covenant child

A baby's first birthday party: an effort by tired adults to commemorate their first year of parenthood. An exercise of celebratory futility as the baby will never remember it and only the true friends and family will even care. A reason to take lots of pictures, while the child will be more interested in what the gifts were wrapped in than the gifts themselves.

Given this attitude, the day I was handed an invitation to the first birthday party of one of my infant preschool students, I immediately dismissed it. Too tired, too busy--I didn't need to work hard to come up with persuading arguments as to why it would be a waste of my time.

Intrigued as I was by the line on the invitation that identified this party as a traditional Korean Dol party, I did not take the time to google it. It then occurred to me one day prior to the RSVP deadline that perhaps the families of these parents would not be able to attend as they may live in Korea, so I figured I would make the effort to show up with the plan of a quick departure.

Though I am usually the only redhead in most of the rooms I walk into, it felt different this time, being one of the few non-Asian guests. Not awkward, but special. I was being included into something far more significant than a baby's birthday party.

What I did not know was that the first birthday for a Korean child is a momentous occasion and can be compared to a Jewish bris without the . . . um . . . unfortunate part, or even a baby baptism or dedication.

A pastor from their Korean church led the prayer in Korean, translating it back into English for the benefit of the few. Bible passages from the book of Luke were read--the part about Simeon holding baby Jesus for the first time, saying that his eyes had seen salvation. "A light to bring revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of Your people Israel," Simeon spoke to God. A covenant child. And this Korean baby boy presented to all those whom had come to bless him was their covenant child. Hope for the future.

Prayers in various languages, perhaps even the tongues of angels, filled the room as we all stood with hands outstretched toward this baby boy. His parents' faces beamed as they stood holding him behind a table decked out with an elaborate fruit arrangement and beautiful cake. The large screen behind them played the recorded first year of his life.

While not intending to impress the people at my table with my chopstick eating skills as we enjoyed an Asian buffet, I knowingly used them at the risk of making a fool of myself in the presence of those who had developed far better skills eating with these sharpened sticks than I would ever have. We would eventually walk back over to the birthday cake table and sing happy birthday. Fortunately the Korean version seemed to match the English syllables, as it did not occur to me that we would be singing even this song differently.

The baby, then dressed in traditional ceremonial Korean attire, was placed at one end of a cloth spread on the floor in the middle of the room. On the other end objects including a judge's gavel, stethoscope, a dollar bill, small basketball, a director's wand, and a pencil were placed. It was the baby's job to crawl toward whatever item he was most attracted to, thereby symbolizing what his life may become. Though his hand touched the stethoscope first, as a couple of women standing near me pointed out, the baby reached out for the ball, perhaps the most familiar of the possible choices.

Celebrating the birth of a baby: so seemingly insignificant and yet what brought the shepherds, the wise men, and anyone else who could make it to a nondescript stable out in the middle of nowhere. A baby whose needs to be held, fed and comforted would far outweigh anything he could offer. A tiny life brought into this world by divine intervention to do great things, as the prophecy had proclaimed.

For unto us a Child is born,
Unto us a Son is given;
And the government will be upon His shoulder.
And His name will be called
Wonderful, Counselor,
Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
[Isaiah 9:6]

A miracle. Brand-new. Filled with possibilities. A covenant child.

WWJD

"What would Jesus do?" is a thought-provoking question tossed about in the last decade or so.  WWJD

The story of how Jesus instructed accusers without sin to cast the first stone at the woman caught in adultery, then wrote in the sand and told her to go away and sin no more, is the type of event that comes to mind when I ponder this question. WWJD--he would remind us that we have ALL sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.

While trying to emphasize to children Jesus' sinless nature, a young boy insisted that Jesus did in fact also fall short of God's glory by expressing anger in the temple and turning over the tables. Apparently this child had been taught that to be angry is a sin, even though it is written that we are allowed to be angry as long as we sin not.

In the book of Proverbs, chapter 6, verses 16 through 19, it is not exactly about anger but a listing of what the Lord hates. Hate is a strong word, abomination equally difficult to accept. And yet, there it is. WWJD

Considering all that seems wrong with the world, I find the list of merely seven traits unsettling in their brevity when sin can take so many turns along its ill-fated way.

16 These six things the Lord hates, Yes, seven are an abomination to Him:

17 A proud look,

     A lying tongue,

    Hands that shed innocent blood,

Having a high opinion of oneself, or being prideful, can lead to many problems; of course, low self-esteem leads to many others. Projecting a haughty demeanor is nothing to be proud of. WWJD--he wants us to know we are all his beloved children.

Telling the truth is sometimes not even encouraged, especially among those who were raised to think that if one cannot say anything nice, one had better not say anything at all. WWJD--he knows us and loves us anyway.

Shedding innocent blood is often interpreted as abortion or going to war, situations that may or may not be preventable. If committing murder in one's heart is as evil as its literal alternative, we may all be guilty. WWJD--he creates in us a clean heart and renews a right spirit.

18 A heart that devises wicked plans,

     Feet that are swift in running to evil,

Premeditated acts of hatred or revenge often backfire. Wanting to give back in kind what one has received will sometimes result in the realization that neither one is doing the right thing. WWJD--he directs one to go to the offended before offering a gift at the altar, and ask forgiveness.

It does not take any time at all to get into trouble. Running to evil is not much of a challenge. So many possibilities; so little time. WWJD--he remains a light in the darkness to brighten our path that will lead us back in the direction he would have us to walk.

19 A false witness who speaks lies,

     And one who sows discord among brethren.

Being a false witness can ruin someone's life either by libel or slander, even though these are hardly chargeable offenses any more. Our word is our bond; our reputation precedes us. Once these are taken away by another's behavior or words, our livelihood hangs in the balance. WWJD--he restores the years that the locusts have eaten, locusts with "bless-your-heart" dripping like honey from their lips.

And last but not least, sowing discord among the brethren--the final abominable act. Just because the Lord sees this particular offense as an abomination does not make it any less prevalent on a Sunday morning. Sowing weeds into a garden would be considered foolish as it makes reaping the harvest more difficult than necessary. Doing the work of the church, the work we are commanded as the arms and feet of Jesus to do, is thwarted when so much time must be spent pulling out that which strangles what is good and noble. WWJD--he gives us his peace, not the peace the world gives: conditional at best and unattainable at worst, but the peace that creates calm in the midst of people who are not. He tells us to love one another as he loves, giving as he gave. Apart from him we can do none of this.

