.

So he's home, and as he put it, "There's one thing to cross off my bucket list."
It was NOT an experience ANY of us wants to repeat. He seems better tonight, though I know 'better' is a superficial thing. But for this mother's heart, at least I know he's okay for now.

But there's a long ways to go before we are out of the woods. I don't even know what out of the woods means any more.

I'm tired. Physically, emotionally and spiritually. God has to intervene, and the Holy Spirit has to intercede.
And Jesus has to save.

And I have to sleep.

Lesson learned

2012-01-07T11:49:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I get so caught up in the roller coaster that has been our lives since about 2005 that I forget. It really does seem like we've been trundling up one hill, cresting for a mere second before something else happens and we're falling into the next valley of crisis. Sickness, depression, dealing with a parent, sibling, child, self. An unending roller-coaster ride for so long that I can't remember what it's like to get off, to stand on solid ground and simply walk at a pace slow enough to catch my breath. So I forget. Or maybe it's like being on a ship in a storm tossed ocean, the waves overwhelming, the troughs deep and no way out but through it.

So I forget. We just have to keep steady on through this storm, or keep riding the roller coaster. Holding on to the bar of the roller coaster or the ship's wheel as if we had a hope in heaven of steering the thing--which we don't. But we keep trying, at the mercy of it all.

Early this morning, however, while I was standing in my kitchen doing the dishes, God reminded me. I'd gotten side-tracked after dinner with this thing and that, then it was well after midnight and I couldn't figure out why Jackson was poking around in the living room, trying to outlast me rather than settling back on his bed for the night. Then I walked into the kitchen to all our shepherd's pie fixings still sitting on the counter. No wonder. He was hoping against hope I'd go to bed and leave him to get at them. So at 1 AM I found myself doing dishes. This probably tells you more than I'd like about how disinterested I am in domestic pursuits, but there you go. Anyway, as I washed, I was mentally writing a New Year's letter about all the hard things we've struggled with in the last year. And just as I was reaching my stride, God began reminding me of what He HAS done for me.

And I was caught short. Had to grab the sink to keep from falling. Really. Though it should have pressed me to my knees. In repentance and awe.
Because, of course. Duh! How dare I forget. How dare I be fixated on what has gone wrong, how we live from crisis to crisis that I don't taste and see that the LORD IS GOOD?

So with my hands sunk in soapy dishwater, I began to list those ways in which I most feel God's presence in my life:
My relationship with Beve, without whom I cannot imagine doing life
JESK (or E, J, SK in age order) who are the best gifts God ever gave me
My family of origin (and, by extension, their children and spouses)--who, after my first 4--are the most vital people in my life
Living where I live--this home, this life, this place
The specific gifts of writing, speaking, thinking that come from Him and (hopefully) return to Him
Relationships with friends old and new--and the deep, rich conversations that spring from those relationships
The opportunity to minister in many and varied--even unexpected--ways
My health, as quixotic as it is--as an unending opportunity for God to reveal Himself
The final days with the elders--that, as hard as some of those days are, we are here for them
Quilting-- my 'prayer-quilting', as one of my friends calls it

And, of course:
The Word of God
Prayer
THE HOLY SPIRIT
JESUS, THE SON
GOD THE FATHER

Here's the most amazing thing. This morning when I opened my Bible, the Psalm for this day is Psalm 118. Verse 17 says, "I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done."

"EXACTLY," He tells me. "Just what I want you to remember. Today and every day, proclaim what I have done!"

As E would say, lesson learned.

A list of books

2012-01-06T12:35:00.000-08:00

So finally my long-promised list of books that have informed my life. In order to keep my post (and list) a manageable length, I've chosen two- three from each of several categories.
Christian classics:

Augustine's Confessions

I came lately to this marvel,; didn't read it until I was at Regent College, then was completely stunned by its power. There are sections that are completely original thought, like his take on time. But the long section of his coming to Christ, and his recognition of his long painful life--and the torture to fling that life away. WOW. Surrender in a way I'd never dreamt. That was the first time. I go back to it again and again.

Julian of Norwich, Revelation

This anchorite nun who closeted herself in a hut against a wall of a church in the middle ages has been one of the most important influences in my life. She was so bold as to ask God for pain. To actually ask Him to allow her the privilege of bodily illness and actual wounds so that she could understand Christ's suffering better. As I've suffered in my own small way, her thoughts regarding pain have been transforming for me. So to has been her equally keen desire to know the love of God as expressed through Christ on the cross, not merely in her head but as THE single most real thing in her life. This hermit has done more for me than all the scholarly theologians throughout the centuries in aiding me to love Christ more, and to get--fully GET--that His great action on earth was the single most important thing that has ever happened in history. And, dare I say it? Her words, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all shall be most well..." are perhaps my very favorite non-scriptural quote ever.

Brother Lawrence, Practice of the Presence of God

This is probably the first Christian 'classic' I ever read. And it energized my prayer life. The uneducated kitchen monk who simply lived with Christ rather than compartmentalizing devotional time away from other daily tasks has repeatedly reminded me of how to "walk in a manner worthy of Christ, pleas[ing] Him in every respect." It is a slim volume, easy to return to again and again, in every season, should I (and I do!) need a refresher in the real life of prayer.

Current Christian Authors

Eugene Peterson, Leap Over A Wall

I arbitrarily chose this book from among his many fine works because he gave it to me, signed, along with a copy of a review written about it. Eugene Peterson just had to be first because he's a friend and whenever I read one of his books, I can hear his voice so clearly it's like he's the one leaping from over the wall between author and reader. That aside, this volume, about the life of David and its correlation to the life of a believer and the Body of Christ, is finely written. The chapter on Ziplag, for instance, which is about church, is very convicting about how we approach those with whom we worship. One of the things I love most about Peterson is that he's immensely readable, loves story so even his most scholarly works are accessible to all of us. Recently, I've finally gotten around to reading his memoir, which I've put off because I wanted to savor it, and it's life-giving. It's called Pastor, and really has pieces of most of his best books. Or, if you like the idea of short pieces, Subversive Spirituality is worth the time.

Richard Foster, Celebration of Discipline

My copy of this book has been through the war. At least that's how it looks. Certainly it's been through about a dozen moves since I bought it back in college in Eugene, Oregon and read it straight through when I should have been studying Old Testament Survey or Chaucer or some such thing. It is another book, like Brother Lawrence's, that changed my life. The 'inward' practices of meditation, prayer and study that I practice today were, in no small part, learned from this book (though I must clearly give a shout out to the adults who definitely also had a hand in teaching me such practices! And I must also admit that fasting was less successful as it helped propel me into an eating disorder. Sigh.). It's so worth the read. For individuals and church congregations all together. Thirty-plus years later, I still fell what it meant to me then.

Frederick Buechner, Telling the Truth

Frederick Buechner has written so many treasures it was difficult to chose one, but this slim volume is about the gospel, juxtaposed with King Lear. The full title is Telling the Truth, The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy and Fairy Tale and speaks to both sides of myself. Of course you might infer that I'd be drawn to it. However, it was on the reading list for my entrance to Regent College, and because I am who I am, I was determined to read everything on that list before I actually began. That spring my parents were in Portland, Oregon and found this book at Powell's bookstore (a truly AMAZING place!!!!!). On their way home from Portland (a sevenish-hour drive) they took turns reading this book aloud. They just couldn't put it down. MY PARENTS. My dad reading a book aloud in a car. You didn't know him, but this was NOT normal behavior, and tells you everything about this book. It's worth finding. Worth reading. If you want, you can borrow mine. Really. You won't regret it.

Novels
I've been staring at that word 'Novels' for five minutes. How on earth can I distill all the impact from all the novels I've read in the last forty years? And choose just three that have meant the most? An impossible task for a person like me who reads novels 'religiously.' Every person who reads novels chooses them for different reasons, of course. For escape is one of the main reasons--at least that's what we most often hear. When I chose Regent College as the seminary to attend (or perhaps I should say, God revealed it to me), it was because there is a whole area of study devoted to the study of Literature as a means to see God working. My Masters' degree in Interdisciplinary Studies is at precisely the intersection of Literature and Christianity. One of my first (and perhaps very favorite and most important) classes I took a seminar called, "Christianity and Fiction." As background, I was only on the wait list the first day of that class, because my dad had died the week before, making me late for everything at Regent. The prof had told me I could come to the class that day, but he doubted I'd get in because so many were ahead of me. With about 25 crowded into a seminar room meant for 12, we went around the room speaking of our relationship with books. I was, oddly, the last person to speak. Many said, "I don't really read very much, except for school." Or, "I just needed a seminar to graduate." Or, "I had to read novels in high school but I don't like them much." And then there was me. After I spoke (though I don't quite remember what I said, having an undergraduate degree in English Literature, meant I'd read all but two of the novels in the course), there was a break. As the prof walked past my chair, he kind of leaned in and whispered roughly, "You're in."

But though I'd read those books, it hadn't been with a view of them as Christ-haunted. I was surprised by how new and fresh and profound even those I knew were. So I'll simply mention one unexpected author who completely radicalized how I think of her, and of writing 'non-Christian' literature: Flannery O'Connor. She's NOT for the faint of heart, I'll tell you that right upfront. Her novels are considered southern 'grotesque'. However, she has informed my way of thinking about writing more than any 'how to get published' book I've ever been given. If I hadn't already written this much I'd tell you why. But perhaps I'll leave it at that for today. O'Connor deserves her own day. My favorite quote by her is:
"When you assume that your audience holds the same beliefs you do, you can relax a little and use more normal means of talking to it; when you have to assume it does not, then you have to make your vision apparent by shock--to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost blind you draw large and startling figures." (Flannery O-Conner, Mystery and Manners, 33-34)

The point in all this is to read. To let God use more than just the Bible teach you, even more than just current books to impact you. And yes, even more than just non-fiction to work in your life. There are treasures to be mined and He will use them all to work Himself into you. If you let Him.

A dog story

2012-01-05T10:48:00.000-08:00

So last night after Beve went to bed I was sitting out in our living room ~~watching TV~~ doing something productive. It actually could have been anytime after about 8 PM since he woke up around 2 AM and put in a 12 hour day, so was, as he sometimes says, "one tired cowboy," which is ridiculous because he's no more a cowboy than I am (except for the gender thing). But it was getting on toward 11. And around here, that's an hour that means something. It means it's time for our Springer Spaniel to go to bed. Jamaica is a creature of habit. She likes her life run a clear and certain way, was all out of wack this year when E packed up her room and moved away. You see, for the last 3 years E has been the person of choice to close 'Maica into her kennel at night. So the first few nights she was gone, Maica was not one bit pleased that she had to have me do the job instead, even though she always has her pre-kennel nap on our bed next to Beve.

But she's grudgingly allowed me the privilege (or at least that's how it appears from where I sit, though climbing out of my cozy bed to close her into her kennel each night isn't much of a privilege. Maica does like that kennel, though, no matter that it's much too big for her, was bought for our extra-large lab, Jemima. You should have seen Maica in it when she was a 10 pound puppy. We put all sorts of towels and blankets around her so it'd fit her (and she wouldn't pee in it). Worked like a charm. She races into the kennel at the first sign of trouble: loud noises, strangers, dogs she doesn't know, and and a few canine esoteric things I obviously can't hope to understand. And to sleep.

Obviously. Last week when my sister was here, sleeping in E's bedroom, Maica actually scratched on that door because she knew someone was in there, and that someone--CLEARLY--should put her to bed.

But last night was the most direct Maica's ever been about her bedtime routine. She trotted all the way down our long hallways to our living room, stood staring at me for a while, turning her head every now and then to where Jackson was sleeping across the room by the fire and when I didn't jump up and assist her, actually began to bark. Beve calls it her, "Timmy fell down the well," bark. Those of you old enough will recognize the 'Lassie' reference.

I started laughing, "So you think it's time to go to bed. "
This made Jamaica bark louder, which made Jackson (the twelve-year-old old man that he is!) stretch and get to his feet (paws?).
"OK," I told her. "I'm coming."
But she wasn't content with me simply walking her down the hallway.
"What?" I asked as I walked back into the room.
She just stood in the living room until I went back, turned off the TV, the lights and the fireplace, barking the entire time.

Honestly.
Then she practically raced down the hall and into her kennel. Jackson settled on his bed beside her. I could practically hear her deep sigh when I closed her door. All was right with her world.

I texted my kids that the flusher in her was flushing us all the way to our beds. But as I lay in my bed wondering which house that young couple on House Hunters picked, I thought, "Hmm, first my parents, then my babies, now my DOG is directing my bedtime."

Much delayed latest quilts

2012-01-03T10:34:00.000-08:00

It's been a very long time since I posted any photos of my quilting projects. This isn't because I've stopped quilting or lost interest; it's merely a matter of technology knocking me on the head--new computer, new camera, old me--you know how these things go. As per usual. But I think I've whipped that particular dragon for the moment.

So here are some offerings of what has kept me occupied in the last several months (actually all the way back to last year, come to think of it!).

These are the quilts I made for our Finnish family last summer. They're not quite bed-sized because they had to be carried on airplanes across the world, but they made it, and just yesterday, when we spoke to Beve's brother, he said he has his (the bottom one) on his bed for the winter.

The next group from top to bottom:
Grampie and Thyrza's Christmas gift quilt.

Christmas tree skirt for my sister and her husband.

Quilts made for SK and E, made from Beve's mom's fabric (including velvet, suede, all kinds others...and one piece of silk which my dad brought home from China in 1984 and I couldn't resist including because it matched), meant to evoke stained-glass windows (she made many such windows). The girls LOVE these quilts, which thrilled me because I was slightly worried about how they'd turn out with so many types and no real pattern. Phew. The backs are simple and I actually think they could be used as tops too.

My first attempt at both applique and hand-quilting--intended to be a lap-quilt, until Beve saw it, loved it and wanted it for our bed. It turned out better than I expected. I might have to try it again (though on something a bit smaller!).

A quilt sized precisely for my half of our king-sized bed because I'm always much colder than Beve. It works perfectly. However, when Grampie was in the rehab center after his broken hip, he slept under it. It also fits a hospital bed quite precisely as well.

A gratuitous picture of my niece with her adorable baby, JR. Just couldn't resist. He's just as chubby as a baby should be. I don't have a photo handy of the quilt I made for him, but he uses it to exercise those very strong, who-could-possibly-keep-up-with-them baby legs and arms!

E and I counted up the other day that I've made over 60 quilts in the last three years, so I guess I'm no longer an amateur, which is kind of a drag because now more is expected of me. Sigh. It seems to me that in some ways, we're always amateurs. Aren't we? Yes, yes, I realize that the definition on this earth of 'professional' means one who is paid to do something, but I'm thinking of a more spiritual meaning. I'm thinking about how God looks at our own professionalism. Our own proficiency, I suppose one could say. And this is where I think we fall short. A good deal short most of the time, at least left to our own devices. Either one deludes herself into thinking she's better than she is, or knows that at some moment, this day or the next, the gig will be up and everyone around will realize it was all smoke and mirrors. And I'm not just talking about quilting, of course. In every walk of life, no matter what we're doing, we hover between the two--confidence and concern. But those who walk a life worthy of the gospel, whose aim is to please HIM have another-centric way of looking at the whole of it. It changes the whole ethic. Our pursuits, whether they're in the workplace or the hobby-room, are based on the notion that whatever we do, we do with a heart aimed toward His Kingdom. I guess what I'm saying is that I'll gladly be amateur on my own, if He works within me to be the righteousness HE intends me to be in this world in His place.

Happy workday to those of you who are at work today. "Do your work heartily, as unto God, rather than humans." That's the sum of it. As usual, Paul's succinct words are better than mine.

That's love

2012-01-02T15:42:00.000-08:00

While half the world was busy breaking the resolutions they made yesterday, Beve and I were keeping the resolutions we've made every year since year one when we decided not to make any resolutions at all. We're not really resolution-type people. Partly, we know that resolutions tend to be broken because those who make them tend to be flawed, undisciplined and not up to the task of the deep changing such resolutions require--least on our own. But specifically, of course, we're just plain not resolution-type folks. We don't follow through with even dinner plans about half the time. If you don't believe me, ask our kids.

However, we did start this morning with a very intentional conversation--one which found Beve kneeling at the foot of our bed while I sat in it (kneeling is pretty hard on my nerve-shattered left leg). Then Beve went off to school to work for a few hours, preparing for the onslaught that comes walking through his door when the bell rings tomorrow morning. (Unfortunately, he won't be sitting in his chair when that bell rings because there was a very serious house fire across town in the wee hours this morning and a family lies in the ICU in Harborview Hospital in Seattle as a result. This means that Beve, and the emergency response team, will be in the children's classrooms to talk to their peers about this tragedy.)

While he was working at his desk, I piled our Christmas decorations onto our dining room table, then sat down with some tea and toast. And then our dogs alerted me--"Intruder, intruder!" Well, not really. Just someone knocking at our door. It was an old friend passing through town. As I opened the door and saw him, I reached into my pocket, pulling out my phone to call Beve home. This man was the principal of the middle school where Beve worked before moving to this current job, and during those years was one of Beve's closest friends. We shared a whole lot with TM and his family back in our Sequim, WA days. SK and their daughter had tea parties together, our son and one of theirs played basketball together. TM and his wife, M, sat in Grampie's hot tub with us and we talked about our children, our mutual faith in Jesus, our failings and our dreams. And sometimes, just the ridiculous daily stuff that I can't possibly remember now that made us laugh back then. You know, just real life stuff.

Then we moved away. And then they moved away. And you know how these things go. Our friendship inevitably changed. TM and Beve speak on the phone every now and then...but very, very rarely now. A few years ago, they called up and asked if they could stay with us for a weekend because TM was running a half marathon up here. We were glad to be with them, though I was speaking at a women's retreat here in town so was hardly around, and only to sleep. But that night, they told us of the very painful time they were in with one of their children. Pain beyond any we ever imagined back when we were sitting in that hot tub, or on their back deck. Beyond any ANY parent imagines. It was back-breaking pain for them then, and--to be honest--for us to hear. Scary pain. I remember how I sat up very late with MM, even though I had to speak the next morning about--of all remarkable things--the Resurrection Garden, and how the wrenching conversation with them, then with her so impacted me that my talk was, of course, informed and deepened by it.

Today, TM told us more of their journey with this son. The very present, unremitting pain with this much loved adult child. We spoke of how innocent we'd been when our children were hardly able to tie their own shoes, how little we guessed of what God might require of us in loving them. How deep and wide the wounds of a parent can be. There were many tears this morning in this strong man who loves his son as much today as he did the moment he first held him. Tears in us as we listened, remembering the sweet boy who is now at the mercy of his own once-made choices that he can no longer control. "He is an addict," our friend said. It is not a sentence he ever imagined saying. He speaks a language he didn't want to learn in a land he doesn't want to dwell because he loves his son.

After he left and I was following Beve to leave a car at an auto shop (yep, always something around here), I was thinking about the pain TM feels. It was very heartbreaking. But then it hit me. This is what God feels. Exactly TM's pain. Yes, exactly. TM sitting in our living room with his voice breaking because of his great love for his broken son? It's just about the best picture I've ever had of God's love for us. This is how God feels about us--this heart-breaking, I-don't-care-what-it-costs, love. TM would do anything to help his son. Anything. And that's what God did. Love so deep, so unending that He Incarnated Himself for the express purpose of transforming us.

That's love.
With a capital L.

Burning up the old

2012-01-01T17:46:00.000-08:00

It's been a quiet start to 2012. After spending the week in the Palouse, my sister drove back with E and me on Friday, just in time for the yearly 'Cousins dinner' at my aunt's home in Seattle. Because RE lives across usually snow-packed mountains, she hasn't often been part of this annual event. It's a wild and raucous time because none of us are shy, retiring types, though apparently we're much calmer than some of our 'other' families, we agreed. Or maybe we're just used to each other. There were only 8 cousins there Friday night (which sounds like a whole lot, but of a possible still-living 22 cousins, that's merely a fraction), but with children, spouses and assorted shoes (of which there seemed to be more than there should have been piled by the front door!), it was pretty crowded in my aunt's well-loved home with a single bathroom, which seemed to have a revolving door. We should have made reservations.

But it was great fun, a wonderful tradition of our holiday.

Then Beve, RE and I drove north to our home. Yesterday we took her to our favorite restaurant by Bellingham Bay, made sure she faced the water as the sun tried to set (though it mostly just grew darker), and we talked about the year we were leaving. The night before a cousin had told me about an NPR piece in which people were asked what event, experience, attitude, etc. they'd "burn" from 2011. So that was the topic Beve, RE and I spoke of as we sat with wine and appetizers at the cusp of the year. Because we are parents, the things that hurt them, hurt us and those hurts we'd surely burn from them as the calendar flips into January. Relationship that hurt them, health issues that kept them from being who we KNOW God intends them to be, the worries they have about their future, the fears they have that they won't survive their present: these things we'd like to burn out of their hearts and heads so they boldly walk into this new day and month and year with confidence that "all shall be most well and all shall be most well and all matter of things shall be most well," as Julian of Norwich put it.