Loving each other is our highest duty, the most important commandment. WWJD--he opens his arms wide for those seeking healing for their hearts--broken by what the Lord hates.

the futility of hope

I do not think anyone who really knows me would ever mistake me for a glass-half-full type of girl.

But every so often I reserve that little bit of hope for something good; a fairy tale ending even though I have told myself a million times not to trust in such foolishness. In spite of what my logical mind tells me, I really do want to click together the heels of some imaginary ruby slippers and be transported to a happier place, knowing all the while I may very well remain in the clutches of wickedness.

I am not a stranger to the duality of God. The idea that Jesus had to die so that I may live forever is not lost on me. Losing one's life to save it. Giving in order to receive. It sometimes leaves me gasping for air as I try to figure out how to live without ever completely falling apart. How I am to have hope knowing that around the next bend absolute tragedy is not only waiting for me, but allowed to happen, becomes an unanswered question I carry around with me. A well-meaning person will then tell me that it all works together for my good. And that I am supposed to be grateful for the valuable lessons this hardship is going out of its way to teach me. With a forced smile, I will pretend to agree, all the while knowing that life is unfair. Everyone knows this.

Sometimes having hope at all seems to be a wasted effort.

It always begins the same way--these situations I find myself in that require me to have hope. I wonder if I am headed in the right direction or am pursuing a worthwhile goal. I make attempts to progress toward this new something and even though I should know better, I try to ignore the potential pitfalls. Maybe THIS time, I tell myself.

Maybe this time the next person whom I call friend will not abandon me. Maybe this next group of people are the ones we will grow old with. Maybe we will learn to trust each other within a faith community, working alongside each other to accomplish something worthwhile. Maybe an apology will be forthcoming and hearts that were once cold and hard will soften enough to make room for reconciliation. Maybe my own heart will not be completely shattered this time.

But I never know what will happen. I am not the one writing the script for an ever-changing cast of characters. I have to choose whether to engage in the life before me or to withdraw from it.

There was a time several years ago when I wondered why I should continue to go to church when I could worship God just fine on my own while walking through the woods or sitting in quiet reflection alone. I could, in fact, often worship better this way. I risked losing a sense of peace every time I walked into a house of worship and was met at the door with an endless list of needs existing in the hearts of all those in the seats. Expectations to participate would overwhelm me as I tried to navigate my way to the altar where I longed to be the kind of person who would sit at the feet of Jesus and learn of him without having all of the busyness cloud my vision.

I did not think I could go through it again: becoming a member of some new family of believers and trying to figure out what role I would play this time; deciding which parts of my story I was willing to tell. Maybe this time . . . .

A sermon about why one needs to go to church is inevitable and as I braced myself for the not-forsaking-the-fellowship part, I received a different message. Instead of something that sounded like a required directive, what I heard felt more like an invitation to a party; a celebration of life. I wasn't being handed a list of do's and don'ts, but was walking through an open door into a more spacious place in which I could find refuge and put down my guard for a few minutes. I could get back in touch with my early spiritual development and find healing. I would look at the stained glass depiction of the life of Jesus with new eyes. And light a candle for those in need, including myself.

Once a need is established, there is an opportunity for hope. If I say I have no need, I lie. But to admit to having a need is to risk not ever having that need met. I had been told that by focusing on the needs of others, my own needs would be satisfied. I wish it worked that way. I would, however, have to do the hard work that is required in seeking healing--not so I could then lead an isolated life, but so I would have something more to offer this community in which I had found myself. Little by little I would be offered new doors to walk through and more hands to hold. Restoration is a beautiful thing.

This time it will be different, I tell myself. This time. But people are still people; unrepentant and unyielding. Promises get broken along with fellowship that once seemed so long-lasting. Some of those previously open doors start to close while others are slammed shut. I see the smugness on the faces of those in my direct line of vision while sitting in a choir loft, another place I never thought I would be. I look to the pews where people I thought I knew used to sit. I consider how to go on from here.

Life happens. We move on for different reasons, but we all have to keep moving. There is no real stillness, at least not in the way I long for it. I am told that comes later, in the eternity that awaits us after this life of failed hope has ended. We will then join hands around an unimaginably large table and prepare to partake of the feast that will be offered to us. Once it begins, there will be no lack of sustenance and all will be fed. And no one will have to rush off to anything else or ever say good-bye. We will all be together. We will no longer need to hope for love, for Love will have found us.

art versus craft

Art: the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.

Craft: an activity involving skill in making things by hand.

Even the definition could persuade one to believe that art is superior to craft. Art is perhaps for those who have developed a taste for the finer things in life. Art is for the sophisticated. Art requires great training to produce it and to interpret its nuanced meanings. It is not common or meant to be accessible to all.

Craft, on the other hand, is for everyone apparently and can be produced by everyone as well. It is usually a three-dimensional object possibly having a useful quality that far outweighs its beauty. It is not one of a kind. It is not special. It is not of great value or worth. And lately I have felt very much a part of this lesser category.

Flash back to a summer day in the year 2006 where I am out walking and having one of my conversations with God. I had just quit my job, having spent the previous five years teaching 5-year-olds at a preschool, wondering what in the world I was doing teaching preschool. Or teaching anything. I was supposed to be a writer. What in the world had happened to me?

So as I'm nearing the street to my house this overwhelming thought forces its way into my mind: make garlands. This was worse than trying to be a teacher because as much as I struggled trying to figure out how to be a teacher, or more specifically, how to be around teachers and work with them, I had no idea what it meant for me to make garlands. And how was making anything going to help me be a writer?  

But then I remembered the story I had written about an old woman making stars with hearts in the middle of them and I decided to follow the instructions of my own writing and made a star just like I had written it into that woman's life. I then made the stars smaller and made hearts with stars in the middle of them and after figuring out the details, produced a garland. I then made another with tiny trees, and cut up an old blanket to make angels. After my application was accepted at the local farmers' market, I set up shop and sold garlands.

I sold boxes and boxes of garlands! I attached the story I had written and soon it had become a gift for many to give and a way for people who were looking for something unique to decorate their homes with handmade art. Or was it a craft? I had not used someone else's idea or pattern but had created my own. I had not copied anyone's design. I was the author of the story that described the ornaments from which these garlands were made. I was the sole creator, the artist.

For years I would be referred to as a crafter and because of the farmer, baker, or crafter designation at the market; I was fine with that. I never compared myself with those who had studied fine arts or had degrees in art. I had been sewing since I was ten years old and learned from my mother. She also taught me to do embroidery and we spent many cold Michigan winters doing crafts inside our warm home. But crafts were usually kits in which we followed instructions and made something like the picture on the box, sort of a paint-by-number type of activity.

But that never satisfied me. I wanted to turn shoe boxes into doll house rooms furnished with empty spools from thread for chairs, cardboard tables, matchbox beds with tiny cloth blankets, and curtains for the windows. I would take scraps of paper and cloth to make whatever I wanted. I would also design clothing for the paper dolls since I would get immediately bored with the small selection available with their perforated edges. I would draw more, make more, create something new and different. I would then write stories so that these paper dolls could do more than just stand around on their tiny cardboard stands. They could live their lives according to my scripts!

Somehow I reasoned that journalism was the course of study I should take since majoring in English meant I would have to be a teacher and that was the one career I never wanted to have. Settling to tell someone else's story seemed to be a good plan though it never really materialized in the way I thought it should. And I was left with the dream of writing stories, while collecting meager paychecks from dead-end jobs.

Still, I did not call myself a writer or an artist for a very long time. When one says she is a writer, the very first question one is asked is: what do you write? When there is no good answer, it is best not to say it. At least by calling myself an artist I could leave it up to the person looking at what I made to decide whether or not it could be called art.  

And so it has gone, for the past eight years.

Recently I found out about an arts and crafts cooperative calling itself a gallery and looking for guest artists to rent shelf space. When my application was accepted I felt like I had become successful as an artist. Being in a gallery would give what I made more value and worth than it would otherwise have. I could tell my friends that my ART was in a GALLERY. No more would I have to say that I was a crafter.

But business has been slow and whether I am an artist or a crafter, I will not likely break even for the first time since I started selling my wares. Life at the farmers' market is not much better. Neither place has gone out of their way to photograph or advertise my work and there remains that nagging voice inside my head repeating the same thing it has said to me ever since I was a child: you are a writer. Write.

I do write. I am writing now. I write prayers for my church. I think about self-publishing quite often. I wonder how I could incorporate my art with my writing. And how I can accomplish all of this in the midst of my part-time job back at the preschool where I now feel that each day spent with a baby is more like an immeasurable gift from God, than a waste of my life.  

I have reached that certain age when I no longer need to prove myself, even though I still sometimes fall into that ditch of approval-seeking behavior. Whether or not I have been slighted by those around me in reference to my work need not worry me. I know who I am.

I am a writer.

thank you Christian Wiman

In the midst of struggle, I often turn to books. Talking to friends and family can be somewhat helpful but sometimes I need to enter into the life of another as page after page allows me to tag along for the journey. I like to read the unvarnished truth--the words the author may or may not say out loud to his own friends and family. I am forever in search of truth.

If you have read the blog post previous to this one about my health issues, my need for answers predominates the discussion. What lurks between the lines is my need for someone to walk with me through the valley of the shadow of death, and I was fortunate to find Christian Wiman, author of My Bright Abyss. Wiman has no idea of my existence and we are not friends in any sense of the word. But he has been with me as of late, encouraging me with the starkness of views about his life with cancer, his impending death, and how the Creator of the Universe figures into the equation. As I was hanging onto his every word, feeling inspired, crying along with his revelations of truth, my attention is now shifting away from the contemplation of death--as my death sentence was premature--and I am feeling pangs of guilt, leaving him behind.

It seems odd to me how I can arrange my thought processes to reflect whatever truth I choose to believe. And then, whether conscious of this or not, I go about finding others who are willing to agree with me. It validates me to come across sentences like, "Faith steals upon you like dew: some days you wake and it is there. And like dew, it gets burned off in the rising sun of anxieties, ambition, distractions," written by Wiman, and say to myself--yes, it is ok for faith to waiver like mine just has. It is not my faith in God that has come into question, however, but my faith in thinking I know what God is up to. To me it is not the same. God's existence is absolute and his love for me eternal. That does not mean he is going to grant me my wishes, answer my prayers the way in which I have carefully laid them before him with that intention in mind, or even that good things will happen--what I may consider good anyway. God is God. He can do or not do whatever it is an Almighty being would choose to do. How I deal with it is up to me.

So when Wiman suggests that faith gets "burned off in the rising sun" of whatever life throws in my direction, I know what he is talking about. Faith is not needed when the check is ready to clear the bank. Faith is needed when the check is not forthcoming and the calls from the collection agencies start to show up on the answering machine. Faith is not that all is well. Faith is having a sneaking suspicion that all is definitely not well but in time it will be. The big question is when. Does the bottom have to fall out of everything first? Answer: maybe. Will it mean that God does not care? Answer: no. Does God caring have anything to do with the prayers that need to be answered this week? Sort of. He cares. He provides. He will listen to anything I have to say. But like a small child forming her chubby little hand into a fist to say, "No! I won't!" to a parent who has insight into life the toddler lacks, so goes my relationship with God. It is not for me to know but to trust. It is not easy.

When I thought my own demise was near, I started to take on a different point of view. The future looks different when there may not be one. Each day takes on greater significance. A bite of food is savored when the thought of not being able to taste it is introduced. The need to write and use one's gifts move to the forefront as the thought of being silenced once and for all comes into play.

But death will meet us someday. It is part of the script we all live out. Like William Shakespeare said, "All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances . . . ."  Of this one thing we can be certain. Knowing how and when is the secret. Someone dying of cancer can pretty well figure it out. And though he can be seen as brave, I have no doubt there are days when Wiman resists that description and is even mocked by it. Could he trade in the bravery and get his life back? he may wonder. What is so great about being brave anyway? And who gets to decide if someone is brave or whether hidden tears and an underlying fear come to define the person when no one is around.