But we are also a son and daughters-in-laws of people who are facing end-of-life issues. RE's in-laws are not nearly where our elders are, but those days will come. And she worries. She knows more about such days than any of her in-laws' children (though her husband lived through our mom's hard days with RE, of course). So RE knows what might come. And how it will impact that specific family with their specific roles and reactions and relationships. So she'd like to burn some of those old ways of reacting out of that family (even from herself) so that when the hard days come, the Prince of Peace will come as well. Beve and I also have that same desire for a 'burning of the old' ways of being in his family so that we can be together in these last days with Grampie. A burning out of our own bad attitudes, I suppose you might even say, so that we can welcome this new year. With hope and trust that we will not be alone in the burden of these days.

When it comes to me, I'll admit one 'burning' desire (get that pun?): one of the most telling things about this season for Beve and me is the that it's taking a toll on our relationship. We're just so 'in it!' and I've been a toll on Beve when he's been overwhelmed with the toll of his dad. So we take it out on each other. THIS is what I most want burned away. We might not be able to do anything about the stress. We cannot control Grampie and Thyrza and their increasing needs, but the pressure it places BETWEEN us--this is the battle. It's where the enemy most digs at us. (How dare he? In Jesus' Name, how dare he?)

It was a meaty conversation that fed our souls along with the rich food. And at some point I realized that our conversation had taken on the cadence of prayer. Sometimes halting, sometimes with no words whatsoever. Some of the pain we each feel might be too much to share. So we share it with God--and He knows what needs to be burned from us. And, because we are His disciples, we can trust that He will make us new. A new day, a new month, a new year? That's nothing to Him having made us a whole new Creation when we became His.

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!" 2 Corinthians 5 :17

Butchering Day

2011-12-28T01:03:00.000-08:00

E and I drove over to the Palouse to visit my sister and her family and get our hands on the first member of the next generation in my family, little JR. And can I just say, "Great Aunt" sounds about a thousand years older than "Grandma"? The little guy thrilled us all last night by simply rolling over. And this guy--who won't hit the 2 month mark until January 10th-- has been doing this acrobatic feat for a couple of weeks. There were three generations of people, cheering him on and practically giving him an Olympic Gold Medal, when he got it done. I know, I was part of the middle of those generations.

Can you remember the last time a whole room full of people cheered because you managed to turn your body from front to back?...Didn't think so. But that's the thing about babies. Every single thing they do is new and first and spectacular.

That's the way it should be, after all. Even the old farmers among the family get kind of gooey-eyed over this little tyke.

It didn't take any convincing for us to take the drive halfway across the Palouse Country (or this county) today, to where my niece lives with her husband and that adorable son. L is beginning her life as a mother much the way her mother, my sister, did--living just down the road from her in-laws, because her husband farms with his father. It like a long ways out there but the sight was well worth it.

Today, you see, out at the farm where L's husband P and his father work (where his father was raised as the male caboose in a long train of children), the whole large, unwieldy, crazy bunch of them were gathered--brothers, sisters, in-laws and children whooping it up outside, older women inside--for the main event of the winter. Down at the shop, dozens (? were there really that many? It seemed so!) of men in dirty, sloppy, coveralls were doing the work of the day. Today, you see, was "Butchering Day."

Last year, I asked L to take some pictures of it for me, because I'd written about such a day for my aborted novel, but hadn't seen it, nor smelled, not really had a visual except in my head. Today, it was all that and more for that short time E, RE and I spent down with the boys in the shop, trying to stay out of their way, while getting something of a guided tour from P and his dad. When we arrived they only had about three hogs left to cut and hang. Only one still had its ~~clothes~~ skin still on. As P's dad gave us a bit of history about why they started doing this butchering day, I watched a man with an electric knife separate the hide from the fat. Another man walked right past us and dumped a shovel full of entrails--all kinds of stuff that might turn your stomach if you were from the city and unused to such things (say, from Bellingham!)--dumped it right into the shovel of a front loader which will take it up into the hills above the shop to give to the coyotes.

Then, walking gingerly, we entered the back of the shop, where 26 pig carcasses, cut in half, will hang all night. As we stood there talking, P's dad talked about how gratifying it is to him that the next generation is so interested in getting involved in "Butchering Day." Even though the space will only accomodate a finite number of hanging hogs, they decided the communal aspect of this two day event was more important than how much bacon or ham they actually come away with. Butchering Day--this very bloody, grimy, dirty, traditional, stinky, back-breaking job is a tradition that helps give their family definition.

This is something I've been thinking a whole lot about recently, for a variety of reasons. It's always been clear to me that the glue in my family has been a place. Not an event (or a couple of events) but a place. The family cabin on Whidbey Island has functioned as the tradition in our family. It's what we have in common when we have little else in common. My sister and her daughter both married into families who have not traveled far from where they had roots. But our family--the Crains--have roots here (in Pullman), Seattle, and New Mexico. So what joined us? What made us more than just names on the end of our parents Christmas Cards? It's that 11 acre (now) plot of land with the ridiculously small indoor space for all of us. And the expansive outside. It's our one place in all this wonderful creation God made.

As P's dad was speaking of the importance of this day, of their tradition of Butchering Day and of passing it on to the next generation, I thought of how we train our children to share our values of those traditions. How will P and L train little JR that Butchering Day is something worth setting all other things aside for? By living it out. By showing him that what we hold true on the big days--the butchering days--is no less imprtant on the days when we're just home doing laundry. It's about being intentional, being relational, and not letting the tyranny of the urgent get in the way, not letting our calendars dictate our values.

Sometimes there's blood on butchering day. No...there is ALWAYS blood on butchering day. Blood and guts and gas and some plain old bovine odors I didn't have a hope in hell of identifying.

But God reminds me that I often pull back too soon, pull out of the room at the least little scratch.
Yes--for you and for me--for anyone who gets in the way of what God is doing, we're liable to get bruised--at least! God's sheering-- so that we bear His fruit. All in His times. That's why He's God.

I'll say this: if God has to do some deep sheering for me to bear fruit, I could do worse than say, "Your will, Lord.' After all, God and bearing fruit? That's a no brainer.

Christmas Greetings

2011-12-24T17:10:00.000-08:00

From my family to yours, may this Christmas be flooded with the Light of the World, Jesus Christ.

Glory to God.

Caught up in it all

2011-12-23T20:38:00.000-08:00

My plan to write daily during advent has been sadly derailed by the craziness that I imposed upon myself just so Sunday will have every element I want for it. Because we decided to have a thrift/second-hand/hand-made Christmas, I gave myself a fairly large list of projects to complete. Thrifting is NOT in my life's blood, thay it is in Beve's, and our daughters', so hand-made seemed the best bet if I was going to engage in this way of doing gifts. However, I did not make any adjustments for the several weeks I spent 'feeling punky,' as the elders called my pre and post-surgery status.

The lack of adjustments, that is, my inability to take anything off my plate has made the last couple of weeks rather grueling. In every way. Just ask Beve. Or maybe you shouldn't. I won't tell you everything I've made recently because there are still surprises in the offing, but as I've sat from dawn to darkness as my sewing machine my focus has become increasingly short-sighted. Just as far as my own list, I suppose. And by yesterday when we sat down to a dinner that Beve and E made because I've been working, and Beve took my hand and prayed, "Thank you, Lord, for a day just to relax," I could hardly speak. Could hardly believe that he had watched me race from one task to the next with barely a breath...and called it 'relaxing.' To be fair, to him, such action is usually relaxing.

Let's just say that I got annoyed. No, let's be honest. I got mad. The truth is, I got sucked into the whole Christmas as a consumer-driven holiday even though we'd planned this kind of Christmas in part to keep this from happening. But the real absence of 'spirit' in me comes because I've allowed myself to believe that my tasks were more urgent than the time I almost always give to God.

So here I am. Two days before the day on which we all gaze with wonder at the most precious gift ever given and I've been so busy marking off tasks from a list that I've lost my focus. Christmas. The day of Christ. The day when heaven's gates were wide open and the multitude sang in wonder all because a single baby born in an out-the-way place on the edge of an out-of-the-way town. A single birth so wondrous a star stood at attention over the place of his birth, seen so far away men versed in reading such things knew they had to set out right then to find the child who lay beneath the glow of that bright light.

I'm feeling pretty small tonight. Feeling small and sad and wishing I could get a 'do-over', maybe all the way back to October in order to do it better. To enter into this Advent Season with more intention and fewer lists. But though I can--and do--repent, I cannot go back. I can't retrace my steps. I can't go back to Monday when I didn't pick up my Bible because I didn't think I had the time, nor Tuesday because I was sure I didn't. I must go from here. Make amends with Beve (a long conversation with him this afternoon was helpful and healing and had us both laughing by the end...), and making amends with God.

And with you.

I'm sorry I did not follow through on my plan to write about how Jesus fulfilled prophecies. I regret this. It could have made Advent a richer time. So please forgive me for having let down the side, so to speak.

It is such things like this--at least in me--that makes it very clear how essential the Incarnation is. I need Jesus. We need Jesus. God knew it. At day one, He knew it. How thankful I am that Christmas is coming. That Jesus is coming.

O Holy Night, indeed.

Simple words

2011-12-19T21:31:00.000-08:00

E came home for the week yesterday, and boy, were we thrilled to see her. And by that I mean primarily me, primarily so that the 'dang dog' (which is how my mother always referred to our dogs whenever she was annoyed) will climb on top of her each morning when Beve lets her out of her kennel. Hmm, were all those 'hers' clear? I mean Beve lets Maica out of the kennel, not E. Anyway, Maica is perfectly willing to follow Beve around for a while, but once he leaves, she hops up onto our bed and curls up on my back bone...which, oddly, never fails to awaken me. So I wake up, try to arch away from her, but moving 60 pounds of dog from the center of my back is no easy task. It never goes well. I try shifting, talking to her, cajoling her to "PLEASE get off me." But Maica doesn't move.

The other morning, I accidentally said, "Down." And Maica hopped off me instantly, put her head down flat.
Just the way I taught her.

Yep. That's right. I trained her, then totally failed to use my own training with her.

The next morning, when she hopped onto my bed, and put her first paw on my back, I was instantly awake and ready. "Down, Maica," I said. She didn't even put her second paw on my back but curled up beside me and we both went back to sleep.

Ahh.
But how foolish of me to have spent all that time pleading with her unintelligibly (at least to her), while there was a simple, clear way to make her understand. A way she'd learned from my own training. All this time my ongoing frustration had an easy solution.

E and I laughed about this tonight. How often I make things more complicated than they really are. How often do I think it takes paragraphs of words when what it really takes is a single word of trained obedience to make all the difference? What is true with dogs, is true for all of us. I remember training our children to say please, thank-you, excuse me, and sorry. These are words that serve us well--with each other and with God.

But we have to use them. We have to be willing to simply use these words when they need to be used. Excuse me. Sorry. Thank you. Please.

And some of those canine words come in pretty handy too. No. Stay. Sit. Down. Heel.
Good.

It's still nice to have better options for Maica in the morning than my bed.
Yep, I'm glad E's home.
And will be glad when SK gets here Friday.

Three times, no charm

2011-12-18T14:46:00.000-08:00

Some very dear friends have been in town this weekend. They have a wedding to attend and officiate, so by happy-circumstance of living here, we've had some quality time together. It's like a lush oasis in the desert that is our daily lives to simply sit at a table with people and have conversation that begins and flows and doesn't get lost in the middle or interrupted by odd non-sequiters or someone drifting to sleep in a wheelchair. Nor by having to hoist wheelchairs in and out of the car to move, through doors (try doing this sometime and you'll see how difficult it actually is to open a door from behind a wheelchair). As I say, a lush oasis.

Some seasons are deserts. You all know this. Our visiting friends are living through their own desert, one in which they must constantly be hyper-vigilant. "On" all the time, as she put it, because of the kind of ministry in which they have found themselves. It stretches them almost beyond their powers of endurance. Just like the c are-giving of Grampie and Thyrza sometimes stretches us. Even such ministries we feel called to can stretch us as tightly as a rubber-band, you know. Right to the point of breaking.

Thinking through the conversation we had with our friends who just left to rest before prettying themselves up for this wedding, I thought of the wilderness experience of Jesus. (Matthew 4, Luke 4)) This forty days alone in the desert was a picture of the forty years the people of Israel spent wandering. Only this time, rather than wandering and complaining and not being victorious, Jesus faced down the evil one. He proved Himself utterly faithful--the One TRUE One of all those whom God had made (and kept) His covenant with His people since Abraham was first called.

Jesus' responses to the enemy in the wilderness is very important in understanding how Jesus would fulfill the prophecies about the Messiah. It is absolutely true that Incarnate God was capable of turning those stones into bread. But exercising His power for His own ends was obviously NOT God's plan for the Kingdom. Miracles for their own sake is never the point. In other words, miracles are never selfish, gratuitous or showy. Jesus is either moved by compassion, and asks the person to be quiet about the healing, or wants to reveal something about the Kingdom--like with the man lowered through the roof by His friends (Mark 2), where Jesus speaks of forgiveness of sins being more important/difficult than healing the lame, then, to prove the point, tells the man to rise and walk.

After forty days out in the desert without eating, Jesus was hungry, we're told. Really. Well, duh! Like the way new parents are a little tired. So the enemy didn't need a PhD to know the best, first way to tempt Jesus would be through His tight-as-a-drum, grumbling-so-loud-you-can-hear-it-in-Jerusalem stomach. But the enemy never simply gives gifts. Not on your life...I mean, he's always after that life--and Jesus' life more than any other's. "If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread." It was like he was saying, "I dare you, I double-dog dare you; and I know you want to. Listen to your stomach. Come on, it's just a few stones."
So Jesus answers:
"People do not live by bread alone; but on every word that comes from the mouth of God." This comes from Deuteronomy 8:3. In the wilderness, GOD gave His people bread (manna). They had to learn to rely on Him for their food. Jesus' answer to satan comes straight to the heart of the matter. Rather than trying to fix His hunger Himself, Jesus relied on God for His food. He relied on God for all His provision. As we should.

Ok, then. Round two. It's like the enemy had this list of ways meant to get at Jesus. Oh wait, that's exactly what he had, because that's how he works with all of us, going at us this way and that, looking for a way in so that we crumble to his schemes.
The second temptation is related to worship (though only the Luke version--which has this the 3rd temptation-- makes this clear). Throwing Himself off the tallest point o
f the temple, which was about 100 feet to the valley below. Ridiculously high, anyway. satan slyly quotes Psalm 91 (one of my personal favorites) to tempt him into saving Himself from death seems like a ridiculous thing for satan to attempt, when you really think about it. It's perhaps the single most ridiculous thing satan ever tried. Well, I suppose the whole wilderness experience could be lumped into that, but this temptation alone. Jesus save Himself from death? Throw yourself off the temple, then let angels save you. It really makes me laugh. Hard to imagine that satan could be taken seriously about this. But I guess he sometimes does things in our lives that would look exactly this way from the outside. Just as ridiculous. Just as impossible. But he does his darnest and we sometimes fall prey to him.
Jesus, because He didn't even need those angels to protect Him (though they would have!), didn't fall prey for a single moment. "Do not put the Lord your God to the test." Jesus knew before it was all said and done, He'd be standing on the edge of a higher precipice than that temple ledge and looking down with the weight of humanity's sins on His chest. Killing Him. And He wouldn't call on angels. "Into your hands I commend my spirit, Lord," He'd be saying that day still three years ahead. Jesus knew all that. He saw the cross before Him and knew it wasn't about the whole world worshiping Him but Him dying for the whole world.

Finally satan gets to the heart of the matter. He takes Jesus to a "very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the word and their splendor." Imagine a spot like this. Imagine a place from which you could see everything from the Alps to the Great Barrier Reef to the Sahara to Mount Rainier to wherever you call home. Imagine seeing it all at once and being thrilled by the glory of the heavens and the great splendid diversity of this glob. For a moment, it simply takes one's breath away. Jesus had had that view before, of course. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning." Jesus had been right there when Light and Darkness separated, and water and earth parted. When animals were created, He was there, and when the animals were named, He was there. So this moment with satan wasn't Jesus' first view of this lovely planet we call Earth. But it was His first with human eyes. And it was into His human eyes and human face that satan looked and said, "I'll give all this to you...if you bow to me and worship me."

Another ridiculous temptation, since Jesus already knew who'd made the world. Since he knew any authority satan has over the world is only temporary and was only three years away from being destroyed. Still, Jesus didn't give all this away to satan that day in the wilderness. I might have been tempted to show my hand. Jesus simply answered, "Away from me, satan! For it is written: Worship the Lord your God, and worship Him only." And at those words, the enemy disappeared and angels appeared. Attended him. I assumed this means they tended to that rumbling stomach.

The critical words are:
Humans don't live by bread alone but by every word that comes from God.
Don't put the Lord your God to the test. Worship the Lord and Him only.
Away from me, satan! Worship the Lord your God, and Him only.

God can supply all your needs.
The enemy has no authority.
In wilderness or oases, ONLY God. In all things.

Power and Might

2011-12-16T11:22:00.000-08:00

The other night Beve was telling me about a teacher who'd come into Beve's office to talk about several things. Such things happen with Beve. Not only students and their parents but teachers and administrators come into his office, close the door and talk to him about things as if he was a priest and his office a confessional. I'm not sure what this teacher was talking to Beve about--I'm not always privy to the hardest of my husband's conversations--but after a bit the teacher reminded Beve of an evening we'd spent at their home, sharing some Indian curry together. He said he could hardly remember a night they'd enjoyed more. When Beve told me that, I said, "Of course. We're fascinating people, after all."

Ok. Maybe we aren't. Maybe we're just ordinary people like all the rest of you bums out there. That's the truth of it, and I'm not going to pretend for a single moment that it's not. That ridiculous commercial on television about 'the most interesting man in the world' made me roll my eyes the first time I saw it. There is no such thing. Such monikers are subjective, as they should be. What might seem interesting to me wouldn't to a person who cares about race cars, and sure as today Vacation Beve comes home in an hour!, what is fascinating to a person interested in bugs (come to think of it--of any kind: insects, computer or illnesses) would put me to sleep in an instant.

Where was I?
Oh yeah, the evening we spent with this teacher and his wife was interesting to me because they are Orthodox Jews. Our conversation revolved around their faith which, of course, interests me; I cannot imagine NOT being interested in those whom God calls "the people for my Name." We read and study the same book--at least part of it. There is one essential point of departure--we believe the Messiah has come, that the prophecies have been fulfilled. They are still waiting. I do not for a single moment lose sight of this difference. HE is the great love of my life. Still, there is much we can learn from our Jewish cousins about studying scripture, about the rhythm of living the year with God. I would love to have a Mezuzah at the doorway of my home. That's a scroll with the words of Deuteronomy 6: 4-9 written on it. This passage of scripture is called the Shema and the most important passage of scripture in the Torah to Jews.
"Hear O Israel. The Lord our God, the Lord is One. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give to you are to be written on your hearts. Impress them to your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of your house and on your gates."

Powerful words. It makes sense to do what God tells us to do here, doesn't it? As much sense as wearing a cross around my neck, I think.

But I've often wondered why it's been so difficult for Jews to believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, as Peter put it. All these prophecies. Part of it has to do with the kind of King they'd been expecting. Kings come in power, with might and majesty. They don't show up as babies. Even if Isaiah says they will, I suppose. Or at least they'll grow into Kings of power and might and majesty. Jesus' power and might and majesty was all there, however. It was simply a leashed kind. It was restrained. Like a very powerful animal reined in. You know that animal could take out the whole mess of accusers if He was inclined. But He wasn't. That wasn't His purpose.

Isaiah 42: 1-2 says this better than I can: "Here is my Servant, whom I uphold, my chosen one, in whom I delight; I will put my Spirit on Him and He will bring justice to the nations. He will not shout or cry out, or raise His voice in the streets. A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out."

It's all there. The power and justice, but the restraint and care. These verses describe the Messiah who was born in Bethlehem, grew up in Nazareth and baptized in the Jordan river by His cousin John. Like they were written after His life, they describe Him. Don't they? Jesus did not shout or cry out--not at the people who judged him and mocked him. Not when they were singing His praises one day and calling for His death just five days later. He stood there. But there too is the compassion He showed to those who most needed it, to the woman who touched his cloak and the one caught in adultery. He did not snuff them out when they were barely hanging on for dear life.

This IS the Messiah. This IS Jesus. He is the One whom the prophets foretold. When John the Baptist was in prison, waiting for his head to be served on a platter, he sent a couple of men to Jesus, asking if He was truly the One for whom they'd been waiting. John had known when he'd seen Him at the river, but anyone in a dark prison, contemplating death (and not even knowing how that death would come) might begin to wonder, so I have to give him a pass for his doubts. Jesus simply told those friends of John, "Tell him what's been going on. The blind see and the lame walk." Jesus didn't proclaim Himself with power, but left John to infer the answer for himself.

I'll do the same. Jesus. Not the Mighty and Powerful as expected. But mighty and powerful as God intended.

Character

2011-12-15T10:33:00.000-08:00

In this school year (which is the way we always mark our calendars, no matter that the year changes half-way through each one) five young couples close to us will become parents. That's a whole lot of new life. Recently, when I spoke to my niece, who is the first of these women to set eyes on her baby, we talked about the days of infancy she's in with her son. They are hard going with sleepless nights and a lot of exhaustion because that baby only has one way to communicate at the moment and it's a very loud one. And he's so small his needs are the largest thing about him; they actually consume my niece's whole life at the moment. And he's a good, easy baby. This is just the nature of infancy.

It takes time to get to know a child's character. I remember sitting on a bed in my parents' house where E and I had come after getting out of the hospital (her VERY late (21days) arrival meant Beve had to leave 10 hours after her birth to be best man in a wedding across the state, then go from there to Oregon to work at a basketball camp. It was just the beginning of learning how our plans often had to be thrown out the window when it came to kids). I sat on that narrow hospital bed where my blind grandmother had so often listened to the Bible on tape, or knelt to pray for, watching E exercise those extra-long limbs that had been folded up inside me far too long and wondered who in the world she really was behind that mask of a face. I didn't have the faintest idea about her character. She could stare but couldn't even smile, could cry but couldn't laugh. But somehow, looking at her, it seemed like it was all there behind the intensity of her gaze at me. Like everything she was was simply waiting to be revealed.

I don't have the faintest idea if this makes sense to anyone else, but it's the way I felt about each of my children: that who they were was stamped in them from the beginning, and even in the earliest days, there were deep and extraordinary differences based on the specific characters God had given them when He created them 'in the secret place,' as the Psalmist puts it in Psalm 139. Beve and I both remember the strong sense of, "Ta-DAH!" we had from SK when she was an infant, even though she was our tiniest baby. She was so present, like she was certain we had all been waiting for her to show up. And, of course, in a sense, God knew we had been. Or at least that we should have been.

But even in this age of ultra-sounds, we don't get to know who our children will be. Yes, we can discover their gender, but that doesn't tell us much about character. It takes getting to know that child for us to get that.

Mary and Joseph, on the other hand, had a whole lot of foreknowledge about the baby God had planted in Mary's uterus. In the Psalms-- 89: 36-37 says He'll be faithful ('a faithful witness'); 100:5 also calls Him faithful and adds goodness to His character. Isaiah 9:7 calls Him just, compassionate and gracious, and 11:2-4 says He's full of truth, wisdom, understanding, is compassionate and gracious. Isaiah 42: 2 says the Suffering Servant will be meek and lowly and chapter 53 speaks of all the acts He'll do because of these things He is (but we'll look at that on its own another day).

It's a pretty extensive list. Imagine looking at your brand new, barely out of the womb baby and knowing this much about Him. These are what you can expect of Him as He begins to smile--and not just from gas!--and laugh and speak. When he talks and walks and plays with his younger brothers and helps around the house, these are what you see. But you knew you'd see them because they were written down hundreds of years before He was born. So when you see them, you smile quietly, if you're Mary, and treasure them, because you know who He is and what it all means. It's a smile with a sword in it, after all. You were told that too.

But those words about the Messiah, the ones Mary treasured, the ones she saw from the earliest, hidden days, they are really for all of us, so we'll know Him when we recognize Him when we see Him walking across the dusty roads of Galiee to wherever we find ourselves this very day. That's the point of the old prophecies, after all. They aren't simply parlor tricks, a way of God showing off what He is able to do. He could knock our socks off with a lot more than this if He was so inclined. That's not the point. The point, and it's a sharp one, is to draw our attention with laser focus, on the one man who was also God. Jesus. He had all these traits because these are the Holy traits of God's character. On earth as in Heaven.

He is good and just and compassionate and gracious, wise and true.

I think of two different verses when I list out His character this way: first, Philippians 4: 8 where Paul exhorts us to think on whatever is true, lovely, trustworthy, noble, etc. That is what God is, and what the Incarnate was while He walked on this earth. Basically, He's telling us to think on Christ rather than thinking on whatever it is that is tearing apart our insides and making us crazy or sleepless or angry or whatever else we are. Secondly, (maybe you're way ahead of me), Galatians 5: 22-23. The Fruit of the Spirit. Not only are we to think of the character of God, but we are to develop that character in ourselves. And how do we do it? Not by huffing and puffing, I can tell you that. It's called the fruit of the Spirit, folks. That means we need HIM to develop the fruit in us. That fruit manifests itself in all of these character qualities. We don't pick and choose. I know I'd like to. A little more patience, but do I have to be generous too? Sigh. No, it's all the same fruit from the same tree. The tree of God's presence in our lives.

His character in our lives. So we can see it. Just the way Mary saw that character every day in Nazareth as she watched that child grow up. That's the character we're after in our lives. God's character growing up inside us.

Hometown

2011-12-15T00:15:00.000-08:00

Hometowns.
Some of us were born, live and die within shouting distance from the same grocery stores, churches, and schools. We know the roads backwards and forwards and can pretty well name every person who ever lived in every house in town (if the town is small enough, that is). But a whole lot of us aren't born the same place we end up. And the place we think of as our home town isn't even the place we carry with us on every passport as long as we live. I'm one of these nomadic types. I was born in a place I only lived three weeks before flying away in the arms of my mother for my dad's next naval assignment. It wasn't until about half a dozen years ago that I was even in San Pedro, California again, and that was only because E was playing in a basketball tournament down near there in the greater Los Angeles area. So obviously, San Pedro isn't my home town. Nor is Ypsilanti, Michigan my hometown, though my youngest sister was born there, and has to carry that hard-to-spell name with her ever after. I was eight when Dad finished his PhD at the University of Michigan and we left for Pullman, Washington. Pullman, the place where I grew up, and had the most halcyon of child and youth-hoods, graduated from high school, got married, and buried my parents (at least symbolically), is my hometown.

Oddly, my life bears a resemblance to Jesus' earthly one. He too, was born in a place he barely lived, though Bethlehem was likely his home for several months before those visitors from the east came through, bringing gifts, stirring up the pot and Herod, and forcing God the spirit the little family away in the dark of night. The place Jesus learned to crawl and walk and speak sentences was somewhere in Egypt, where Joseph presumably made cabinets and tables for Egyptians and Mary cared for their family and they waited for God to tell them it was safe to return from their exile. And when they returned, it wasn't to Bethlehem they came back to, but Nazareth, where Joseph and Mary were from in the first place.

All of this was foretold--that He'd be born in Bethlehem, but also that He'd be called a Nazarene. Isaiah 11:2. It isn't that Joseph and Mary read the prophet and knew they had to go back to Nazareth to fulfill God's plan. They were just doing what came naturally to them--to return to their hometown. God knew all along that their home town was exactly the right place for the Incarnate to grow up.

This really appeals to me. Later in His ministry, when people hear Jesus speak, they ask, "How can He be the Messiah? Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" I've heard people say similar things about my hometown. But most of the time, when folks say such things it's because they have no idea how important a hometown is. What it is. For Jesus, Nazareth was the only place He could grow into the Son of Man. I can't tell you why this is so, I can only tell you that God the Father who is purposeful intended this. He told us it was His intention, and He did it. So there was something about Nazareth that was important for Jesus' human growth.

And make no mistake, that human growth is nothing to sneer about. We often forget that this is a man who lived 33 years without every doing a single thing wrong. Without a single mis-step or wrong motive or selfish act. I think about what it was like raising children, how difficult some days were--and I had pretty good, easy, compliant kids--and I can't imagine one who always, always obeyed. So imagine that moment when Jesus was 12, when He didn't turn up at the end of the evening on the way home from Jerusalem. Twelve years of never having to worry about a kid doing the wrong thing--EVER--and suddenly He just doesn't show up for dinner? Wow. I'd be shaking in my dusty sandals, I can tell you that. And even then, He was in the right place, and they were the ones in the wrong. Imagine that--your twelve-year-old holds you to a higher standard.

That's what it was like to live as His parents, I think. And maybe that's what it was like to live in town with Him. Maybe what was most needed during those 30 years of growing up and preparation for ministry was an out-of-the-way place where He could be hidden and quiet and not have too much attention.

Kind of like living in a small town among rolling wheatfields. You have to be going there in order to get there, if you know what I mean. But once you do, it's worth the trip. That's the truth about my hometown. And I think it's true about Nazareth as well.

Down this road before

2011-12-13T22:57:00.000-08:00

Three year ago this December, I was sitting in a skilled nursing facility with three of my siblings listening to our mother speak in long nonsensical sentences. We nodded attentively, tried to make some kind of sense of her rambling paragraphs of words and had to keep our eyes from each other for fear we'd start laughing at any minute. One afternoon, for no apparent reason (or at least one that I can pull up from my memory) she suddenly lifted both hands and began singing the Hallelujah chorus. And then the four of us laughed. You would have too, I promise you.

Tonight, Beve and I sat in Grampie's room in a skilled nursing facility, listening him talk about a trip to New York he was convinced he was due to take today. Oh, and was it morning or evening where we live? Could we make a decision about that with him? His conversation was long and meandering, incoherent and dreamlike, though he wasn't asleep. Beve and I couldn't look at each other, for fear that we'd laugh. And I was waiting any minute for his hands to raise and the Hallelujah Chorus to come out of his mouth. I'm telling you it was he was that much like Mom, even down to the vacant gaze in his eyes, that until recently I thought was merely the way my own mother looked as Alzheimer's claimed her brain. But apparently the disease looks the same on every face. Before we left this evening, Grampie had agreed with our decision that it was evening not morning--honestly, it was like we'd had a meeting and voted on it and he was going along with the majority vote!. So he decided he'd go to bed. Began removing his clothes right there in his wheelchair, while I was sitting in the room. The real Grampie would never have done that--he was private for himself, and respectful of me. This old man doesn't even notice such things. If he needs to undress, or use the urinal, he's just going to do so. No matter who might be around.

It unnerves us a little.
More than a little.

When we got home, Beve asked me how far along I think Grampie is. He's about where Mom was when she moved into the Alzheimer's unit once and for all. "The journey is just beginning," Beve answered. "No," I told him. "The journey began years ago. We've been in it a long time. It's just that every turn in the road is a little harder."

Yep, I've been down this exact road before; I recognize the terrain.
And I hate that.

I intended to write a post about the Nazarene today. In fact, I wrote that post. It's all set to be posted. But this is the glaring reality of our lives--this and nothing else. Every now and then I watch a TV show where some young couple, right in the midst of caring for their children is completely overwhelmed, and is blessed by the generosity of others because of the work they're doing. Today I happened to see the Ellen show, where a young at-home mom was given a car. I usually feel very glad for these harried, overwhelmed people, and I thank God for the bounty of our lives. But today, I thought of the heavy lifting we've been doing. No, make that Beve. This fall, the very heavy lifting has been his. At times I wonder how we can continue in this. How he can get up each day, face the needs of the damaged kids who are his people group for seven hours and the elders who take up the evenings. Day after day after day.

There are moments when I think we can't do it another moment. Times when I want this cup taken for us. How much can a person endure?

God knows. God knows the difficulties with the elders and the complicating difficulties with family members. He knows what how much we can endure far better than we do. Most of the time, when I think about the Incarnation, I think about Jesus' work on the cross. And certainly that was the primary goal of God becoming a man. However, He also came to teach love and demonstrate it in action. "LOVE!" He said. And He showed it. Put no limits on it. "Do good to those who hurt you." "Love one another as I have loved you." And serve. The Messiah was called 'the Suffering Servant.' (See Isaiah 52: 13-53:12) It isn't merely through His death that He suffered, but also through serving beaten up, sin-mangled humanity. The Incarnation teaches us how then we shall live.

And that Incarnation can be/should be/will be worked out in our lives through the Holy Spirit. He doesn't merely teach us how to live, He doesn't merely practice it as model, He gives us the means by which we can live it ourselves. Holy Spirit come. Again I ask, give me power to know how wide and high and broad and deep is Your love, and to practice it--to the elders and to all those You put in my life.

Down at the riverside

2011-12-12T10:29:00.000-08:00

"...The Spirit of the Lord will rest on Him--

the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding,

the Spirit of counsel and of might,

the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the Lord--

and He will delight in the fear of the Lord." Isaiah 11: 2-3

"Here is my servant, whom I uphold,

my chosen one in whom I delight;

I will put my Spirit on Him..." Isaiah 42: 1

"The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,

because the Lord has anointed me

to proclaim good news to the poor.

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim freedom for the captives,

and release from darkness for the prisoners,

to proclaim the day of the Lord's favor." Isaiah 61: 1-2

Mary's cousin, with whom she'd spent half her pregnancy, had had a baby late in life, a baby also given by God in a rather supernatural fashion, with angels appearing out of nowhere, a papa made mute from disbelief, the little tyke still as a stone in the womb until Mary and her own full womb appeared on the horizon. Then, in a way in which only God could have had a hand, the one baby recognized the other and began to dance beneath his mama's skin for the first time. And his mother knelt before her much younger cousin in awe and wonder for the thing which God had done and was going to do--for both of them and the whole world far beyond what they could ever imagine.

Thirty years later, that second cousin of Jesus was a rather wild and woolly creature, living off the lean of the land. Barely fit for proper society, more like a street person. Eating what he could lay his hands on out in the wilderness and preaching all sorts of 'last days' anxiety-producing prophecies. But there was something about his words that rang true. We think WE live in the final days, but there must have been something about that time and place, something in the air in about 28 AD or so (to use our calendar, which they did not!) that made people worry. John's words, "Prepare for the way of the Lord," brought them out to the side of the Jordan river. And his words, "Repent and be baptized--everyone of you--for the forgiveness of sins!" sent them down into that water in droves.

What was different was that John really was the one preparing the way of the Lord. His voice really was just ahead of the One whose shoes he knew he wasn't fit to tie. His birth had been foretold by God, his ministry was the prelude to God's one great master plan of salvation. So there was something different about his teaching than all the other teaching in all the centuries before or since. No matter that he looked like some grizzled, dirty desert wanderer in need of a good scrubbing.

It wasn't only in his mother's womb that John recognized the Messiah when he saw him approaching. That day down at the riverside, instead of dancing, however, John stood still when Jesus stepped up to him to be baptized. "Me baptize you?"

"Yes," Jesus told him. "It's the proper order of business--in order to fulfill righteousness."

So John agrees, though I imagine some trepidation in him, some kind of shuddering about the weight of it all. After all, he alone knew what he was doing.

And we have this sacred moment of one cousin lowering the other into the river and bringing in back out, as an imitation of the dying and resurrection three years ahead. And as the water covers Jesus, then drips off his garments and beard and hair, hairs on every head and neck and arms stood up because Heaven itself opens. I don't mean the clouds parted and the sun broke through, though this is as close an analogy as we're likely to get, but very Heaven itself, where God dwells, and the angels rim His throne. And the Spirit of God flies in--like a dove--and settles on Jesus. And God's speaks. Yes, God speaks. We know it's God because only He can say these words:

"This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased." Matthew 3: 17

This moment marks the beginning of Jesus' earthly ministry. And definitely 'fulfills righteousness.' These three prophesies about the Spirit being poured out on God's servant quoted at the beginning of the post are part of what is called 'The Servant Songs, four Messianic passages in Isaiah. That day on the River Jordan, the 'pouring' of the Spirit is fulfilled. By water and from Heaven.

This is the moment which marks the beginning of Jesus' public ministry. There have been 'discussions' over the centuries about what else it might mean, whether others at the river heard the voice, all kinds of things. I think that sidesteps the central issue. Jesus marked Himself for ministry by His baptism and God stamped it with approval. Set Him on the track toward Calvary. And the Spirit settled in to aid with power and might for the earthly ministry.

What that all means is, this is a Triune moment. A moment when the whole Godhead appears at once. There aren't many of them, so we should pay careful attention. God the Father saying He's pleased, Jesus the Son, obeying in submission, and God the Spirit landing the Incarnate to assist in ministry. This is how THEY work.

And it's how God wants our lives to work. He calls us, we obey Him, but we don't do it without the Spirit landing on us to give us the same aid. Jesus told His disciples, "But very truly I tell you, it is for your good that I am going away. Unless I go, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send Him to you." John 16: 7

Magnifying glasses

2011-12-11T23:35:00.000-08:00

My sister, RE, called this morning. Last night she and her husband went to some fancy dinner with a bunch of local big-wigs in the farming community. In my hometown a ~~boy~~ man who graduated from high school with Beve and me has become become just about the biggest-wig of all in those parts. He's practically a dynasty, all by himself. And I have to say, I'd never have guessed it. If I had to pick him out of a line-up of boys from our class I'd never pick him to be the successful wheat baron he's become. Just goes to show how off our nose for success can be sometimes. Anyway, last night his company put on the feedbag for the local farmers.

So my sister's text this morning was, "You'll never guess who I had dinner with last night." Beve and I both gave it a pretty good shot, though Beve had to throw in a couple his favorite kind of guesses. Today's included Barack Obama and Michelle Bachman (one of which I'd enjoy dinner with, the other whom I wouldn't--I'll leave you to guess which I mean). Of course, even our more reasonable, possible guesses were off/ Instead two old friends, also from our high school graduating class, sat at their table. One was a man who inched his way next to RE in the buffet line to make sure she gave Beve his greetings. They were pretty good friends back in middle school before he went one direction and Beve went a different. He bears a pretty distinctive name in our home town--the basketball court at WSU is named for his grandfather. These days he's CEO for our old high school buddy/wheat baron. His 'date' for the evening was PH. PH. I was maid of honor at her wedding. She was matron of honor in mine. Back then, and for many years before, we were very close friends. And if I'd been a betting person, I'd have wagered she'd be the one person I'd be seeing the rest of my life.

Such has not been the case. In fact, I haven't seen her since SK was a baby. 22 years ago. Since then, that marriage I'd stood beside her and witnessed caused her a lifetime of heartache. And she didn't feel she could even tell me about it. Beve and I were at a basketball camp in Olds, Alberta, Canada when a mutual friend asked me how she was holding up since her divorce. I immediately wrote her. And her letter back broke my heart.

She hadn't felt she could tell me about her divorce because she felt intimidated by what she perceived as my 'perfect' life, my easy marriage and strong Christian faith. She was certain I would be more judgmental than compassionate about her life, and even if I wasn't, my very life felt like a judgment to her.

These are the moments when I'm reminded of how small the world is in which I was raised. There are people who have always found it odd that Beve and I married. They knew one or the other of us, or niether of us, or merely thought they did, and those things didn't match. Beve was a single-minded, uncomplicated boy who cared about two things--basketball and Jesus. I'm not sure what I was. But I do know I didn't have my name in the paper every weekend, and was certainly never called, "Mr. (or Ms.) Everything." But the truth is, Beve wasn't a jock. And I've always said that if we'd ever had a single real conversation back then, we'd have realized how much our hearts, humor, and everything else aligned.

But our lives are not perfect. PH was wrong about that. Very far from it. There are heartaches aplenty. We squabble like siblings about minor things like why he always leave the condiments on the counter and why I throw away the papers he wanted to keep. And we have fought about finances, how to handle this situation with a kid or that one. I'm rather feisty, he's rather stubborn, and we fight. We're just plain, ordinary people, who have lived together for a long time and are used to each other's foibles, flaws and quirks.

And we've seen a whole lot of marriages fall apart over the long years of our life together. In our early years, I think it is true that we both fell pretty strongly on the judgment side of things. In this and most areas. I feel badly about that now. The longer I walk with Christ, the less I'm willing to stand in that place. I can list with the best of conservative Christians all the scripture about all kinds of things we should not do. But somewhere on that list I must put myself as well. We all fall short of the glory of God. What Jesus Christ did, when He preached the Kingdom, when He died to save us from those things that condemn us, is love us. And call us to love each other. This is clear. Over-riding every other thing.

I was just thinking the other day that the magnifying lens of that gospel must always be turned on myself and away from others. You know what I mean? You know how one side of a magnifying glass makes things look closer and the other the opposite? Well, I must peer very closely at my own life, and hold myself to His standard in everything I do. And hold others lightly. Leave them to God. Love them to Him.

I have always felt very sad that PH felt my life--my very life--condemned her. And I pray that she has moved past that now. And I'm glad to hear--via RE--that she's finally content after all the difficult years. I pray that I have a chance to tell her to her face one of these days that I'm glad.

Ok, so that was a long, stream-of-consciousness post. Tomorrow, back to the prophesies.