We want people to be our role models and show us how to believe and the appropriate ways to handle various situations. Wiman's dying is palatable through his book. He makes it seem doable. But he also includes in the writing that years have gone by since a paragraph was penned, inviting one into the depth of pain and frustration a writer must feel as he is searching for words to explain his condition while it is deteriorating rapidly. The platitudes fall away, Christian or otherwise. The trite phrases about God, his healing, his mercy, all take on sinister overtones to the person planning his own funeral. Life exists until death takes it. It is not for the one looking in from the outside to even know what it is like and certainly not to make any kind of judgment. It is a solo journey and yet God accompanies the one who can still reach out. But as I discovered in my brief adventure toward this end, it is God who lifts my hand to hold his. I cannot not even do that much myself.

So thank you Christian Wiman. For sharing your heart poetically and honestly in a beautifully written book that has inspired me. For not hiding behind words but allowing them to draw out your truth, as raw and unforgiving as that is. For living out the role you never meant to be cast in. And for the perseverance it has taken to assign words to the unspeakable; a quiet commentary on that which most would rather not consider.

"My God my bright abyss
into which all my longing will not go
once more I come to the edge of all I know
and believing nothing believe in this."

--Christian Wiman, 2013, My Bright Abyss, Meditation of a Modern Believer

to be normal again

"So, you have tested positive for lupus," she said matter-of-factly--this woman about my age looking intently at her laptop, as we sat together as strangers in a tiny room with a couple of chairs and an examination table.

"But I was told by my general practitioner that I had Sjogren's Syndrome," was my protest, which was not exactly true because I had not heard the news from my doctor but from his assistant who called and rather nonchalantly mentioned I now had an incurable, chronic disease. This new doctor, a rheumatologist to which I had been referred, must have sensed my rising panic, especially since she was telling me I now had two incurable, chronic diseases, and instead of entertaining any of the questions that I had almost a month to formulate, said we would talk after further lab tests, x-rays, urine specimens and whatever else were thoroughly evaluated. In other words, I would be waiting another three weeks.

How I arrived at this place in life is still somewhat of a mystery. About a year ago I started to feel worn out and attributed it to the schedule I was on: following my boys in all of their sporting and musical events; working a part-time job while keeping an art business going; and volunteering to be on three boards with regular meetings and expectations. Eating right, sleeping enough hours and exercising regularly sometimes are not at the forefront of one's life when so many immediate needs present themselves. I did what I could to keep up.

Sometime last October I developed a toothache like none other and on Halloween I was treated to my first root canal--a trick, not a treat. Still not feeling my best I figured my hypothyroidism was acting up--a chronic condition I have been dealing with for the past ten years. There also loomed before me the dreaded menopause with all of the changes that accompany it. So many reasons to not feel great and yet no clear answers.

Six months after the first root canal it was apparent that my tooth had become infected so root canal number two was scheduled. A couple of weeks later came root canal number three, technically more of a repair--all on the same tooth, the one that meets the other tooth that allows my open bite mouth to chew food. After over fifty years of use, maybe the orthodontist I saw when I was 16 was right when he predicted I would be gumming my food by the time I was 40. The idea of braces at the time would have affected my flute playing which caused me great angst and my parents were not eager to spend the money, especially when fixing an open bite is not guaranteed. So I continued to go on not being able to chew correctly and not worrying about it.

Trying to make it through my son's senior year began to feel like a death march and by the time our college-aged son had returned home to take over the front room and half the dining room table, I was ready to give in to the clutter and seek to find rest instead of fighting a losing battle to keep the house in any kind of orderly fashion. Hoping to restart a regular exercise regimen to try to regain my strength was a short-lived hope as my husband found a summer job and my son decided to take summer classes, leaving me with no transportation to the gym. I ran until it was too hot outside and tried to get to the pool whenever I could, but the fatigue and joint pain just got worse.

By this point my endocrinologist intervened, taking me off the natural hormone I need to regulate my metabolism and prescribed a synthetic one. I was in too much of a fog by that point to understand what it was he was doing--until the bottom nearly fell out of my life. I no longer could sleep and would cry uncontrollably with little or no provocation. I gained 10 pounds in one month. Depression, a symptom of inadequately treated hypothyroidism, spiraled me to a level I had not before reached. I was becoming someone I was not meant to be, I explained, as I told my doctor I would not be taking any more synthetic hormones. Ever. But the numbers are normal, he explained. I, however, was not.

I began to wonder if this pain I was in was real or imagined. I do not want to be sick. I want to go running. I want to lose weight. I want to have an overall sense of well-being. I am not depressed. Though I do not tend to have the most cheery of dispositions, I am a writer so that is to be expected. This is what I kept telling myself. Whenever I tried to pray, I cried. I had no words that could adequately explain what it was I was hoping for. Whatever it was, I certainly did not think it would be chronic diseases that would perhaps eventually take away my ability to use the very gifts God has given me. I felt like life as I knew it was ending ever so gradually.

Last Tuesday I went back to receive the final diagnosis from the rheumatologist. I was bracing myself for anything from lupus to lymphoma. What is the worst that can happen? I asked myself. Well, I could die. No, I decided, that would not be the worst. The worst would be living with a chronic, debilitating disease that would shut down the reasons for joy in this life. Having people tell me I am brave after I would learn to withhold my emotions so they would not see me feeling desperate, was not something I was looking forward to. Explaining to my friends and loved ones that the woman they once knew no longer exists was something else that burdened me as I am usually the one others turn to for bearing their burdens. It is what it is. I sat waiting with my throbbing head, having scheduled another root canal.

"You do not have lupus and the only test that showed any abnormality was for Sjogren's and it was so slight, I am not diagnosing you with that either," she said. What?! Though I was excited for this good news, I also reminded myself that this is specifically why I am not fond of the medical community. For almost two months I have been on death row, in my mind. I have walked myself through all sorts of scenarios, none of them particularly heroic or brave. I have cried out to God and have had times of silence wondering what I would do if. Nevertheless, I was not abandoned and at times I felt the Spirit of God embracing me in ways more powerfully than I have ever experienced. Contemplating an eternity in heaven is not all that scary. It is the process it takes to get there that gives one pause.