Sudden light

2011-12-10T11:01:00.001-08:00

The last couple of days were spent with my grown-up daughters in the Emerald City, where we did all kinds of grown-up things: go to their favorite frozen yogurt shop, have a lovely Thai curry made by my older daughter, sit in their well-decorated living room (wow, the taste of these women and their roommate!), go 'thrifting', and eat Indian food for lunch. Though quick, it was very fun to be with them, both separately (at times) and together; they live their lives well.

Seattle was sunny and clear yesterday, with the crystal blue sky one often hopes for, but rarely sees, during the dreary, rainy season. Now don't start, you non-Northwesterners--I already know that it rains here nine months of the year. However--HOWEVER--when the sun is out and the mountains glow white with snow and dark with evergreens, and the Sound shines in the sun, it ranks among the most beautiful places on this earth.

Yesterday was one of those days.

When I made my way up I-5 in the Friday afternoon early rush-hour traffic, I sang along with the Christmas carols on the radio, loving the sight of the scenery. When the mountains loomed north, they were as bright as the day, and they lifted me into a sense of all being right with God's creation, even the traffic, and certainly my soul! Then the road began to dip and clouds began to obscure the sun. By the time I hit south Everett, the freeway (and I suppose surrounding area) was in a deep fog. It was quite odd to think that just above that fog the sun was still bright and the sky still cerulean, because surrounding the sardine-packed traffic was dull-gray.

Then a sudden break in that cloud, just as I got to the Snohomish exit brought a shaft of light, but only for a single moment. Whether it closed or I sped past, I don't quite know, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

By the time I was halfway home, the fog had completely disappeared and once again I was driving in sun. And here in Bellingham, when I stood in our backyard, throwing tennis balls for Jamaica, though the ground had not defrosted, the jagged peaks of the Canadian range were glowing in the sun, and the bay was shining as well. It was as if that fog had never been at all.

And it was suddenly clear that this is what the Word of God is for us. And what it was for the people of God all those years they were waiting for the Messiah. They lived in a fog, with only infrequent shafts of light to give them a sudden glimpse of God's plan. Then they sped on their way, holding onto the hope of that light.

One of those shafts of light comes from Micah 5: 2--"But you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for out of you will come a ruler who will shepherd my people of Israel."

Bethlehem. The city where David was born was also destined--set apart--to be the place where the King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Prince of Peace, Everlasting Father (Isaiah 9:7f) would be born. What a glimpse God gave His people. Telling them the place is a big one. And because the Jews knew this, when the Magi came from the east, Jerusalem became all excited about these strangers and their questions. "Where is the one who has been born King of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him." Then Herod, who thought he was the king of the Jews, got so stirred up he asked the Jewish leaders about the whole thing, heard this specific prophetic glimpse from Micah, and ended up killing all the little boys in Bethlehem, just to be sure he got rid of that dratted Jewish king who was out to usurp him.

Talk about living in a fog. Herod killed babies because he was so foggy-brained he believed he could actually out-think God. Seriously? It's a gruesome story, and has troubled Christians from the beginning. It does me. We can't pretend otherwise. And I think we have to leave it to God to sort all that out. There has been a whole lot of killing in the name of Christ since he was on this earth that began with this story and has had NOTHING to do with Jesus' and His gospel. So we must leave it in God's hands-- or, I should say all of them. There are conundrums and mysteries that are His alone. Above our pay-grade, as others have said.

And there are implications of such stories that do apply to us. What we must understand is that we can't circumvent God's plans. We can't be Herod, and try to out-think God. Because God was out in front. God showed Joseph another glimpse of light. Just enough to get him out of bed and on the move. That was all it took.

We often want the whole picture. We want it all spread out in front of us like a sunny day with bright blue skies. But perhaps we should be praying for shafts of sun--maybe shafts of Son--for sudden illumination for our drive. Bethelem. Just let the name alone be a Light shaft to remind you. God is Sovereign--right down to the time and place.

"Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path." Psalm 119:105

Immanuel

2011-12-08T10:02:00.001-08:00

"What's in a name?" a young girl asks, leaning over a balcony built on a stage in perhaps the most famous monologue of all time. "That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owns
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name.
And for thy name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself."

Juliet's conclusion is that the name of her beloved is merely a label, not organic to the actual living, breathing person whom she has met, touched, and immediately begun to love. The name is her enemy, the person is her love. It a rose is call ragwort, it would still be fragrant, and if Romeo Montague was Homer Simpson he would be beloved and we'd be calling men Homers when they woo us well. Or so she claims.

And in fact, in 21st century America names are mostly labels. Our reasons for naming children are pretty arbitrary when it comes right down to it. Most people no longer choose family names to pass from one generation to the next, though I do know a family whose oldest son is the 10th generation to be named George. Inexplicably, however, they call the boy Jordy, which is neither his middle name nor a derivative thereof.

In the Old Testament, however, there is always purpose to names. From the beginning naming was important. Adam's first task was to name the creatures who shared the earth with him. And meaning is the most important component of the name. In fact, a person's name is a description of a person's inner character and presumed to influence the person's behavior. A person's name is a revelation of the nature of that person.

So the name of the coming Messiah was no small thing. In the passage in Isaiah where God tells Ahaz that the virgin will conceive and bear a child, He says, "...and [she] will call Him Immanuel."
Immanuel.
This is just about the most weighty name a person has ever been given, standing behind just one. That ONE was so big and powerful, though, Moses had to take off His sandals to hear it. When Moses asked God His name, God answered,
"I AM WHO I AM."
Though I'm no scholar (and far wiser ones than me have debated its meaning for centuries), I know a couple of things about it. Like all other Old Testament names, it describes God's very nature. No, it's actually the SAME as His nature. His NAME is equal to HIMSELF. It's a name of faithfulness and unchangeableness (if that non-word makes sense to you), a statement of God's very being. And it's a promise to Israel--to be present with them, to keep His covenant, His end of the deal, no matter what they did, and they did plenty! And, it's personal. It's God's personal name, His divine, personal name. The four letters that make up the Hebrew are YHWH, and are considered by Jews so holy they are not to be uttered. Christians over the centuries have added vowels to them, or truncated them to other names of God so that they are pronounced either Yahweh or Jehovah.

So when we think of the name Immanuel, we must understand it as a desciption--a definition--of the Messiah. What He will do. It actually is a description of the Incarnation, isn't it? God the second person of the trinity, present with us. This is what the Messiah is.

And it's what Joseph understands when the angel appears to him in Matthew 1:18-23. The baby Mary is carrying is the Immanuel, the Messiah, the 'God with us.' This baby is also given a human name Jesus, which means the Lord saves. It contains a form of the Hebrew YHWH and the verb meaning salvation.
God--the I AM THAT I AM--saves. WILL save. That's the whole point.

As I say, pretty powerful.
And standing right behind...or perhaps to the right hand of the great I AM. I AM the one who saves.
Jesus, the God in our presence, saves.
Talk about fulfillment of prophecy.
I'm thinking we should take our shoes off at the stable. God is in our midst.
Come, oh Come, Immanuel. Indeed.
Or, perhaps, thank you that you came.

At my door

2011-12-07T12:25:00.001-08:00

Wow, what a great day I've had (hope you can read the sarcasm font with which I'm writing). I was ~~rudely~~ awakened about the time Beve left for work, which is sometime before God created light, when a very cold, needy Springer Spaniel pounced on my stomach. Beve helpfully left the light on so it was shining right in my face, and between it and the 60 lbs of dog (the breeder promised she'd only be 35 lbs. but we should have known that even our dogs would be giant-sized.) I gave up the fight for sleep and sat up. Because I almost never go to sleep before about 2 AM (though I give it the old college try, I promise I do!), getting up at 6 is pretty brutal.

But that's just the start of this lovely day. Before I'd even finished my first cup of tea, there was a knock on the door. I glanced outside and noticed a woman's head, and thought it belonged to a friend. So I made the mistake of opening the door. And...tell me you know where this is going! One of two places, right? It was a couple of friendly Jehovah Witnesses.

For the most part, I make it a practice not to engage with those who come to my door sharing their version of the Truth. It's the very opposite of the reason many people don't like to get into such conversations, however. I don't feel a bit intimidated, but know that within moments it'll become my version of a spiritual pissing contest. Yep, I said that. And that's exactly what happened this morning. The man asked me what I believe about the way the world is, whether it seems like the end is near. I agreed that it definitely does seem that way, but that every generation since the first thought that Jesus was about to return, and that scripture wouldn't have said He'd come like a thief in the night if He didn't intend us to be surprised by it.
"But don't you think things are different now?" The man asked me.
"I think we need to live as though we only have a day left, and treat the earth as though it needs to last another thousand years," I told him.
When the man (who always does the talking, while his wife stands looking demure and sweet beside him) began quoting scripture at me, I told him the chapter and verse he was quoting. I just couldn't help myself.
We had quite a conversation. I got chilly, standing there in my pjs and sweatshirt, talking the same language but with differing perspectives. Their main concern is about the Kingdom being on this physical spherical thing we call earth. And for me, the Kingdom has far less to do with this planet than with the sphere of God's reign. I don't really care where it is, here or there or anywhere, so long as He's there and we can worship Him.

I didn't say this. Dang it. I didn't think of it until after I'd closed the door and heard their car drive off. They had tried to give me a book entitled, "What the Bible REALLY says," which I politely refused. And he asked if they might return for another conversation, since I am clearly a 'earnest Bible reader.' Again, politely, I told them that if their goal is to win people for Christ and His Kingdom they might make better use of their time with others who do not already know and love Jesus Christ. The man began to say, "But you do not..." but his wife pulled at his sleeve and he turned away. That was the only glitch in the smoothness of their conversation.

It's an interesting thing to contemplate, however. To them, I am the one who is in need of correction (at least), and to me, they are the ones in error. And there are other such peoples in the world who would likewise see me so, and see these kind and earnest Jehovah Witnesses as equally in error as me. Such folks have come to my door as well. Others have met me on street corners.

So how do we measure? By what standard do we evaluate truth? When a person comes knocking on our door and wields the same book we hold sacred, how do we weed it all out?
I found some common ground with these folks on my doorstep this morning. They spoke the Beatitude, "the meek shall inherit the earth," and I know those words to be true and God-breathed. They (or, he, I should say) quoted John 15:13, "greater love has no one than this, that he lays down his life for his brother", which is powerful and never fails to sing to me (in no small part because in the Bible I used all through-out high school and college, inexplicably beside that verse, at some point I wrote Beve's name. Talk about prophetic!). Jesus did this because we needed it. This very advent we're leaning in toward the day we celebrate God coming down for this holy purpose. So I could and do agree with any man and woman who can and does hold these words to be true and from God.

But let me be clear. I believe that Jesus Christ alone is the one True thing. We need nothing else (see John 20:31). No other book, no additional clause. It's not the earth that Jesus came to save, it was us. The end. We don't share the gospel or the Kingdom or the good news or whatever else you want to call it to the ends of the earth so that we can live on this earth eternally. We share the gospel because He is true. Because He is God. Because He is. Because. That 'because' contains it all.
The end.

The Lineage

2011-12-06T10:56:00.001-08:00

Lineage in the Bible is a big deal. I mean it's THE big deal. You can spot it even if you're no more than a casual reader of the Book, someone who barely went to Sunday school. All those "begats" give it away, don't they? Begat. Now there's a word. A King James word, I should say. One we don't throw around in any context other than scripture any more. I certainly wouldn't say that my dad begat my sister who begat my niece who begat her son, even though it's true and we're all thrilled as we can be about the little boy so recently breathing outside his mother, who begat him.

But the people of God paid a whole lot of attention to lineage. To which tribe a person came from, to where a person fit in the grand scheme of things. There were the Levites, for example, who were set apart from the day of the burning bush forward to be priests for the whole people. And when that people came into the land, and grew whiny (as they always did) and tired of God being their only king, they began to complain that "All the other kids have one," or something like that, pulling on God's apron strings, tugging this way and that for a king. Saul. A man who 'stood head and shoulders above the rest', was handsome and powerful-looking, was just about the coolest thing they'd ever seen. Yep, they could follow him, yes they could. And they clamored for Saul until God threw up His hands and gave them what they wanted.

The thing was, Saul wasn't the king God really intended for His people. His was not the throne God meant to establish over Israel. God's choice for His people was based on internal things that only God could see. And eternal things that only God intended. David's heart mattered to God because God intended to use David as seed for His Son.

The prophecies about the Messiah coming from David's lineage are abundant in the Old Testament. Just this morning I jotted down about a dozen places where there are specific references to David's seed, or David's descendant or David's son being Lord. Or David's throne being established forever. 2 Samuel 7:10 says, "Your house and your kingdom will endure forever before me; your throne will be established forever." This promise is twofold, of course. It reveals the special relationship God had with David--whom He called beloved--and it points to Jesus Christ, through whom that throne, house and Kingdom woul,d find fulfillment.

This is the amazing thing about those lineages in the Bible. All those 'begats' actually trace lines back so we can see that the prophecy has been fulfilled. In Matthew, the lineage in chapter 1 is Joseph's, which makes sense because it's his point of view from which we see the events of Jesus' birth. He's the one to whom the angel speaks. He's the one who is told to take Mary and the baby and flee to Egypt. And the lineage of the father was always more important than the mother. Sorry, but that's the way it was. And, because I have beloved adopted brothers, I love the idea that it's Jesus' adopted father through whom he is David's seed in Matthew. Jesus is King David's multi-great grandson through his adopted father Joseph, just like we're children of the King through adoption. This is what Romans tells us. Jesus is the only begotten Son of God, but we're adopted by His Spirit. There's a symmetry to this that pleases me.

It must be noted, however, that in Luke's gospel, the lineage is Mary's. And also extends back to David. (Actually both go all the way back past him to Abraham, and in Luke it goes back to Adam, which is quite the journey!) The gospels make it completely clear that Jesus of Nazareth, son of Mary, wife of Joseph, is of the lineage of David. Is his seed.

Of this seed, David says, "The Lord says to my lord:

'Sit at my right hand

until I make your enemies

a footstool for your feet.'"

This is Psalm 110:1, recited by Jesus in Matthew 22: 44. Jesus recognized that He was the fulfillment of this Messianic Psalm, and wanted the Pharisees, the other listeners, and us to recognize it as well. Jesus is the One who sits on David's throne forever, the one to whom David himself was awaiting and now is worshiping day and night.

It's a great family in which to be adopted. I'm glad to add my little name to that family tree. To know that with the fulfillment of the promise and by His Spirit, we all have a chance to be grafted in.

"For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by Him we cry, "Abba, Father." Romans 8: 14-15

Mary

2011-12-04T21:07:00.001-08:00

Back when I was young ~~and beautiful~~ and traveling through Europe, I managed to be in Germany about the time when groups of children were practicing "Stille Nacht" for their Christmas Eve Services. I spent about two weeks in Konstanz, Germany that December, staying with some friends of friends. My friend (the original SK) and I did a whole lot of sightseeing based from Konstanz, and a few outings with the family. One particular evening we went to church with our host family for a Bible study led by the young pastor, who weekly held one such study for the English-speakers among his congregation.

I'm pretty sure he regretted opening that can of worms that night. Or that the nice friendly American had brought her two house guests, because it was NOT my most stellar moment. Not by a long shot. In fact, if I'd been in his shoes, I'd call what that young American woman did "hi-jacking" the whole study. Even as I write this I seriously cringe. But here goes:

The study that night was the Virgin Birth. Isaiah chapter 7 is where this prophecy is found.
'The Lord spoke to Ahaz, "Ask the Lord your God for a sign, whether in the deepest depths of in the highest heights."
But Ahaz said, "I will not ask; I will not put the Lord to the test/"
Then Isaiah said, "Hear now, you house of David. Is it not enough to try the patience of human beings? Will you try the patience of my God also? Therefore the Lord Himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call Him Immanuel..."'

For some inexplicable-to-me-now reason that night I chose to argue with that pastor that it wasn't necessary that Mary be a virgin. Necessary being the significant word. My point, and in some very broad sense it's true, was that God can do things any way He pleases and He simply chose to use a virgin to carry His son. I mean I argued this up one side and down the other. God was using the virgin as a SIGN, a symbol. And, by the way, it shouldn't be called "the virgin birth," but "the virgin mother!" (which I still actually do believe). The end. I'm mortified to remember it, especially since that poor pastor was using his second language--English--to try to help me (and the other more teachable people around the table) understand.

I've long since repented of that night. Of course. Looked back on it with horror. Don't know what got into me. So here's the real story about Mary and her virginity. Only a virgin would do.
Genesis speaks of part of Eve's 'curse' as being desire for her husband, and travail in childbirth. Therefore, in some strange sense, these things we imagine to be blessings also contain trouble and strain and pain between us. They strain relationships. My guess is that Mary, the betrothed of Joseph the carpenter, was a very good girl. A girl that the people in the small town of Nazareth knew as a good girl. She wasn't wild or rebellious or given to flights of fancy. That's my guess. I think God used a 14 year old who was stable and clear-minded and trustworthy. A girl others whom inspired trust and not disbelief. And I think He used such a girl because it was going to be hard enough to believe this thing, and would be impossible if her character was at all questionable.

Only an innocent could be the mother of the Incarnate, but not only because of this strain, but because she knew, she absolutely, positively knew that no man had touched her.That's the thing about this sign. No man touched Mary, yet there she was, pregnant. She didn't have to question because she was not pregnant and then she was--without ever having sex. Without anything other than a conversation with an angel and God, the Holy Spirit entering into an egg in her and creating the life that would be Jesus.

Yes, God could have done it some other way. He could have come down in a space ship, I suppose. But He told his people through a prophecy Ahaz refused to ask for that THIS would be how He'd do it. A way so miraculous no one would think it up. No one would be able to manufacture it.

The virgin would conceive and give birth to a son. Mary did conceive. She sang her heart out to God when He told her, because she understood what He was telling her. She knew Isaiah. Her soul magnified the Lord, her womb, already filling with the One whom she'd name Immanuel, magnified the Lord. She knew, and He--two cells dividing--knew that with that one prophecy being fulfilled all the rest were on the way to fulfillment as well.

She was His handmaiden, His instrument, the very womb of God. It's no wonder she's called the blessed mother. An ordinary teenage girl was the most important part of the most important thing God's ever done.

Bones

2011-12-03T11:45:00.001-08:00

Last night Beve and I spent four hours at the after-hours medical clinic with Thyrza who's grown increasingly ill this week. Our day just wouldn't be complete without a trip to some kind of medical building or another these days, apparently. That's how it feels, anyway. One of the things the doctor ordered was a chest x-ray, and we had to stick around while the results were read and put online for him to read. So we were sitting in the small examining room when he turned the computer monitor around to show us the pictures of her lungs. And what appeared were compelling images--and very helpful images for what I want to share today. Fortunately, Thyrza's lungs were clear, but that wasn't what drew our attention. It was the sight of her ribs and backbone.

I've seen x-rays before, plenty of them. Over the course of mothering my son, there have been plenty of opportunities to grow familiar with the way bones look in that shadowy imagery of x-ray. J's shoulder alone has been x-ray-ed so many times, neither of us could probably count them, but I'd guess if one radiologist was in charge of all of them, he'd have bought a boat by now. Anyway, despite the weakness in J's shoulder, his bones have always had the appearance of strength to them, even when he was an 11-year-old boy. There's substance within the shadow, if that makes sense. Health and youth and strength.

And just last month, when we looked at the x-ray of Grampie's partial hip reconstruction, it was still the power of his frame that stood out in those pictures. The largeness of that new non-bone growing onto bone, by muscle and tendon and the amazing rejuvenating ability of the human body (even at almost 87)--that's what stood out on those pictures.

But last night, Thyrza's 93-year-old frame appeared to be the substance of lace. Fragile and gossamer, woven by silk worms. When the doctor pointed out how porous those bones are now, she said, "But I take calcium every day." "Thank God you do," he told her. "Imagine how they'd look if you didn't." No wonder she's so cold all the time, I thought. No wonder she can hardly walk, I could hardly imagine how that backbone could hold her up.

Later, as I was about to sleep, and talking to God about the evening, and thinking about the words He might give me for this blog today, I got to thinking about Thyrza's bones and prophesy. There have been many men and women who have made predictions about the world. And those predictions have either come true or not, but for the most part, they are the substance of a spider's web. They catch some people within, but are also easy to destroy by the flick of a human hand. They have no power or foundation behind them. No ability to last. Because they are created by the smallest of threads--a human's imagination.

But prophecy in the Word of God has two functions. One is local. That is, God is always speaking to His people where they are, in that time, for that moment. And the other function, which happens far less often, is to predict the future. We must be clear about the less often part. God is far less interested in telling us about the future than we are in learning about it. He cares about today. He wants our bones strong. He wants our foundation sturdy. Healthy and true. Only now and then does He speak about tomorrow, and only then obliquely.

That said, the future-predicting Messianic prophecies of the Old Testament, which abound, are essential proofs, to let His people know beyond a shadow of a doubt that The ONE is THE ONE. And even then, He predicted that some would not know Him. Yep, God knew it all.

So tomorrow--the Virgin Birth. And the one who had the only incontrovertible proof anyone ever had. Mary. Think about that, if you'd like for this day.

And think about how the bones of those Messianic prophecy are strong and true and will hold. Have held. They stand the test of time and point to only one person through-out all of history. God knew we needed sturdy bones.

Preparing

2011-12-02T23:48:00.001-08:00

Several years ago I helped teach a confirmation class at the church we then attended. My portion was the "Jesus" section of the class. No big deal, right? That was all I had to teach. Just Jesus. That's a little like saying, "The only thing you're responsible for is EVERYTHING!" Because, frankly, He's the whole ball of wax. I mean, we can talk about other things, but if you're in a class in which you're going to stand up in front of God and the whole congregation and profess to faith in Him, it doesn't much matter what else you know, because if you don't have Jesus right, you might as well have stayed home and watched the football game.

Anyway, in preparing to talk about Jesus, I did what I always do--I studied long and hard, and overprepared. There are over 300 prophecies in the Old Testament about the Messiah, and I looked them all up. I wanted to be clear with these earnest (and pressured-to-be-there-by-their-parents) kids about who the Messiah was expected to be and how only one man--Jesus of Nazareth--could fulfill all 324+ of those prophecies. It was quite a study. Made me in awe of God and His master plan that was already taking shape before the ink was dry on his first words of creation. The students, I must admit, weren't nearly as impressed as I was. After all, they got the tiny-fonted three-page list I created before 9 AM on a Sunday morning. They weren't quite awake to what God had done.

And perhaps that's the case with most of us. We aren't quite awake to what God has done. Last week, while Beve's brother and wife were here, we were talking at one point about reading scripture, and Beve's brother said he doesn't often (ever? did he really say ever?) read the Old Testament. I know I was a little aghast at this, but the truth is that for many of us, the 'real' story of Jesus begins with Matthew. Or Luke.

But God was teaching His people about the coming Incarnate in no uncertain terms for hundreds--thousands!--of years before Jesus ever took a breath, before the first cells began to divide within Mary's womb. God was already on the move.

So this month, as we wait and watch and prepare to for His birth, I thought I'd spend some time with the words of the Old Testament that foretell of His coming. It would take almost a full year if I took a single prophecy a day to write about, and though an interesting idea, I'm probably not disciplined enough for that long a project. Instead, because Matthew is known as the Jewish gospel for its emphasis on the ways in which Jesus fulfilled the Messianic prophesies, it seems right to 'merely' look at Old Testament words that find their fulfillment in the book of Matthew.
We'll see how this goes.

For today, I'll leave you with this thought: when God first cursed the serpent for how he had lied to, tricked and manipulated the woman, He said, "I will put enmity between you and the woman and between your offspring and hers; he will crush your head and you will strike his heel." Genesis 3: 15

Right there is the first mention of the coming Messiah, the One who would crush the enemy's head. The enemy might hurt the One, but only the heel. Crushing the head means destruction. That's what Jesus did. Matthew1:21 says, "She will give birth to a son and you are to give him the name Jesus because he will save his people from their sins."

It's very encouraging toknow that God was preparing all along for how He'd save us. He wasn't flying by the seat of His pants, trying this solution then that one. He always knew what it would take, and was always on the way to it. From the moment of the first sin, He was ready with the solution. Jesus Himself, the fulfillment.

Come, Emmanuel. Wake us up to what you've done. Prepare us again for your coming. Help us wait, expectantly. And help us recognize you when you arrive because you've been telling us all along who you are.

The difference between us

2011-12-01T10:47:00.001-08:00

First, I just noticed that the end of my last post was mysteriously cut off, so you might go back and re-read it. Sorry about that. This new-fangled computer contraption continues to get the best of me. Where's my pen and paper when I need it?

Beve and I have been talking a lot lately about the differences in how we make decisions. He told me yesterday that I'm a whole lot more cautious than he is. This surprised me because, in my mind, I'm the quick thinker. He has to ponder things, look at then from every angle. And even afterwards has a whole lot more buyer's remorse than I do. But he brought up a very clear example of my caution. About 24 years ago, we were asked to foster (with the view to adopt) a special needs 14 year old boy. Beve was quite enthusiastic about this idea. It was a natural outpouring of the work he was already doing as a junior high counselor. On the other hand, I was an at-home mom with a baby and a two year old. The disabilities were significant enough that he would require a great deal of help in every way, and our home was very small with one bathroom that was almost adequate for his wheelchair, though the steps up to the house wouldn't have been. It all seemed very overwhelming to me during a time when I was very overwhelmed on a daily basis. I'm not trying to make excuses for myself. I just couldn't do it. And until last night, I never knew how much that had meant to Beve.

We are made of different things, my husband and I. He's a social creature. Made for actions-- for opening his home and life and going and doing. He's his parents' child through and through, but also created greatly by the fellowship of believers with whom he grew up in Christ. There was always room around the table for one more. There has always been space in our lives for many others. Both for a moment and for a season.

And though I am also a social creature, I am my parents' child. I need solitude like some people need caffeine. It is the air I breathe. There have been seasons of people living with us over the course of our marriage, and each one has required something of me that it doesn't require of Beve. He understands that. He knows that his character expands with the adding of a person to our home, while mine contracts (We've had about 10 people live with us at different times, for periods of 1-5 months).

Yet we speak of it again--and this might be the longest sojourn with others yet. The suggestion was mine this time, though I told him quite honestly that I did so for him. Last night he told me I am giving him mixed messages and I said, "Of course I am. Those are the only messages I have to give." Everything in me is mixed.

The key is not whether to do what Beve wants or what I want but what God wants. What is HE calling us to do? Often I spend so much time thinking about what I can do and what I want that it takes me a long time to get to what is best and what He wants. He will give strength and grace and compassion and space and peace and love for His will. I believe that. I know that in quietness and trust, I will find strength to do that will, no matter what it is. And so will Beve. We will find it together. Then He will be glorified.

Handmade

2011-11-30T10:26:00.001-08:00

I saw lights up on a house a week before Thanksgiving. I imagined that someone in that family wanted to get a step up on the neighbors, to go bigger and better than those next door or across the street. And when Beve and E were out picking up a few last minute groceries for our Thanksgiving dinner on Wednesday, they saw tents set up outside Best Buy, which means those people spent their thanksgiving holidays cooking weiners over bunsen burners in a parking lot. Festive AND full of thankfulness, right? Black Friday came with a bang all over this country. People were trampled right at midnight, all in an effort to get more. Bigger and better. And the stores tried to jump start the economy in a single day.

Because that's what Christmas is all about. Really, that's the truth of it. Let's not pretend otherwise. No matter who we are, we still want something under a tree or in a stocking that blesses us. That counts. We want something better than we had before, and, at least in this country, we go to great lengths to get it. It takes a whole lot more effort to NOT be sucked into this mentality than to let the culture sweep us away.

This year, our family is trying. A few months ago, we made the decision to have a thrift-Christmas. That is, we are only giving second-hand or handmade gifts to each other. It's been a very stretching thing for us. I wouldn't say that we're exactly good at it, or have figured this all out, I'm praying that this kind of Christmas makes the day less greedy and more grateful. Less full of material goods and more full of thoughtful ones. And certainly, ultimately more concentrated on the gift that cost everything but wasn't bought at any large box store.

One could, of course, make the case that God set up a tent in front of the whole wide world for that gift. He set off to Bethlehem encased in human flesh, in the safety of the human womb of his human mother, and when He finally breathed the air of earth, His appearance stopped creation for a few moments. The stars shone brighter, angels sang so loudly, they interrupted plain, old shepherds just going about their business, watching sheep. It wouldn't surprise me if even those dumb old sheep (and sheep are the dumbest of creatures) were dumbfounded by the sound of that voice and voices speaking and singing in the starry night.

That's the most handmade gift we've ever gotten. Made by the Hand of God. You can't find it at any store, can't satisfy the longing for it no matter the size of the TV you wrap up for your husband or the jewelry you buy for your wife. There will always be a better gaming device that you'll be pressured to buy for the kids next year. But this handmade gift of God in the form of that baby came once. And lasts forever.

Happy December.

Post- Op

2011-11-29T21:06:00.001-08:00

I had my two week post gall bladder surgery appointment this afternoon, and it's definitely worth a story. Have I mentioned that I LOVE being friends with my surgeon? I mean, serious perks. And today was one of them. Well, sort of.

I got to my appointment, said my name to the woman on the other side of the counter and she said, "I'll find you a room right away." And with that, she led me down the hall, past my doctor's office, where he waved at me as he talked on the phone, all the way to the back of the practice to a closed door with very recognizable symbols of a man and a woman on it. Yep, a restroom.

It turned out to be a combination examination/dressing/restroom where I sat on one of the two chairs for all of twenty seconds before Dr. VG came through the door. "I didn't want you to have to wait," he told me. "Hope you don't mind." ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I didn't even mind that there was a toilet behind the curtain in the corner with all that instant attention. He read me the description he'd written of my gall bladder after removing it (and was actually a little sad he hadn't brought a picture). The marble-sized stone was stuck like cement in the entrance and the whole organ was green. GREEN. Can I just say that I'm pretty sure that green is NOT a good color for any organ. Maybe for eyes but NOT for organs within the human body. "It definitely needed to come out," he told me. Well, I think so.

I told him I've been feeling pretty tired this week.
"You had your gall bladder out two weeks ago today, a house full of people for Thanksgiving and you can't figure out why you're tired?"
"Well..."
"There's no convenient time for surgery, but it's even less convenient if you don't give yourself time to recover."

Then we had a good conversation about aging parents and forgiveness and the emergent church and a great pastor we both know and love...well, all manner of things. I'm pretty sure it made him run late to his next patient but it was just about the best doctor's appointment I've had in a long time. Even if it was in a restroom.

Owning what's mine to own

2011-11-28T19:12:00.001-08:00

I'm trying to figure out if I'm tired because all the hoopla of the holiday weekend has finally caught up with me or if the hoopla of the last four months has finally caught up with me, or if I'm just plain tired, but I'm telling you, the dogs and I barely lifted our heads all day long. Now that Beve's back at work and the company's gone and all the processing of various events has been done (or at least partly done), the house is quiet and I can't even muster up enough energy to finish the projects I have going for Christmas.

Some holidays are so sweet that we hold on to them long after the last leftovers have been eaten. This was no such holiday. It was fraught with tension and confrontation and family dynamics of the sort that keep therapists and counselors in the business. More than once I found myself on my knees in my bedroom tearfully praying for the Holy Spirit to extend grace I didn't/don't feel in myself. It was hard and long and stretched our small family in many ways as we hosted a larger one around our table.

Here's what I have learned about myself in the last five days: I care about what people think of me and am shocked to discover that they question my motives. But I don't want to hold long accounts. No matter what. So when apologies come, so too, must forgiveness. This is Christ's mandate. I know this.

However. Here's the hard truth about myself. Sometimes I say I forgive before I actually have. Sometimes the cut is deep and the blood is still running when that apology comes and I say, "Of course, I forgive you," when I actually just want it over with. I want the pain to stop. But it hasn't. So a couple of days later--like today--I wake up, bone weary and aching with it because I've been wrestling with it through a couple of long nights. And, now that the pain isn't quite so piercing, I discover that I am still angry. I haven't come close to forgiving what I said I forgave.

And it's at this moment that the true work begins. With God. Facing the facts of the situation and the other person, looking at that person's pain and what made them do and say what was said to me. And why.

This is a hard post to write. I'm a flawed human being who sometimes holds grudges. One who is sometimes wounded deeply by the grudges held by others. I want to be more than I am, more formed of the Kingdom than of the world. And this holiday has opened my eyes to the truth to how far I am from who I pray to be.

I can't do anything about what others think of or say to me. What they believe my motives to be in any situation. Beve often talks to students about 'owning what is yours to own.' And what is mine to own here are two things: what I might have done to hurt the one who lashed out at me (still trying to figure that out with Beve) and--more importantly-- how I respond. No matter what. And He's not ambivalent about what my response must be. "Forgive others as I've forgiven you." There's no wiggle room in those words. None at all.

Instead, I go to my knees again. And ask Him to help me do what I cannot do on my own.

Frequent flyer miles

2011-11-26T15:38:00.001-08:00

This morning, just as Beve's brother and sister-in-law were walking out the door to travel back across the pass to their home in the Yakima Valley, Beve got a call that Grampie was unresponsive and had been taken to the hospital. Plans changed in a flash. Beve and I quickly threw on some clothes (I wound up in black yoga pants, an oversized 'Life is good' long-sleeved sleep-shirt hanging below my Northface Fleece and FatBaby boots--yep, one of my finer fashion looks!), and while he went to get Thyrza, I rode with B & N to the hospital. We actually arrived ahead of the ambulance, so I really could have taken another moment with my attire. Oh well.

It was/is our 4th trip to the emergency room since September 10. If that doesn't make us regulars, I don't know what does. I certainly knew the protocol, knew that only one person would be allowed back with him, and knew it would have to be me because they'd need to know about his medications, and any pertinent pieces of his medical history. For example, the doctor asked Thyrza if Grampie's ever had prostate problems. and when she said no, unfortunately, I had to correct her (which is NEVER good--and makes Thyrza think I've been keeping secrets from her, because, "I know I wouldn't have forgotten that!"). At least this doctor continued to address her questions to Thyrza, which isn't always the case, even though she (the doctor) waited for my answers.

Beve's still over there with Thyrza. Grampie's been admitted now, with a UTI (Urinary Track Infection). Possible Kidney damage. We'll see how it goes. I had a very candid conversation with Grampie's wife this morning about what is really happening with Grampie. That is, what the doctors won't quite say--that one of these days or one of these trips to the hospital, Grampie will die. I told her as gently as I could that we needed to value every day we have with him, and feel peace with the knowledge not only that he has lived long and well, but that he is very ready to go home. Thyrza got a little teary as we spoke, and told me they had talked about it only a little, because Grampie's so "private about these things." ( I haven't found him so, but then, I tend to push him to answer my questions. I mean, I ask and he answers. It works.) During our conversation it seemed like Grampie was sound asleep, his head back, mouth open. Looked like sleep to me. Just as Thyrza was wiping her nose and I was rubbing her shoulder, a nurse came in and offered Grampie a drink of juice, and sat him up. As she did, he opened his eyes and winked at me.

Yep, he winked at me and smiled broadly. Thyrza and I burst out laughing. He's still here, he seemed to be saying. But also, like he and I were sharing a joke. I love that.

Sure, he drifted off a few minutes later. He's a frequent flyer in the hospital, losing weight before our very eyes, but the wit is still in there. And that's good enough for this day.

Thanksgiving at our house

2011-11-25T09:25:00.001-08:00

There were eleven of us around the table yesterday, feasting on a meal I did almost nothing to prepare except offer some well-oiled recipes that have served us well over the years (or at least one!). This whole recovering-from-surgery thing has worked pretty well for me...except that I actually find it difficult NOT to be in the kitchen in my own home when there's work to be done and a table to be set and people to be served. Other than that, it was relaxing.

But we got to the table, the food was as tasty as it always is and E, who will be a far better cook than I am when she's my age because she's a better cook than me now!, fed us well. We passed the platters and bowls and gravy boats and homemade roll basket and butter dish, then Beve had the girls read two different things to remind us what we were doing there. And we spoke (as we always do!) of the things for which we give God thanks. It was sweet, as always, and those first bites tasted better for the true thankfulness I felt for all the thankfulness we'd shared.

But moments into the meal, Beve noticed that at the other end of the table, Grampie was beginning to hiccup. So I raced down the long bowling-alley of our hallway to our bathroom to retrieve the TUMS for him. Unfortunately I couldn't quite prevent a spitting-up episode right there at our Thanksgiving table. I grabbed a bowl, Beve grabbed a wet washcloth and we rolled his wheelchair away from the table, to give him a bit of privacy and everyone else a bit of space from what might affect their appetites. Between us, the TUMS, a medication we have on hand because I'm in charge of dispensing his pills each week, we got this episode under control pretty quickly. It lasted only five minutes, when they've been known to extend hours (particularly when we aren't around and the elders are trying to figure them out between them--Grampie always thinks it's the first time he's done such a thing).

Why do I tell you such an unappetizing story? Because of how it shocked a few of Grampie's grandchildren who have heard of his decline but until yesterday had not been in close proximity to it. This episode painted his frailty in sharp relief. Their once giant of a Grampie, the man who stood like a mountain over their lives, is no longer in control--even of himself. These grandchildren watched three of us move him from his wheelchair to the couch in order to take a family photo, because he seems to have forgotten how to make his feet move of their own accord, and noticed that even a trip to the bathroom required help from Beve. This is the sadness on the other side of the coin of their thankfulness on this Thanksgiving holiday. What Grampie was most thankful for was his family, particularly the three grandsons who were sitting in a row on one side of the table. Later, one of those grandsons said, "Life is only a fragment."

That grandson is right, of course. Life is only a fragment--on this earth, that is. But Grampie lives it so well. even now. As I was holding that bowl for him at dinner, I asked, "What can I do for you?" He answered, "You already do everything for me." He wasn't whining when he said those words, as some might have been, wasn't bemoaning his lot. He was simply thankful. Really.

I want to have such a heart as my father-in-law. His body is broken. He can do nothing for himself now. Nothing. But he continues to live gladly and well. And when he leaves this broken-down body, and stands up straight in the new one waiting for him, he'll continue to live that one well, too.

This is what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for what I'm being taught about living well from the most broken in my life. His model continues to humble me. As he is being broken daily, He continues to make him whole.

And that, my friends, is what I desire for my own life.

Plimoth

2011-11-23T22:55:00.001-08:00

Last summer when sister RE and I were visiting our brother BB and nephew K and his wife C in New England, we spent a very hot afternoon at Plimoth Plantation (and no, that's not spelled incorrectly), wandering through the re-production of the Native village and the first settlers' homes. We watched practically naked young men weaving thin pieces of bark through long sticks to create a long house--a project that will take the three of them a couple of years to complete, since only two work at a time, while the other narrates (in proper American English) for the crowd. We sat in a very small hut, where furs covered the dirt floor, and raised mats, and listened to a woman speak of how the tribe lived and finally died out in exactly this spot, trying to live the old way (off the grid, one might call it now) as recently as the 20th century. They married and procreated and bore children and raised extended families and suffered illnesses, and watched people die in these small huts for hundreds of years, and lived off the land and followed the seasons to and from the sea--inland in winter and outward in summer. And all the while, called it good.

And then the people came from over the sea in large ships and many clothes with many novice ways of living, ways that didn't lend to this land. The Pilgrims, as we call them, who came from Holland, where they'd fled first from English persecution, were uncertain about almost everything. And the natives were uncertain about the English as well.

But somehow, they learned to live together, or at least, side-by-side, in two different ways. The English with their tall, thatched-roof houses, and heavy chests and many clothes, their rules and regulations and desire to own the land rather than live with it. And the natives with their more free-moving rhythm with the seasons.

That afternoon last summer, when we walked through the Plantation at Plimoth, I was struck by the grid on the hill where the pilgrims lived, like a High street from some English village plopped down across the ocean back in the 1600s, lots assigned, portions divided, in contrast to the rambling maze of the native village down in the flats where they just set up camp and could just as easily move it, when necessary.

But one thing they did, these two separate people--when the work was done, they gathered to be thankful. Now I don't know if what we call Thanksgiving actually took place in the autumn after the first full year of being in the new world, the way we were taught in our history books. I know that many of those early stories are faulty. But I do know there's truth to a harvest feast. And I know that these pilgrim ancestors of ours were thankful people. And I know that the people who met them on the shores of this land had lent them hands and feet and grain to get them through the tough first year. And visa versa, at times. And I know they gave thanks.

But long before it was an American, or new world, tradition to set aside a day for a harvest feast, it was a-people-of-God tradition to set aside a day to give God thanks for the harvest. For a thousand years before Christ, the people of God were stopping their labors to praise God for the fruitfulness of the harvest. This feast is called The festival of Tabernacles, and is mentioned first in Exodus 23:16, "... Celebrate the Festival of Ingathering at the end of the year when you gather in your crops from the field."

So this idea of Thanksgiving is extremely old.

And has very little to do with overeating.

And a whole lot to do with offering to God.

I dare say we forget that.

As with so many things, it's morphed into being about how we can stuff ourselves with more, rather than honor God with more. But I keep thinking of how lightly the natives of this land held onto things: space, time, land. They simply lived with all of it. Honored it. Yes, without the God we know and love. But I wonder, is there something to be learned from them? How can I live more lightly with the stuff of life? How can I honor the time I've been given, the space in which I find myself, the land on which I live, and give it back to God to whom it actually belongs? How can I--this year--be thankful for ALL that He has given me, and not merely hurry on to the next thing (to the Black Friday sales, for example!), and try to get more?