Instead of a fourth root canal, the dentist performed an apicoectomy in which the infected roots are cut from the tooth and the tooth magically continues to stay in my head, or at least that is the plan for now. My mouth hurts and my lip is swollen. I took the day off to gather my thoughts, prepare for a meeting and hopefully do some sewing as the holiday season will soon be upon us. My dentist said that a chronic fatigue condition sometimes develops when a tooth remains infected over a period of time. My health may yet prevail. Or at least maybe I can find a way to make peace with a new kind of normal.

ready or not

Slowly, working my way through the expected recitation of numbers, 98 . . . 99 . . . 100, I would then yell out, "Ready or not, here I come" and begin to look for all those who had found a place to hide.

The best place for hide and seek was Grandma's barn since by the time my sisters, cousins and I were old enough to be allowed the freedom to explore outside of the house, there were no more horses or any other animals making their home there. A chute where hay could be dropped into a stall became a passageway we would learn to maneuver as well as the ladder that led to the hay loft. A big, old barn can provide hours of fun for those able to create the right game. There was no better place to hide or to seek.

We naturally divided up into teams and even though I can admit to the unfairness of this now, my cousin, Michael, and I were the oldest so we would choose to work together to outsmart the younger ones and win every time. We were in charge. We created a version of the game and made up the rules to suit ourselves. The younger children would follow us and try to keep up even though we were always dodging them.

It seemed that each time we had figured out a new twist to the game that would make it even more challenging, and we would have barely worked out the finer points of this new, improved version, the unmistakable sound of my mother's voice, calling us back into the old farmhouse of her youth, would echo through our made-up world and we would have to reveal our hiding places and go home.

There was always the hope that we would come back and it would be better the next time. I remember waiting for that to happen. But then came the day of the auction when everything of value was sold. Eventually the house my mother grew up in became someone else's home. My last memory was finally getting to go into the attic and playing with what would have been considered antique toys even then--the kind that were made out of metal and wood and required imagination, not batteries.

We would take a drive out on the dirt roads by the old house whenever my mother felt like reminiscing, but someone either was not careful in the kitchen or the house was struck by lightning. In any case, it burned to the ground. Michael, the cousin I most looked forward to seeing at my mother's family gatherings, died too young.

To make the discovery of whatever it is that makes my heart sing is a glorious feeling. At last, I have found something I can put all my energy into, I tell myself. From this point on, I have a new goal, a new outlook on life, a new calling. I see life in a whole new way. It transcends words shining through my smile and my near-sighted eyes. Feeling more powerful I take up running again. I make an effort to reveal my heart to prospective friends. I tell myself it is going to be different this time. From now on.

It is then my natural inclination to try to hold onto this feeling, this hope, this dream as tightly as I can for fear that it will get away from me like a balloon filled with helium whose tiny string playfully slips through my fingers. I make a mad scramble to hang on with everything I have got. And then it is gone.

I think about the once-in-a-lifetime occasions that I did not figure out how to do until they were over. The less significant events like having an epiphany on the way to turning in a research paper, suddenly knowing that I had completely missed the point of the assignment, but now possessed the insight I would not have an opportunity to expound upon pales in comparison to details missed on the morning of my wedding, or what I should have done differently in the process of giving birth. I knew how to get better grades in school after I graduated with a grade point average that did not reflect my ability. Likewise I knew how to put on a wedding by the time ours was over and had finally learned the most efficient way of pushing out a baby by the time we were done adding children to our family.

It is only rarely in life that I have had the presence of mind to understand what is happening while it is going on. And sometimes right in the midst of life going well, I have had the sense that because I am doing what I love it is only logical that this could go on forever. And should. But it doesn't. Something happens. People change their minds. Unexpected scenarios rear their ugly head. The ladder that appeared so sturdy has broken rungs.

And I, like my nine-year-old self, am left standing in an old empty barn as the sun is setting and the wind turns cold. Not wanting to leave the game that had gone on seamlessly for hours, I walk slowly into the house to get ready to go back to the reality of a working farm, where I spend a great deal of time in the house to avoid getting sunburned or breaking out in a rash from the fertilizer.

There I find a different hiding spot and resume my adventures in my books.

taking the time

A friend stopped by to see me while I was selling my wares at our local farmers' market on Saturday. Though I get a lot of sewing done while I sit behind my table, when I am not reading, of course, I am open to conversation whenever it comes my way--with vendors at nearby tables, curious passersby, and especially friends.

This particular friend wanted me to know of her intentionality to see me, as she shared a sad story of how she kept putting off seeing another friend until one day she was told of that friend's death. We are only middle-aged. Our friends are not supposed to be dying yet, but sometimes they do. This friend of hers had run a store and every time my friend would pass it, she would make that mental note: I'll stop next time. When there is no next time, it makes one realize that if there is a second chance, take it.

Friendship does not require as much as some may think. A few well-chosen words, a smile, a warm embrace, are enough to move a stranger toward the friendship category. There are, of course, acquaintances: those to whom we express the pleasantries of the day by remarking how beautiful the weather is, but unless an effort is made to break through into a more intimate exchange of information, a smile and a nod may be as far as it goes.

Taking the time for someone is to show that person respect. It is to say--I care about you, tell me what is going on. It does not require a great deal of time or money. The visits can be short and not terribly emotional or even that deep. When someone wants to take the time for another it can be as simple as having a cup of coffee together, sitting in chairs talking, taking a walk, even emailing or texting can create a little closeness in the midst of the busyness of life. I value my time, what precious little of it there is. Therefore, when I give it up for someone I care about, I show that person that he or she matters to me.

Taking the time to reconnect with someone is easier said than done. We all have schedules, deadlines and more work than we ever seem to have time to accomplish. Though we may desire to get together with friends, this idea takes its place in a long line of necessary ways to spend a day. A friend asked me recently if I ever had a conversation on the phone anymore. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I have never enjoyed speaking on the phone so I do not miss it, but no, like my busy friend, we are fortunate if we can answer an email or a text. We do not have the luxury of talking on the phone, unless we are already doing something else.