There's something to consider here.

I am thankful for this life. I do not say this as a general, overarching thing, like a beauty contest parroting that her one dream is world peace (or peas, as our family likes to sarcastically say), but as a humble prayer. I am thankful for the inexpressible gift that He has given by giving me life.

And then giving me life again.

"Let us enter His gates with thanksgiving in our hearts,

and enter His courts with praise." Psalm 100:2

It's rally time

2011-11-22T12:12:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow is the birthday of another of 'the girls,' one whom, for the sake of this post, I'll simply call Rally. Of the seven of them, I've known Rally the longest, or at least of her, I should say. I first heard about her at my dinner table when I was in the fourth grade because she was in my mother's class that year. My mother found her charming and energetic, an athletic tomboy who wanted to play sports with the boys and (usually) beat them at their games. And what my mother first noticed about Rally were core characteristics about her that didn't change for...well, forever, I suppose.

The other day, when I was looking through old pictures, I found a class picture of Beve and his sixth grade class, and there's Rally, right in the front row. Now most of the girls in that class looked a little awkward, I have to tell you, which is what girls often look like when they reach the age when their bodies begin to change and grow and they hardly know what's happening to them. But Rally--she stuck out like a perfectly formed, perky girl-next-door who completely skipped that awkward stage. Or just blew right through it because she was too busy racing around some athletic field to give awkward a chance.

Rally is the fifth daughter in a family of ten children, and has always been able to hold her own among them. Indeed, she can hold a crowd like she was born to it. From the time I first knew her there was an aura about her that made people want to be around her. It's a bit hard to explain, but she has a sense of the absurd, a style that is completely inimitable and a laugh that pulls others in. For a small, quick person, she's larger than life, Rally is. In fact I remember a slumber party from the end of sixth grade--at Kim Mooney's house where, if there'd been a mike, she would have been the last comic standing, because we laughed until we cried at everything that came out of her mouth.

But there's another side of her, and that side I didn't get to know until years after high school. In fact, though we were friends back then, we only shared a couple of rather significant (although strange) moments, like a night we went to the drive-in in her family's little pick-up and happened upon a classmate in his car. We pounded on his car's front window, then noticed that his girlfriend was sitting on his lap...and we'd interrupted them in a VERY compromising position. It was more than awkward. I think I raced almost as fast as Rally away from that car that night. But generally we mostly spent time together only when all the girls got together--and often that was in her family's large family room, where we took pictures and ate cake. However, on October 12, 1973 (I know this because I found the card the other day when I found my prayer cards) I committed myself to praying that Rally come to Christ. I wrote her name in bold black letters on a 3x5 card and I started praying.

And God was faithful. Not to me, but to her. She did come to Christ, I mean. I don't know when exactly, but by the time we were both living in Tacoma in the late 1980s, raising small children (well, the first of hers, at least), she was in love with Jesus. By the co-incidence that is really only Christ, we lived almost within walking distance of each other. And spoke almost daily for a couple of years. I needed her so much at that time. God knew how much. I was sometimes so over my head with the demands of the three rug-rats of mine, and talking to her calmed me--often. Because Rally is a mother. A mother of seven now (though only 3-4 then). It's a role she was born to. If she was born to anything it was this. To be their mother, to laugh with them, encourage them, grow with them, love them. One only has to be around her for a moment to know that they are everything to her. They are the jewel in her crown. And our relationship in those early mothering days completely changed from the superficial friendship it had been as teens. She is a friend of my heart now, more than I ever knew before. Though she still laughs deeply and has an inimitable style, she has a depth that draws me in. She feels and cares and loves and has her heart broken for others.

I'm exceedingly glad that I got to know Rally as a child and that God put her back into my life as an adult. This twice-given gift has been one of the great highlights of my life. Thank God. Yes, I thank God for you, Rally. I love you.
Happy Birthday.

So I laugh

2011-11-21T08:56:00.001-08:00

Clearly I've felt God's presence in struggles of this season. It really hit home Friday night when Beve sat down next to me on the couch and said, "My back is hurting." He pointed to his right flank in the region of his kidney. And, sure enough, over the next hour, the pain grew. And we began to laugh over the pain, because honestly, what else could we do? I mean, really, a kidney stone on top of everything else? Because that was clearly what was going on. Last time he had such pain, we raced to the emergency room where he had a series of tests confirming the presence of said stone, he got pumped full of pain meds, and then was sent home with a strainer to catch the stone when he passed it. And when he finally did the next day, that little sucker was barely visible to the naked eye and hard to believe it could cause such havoc to the naked eye.

So Friday night, as he began to squirm and ache and sweat, he decided not to shell out good money for an emergency room visit when he could do all that in the comfort of his own home (and bathroom). Sans strainer, of course. But who needs it? He just took a couple of pain pills, went to bed, was awakened by the pain at 3 AM, was uncomfortable for a while, then most likely passed it before I even got out of bed and took my first dose of my Ibuprofen.

But I have to tell you, we were a little hysterical Friday night thinking, this too? I mean, even a kidney stone? A week ago, before my surgery, Beve went to the retina specialist for a check up from his iritis of last spring, and the doctor told him, "You have a hole and tear in your right retina. I think we'll just laser that right now before it gets worse." It just seems like every time we turn around these days something is falling apart.

There are a few different reactions we could have to this situation, of course. We could rail at the universe and God for why he seems to be punishing us. We could blame Him for everything large and small that goes wrong in our bodies and lives and relationships. But those responses don't take into account our own sin, the fallenness of the world at large--which created a world in which disease exists. Nor do they take into account the fundamental nature of God. It is not God's character to punish us. The cross of Jesus Christ has seen to that. Though there is consequence to specific sin, there is no cosmic punishment dealt out to us. This leaves, of course, two different 'reasons' for such times of suffering. The first is the enemy's desire to rip us from the Father's camp.

And we know that he definitely desires this. He is described as 'a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour.' (1 Peter 5:8) He'll use anything he can to get a foothold into our lives, and sickness, weakness, calamity, pain, stress, worry--well, all the things of the last 24 months of our lives--are chief among his hooks. And often we play right into his hands.

Years ago, a very wise woman told me that one of the best ways to defeat satan at his evil game is to laugh at him. He loathes this reaction. His goal is to make us fearful, doubtful and angry. He wants us to lash out at our circumstances, each other and God about what is happening to us. So to laugh at what he does, to find his ploys ridiculous is to render him impotent. The hysteria we are sometimes helpless to stop? I think perhaps that is Holy-Spirit-aid. It's the help He brings to cut the enemy off at the pass, right as he's about to strike. That laughter allows us to lean away from the pain of the moment and say, "Of course, this is ridiculous." And next, "Of course, only the enemy would think up something so ridiculous as a way to tear me from my Father's hand." And just like that, yes, just like that, that enemy is back in his box, and the King is on His throne, in the place of pre-eminence in our lives. Because that's the other point.

Oddly, when life gets overwhelming, when the pressure is beyond our imaginings, in terms of what we have to endure, particularly when the circumstances are not of our own making--like illnesses or lost jobs, or the dying of loved ones or life-and-death worries about our children, we cannot possibly imagine the strength needed to endure. If we are to survive, God must do it for us. He must shore us up. At the end of our strength, there He is. That's what we learn in overwhelming struggle and loss. There He is, at the ready. When I'm over my head, He never is. I'm telling you right now, what life has brought Beve and me in this season of our lives is beyond me. If you'd have told me a decade ago that I'd be able to write these words about it, I'd be in a heap. Telling you that I could not do it, pleading with God not to make me, and calling you a liar. However, He has led us safely through every twist and turn on the road, through every disease of every loved one, through every loss, and our own infirmities. He has been light in the darkest moments with our son and is hope even now. And is surely leading us through theses final days with our beloved elders even in our own weaknesses. If He is for us, indeed, the one who is against us has not a hope in hell of overcoming us!

I guess that's the point: we didn't ask to be the caregivers. We had other ministries in mind for us. More exotic sheep to feed, as I've often said. But God is in these days. He put us here purposely, has a plan for this season that is rich and full and we would not miss it for the world. For all that the enemy wants to rob it from us. But...the enemy is outmatched. Even when he tries to pile on the pile of this season, he has already lost. Yes, he is outmatched. satan might have had a fighting chance with me but he has none with God. So I laugh. In the name of Jesus, I laugh.

However, let me say this in the name of Jesus as well. I also know more could be lost. I also know this. We are essentially whole and healthy and safely kept in Him. And believe me when I say I earnestly ask for protection from that prowling enemy who tries to get in. For a hedge around my beloveds. I cry 'uncle' to all this. Enough is enough (which, is, of course, redundant!).

The starting place

2011-11-18T09:23:00.001-08:00

Feeling better by the day, though I did have a dream this morning that I interrupted a robbery and got stabbed. I was surprised at how real the pain felt until I woke up and realized why. Still, I'm not thinking with my entire brain so thought I'd cull another post from a journal, this one from October 2007:

"The thing is, submission to God's will is only as painful as two things in proportion--our love for self versus our love for God. To the extent that we love God more than we love ourselves, to that extent alone can we surrender. And loving God is dependent on knowing who He is, what He's about, what He's done, why He does it (even though some of this is always part of the great mystery). In some sense, we need no more than Genesis 1: 26-27, to submit to God--Then God said, "Let us make human beings in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground. So God created human beings in His own image, in the image of God He created them, male and female He created them."

In another sense, of course, we need Calvary. Self-centeredness is too deep, stained on us, and had to be washed in blood. But WE live post-cross. We get the whole story, and we know--we must know--that His good, acceptable, pleasing will is always better than our own.

I don't say this tritely. I know what it costs to give up control. It hurts and pulls and makes us feel like our skin is coming off. In a sense, every parent who sends a child off to college surrenders control, to one extent or another, when we no longer get to govern what our child does or doesn't do. But the process begins at birth. At least it should. From the moment a baby makes its way out of a mother's womb, that mother is no longer breathing for the baby. Giving it up to its own life.

But Gethsemane surrender? Abraham with the knife-raised-surrender? "I am absolutely willing for this--my life--to go any way YOU, God, wish!" surrender? This is a whole different thing. And comes at great cost. Jesus Himself wrestled with it until it made him sweat blood. Abraham surely trembled when he raised that knife over his son's body. The point, I think, isn't how hard or long it takes to get there, how much we tremble or shake to release our hold on our lives, it's that we finally do.

So, where I must start is by praying for a hunger, a desire, a WANT for that will, a desire to believe that His good, acceptable, perfect will is better than my own. That's the point I must get to--that I can trust Him. Every time. If I start with that prayer, perhaps surrender is a natural second step. And, of course, for a deeper love for Him, which is where it all begins. The pervasive love of God which is the starting place of all things.

This morning, this is my earnest prayer for all whom I love [and all who read this blog]. I pray for a desire not only for "Your Kingdom come," in their lives, but for "Your will" to be their chief hunger, aim, sole desire. I pray that it be their great joy, that their food is to do Your will, Lord. That they will want to surrender to You because they know to the marrow of their bones--in all their varied circumstances--that YOU (and You are synonymous with Your will) are trustworthy. May we love You more, love ourselves less, so surrender is the obvious outcome of our devotion.

What He's done for us lately

2011-11-17T16:45:00.001-08:00

Because I'm still knee deep in recovery mode, I thought I'd pull a post from my journals. So...
from March 2008
"Acknowledge and take to heart this day that the Lord is God in heaven above and on the earth below. There is no other..." Deuteronomy 4: 39
Just prior to this verse is a list of all that God did to uniquely reveal Himself to His people as He freed them from Egypt, led them to and at the Holy mountain, through the wilderness for forty years (Psalm 105 is a succinct recital of this as well). It's a pretty amazing list--speaking in fire, displaying His power through many signs and miraculous events, parting the sea, being light in darkness (literally!), giving them daily food. Yet they continually complained, whined and turned away the moment He stopped showing Himself. Sometimes even as He was in the actual process of showing Himself (in the case of manna!). Never before had God been so engaged with His people, creating a people from another people for Himself and they couldn't keep their eyes focused.

And the only time Heaven touched earth so profoundly again was when He came down Himself. Signs wonders, light, feedings, dealing with the waves on the sea. There He is again in our midst. Creating a people from another people. Calling us forth from where we've been enslaved. This time it's all about heart. The first circumcision was physical, the next was spiritual. We're set apart, just as the Israelites were, a people for His name. Christ-ones. It's the same story, thought. We're still hard-hearted whiners and complainers, looking for signs and wonders. Personal miracles. "What have you done for me lately?" could be humanity's refrain, sadly.

We're like this with God, and we carry it into our human relationships. Marriages fail at a remarkable rate...(or maybe it's even more terrible because the failure rate is no longer remarkable) because the other doesn't do the wonders for us we expected of them. They aren't who we imagined. He isn't who I want--He's just a man, and too needy, self-involved, too busy, too non-communicative, too unemotional, too...she's SO needy, selfish, demanding, emotional, wants to talk all the time--she isn't who I want. There must be something better out there. But how will that better remain better? How do we learn to stay and be faithful except by being faithful and staying?

Beve isn't always what I want. I could list those "He's too.." myself. I have, in my angry moments. These journals have pages of such words. But if he kept a journal, he'd have a long list, too. A longer list than mine, I am well aware. I know that. The trick is--and it's no simple trick--is not to pay attention to that list at all. That is, to let each thing go each time: that's the battle in marriage.

AND, having a different list kept close, that's important too. As the people of God have always had a list of God's faithfulness right at hand, so I should keep near a list of what I value about Beve. Why I thank God for Him. This list is the antidote for whining and complaining. In our relationships with God, and our relationships with others.

So today, here's my list about Beve:
He has a heart for the hurting
He loves to serve others
He's a great dad, loves his kids and takes time with them
He's an intentional friend
He makes people feel important--in his office, our home, in every conversation
He goes out of his way to help those in need
He's a great counselor--for staff, students, parents, whoever walks through the door
He sees his job as a calling
He's very hardworking
He loves his dad, loves doing and being with him in this season
He likes to bake for others
He likes meaningful conversations
He loves to laugh
He loves dogs
He's a beautiful pray-er

This is the list I need to recite when I itch to pull out my whines and complaints...What Beve has done for me lately is plenty. This list tips me into the thankfulness I need in my marriage. Every time.

Just like we need to recite out list of God's faithfulness when we're in danger of feeling like He hasn't done much for us lately. What He's done for me lately is BE God. Amen.

Buckets of cold water

2011-11-16T12:45:00.001-08:00

Sitting around with a pillow on my lap. I've been down this road before. The surgeon told me the other day that with my gallbladder removal, I've completed the trifecta: my appendix, uterus (and ovaries) and gallbladder are all gone. There's a whole lot of empty space inside my abdomen now, though, thankfully none of these organs are the life-or-death ones.

And that 54 year old gall bladder was due to be removed, it turns out. Well past its prime. Scarred and ugly from a marble-sized stone causing havoc all over the inside. My fine surgeon and the recovery-room nurse were both quite certain that my life will be a whole lot better without that mess inside of me. Looking back on the last several months, even before it really began to cause this final month of rather harrowing pain, I realize that what I thought was stress and anxiety about many things--the elders, my son, even smaller things--was physiological. I kept saying, "My stomach hurts thinking about x!" When really, that dang marble was making my gallbladder actually hurt. For real.

The other side of it, though, is that I've spent the last couple of weeks thinking that something far more deadly was wrong with me. Yep, I'm big on diagnosing myself. Always have been. Frankly, it's one of my biggest weaknesses. So I had just about convinced myself that it wasn't my gallbladder but pancreatic cancer. In my defense, my pain never settled in the right upper quadrant beneath my ribs where the gallbladder resides but was across the top of my abdomen--exactly where the online sites say pancreas pain is. Beyond this, however, I have an aunt who died the day after her first surgery and diagnosis of pancreatic cancer when she was JUST MY AGE! So of course I would be following in Aunt Aureli's footsteps. Right?

This has been the ongoing fear I've been living with for the last few weeks. The haunting that has made me imagine heaven, think of leaving my children before they even marry, leaving Beve before we've ever had the freedom to do anything by ourselves. There's been pain and joy in it all, I have to admit. Half excitement about seeing Jesus, but a whole lot of sadness too.

Then yesterday at the hospital, we talked to our friend the surgeon about my propensity to self-diagnose. Not only did he not tell me I was ridiculous, he said, "I do the same thing. But I see people with serious problems all day every day. So every little twinge I get, I think is some dreadful disease. And I know too much about it." We all laughed then. Most of the time our fears are groundless.

That's the point. Most of the things that trouble our sleep and stir our darkest imaginations are made up of nothing more than sticks and stones and rubber bands. They don't hold up in a stiff wind. That's why God tells us that perfect love casts out fear. It's the places where we don't consider Him first that we fear most. That's the reality, isn't it? Now I don't want to pretend that I will never fear anything again. I know better. I'm not at the 'perfect' place in my life with Him. Nor do I expect to be while this mortal body is my home.

But here's the other part of what fear does. Like a disease it's contagious. I've seen this repeatedly. Beve, who is not naturally a worrier, can become worried by my convincing fears. I'm good at these things. I've infected him more than once. I remember years ago when we were trying to sell our first home. I was panicked because, in my mind, the floor plan was absurdly off-putting to would-be buyers. The one full bath was in an alcove off the living room. Beve had never thought about the floor plan until I began to fixate on it. But once I pointed it out to him, he became completely convinced that we'd never sell that house and couldn't believe we'd even bought a house so badly designed. What had we been thinking?

God sold that house, of course. As He does. But that's how fear works. The germs pass from one person to another and soon it's an epidemic. Playing into the enemy's hands. Scripture tells us to take every thought captive to Christ so that we don't give the enemy an opportunity, or foothold, into our lives. That's what fear does. It gives satan access to us he would not otherwise have. Being reminded of this is an antidote in the post-midnight hours. And we must remind each other as well. Call each other when we slip and allow our minds to run away with us, and fear to creep in.

Two different friends did exactly this for me in the last couple of weeks, throwing buckets of cold water to wake me up to myself. One, a nurse who used to work in oncology, matter-of-factly told me pancreatic cancer does not cause pain. She went to the heart of my fear and pulled the rug out from under it. Thank God for that. The other, face-to-face while we sat at tea, told me to STOP trying to do the doctor's job for him. Told me to stay offline. The end. Later she worried that she'd been too harsh but it was exactly right. Each friend was right. The right words and the right tone--doing the work of the Holy Spirit. And that, my friends, is what we need when we give in to our fears.

Fear will rise again. I know this. But God will also provide ways out. He will win.

What are you afraid of? Ask Him for someone to step in and speak His truth in the face of the enemy's lies. It might be exactly the bucket of cold water you most need.

Ticking all the boxes

2011-11-15T08:00:00.000-08:00

Of all the pieces of my history I've uncovered in the last couple of months, one of the most profound I finally put my hands on this last weekend. I knew it existed, was pretty sure it hadn't been thrown out, have referenced it more than once to my children and other young people. But to see that piece of notebook paper, with my distinctive handwriting in columns on both sides of the page really packed a punch.

You see, it's a list of what I was looking for in a husband. I wrote it November 24, 1978. It was a rather interesting time to have written such a list, because I was already in a relationship. Despite that, I didn't try to govern my deep desires, needs and wishes to the boy I was then dating. This is most clearly apparent in the physical 'requirements' of my longed-for spouse.

On one side of the paper, I divided my list two ways--'Needs' and 'Wants'. Under needs, I wrote:
spiritual leader, wise--a teacher; ministry-oriented, intelligent, conscious of the world, verbose at times (by which I meant relationally communicative), responsible, willing to listen, patient.
Under wants: older, strong and stable (steady), attractive, active athletically, taller than me (taller than my parents), crazy (enjoys fun), affectionate. below this list, I wrote: "Reason to my emotion, rational to my irrationality."

On the other side of the paper, I divided my requirements in three ways: Physically, Intellectually and Spiritually. Physically, I wanted: tall (over 6' feet), good looking (in my opinion), neat smile, blue eyes, lots of hair (not balding), good build (not too fat, thin or muscle-bound)--shoulders, muscles, etc. Athletic. Intellectually, college (and post-college) graduate, world-conscious, deep-thinker, enjoys analogies and communicating about ideas (philosopher), teacher for me (stretches me) enjoys learning new things. Spiritually, walks in the spirit (filled with the Spirit), interested in ministry (even missions), patient, listens to Jesus, a prayer-partner.
Misc.-- good listener, enjoys fun.

What strikes me about this is that that college boyfriend so patently didn't fit this list. But God absolutely paid attention to it. CS Lewis talks about our desires being too weak rather than too strong. And these desires of my heart remind me of this. I was young and earnest about what I wanted in a spouse. And God gave me those things in my husband. He's tall, of course. With blue eyes and so much hair I am jealous of it, is a listener and teacher by profession, crazy-fun yet committed to communication. And he sees his job as the front-lines of ministry...Really, it's as if I was writing a description of Beve when I wrote it. And, some of those qualifications were definitely in response to what that college boyfriend was NOT, from the physical to the intellectual, to the spiritual. The whole thing amazes me. Though it shouldn't. Not when God has a hand in such things.