I have walked into a nursing home a couple of times recently to visit the relative of a friend. I was told she would not know me, but she never really knew me to begin with so it does not make a difference. She answers questions I do not ask and makes statements that do not make sense to me but does so with a smile and a sweetness of demeanor. She was once a brilliant, beautiful woman, I am quite certain, and though it is terrible watching someone deteriorate, this is the way she will live out her days until she goes on to glory, and there is nothing anyone can do about that. Giving her a few minutes of time here and there is all that is left to do.

Lord of the Rings readers will remember Gandalf's comforting words to Frodo, who was expressing regret over what had happened. "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."  We make the best decisions we can at the time, never knowing what the future will hold. Taking the time to do a kind gesture for someone is its own reward. There are no promises, no regrets--only choices.

As I went down my mental checklist the other day to try to remember everything I needed to do, I suddenly became aware of my mother's upcoming surgery and realized I had not called her, the one phone call I still make somewhat regularly. By the time I got around to it she and my dad were in the car on the way to the hospital. I was relieved that I had not missed the opportunity to spend a few moments talking with her about her health issues and reasons for medical intervention. She would talk until they reached the rest area, reminding me that her recovery may be long and she will not be able to talk for awhile. By the time we said good-bye I was already placing her in the doctor's care and into God's hands.

It is that way with me every time someone leaves this house. It is my practice to walk to the back steps and wave good-bye. In case anything keeps them from returning home, I need to know that there was a little bit of closure. I am even like that at work. I start my day with greetings and end with brief farewells. It is important for me to take the time to manage my life in this way. It is more intentional even though we are not in control of the outcome.

The friend who came to the market to see me bought a little pillow I had made with the letters l-o-v-e sewn on it from a scrap of red taffeta. I remember thinking that fabric would have made a great retro prom dress. The other fabric used for the pillow was found on a bolt at the Salvation Army and has sparkling birds among its designs. It looks like it would upholster something--maybe a small chair. My friend said it would match her bedroom. I think it matched what was going on in her heart.

in my Birkenstocks

It is impossible to know what is going on in the mind and the heart of another. Even if someone chooses to share this information with me, there are too many variables to ever get it exactly right.

So we make assumptions about each other. He is yawning; he must be tired or bored. She curled her hair; maybe she needs attention. He is dressed nicer than usual; perhaps he is trying to make a good impression. Her eyes are red; she is either suffering from allergies or has been crying.

We can appear as though life is great. Our clothes are clean and we have paid attention to coordinating them in appropriate ways. Basic hygiene goes a long way in allaying the fears of the observant. Looks good + smells good = must be ok.

Recently I have learned that a prayer request means praying for the needs of another and not yourself. This is easy. It also deflects attention if your personal prayer request would not be accepted or understood. It isn't that anyone wants to judge. It is just that there is often not enough time to thoroughly explain. Nothing feels worse than to have something major diminished by a quick, dismissive prayer, equating it to some triviality in life. If I have trivial prayer needs, I must be thought of as a pretty shallow person, I tell myself, as I realize it is too late to take back my prayer request. Never mind, I want to say, don't trouble yourself with it. God has got this one.

It takes discernment to know who is able to handle what is really going on in my life. Some just do not have the capacity for such truths. I do not like to share my "stuff" if it will turn into the only thing brought up each time I make contact with the person--kind of like it was when I was pregnant. I started off wanting to share the news with the world and could not wait until I grew into my new maternity clothes. My baby bump filled me with unimaginable joy, but as time went by I would be asked the same questions, over and over . . . for months. When are you due? How is your pregnancy going? Are you excited about the baby? And on and on it would go. I would long for someone to remember who I was apart from the upcoming blessed event. I was relieved when my doctor referred to the baby as a parasite since I had secretly been feeling like the host it was feeding on and wondering if that would make me an unfit mother. Apparently all that science fiction I had exposed myself to had few deleterious effects on the actual child rearing, or at least that is what I would like to believe.

Once the baby was born, the conversation could revolve around the child. Sometimes it still does. How are your kids? Your husband? Your dog? And then the conversation is over and I wonder what happened to inquiring about me. I make a mental note not to bring that issue up as a prayer request.

Of course I often do not completely share what it is that is going on with me. In fact it would be more accurate to say that I never do. This is not to indicate that I have no friends because I do--some really good ones. I have friends I have known for years and some I have known for only a short time. Some are people of faith; some may never believe as I do. Aside from all of that, there exists a gap in understanding, as it exists with everyone. We each have a unique perspective, an individual bent, and our own cumulative experiences that form us into who we are.

Because I am a writer, I have this whole inner life filled with possible scenarios, scripted with characters playing varying roles. Like imaginary friends pouring their hearts out to me, I have non-stop thought processes going on in my head. Need time alone? Even when I am alone, I am not alone. I know the voices of the actors in my play are all mine so I do not need to worry about passing a psychiatric evaluation, though I will not be taking one any time soon just in case.

There also exists the spiritual component which is a voice different from my own. It is the impetus to put certain words together to form poetry. I obey, usually, knowing that at some point the words will reduce me to tears thus verifying their supernatural origin. This is what I love about writing AND about having a relationship with the Almighty. I also love the fact that if I do not feel like saying anything, my deepest needs are already heard and answers are forthcoming. Well, sometimes not exactly the answers I am looking for, but at least an acknowledgement that I have been listened to.

Maybe this is why I grow impatient with the whole sharing-my-needs-with-others idea. It requires a great deal of effort often resulting in misunderstandings. It is my hope to present myself the way I want to be and honestly ask for prayer regarding those needs that are beyond my reach of fixing. I long to be understood by others in the same way that God understands me and it is just not possible. Good attempts are made when I will allow for them. Love is given and received. There is only one reason why I cannot be fully known by another.

It is because the only one who walks in my Birkenstocks is me.

I have decided . . .

I went to church today with a tray full of cookies and a heart full of hope. The cookies, my signature recipe of molasses cookies made into sandwich cookies with the butter cream frosting in the middle, are the now expected item I bring to covered dish events, in this case the luncheon after the church service. The open, expectant heart is how I live on my good days.