Beve and I often talk about letting our imaginations run wild with what we expect of God. Trusting Him not only to do the ordinary but the extraordinary. And that's what I'd tell young people when they think of who God might have for them to spend their lives with. Allow Him to help them draw up a description of the person who will most suit them. Then allow Him to produce that person--a person who is already walking around, living life, waiting to be the right person to share their Godly marriage. It's a whole lot easier, of course, to fall into these things, but God wants to share in it. And if we allow it, He'll see to it.

Not only about spouses, of course. This also holds true for careers, children, homes and a host of other things we must choose throughout our lives. Make a list--with Him. Check it twice, then trust Him with it. And prepare yourself to be astonished when He checks every box.

Frankly, I had no idea what God had in mind. And I tried pretty hard to fit Andy into the list. But God was in it. Answering the true cry of my deepest desires. And I thank Him.

And I'm thankful, too, for the bounty of such pieces of my past. I don't take for granted that I've kept such artifacts. The compulsive writer that I am has a huge advantage over most people, so more has been kept than most people would expect. It is well with my soul to remember such things. Encourages and blesses me today. And reminds me to allow God more access to every corner of my life.

A Bible up on my shelf

2011-11-14T16:03:00.001-08:00

So big day tomorrow. I'm no novice at surgery; in fact, this is my eleventh, and finishes what my surgeon calls 'the trifecta' of abdominal surgeries--Appendix at 12, hysterectomy (2006) and now my gallbladder. And with the 3 c-sections for my kids, the scars look like cris-crossing ski-tracks across my belly. Good thing I'm not planning a career as a Sports Illustrated swim-suit model. Sigh.

So as I've been running errands today in preparation for being laid up for a while, I've been thinking about books. But I keep getting stuck on the Bibilical books that have meant the most to me over the last forty years. So today, rather than write about other books, I thought I'd write about scripture.

As you might know, there are many kinds of literature contained in the Bible. And I love all kinds of literature. So I thought I'd choose one book from each of the different sections of scripture. If I were stuck on a desert island (which actually sounds very appealing, at least for a while!), these are the fragments of the Bible I'd find necessary to my health, kind of like my own 'dead sea scrolls', if I could pick and choose.

The Pentateuch: These are the first five books of the Bible--Genesis through Deuteronomy-- and are referred to as 'The law' or 'the law of Moses'. These books hold supreme place for Jews who call them Torah. Honestly, there are great sections in each of the five, though getting through all the rules and regulations of Leviticus and the head counts, etc of Numbers is NOT for the faint of heart. There's Deuteronomy 6, which is so beautiful it takes one's breath away, and the first chapter of Genesis as well as chapter 12, where God calls Abram then gives him the blessing. HOWEVER (drum roll!) Exodus is necessary food for my soul. Chapter three alone where Moses is confronted by a bush on fire, and God who calls him by name. Moses is called to a job, and when he protests, God tells him, "It doesn't matter who you are, it only matters who I AM. And I will be with you." I love this book, and contained within it is the section of scripture which I'd like as my epitaph, "If you are pleased with me, teach me your ways so I may know you and continue to find favor with you..." (33:13)

The Histories: This section starts with Joshua and continues through Esther. The story of the people of Israel from the time they crossed back into the promised land is in these books, spanning hundreds of years of history. These were my favorite portions of the Bible when I was a child, but since I've grown they've become less important to me. I still love the way God speaks through story, however, because after all, God always speaks through story. Doesn't He? And my favorite book of these is 1 Samuel. There's just so much in it--from Hannah's sweating-blood prayer for a child to Samuel choosing David to David and Jonathan's friendship to... well, it reads like a novel with God at the heart of it, and whenever I need a fix of story, I turn to it. Or the sequel, 2 Samuel.

The Poetic and Wisdom Writings: Psalms through Song of Solomon. This is a no-brainer. I need the Psalms. They are daily bread to me. Air to breathe. I could do without a whole lot before I'd do without the Psalms. Learning to read a Psalm a day created a cadence in my life that has served well for a long time. Long before I ever tried it, monks were living via the rhythm of the Psalms. Who am I to mess with something so obviously honored by God? Even on my busiest days, when time is at a premium, there's always time to read a single Psalm.

The Major Prophets: Isaiah, Jeremiah, Lamentations, Ezekiel, Daniel. It's important to know first that these are called 'Major' because they are longer books, not because they are more important prophets. But of these, Isaiah is my 'go-to' book in this section, without a doubt. Isaiah is comprised of three sections and I tend to read 2nd Isaiah most frequently (chapters 40-55) because it has a preponderance of prophecies (how's that for alliteration) about the Messiah. But I love the whole book.

The Minor Prophets: Hosea through Malachi, or all those little books after Daniel. OK, raise a hand if these are the books that you've never read. Do I see a hand? Yep, that's what I thought. These are the ones that are hardest to get through. Oddly, some of these prophets were actually pretty 'major' like Amos and Hosea. I can't say I actually have a favorite whole book among them, but I do like sections of them. And if push comes to shove, I'd pick Habakkuk. Habakkuk is a conversation between the prophet and God. The man complains and God answers. It's gritty and honest but when Habbakuk prays at the end, it's a prayer I've prayed more than once in my life.

"I have heard of your fame; I stand in awe of your deeds, Lord.
Renew them in our day, in our time make them known. In wrath, remember mercy." Habbakuk 3:1-2

OK, that's the Old Testament. You still with me?
So the New.
The Gospels:
JOHN. Obviously. I've written about this about a million times before. Each gospel has something in its favor, of course. Matthew the Jewish gospel, Mark as the story of the deeds, Luke with parable after parable, and the birth story which is so necessary to our understanding of the Incarnation. Still, there's only John for me. I didn't always feel this way. Most of my life I'd have told you Luke, but the prologue, the I AMs, the great prayer. And the scene on the beach after the resurrection. There's something about that moment with Peter that resonates with me so much I come back to it over and over. "Feed my sheep!"

The Epistles of Paul: This is a large unwieldy group. I'd take them all, in a way. And I'm going to cheat. I admit that. I have Philippians memorized, so I don't have to choose it. Otherwise that would be my sentimental choice. There's a strong argument for Romans because of the comprehensive theology in it and 2 Corinthians is a strong contender because of the counter-intuitive sense of what counts in God's economy--the credentials in the Kingdom are considered failures in this world. But in the end, I must choose Ephesians. The prayer in Ephesians 3 knocks me to my knees, and the power of God's armor keeps me on my feet in chapter 6. And between, I learn to walk and live and be a believer. It's right and full and everything about being a believer. THE end.

The general epistles:
Hebrews, James, Peter, John, Jude. Hebrews. Another no-brainer. So much to love in this book. Especially The last few chapters (10-13) especially speak to me. Always have.

The Revelation of John. Yep, love it, hate it, don't understand it, can't quite leave it alone. You know what I mean?

And there you have it. My Biblical favorites at a glance.

One of these days, I'll get around to actually writing about other books. But probably not tomorrow. I'll be busy.

A hierarchy

2011-11-12T11:40:00.001-08:00

It's Saturday. And in our house, if it's fall, Saturday means college football. No matter what other tasks are on our lists, there's a football game in the background. The house my parents built (not literally) when I was in elementary school had an intercom system, so every Saturday afternoon in the autumn when the air was crisp, if our Washington State Cougars were on the road, that intercom was turned on so the game blared through every room in the house. To this day, when I clean bathrooms or vacuum stairs (not that we even have stairs in this house) I expect a football game to be the background noise to my work. Hmm, maybe that's why I don't get to those tasks as often I as should.

Today Beve drove down to Seattle to go to some basketball tournament with E and left me with a couple of boxes of pictures to sort. So I turned on the tv, and began the task. This week, of course, college football has been dominated by off-the-field news. Even if you aren't a sports fan, you have probably heard of the terrible events taking place in College Station, Pennsylvania. Or I should say the revelation of events that have taken place there for who knows how long.

Now I'm not writing this post to weigh in on the actual situation at Penn State. I don't know enough about it. But what has struck me this week is my own visceral reaction to the situation. I've been horrified. As well I should be. We all should be, I suppose. As Beve and I have talked about this, we've talked about the difference between this and other NCAA violations, how those other things seem like nothing in comparison to the egregious criminality of this. I'd be surprised to learn of any who disagree with our feelings about this. Abusing children in contrast to say, giving money to, or making phone-calls to, players? There's no contest.

But here's the thing: it tells me very clearly that despite what I've always said, and despite what scripture might say, I actually do believe some sins are worse than other. I try to pretend this isn't so, but inside I feel it. The difference between a 'white lie' and raping a child? There's a fundamental difference to me. And do I really think I'm no different than someone who murdered 6 million people (and more)? Of course I think I'm not the same as Hitler. I'm certain of that. And I believe that my child who doesn't tell me the truth about hitting her brother isn't the same as a man who is a serial killer.

That's my human, gut reaction. And let's get it on the table, we Christians, that we know this. The rest of the world sees it clearly. Even the smallest child can see the difference between such things... however...

However, those differences aren't the point. The point isn't that there is a qualitative difference in sins, it's that ALL have sinned. And that 'the wages of sin is death.' That's the point. The cost of our sin is separation from God. And this is the heart of the matter. When my children were small, and there was some kind of inferno between them, they were always more than willing--anxious, actually--to tell me what the other had done to cause the fracas. My response in such moments was always exactly the same, "NO, tell me about you!" Tell me what YOU have done. Tell me what YOU did to cause this problem. It doesn't matter what the other person did, what anyone else is doing. Tell me about you.

That's the point of sin. Positionally, all sin is the same. That is, sin separates us from God. Mine does--no matter what it is. And yours does--even if it's less than mine. So each of us has the same responsibility with Him: to get right with Him.

Or, to be made right. That's the other side of the coin, of course. We can't actually 'get right' on our own. We can repent. We must. But we can't clean ourselves. We can't make ourselves righteous. Only the clean can clean us. And the only clean around is HIM. Thankfully, He has made a way to clean us. "He who confesses with his mouth that Jesus is Lord, and believes in her heart that God raised Him from the dead will be saved." Romans 13:9-10
Will be made clean.
And whole. And righteous.
It's that easy.
And that life-changing.

Once more under the knife

2011-11-09T15:17:00.000-08:00

The motto around here lately has been "A crisis a day." And though I have a master's degree in being overly dramatic, this is no exaggeration. Well, maybe just a little one. Anyway, we aren't catching our breath much, I can tell you that. We've just gotten Grampie settled back at home, gotten his assisted living sorted, his medications organized, and now something new pops up.

Actually, it isn't completely new. For the last several weeks, I've had continual pain in my gut, particularly after eating. I saw my doctor about ten days ago, who told me that the MRI done while I was in the hospital in October showed a good sized gall stone, which might be the cause. He wanted to refer me to a surgeon, and I stubbornly agreed to only see the best in town who happens to be an old friend--a man who, with his family, went on a couple of mission trips to Mexico I led six or seven years ago. I love that he loves the Lord, his family and is very good at his job. However, everyone else in town wants him to do their surgeries as well. The 'next available' appointment with him was November 21.

Let me tell you, the ten days since that appointment with my doctor has been pretty hard going. I've tried fat-free foods, no food, the 'gall-bladder diet' and still my gut hurts. Finally I returned to my doctor Monday to see if he could push to get me into see the surgeon sooner. Beve wanted to call the surgeon at home, but I felt uncomfortable about that, since we haven't seen him (or his family) in probably four years. But when I got to the doctor on Monday, I'd lost 6 pounds from my previous visit. That's 6 pounds in a single week. Now that might not seem like much to you, but for a 54 year old, non-active woman, that's a whole lot! It didn't take much convincing for them to try to get me into the surgeon sooner than the 21st. Jodi (my doctor's really fine nurse!) came back into the room while I was still talking with my dr. and said, "Either he or someone from his office will call you in the morning."
"Tell him it's me," I called as she was closing the door.
My doctor said, "They'll know it's you when they see your name." Oh yeah, right. I felt a little foolish. Or a lot.

But I told you I haven't been feeling very well. Anyway, I got in to see him this morning. Before I even got to the appointment, I'd gotten a call to go in to the surgery center to fill out paper work for my upcoming procedure. When Dr VG first came into the room, he said, "Why are we talking about surgery when you haven't even had an ultrasound yet?" But ten minutes later, after listening to my symptoms, and looking at the MRI, he said, "I'm canceling the ultra-sound. There's no reason for it. Let's get this thing out of there."

So Tuesday. In the meantime, I'll hang in there. Breathe in, breathe out. And pay more attention to what I eat than I ever have in my life. Little meals of fruits and vegetables...looking for protein wherever I can find it. Praying through the pain. It's crazy. But hopefully, I'll be better in time to eat a real Thanksgiving dinner.

Between now and then (and even afterwards) how often I post remains to be seen.
I'll let you know.

The best of Jack

2011-11-07T10:08:00.000-08:00

Found in an notebook circa 1995 or so, this vignette:

A moment today...browsing 'Recommended Books' in a small local bookstore, I overheard a man ask, "Do you have anything else by CS Lewis?"
"What are you looking for?" the proprietor asked, leading him to the old standards dressed in their matching covers, Miracles, Problem of Pain, Mere Christianity.
"No, it's a small book of essays."
I couldn't help it, I just couldn't it. "The World's Last Night?"
"Oh, you know Lewis?" The man turned to me.
"I may have more than a few of his books, " I told him.
"It's the one with 'Transposition' in it." he said.
"Oh," I breathed. "The Weight of Glory. I love that."
"YES. I cried the first time I read it," he said.
" I know." I answered." The end is the best thing I've ever read, where it starts-- 'Meanwhile, the cross comes before the crown and tomorrow is a Monday morning...' "
"I know exactly where that is on the page. I can see it." He grinned.
The clerk stared at us and moved to the counter, trying to see if she could order the book.
"It's hard to get," I offered.
"More esoteric than most," said the man. "I'm leaving town. I'll keep looking. Thanks anyway," He said to her. He looked at me. "Nice talking to you. God bless you."
"Yes." I nodded.
"That was amazing," said the clerk.

This is as good a place as any to talk about my favorite books of the single most influential writer of my Christian life. When I was a small child, our grandparents bought our family The Chronicles of Narnia in 1964. These books are hardbound with the original illustrations and have been read and re-read until they are old and broken with love. But oddly, it wasn't until I was in high school and became friends with EE that I even knew CS Lewis had ever written anything else.

But EE lived in a home fairly swamped with books. His house was the house of my dreams. At least all those books were. And once he told me there was more to Lewis than I had known before (I believe it might have been The Screwtape Letters he first mentioned, though it's also possible it was The Space Trilogy or Til We have Faces) I had to get my hands on all books Lewis. Now there are more dedicated CS Lewis shelves in my bookcases than any other authors'. By a country mile. So when I considered writing about the books that have most impacted my walk with Jesus, I realized that I needed to dedicate one entire post to Lewis's writings.

And away we go:
I've divided these into a few categories. And remember, these are just MY favorites. Not a theologians, or heavy-duty scholar, but plain, old me.
1. Of essential importance for every believer:
Mere Christianity--This is like Lewis's book equivalent of Romans, if that makes sense. In his clear, logical way, he makes the case for our faith, then what that means for lives in response. Some people will find him dense and hard. But he's worth the effort. EVERY TIME.
The Screwtape Letters. Absolutely, no question about it. If you have any question about the work of the enemy, you won't after reading Lewis about him. It's chilling and convicting all at once. Easy to read-- like a novel--and hard to walk away from in your brain when you've put it down. Just like it should be. We need books like this to counter what satan (and yes, I realize I didn't capitalize that name--I don't like to give him that honor) wants to do in us. He doesn't want us to think he exists, so Lewis is Holy-Spirit-inspired to help us acknowledge that he does.
God in the Dock--This large book of essays covers such a variety of subjects I've gone to it again and again when I've needed to glean truth, for myself, for something I'm teaching or preaching. I can't begin to list all the subjects. Just check it out yourself.
Many would say The Problem of Pain, Miracles, Abolition of Man also belong in this category. To tell you the truth, I've always had a hard time wading through them. Just being honest.

2.Delectible Delights:
Weight Of Glory--as implied by the scene at the top, I love this little book. The title essay is my all-time favorite thing CS Lewis ever wrote. Bar none. It may be my favorite non-Biblical text ever. If you can find it, it's worth it. Wade through the first part for the last page of that essay and you hit the pay-out of all time. It runs through my head so often you can't imagine. "There are no ordinary people. You have never met a mere mortal..." Powerful and glorious and life-altering in the way we approach our nearest and farthest neighbors.
Letters to Malcolm Chiefly on Prayer--There are nuggets here that will change the way you pray. I promise you.
A Grief Observed--Lewis's raw portrayal of his mourning is a balm when we face our own. It was like a companion when I was stumbling through my own grief after my dad died. I'd read it before with dispassionate interest, but within my own mourning, it was a light. Kept me from thinking I was losing it.
Four Loves--I don't agree with all of his suppositions, particularly about phileo, because he so definitely sounds like the stuffy old Oxford tutor he was, without much interest in relationship that I find most important in life. But there are things in this book that have clarified how my life, particularly when I was trying to understand myself as a young adult. I'd still recommend it to my non-married children and other people grappling with such things.
Surprised by Joy--Lewis' autobiography. WONDERFUL. worth the reading. The moment he comes to Chris--so odd and interesting and surprising you almost miss it.

3.Other worlds:
The Space Trilogy--True confession here. I didn't even manage to read these three books until I got to Regent College in 1997, and had to read the third one, That Hideous Strength for a class. It was tough going at first because I'm not drawn to sci-fi. But the class, the prof, the season perhaps, all combined to make me appreciate it so much I read Out of the Silent Planet and Perelandra, and now love them. But I still say, they're mostly for sci-fi fans. Though wow, what they have to say about our world. Yikes.
Til We have Faces--I should put this on the list, but as I do I realize I need to read it again in order to actually write a synopsis. It's compelling but not for everyone. You might have to like Greek mythology to like it.
Narnia--Duh! I realize that not everyone on this earth likes fantasy or fairy tales, but I'm here to tell you, these are the very most important works of fiction in my life. THE END.

There are books about him on my shelves too. Anthologies, collections of quotes, and all manner of critiques from Narnian studies to books about his friendships, to his diaries and letters. But these should do for today. Enough to get you started if you haven't read him, and to remind you of why you do, if you have.

By the way, he was called Jack from the time he was a very small boy. After all, who would want to be called Clive? Or Clive Staples?

Dinner and dessert

2011-11-05T11:55:00.000-07:00

There must be a time of day when the man who
makes plans forgets his plans,
and acts as if he had no plans at all.

There must be a time of day when the man who has
to speak falls very silent.
And his mind forms no more propositions,
and he asks himself:
Did they have meaning?

There must be a time
when the man of prayer goes to pray
as if it were the first time in his life
he had ever prayed,
when the man of resolutions puts his
resolutions aside
as if they had all been broken,
and he learns a different wisdom;
distinguishing the sun from the moon,
the stars from the darkness,
the sea from the land,
and the night sky from the shoulder of a hill.

This poem, by Thomas Merton, is the best starting place I can imagine for a conversation about devotions, quiet times, or whatever else you might call the time one sets apart from the craziness of life to focus wholly on God. Yesterday I was considering a list I might share of books that have meant much to me over the long years of my walking with Christ and it became clear that before theology or spiritual formation, it was vital to write about devotional reading.

First, a word about Bibles themselves. Since I became a student majoring in Biblical studies in college and the Bible became a textbook, I began using two different Bibles in my daily life. Back then I used two different translations: one for course work and the other for my quiet times. I did this so in an effort to allow the Word and the Incarnate Word to do their living, breathing work in me without my feeling that I needed to focus my reading on the texts I was studying for class. There was a difference in the way I read when I simply read, rather than busy myself with study and reference checking, word studies, following threads of scripture, etc. This rhythm of simply reading has been important to me. These days, I use two different versions of the same translation--Today's New International Version. This is my version of choice for a couple of reasons: I've always liked the NIV. And Gordon Fee, who I know from my Regent College years, was on the committee that helped create TNIV and its gender neutral language. I've heard him speak more than once about the great care they took with every passage ( which reminds me to write about a personal humbling moment regarding this sometime)--preserving the integrity and intent and never changing language simply for the sake of it. So there is no blanket sweep of gender change. I like that. And though I've never had any trouble understanding/seeing myself included in "man" and "he" in scripture, I do find it personally appealing to see the more inclusive "human beings", "people" and "they" in the words used in scripture.