As a member of the choir I needed to take my tray to the fellowship hall as quickly as I could walk downstairs so I could get to the music room, while having a delightful conversation with a woman I often sit by in choir about the delicious meat we were served at the pig pickin' the night before. Finding my seat in the choir loft I began to adhere my page stickers onto the pages of songs selected for service designated in the bulletin. We would then have a short rehearsal and stop in time for me to make a brief visit to the ladies room and even get a quick drink of juice.

Walking back into the sanctuary as the pews began to fill I noticed a woman lighting a candle, pausing momentarily to remember someone. Though I wanted to do the same without any specific intention in mind, I decided not to intrude on her prayer so I went on to my place.

Sitting in the choir I am surrounded by a musical family. We all sing our parts and though some of us do not always hit the right notes, our hearts are in the right place. We sing in unison; we sing in harmonies. We sing together to lead the rest of the congregation into the worship of God.

At some point in the service as the guest pastor was illustrating the gospel of Mark and telling us to listen to Jesus, I felt this overwhelming presence near me, around me, over me, within me. It was not of my own doing as I try not to draw attention to myself, especially when I am sitting in front of the entire church. I was grateful that the communion table had been lifted up to the higher step to serve as a wall of partition just in case I were to become emotional. It was more than a feeling, however, or even an emotional moment. It was exactly where God knew I would be, waiting for inspiration, hoping for a word from him. It was time for our divine appointment.

And just like that, this rush of words came at me saying, "Why is it so hard for you to trust me?"

After all of these years, I thought this was the sort of thing he was going to finally explain to me and not the other way around!

My mind went into overdrive as I contemplated to what the Creator of the Universe could possibly be referring? But I knew. Before him were laid bare: my thoughts, my concerns, my worries, my issues. Countless sleepless nights have been the norm as of late. Unclear focus has kept me from finding healing through the expression of my thoughts in words.Trapped in a purgatory of unfinished sentences, incomplete ideas and random emotional outbursts, I had not been fully aware of how much could be attributed to physical phenomena, what part has been an emotional burden for me to bear and where the Spirit of God fits in. Waiting, I had hoped the numbness that was eventually creeping in would not come to redefine my spiritual path.  

I have seen the provision of the Lord so many times in so many miraculous ways I have no right to question. But I do. My oldest son is in his final year of college and will graduate debt-free because he was accepted into a program that has provided for his financial need. My middle son is rejoicing as he is being accepted as a musician and a runner at the beginning of his college education, also receiving a generous amount of aid to pay his bills. And my youngest son, who has been on my heart a lot lately, went forward to light his own candle today while my husband sat in the pew, tired yet happy in his new job--a position offered to him on the very day that his current position was suddenly in transition.

With my family in good shape, my mind wandered to the condition of my church family. Can I trust God with them? The guest pastor said, "The way you love your neighbor is the way you love God. The way you love God is the way you love your neighbor." Are we as a congregation loving each other well? How can anyone say he loves God whom he does not see when he does not love his brother who is standing right beside him? I've read this in the Bible long enough to know God is not calling us to do something impossible. He is asking us to love him so he can teach us how to love each other. We can love because of the love he puts in our hearts. We can only come up with so much on our own. The truest, purest love originates from him. It is for us to wait and to pray that he can find room in our hearts to contain the kind of love this world needs. He loves through us, loving us in the process.

Becoming an elder has enlarged my heart and has made me more capable to love. I am not the same person. And yet there it is--my ability to trust--being called into question . . . again. And for good reason.

I always thought it was hard for me to trust because of the disappointments in life. When people who are supposed to be trustworthy are not, trusting is a hard lesson to hold onto. But sitting there in my choir loft chair surrounded by the people of God, I knew without a doubt that whatever happens next has no bearing on whether or not I am to trust God. Trusting God stands alone, apart from me.

But what about how I want certain things to turn out? Decisions going the way I want them to? People rising to a standard I want them at? What about what I want? Oh.

This is not blind faith. It is a well-informed decision to listen to a Messiah who has my best interests in mind. And regardless of whether I have some really great ideas about how to run things, I AM NOT IN CHARGE. To try to take what God has not given--namely his authority--is to run the risk of being on the outside looking in. It is to strive for peace but never achieve any. It is to be constantly considering the possibilities instead of letting go of the outcome. It takes away the peace because the constant search of the understanding gets in the way.

Breathing deeply and trying to wipe away the tears quickly so no one would see, I finished out the service by singing very appropriately, "We shall go out with joy and be led forth with peace." I felt like I wanted to embrace everyone and love even the most unlovable. I wanted to greet the members of this church family God has given me, holding them close to my heart. I want to trust that God knows what he is doing.

country roads, take me home

On the second day of the fourteen-hour journey northward, we cross into the county where I am from. Exiting off the highway, I search for the familiar. The only constant is change. Not remembering exactly what the landscape used to look like, I knew it had been different from what we passed on the road. Trees are bigger or missing altogether. Houses are in new places; some of the old ones are abandoned. Coming up to the corner I always expect to see the old church, even though I know it was moved to the historic district in town many years ago.

The stretch of land etched indelibly in my mind is what comes into view after rounding the final turn. Fields that have produced different crops over the years roll up against the base of the big hill. What once served as a place for little girls to slide down on their sleds in the winter is covered with trees--the tree I used to sit in, among them.

The barn, milking parlor and silos rest silently in the cool breeze after decades of use. A cooling pad for tanks of cherries is a reminder of the busy days of summer when trucks would bring the newly shaken cherries back from the orchard to soak in cold water before rushing them off to the processing plant. The best cherries I would ever eat were at the end of the drive-way where all I had to do was scoop some into a bowl to make a pie.

Old buildings that once housed families who came to help with the harvest have been torn down. A larger storage building replaced one of them while the other exists only in the step-by-step pictures taken to document the time I painted a flag on the door for a school project. A corn field takes over the place where the garden was once planted, and the rest of the yard is grass with trees that are bigger than I remembered.

The embroidered picture of the farm that I made still hangs on the living room wall; the picture of my sister and I playing a piano duet in the stairway. The door to my room is closed and though I know it has become the laundry room I want to open it to find my twin bed up against one wall with my sister's against the other, our green bedspreads neatly made and floral curtains on the windows; the shelves filled with our treasures. The trunk that contained my letters and journals is the only piece of furniture that went with me out into the world.