OK, so devotional reading. Devotionals I would define as any book that leads a person to God's presence. There are many different kinds of devotionals. Some are simple meditations, which include a passage of scripture, a thought and a small prayer at the end. Others, like The Book of Common Prayer, are comprehensive ways to study, live and breathe God and the scripture throughout the year. Still others are compilations of writers' words--and these compilations can range from small meditations to complete studies. It is even possible that such things as poetry, hymnbooks and other forms of literature can function as devotional because of how they draw us to seeing Him more clearly.

One way or another I've been using devotionals since I was in college. At least I don't remember using any in high school. The first one I ever had was Streams in the Desert, given as a Christmas gift by a roommate when I was in Oregon. I was shocked by how rich such archaic language and ideas could be, how powerfully they could enhance my times with the Lord. That little volume was the appetizer of my devotional life. Because I'm not a morning person, I've never managed to have the 5 AM quiet times the older saints in my life counseled were best. I used to feel soooooo guilty about this. But it wasn't happening. Not then, not ever. That first little devotional was just enough for the morning. I'd pick it up before I got out of bed (usually about five minutes before I had to leave the room or house), read the passage, ask God to sink it in deep, and be off. But think on it on and off through the day, particularly if it was meaty. It often was. By the time I had my quiet time that night, I'd be full of thoughts and prayers based on that reading (the year I received that volume, I lived in a dorm, and often had my quiet time in my small walk-in closet because my roommate was already asleep by the time I wanted to read and pray--so it really was my prayer closet).

These days I go to my 'prayer closet' (living room couch) in the morning, though still not at 5 AM. And I've used many, many kinds of devotionals in my life. Some have formed the full-meal-deal of my prayer-closet, and others are more like dessert now. Their words are the last ones I read before I get up off the couch and go about my day. They are the great AMEN to that silence with God, and the "be with me in my day" thoughts to draw me in when I'm easily shaken into self.

So here's a list (I couldn't think of all of them, but here are some of the best ones ), divided into two parts, the whole dinner and dessert:
Dinner:
Book of Common Prayer
Celtic Daily Prayer
Devotional Classics
Spiritual Classics
Morning and Evening--Charles Spurgeon

Dessert:
My Utmost for His Highest--Oswald Chambers
Listening to Your Life--Frederick Beuchner
Seize the Day--Deitrich Bonhoeffer (ed. by Charles Rigma)
Diary of Common Prayer--John Baillie
Strength For Today (meditations for the chronically ill)
Praying with Jesus
Praying with Paul
Praying with the Psalms--(all three) Eugene H Peterson
Book of Hours--Rainier Maria Rilke
The Complete Book of Prayer--E M Bounds
Contemplative Prayer--Thomas Merton

Here's the thing: whatever helps. That's the point. ANY book that leads you into His presence and keeps you there until the cares slide away and you can focus on Him is a devotional. But Merton's poem says it perfectly. There should be a time when we lay down our watches and our plans and forget everything but God. And that's what such reading helps.

Humbly marveling

2011-11-03T14:07:00.000-07:00

In the immortal words of the King of Beasts, as He raises his newest cub into the sky above the savannah, "It's the circle of life."
I am well aware that my posts of late have hovered dangerously close to the cliff most people don't wish to step near. But even as Beve and I have set up camp here, we are also surrounded by beloveds among our family and close friends who hover at the other end of that circle, where it all begins.

As I write this, I am thinking of three couples whom I love greatly who are awaiting the birth of their first child. And another whose son has just begun to crawl. Life is burgeoning around us. My siblings are becoming grandparents as are my friends. And it's a wonderful time. This very day, should God choose, a new child might take his first breaths outside the safest place he'll ever be. So I'm thinking particularly of him this day. And of his parents who wait in hope and wonder, and the slightest bit of worry.

The closest moment to that first Christmas morning a woman ever gets is with the birth of her children. We have the rare and wonderful privilege of sharing in Mary's lot. Theologians, of course, point to the travail a woman must go through to birth a child, recognizing that Eve's taking of that fruit resulted in that pain. But there is also the joy of it. Ever since I first felt it, I've believed that the best definition of human joy was the feeling of a baby's kicking in my womb. God chose me--plain, old, ordinary me-- to grow another human being. There isn't a word large enough for how that feels. But that's nothing to the moment of 'first contact'. Of seeing that baby face to face, after only feeling and sensing and being changed by its presence for all those months.

There is hard work in it. A little fear. The whole thing is so unknown, the first time, anyway (but always, in some ways). And a woman, even one with the best support in the world, a husband who can hardly wait to hold that child, one who's longing to be a dad, still has to do much of it on her own. It's the way of things. God set it up that way. He told Eve that as well.

But the promise He gave her, that she'd be saved by that travail, is surely true for each of us who has borne a child. We become something new the moment we become pregnant. From that first moment, never again are we merely our own. Whether we carry the child to term (please God!), or lose it, we are mothers. I believe that. And even when have our bodies back to ourselves and must care for them more intentionally, there's a certain thread mothers feel for our children. For the rest of our lives, we're mothers. Their mothers. Whether we stay home a week, a month or forever, we're mothers. I will never forget watching my grandmother at an unguarded moment before her youngest daughter's memorial service. My grandmother was almost 90, and leaning heavily on her walker gazing at the pictures from my aunt's life that were set up in front of the sanctuary. Grandmomie, normally so in control of her emotions, looked completely shattered by this loss of the second of her four children. She was pure mother in that moment. 'Why, it never changes,' I thought then. It never, ever changes--that thread that connects my beating heart to theirs.

It's a powerful thing, a beautiful, powerful, humbling thing to be a mother.

And a father, too, of course. I know less about that. Only from watching, not from being. But that's exactly what these expectant dads are doing right now, isn't it? Becoming dads by watching, not by being. Not yet, anyway. And that's also what God intended. That their part would be the supportive one. That they'd have to stand at the side and marvel, be humbled by it all. That's a pretty good way to begin, come to think of it. Humbly marveling at what God has done.

It's the circle of life. We wait and watch and marvel, and long for the moment when we get to touch and see and welcome who we've longed for.

I'm praying today for all those who are pregnant with this longing (pregnant means waiting, after all). For the ones who have a mere day or week to wait and those who have several months left. My prayers are that you be filled with awe and wonder and strength and peace and joy.

May you humbly marvel at who you meet on your child's birth-day.

Grateful in the fire

2011-11-02T21:55:00.000-07:00

Spent another day sitting in a hospital room with my father-in-law, answering his looping questions about yesterday, the events of which he has absolutely no recollection. When I told him we were awaiting the results of some tests, he used words like matriculation, accreditation and degree program when next he asked me a question, making it clear he thought that we were in some kind of academic setting and he needed to pass these particular tests in order to get his degree.

But then lunch came--and he was a 'clean-plater-- and he drifted off to one of his many naps of the day. I awakened him because our close friend, Pastor J, had driven up from Marysville. When he walked into the room, I said, "Grampie, look who came to see you." Grampie opened his eyes and said, grinning from ear to ear, "Why JM!" There are a whole lot of cognition problems for Grampie, but in some ways, his memory about the important things hasn't faded one decimal. He hasn't seen JM in quite a while, and didn't know he was coming, but recognized him easily, and was as thrilled as if he'd won the lottery that a busy pastor would make the time to see little old him.

It's exactly what I was saying yesterday. For Grampie, it's all about relationships. It was a great conversation with JM. Grampie told a couple of stories about playing basketball (the new hoops arena at U of Oregon has his name on a wall, and he's proud as punch about that, talks about it as if he helped build the building with his own two hands, which, if you think about it, he kind of did, being an athlete of his caliber back in the 40s), about being in China-India-Burma in WWII.

I told JM how easy it is to be with Grampie because he's so grateful all the time, and he said, "I am grateful." Then he said this, "I've done everything I wanted to do, seen everything I ever wanted to see."

Think about that statement for a moment.

This is a man who is content. You can't ask for a better statement than that. It reminds me of Paul's words in 2 Timothy 4, "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race..." I have always hoped that I will be able to say these words at the end of my life, or my own version of them. And here's the most fascinating part to me. Whenever I think of saying them, I also think a sermon of JM's from the first year we knew JM. I can't remember the whole of it but it has governed a great deal of how I've lived since. It was something about living with the end in mind. What do I want the last thing to be said about me? What will be my legacy? Will honoring Christ be what people know about me?

Because that's what I want. All Him. From this day forward. With the gratefulness I see in my father-in-law, with his sense that there is nothing left to be done when He calls me home. I envy the contentedness I see in him. J observed at lunch that Grampie's son has that same quality in him. It isn't natural to me.

But, what isn't common to man, as Paul puts it, is common to the Holy Spirit. It is the work--the job--to the Holy Spirit to create contentment in a not-naturally-contented person, like me. I learn this at the bedside of my father-in-law.

One of these days, life will slow down for us. And I'll write about other things. Think a little more deeply. But, as I told my son this evening, A crisis day day, seems to be our motto of late. Hang in there with me, k?

And until then, I'll be grateful for each day with Grampie. For this season I'm doing everything God gives me to do. This is what He wants for me.

Another hard one

2011-11-01T22:28:00.000-07:00

This has been a very long week...already. And it's only Tuesday. Wow...what will the rest of the week bring?

Yesterday we moved Grampie back home from the skilled nursing/rehab center where he's been living since he broke his hip on September 10. The process of getting him home has been a full-time job for Beve and Thyrza's daughter (long-distance from Maryland) for the last week, while various agencies, therapists, facilities 'discussed' the best placement for Grampie. We've found it unsettling that most of their concern has not taken into account the most important component of Grampie's life--his relationship with his wife. They've looked his medical status, his cognitive and physical abilities but haven't noticed that any living situation that includes the separation of this happily married and definitely-dependent-on-each-other couple would be deadly to both. So the adult children had to fight for their parents--and did a fine job of it, I must say.

So we got him finally moved home, his living space decluttered enough for the wheelchair he'll be confined in for the remainder of his life, the aides in place...It took us the whole day for the job, but he settled in nicely, was very glad to be home, all smiles and full of the graciousness that epitomizes his life. By the time Beve got home, spoke a couple of words to E (who'd had a long, difficult day of her own), he was ready to crash so he could face today and the trenches of his school job.

My marching orders for this morning were to go over, check on how Grampie's night went, fill his weekly pill container, take over some laundry. I got there about 11:15. Knocked on the door. No answer. Walked in to see Grampie sitting in his wheelchair near the breakfast bar, asleep. Thyrza was in the bathroom. I called to Grampie, which always awakens him. He knows my voice. But he didn't wake up this morning. I walked over, saw that he was drooling, spoke more loudly at him and he still didn't answer. I dropped my bags, shook him and he still didn't move. My heart began pounding. Oh no. Was this it? Was this actually it? I felt his hands. Cool to the touch. His face, warm. His chest, still moving. I didn't check for a pulse, because I have never been able to find one on anyone. But he was still breathing. Thyrza came out of the bathroom. She yelled at him. We pressed the call button and I called Beve, who instantly said he was coming. Thyrza called the desk and said, "He's drooling from his mouth and nose, and someone should come and look at him." Yes, I thought, but those are the secondary issues.

I was slow in deciding about calling 911, because Grampie has been very clear that he doesn't want any extra-ordinary measures. What was right? Really, what would he want? What did God want? But Thyrza was insistent so she called. And very soon the apartment was filled with men and equipment and questions were being asked, and it was very fortunate I'd been there because I could answer them all.

And then Beve walked in, and we all--and I mean even the paramedics--stopped for about 20 seconds to breath a deep sigh when we saw him. Turned and asked him a question only he could answer about Grampie's advanced directive, then they were on their way.

And we spent another long day at the hospital, where Grampie remains tonight. But he came out of whatever that was as quickly as it had come on. A couple of hours later, he was more lucid than he's seemed in months. Perhaps it was the extra oxygen they were giving him. But it was sure nice to be with him, for all that the day dragged and the chairs were hard and we were starving. He's wearing a purple identification bracelet, which is the hospital's way of identifying him as a 'do not resuscitate.'

Tonight we're tired again. Today was not 'It' for Grampie. Not his last day. I didn't walk in to his dying moments, though it surely, surely seemed that way. When we talked about it this afternoon and I told him I'd thought he was dying, he said, "Well, it's going to happen one of these days." He shrugged his shoulders (covered under about 5 warm hospital blankets) and said, "Sorry I scared you, but I worry about this one," and he nodded toward Thyrza. Better me than her to find him, he was saying.

Maybe. But it wasn't a calling I wanted this--or any--day. And it makes me wonder why there was such a pounding fear in facing it. Why the adrenalin was racing, even as my spirit was praying that God's will be done and that I do what was best for Grampie.

Some people are clear about God's will at such moments. I am not. I know death will come for Grampie. I love him deeply, but I know the day of his home-going is in the not-too-distant future. And I also know that will be a day of rejoicing on the other side of the veil. His life has been well-lived, and these last days here much diminished. Just the other day, Beve and I were looking at pictures of Beve's parents' wedding day. Grampie was tall and straight and handsome and full of life that day. Breath-taking were the two of them in their stately elegance. When I imagine him in heaven, when he's taken off this broken down body, I imagine him like that.

It's what I imagine for each of us who love him. Each of us on our best day. That's what we'll look like when we see Him face to face.

For His Name

2011-10-30T22:56:00.000-07:00

Almost as soon as it became apparent that God had come down to earth and made His abode with us, His presence was seen a disgrace to those who didn't understand or believe. Mary was pretty much shown the door of her family home, was practically thrown out of town had not God stepped in and told Joseph to go ahead and marry her. All because of His presence not only in her life but her very body. And while that baby was still so small He was barely able to hold up His head, Mary and Joseph were running for their lives from the persecution that was on its was to Him. He wasn't even a month old and the world was already gunning for Him.

That's how this whole 'following Jesus' started. In disgrace and persecution--at least from the world's point of view.

But somehow, we expect it to be easy to be His followers. We're surprised when people find Christian views offensive and intolerant. When our culture thinks we're too narrow-minded and too-- well, too much of some things and not enough of others. But we should never be surprised that the world doesn't get who He is, and we certainly shouldn't expect the world to understand why His followers act as they do. Why they lay down their nets, walk away from their earthly goods, don't grab and reach and want their own glory. And all those things we choose or don't choose--out of love. The world SHOULD judge us. That is to say, we should be offensive to the world. We should be so different in the way we live and respond to situations that they cannot help but see a difference in our lives. And if we're offensive to others, we're sharing in a blessing that is as old as our very faith itself. If we're disgraced for our beliefs, we share our lot with a long line all the way back to Mary. And if we're persecuted, back to the apostles whose attitude about persecution is astonishing: "They left [the Sandhedrin] rejoicing that they had been counted worthy to suffer for His name." (Acts 5:41)

Think of that--think of rejoicing when you're persecuted. Rejoicing that you share in the sufferings of Christ. This attitude is light years away from how we look at sufferings most of the time. We like to think in terms of metaphors when we think of suffering at all. We don't really want to suppose that we might ACTUALLY be persecuted for our faith, after all. Not really. But if we take the words of the New Testament seriously, if we take the words of the Beatitudes seriously, we must consider it not merely a possibility, but a promise.

"Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad..."

There have been times in my 40 years of walking with Jesus when people have insulted me personally for my beliefs. I've felt hurt, angry and, as I've grown older, sad when this happens. I've sometimes felt judged by misconceptions, if that makes sense. But the truth is, I am not the one who is actually being insulted in these situations. Both the general misconceptions people think about Christ (and His followers) and the specific ones they believe about me are because of HIM, He says in this verse. Then He tells us to rejoice in such things.

This is as counter-intuitive a notion as one could have. Rejoice when one is ridiculed? Be glad when one says all kinds of evil against you? Yes. Yes. Yes. He said He came to bring a sword, and such reactions to His followers, even here in the 'free' west where we will not be martyred for our faith, reminds us of that sword.

"...great is your reward..." Jesus promises. I completely convinced that we already have that reward. We already have what the world wants (even if they don't know it). That joy of ours, that gladness in the face of all that enmity is only possible because we already have that reward. We can't manufacture such joy on our own. It comes because we get, with a lightness of being that comes because the great I AM became a man named Jesus. And now, because we have taken hold of Him who took hold of us, we are aided and abetted in joy--no matter how the world treats us!

Consider yourself worthy the next time someone insults you--for His sake. That we should be so worthy...because what those apostles felt was that each insult, each suffering was a little like what Jesus suffered on our behalf, a suffering that changed everything for them. Perhaps there is no finer moment, no moment of our lives MORE like Him (or more likely to make us like Him) than when we suffer because of and for Him.

Blessed are you...to suffer for His name.

Don't waste it

2011-10-28T14:24:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'll get back to the Beatitudes, but it's been a week since my heart scare so I thought I'd post what I've been pondering in the days since.

I've had a lot of opportunities to tell people about last Friday this week. Phone calls from all over, conversations with nurses, doctors, and even random clerks who had no idea what the answer to their "how are you doing?" would bring.

But a couple of things stand out. One is that everyone is afraid of anything involving the heart. It just seems to scare the bejeebers out of people the moment the story begins. I must be honest, though, and tell you, that the large part of me never actually thought I was in any kind of danger. I just couldn't imagine it. It seemed like a whole lot of hoopla for nothing. Like, what did they mean I couldn't get out of bed to go to the bathroom? Were they kidding me? And why on earth did I need that oxygen in my nose? Seriously, I wasn't that sick, just in a whole lot of pain. People, relax. That was how I was feeling. After all, I'm young. YOUNG.These are common feelings, I've been told. Very common in the situation. And again, I think they are ways God protects us. Every thing seemed so normal at the time, in one way. Beve sending out copious texts, making witty cracks, the nurses commenting that we'd clearly been married a very long time, etc.

When the inevitable questions are asked, like, "Did you think you were going to die? and if so, how did that feel?" my answer is, not exactly. I never actually thought about it that way at all. For one thing, I was in too much pain. I realize that sounds counter-intuitive, but it's just the truth. However, once the pain let up (thanks again, nitro!), a couple of thoughts did cross my mind that were heaven-related. One was the idea that perhaps I'd soon be able to talk to my dad face to face and that we'd get to worship Jesus together. I could even imagine it, with him singing in his slightly-off-key voice. The next thought that came to mind was that this was something I wanted very much. And then the thought that what I wanted very much would be very difficult for my siblings. Yes, my siblings. Not my children or Beve. I think God firmly put a wall around my thoughts and feelings about Beve and our kids because that would have done me in. I could bear to look at the loss I might be for my siblings--and know it as a loss, and even feel it--without it even hurting me. The only way to make sense of these feelings is to understand that God was present. Because thinking about such moments in the abstract has always felt a whole lot sadder than it felt when I was in it. I didn't feel sad, scared or even worried, only aware and even looking forward.

So take heart, friends, the Comforter will be entirely engaged with you when you are in the scariest moments. And I am convinced that when the time comes that He comes calling us to the other side, He will be close to our hearts and never once leave us. He'll be holding our hands all the time. I know that more this week than I did last.

But in the week since, I've been re-energized for life. I don't mean that I'm out running marathons. Actually, I've been as tired as a baby, taking naps each afternoon, recovering slowly but surely. But spiritually there's new life in me. A new sense of presence and passion and... well, and "What do you want to do with this, Lord?" is the way I put it to Him one night in the shower (I don't know about you but I do some of my best praying in the shower, especially when the house is full). His answer was quick and to the point: "Don't waste this!" Don't waste this. He'd done this thing for a reason, and, like with all that He does for us, it's purposeful and meant to extend His Kingdom. Don't waste this.

Now bear with this analogy. This morning I was reminded of some old pictures of my childhood home. There are some taken before it was finished. My siblings and I are climbing on the frame in a few of these pictures. Later the house figures in family photographs for over 32 years. That's how long my mother lived there. Then, because it was too large and full of too many memories, she sold that house. But every time I think of it, am back in town and happen to drive past it, I'm a little sick that someone else lives there. That house still feels like it belongs to our family. Not only was it designed and built for us, but it was lived in and loved by three generations of our family. What has been changed in it actually hurts viscerally. Makes me a little crazy, to tell you the truth, though I know (I'm not stupid!) I have no rights to it now.

What God has been reminding me about my life is exactly this truth. My life is not my own. He designed me. Built me. Created me just as I am for HIS purpose. I am His workmanship, Ephesians says, created for good works. In other words, He lives in this house I call my life. I gave Him that right 40 years ago. And what happened to me last week was His giant wrecking ball on the places that I've tried to create rooms of my own to what belongs to Him. Or put walls up within myself to keep Him out. This is HIS life. Don't waste it. He intends to do something with His life in me, and I'd better be ready.

I don't know what the next phase of my life will look like. I'm still in the pondering mode here. But I am convinced that He will make that as clear as a heart attack (to be punny), but I know this, I'm not going to waste it.

PS. By the way, the new look of the blog is courtesy of my older daughter, though I took the picture one summer evening of our beautiful Bellingham Bay.