Taking the back way up to see my sister is like following an ancient map using landmarks as road signs. Turn at the house where so-and-so used to live and continue on the paved road even though the dirt road provides a more direct route.  Go past the tavern that is further out in the middle of nowhere and keep heading north. Each small town heralds travelers in its own special way as we catch a glimpse of how life is lived there. I keep reminding myself that as beautiful as all of the flowers are, most of these places are thrust into a deep freeze for many months each year and though they may host visitors in the summer, in the winter they become ghost towns for the locals who are used to the hardship of prolonged cold.

Reunions with relatives and friends require the energy to tell life events quickly and convincingly enough so that questions do not persist. To account for decades of life is an onerous task. I can barely comprehend that so much time has passed. It is my story and I can tell it any way I want, and yet words seem inadequate when I look into the eyes of some I have not seen since we were children. Though we can be recognized by our resemblance to our parents, we retain the image we once had in high school--an image long replaced by who we became in college, graduate school and the life that kept moving us on at a brisk clip toward middle age.

The memories others have of us are thrown up against our own. In the midst of all of the sorting, I wonder exactly who I used to be and who I have become. Leaving home was something I always dreamed of doing even though it must have been a shock for those who found out after the fact that I actually got into that car after college and headed out West. Most probably did not know that I even came East to attend graduate school since I ended up in the same place after graduation where my original dream had taken me. Getting married and having our first child far from my home made these events more myth than reality since the local community was unable to participate. Moving to the South, having a couple more kids and buying a house reinforced the truth that I was never coming back to the place where I am from, except to visit. I still grieve this loss at times, but cannot be fooled like an out-of-town tourist thinking this place is warm and filled with sunshine like it was during the days of our vacation, because I know better. It is very cold in the winter and the sun may not come out for weeks at a time. Having moved away, I know of other places that are less cold and dark. There remains, however, a part of me who longs to sit a while longer on that beach with the fine white sand between my toes as the sun sets over the calm blue water.  

Like so many celebrations, the class reunion was over before it began, leaving me feeling like I was a passenger on a bus with the doors opening too soon, forcing me out at the wrong stop. Walking back through the memories, I try to find something secure to hold onto. This time travel is messing with my mind. We light the lanterns to honor the dead trying not to think of who will make it to the next reunion and who may not. We have conversations with those we never spoke to in high school since our social groups did not intersect back then. Band geeks did not associate with football players even though we provided a half-time show at every game. Cheerleaders had no business talking with introverted nerds who expressed themselves more effectively in writing than by public displays of enthusiasm. We were all given a role to play and did not stray much from the script.

None of this matters any longer. Some classmates left town; some stayed and built a life. We all grew older. Some got married; some got divorced, and some never married at all. We have become parents and grandparents. We have found work and ways to contribute to our community. We all made choices. Some choices were made for us. In spite of all of our differences, we once shared a zip code and now share memories of growing up in and near a very small town by a great lake.

As the remaining few of us sat around a bonfire laughing at the running jokes that got funnier as the contents of the bottles lessened, along with our inhibitions, we looked at each other in the shadows remembering youth a while longer. And though we tried to sing along to a variety of different songs, there was only one song we all knew: "Country roads, take me home to the place I belong, Western Michigan, mountain momma, take me home, country roads." Even though we changed the words, I am pretty sure John Denver would not have minded.

I hear you

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if we would all take the time to listen to each other. I am not referring to what often passes for listening: the person talking trying to keep up with the listener who keeps on walking; the interrupted conversation that begins while watching television, and pauses for the commercial break so that it can continue; or the dreaded phone conversation in which each person is doing everything from checking email to using the bathroom.

We listen when it matters to us. I was recently introduced as a preschool teacher to a business woman who had no interest in anything I said . . . until I told her that I really was a writer, and then she could not stop talking to me. Though she works in a career that helps her to provide adequately for her family, she secretly longs to write. We were able to dispense with the mindless chatter of small talk and engage in a real conversation once she heard me say who I really am.

We listen out of politeness. The fixed, compassionate-like look; the continued silence at intervals when a response would be more appropriate, but is not forthcoming because the person has fallen mentally asleep; the sudden attempt at closure possibly before anything of note has even been discussed--all indicate one thing: communication is not happening.

My endocrinologist is pleasant enough and yet when I share with him my symptoms and he looks at the numbers on the lab report, he only hears the science speaking and not my voice. How poorly I am reacting to a new compounded medication I have been prescribed does not seem to carry the same importance as the recorded levels of thyroid stimulating hormone detected in my blood. The result is normal; therefore I am fine. In theory.

When I ask my husband if he is listening and he says that he hears me, I know for certain that he is not listening. I may employ old journalistic techniques of re-asking the same question in different ways, but until he repeats back to me pretty much what I have wanted to express to him, I may as well be talking to a wall. And even after all of that, misunderstandings are common.

I have witnessed others not communicating much better. The potential for ideas being understood falls flat on the proverbial pavement and people who had the chance to get along with each other instead make decisions not to, based on faulty information. In the meanwhile, we all get our exercise jumping to conclusions. But what if we took a couple more minutes to take a deep breath and intentionally listen to what the heart of another is speaking?

Finding a way to communicate requires more than words. It is an act of giving of ourselves that is time-consuming and sometimes impractical. It is dancing a dance that does not step on toes, and pausing long enough to consider a way of thinking that is not one's own. Though we may be speaking the same language, the voice of our hearts is as individual as we are.

We cannot assume to know what another is thinking. Appearances are deceiving, especially when we learn how to hide what we really want to say for fear of saying the wrong thing. But giving it another go may be just what is needed for the long awaited understanding. Perhaps we are closer to communicating than we think.

If we would just take the time to listen.

3 a.m.

As I become aware that I am in my bed and not on one of the adventures where my dreams often take me, I roll over squinting to read the lit numbers of my digital clock on my bedside table. It is 3 a.m. Again. This is happening more frequently than I would like to admit.

Lately, 3 a.m. is when an internal alarm goes off inside of me and I am transported from a perfectly peaceful night of sleep to an awakened state, as though I am late for an appointment and need to get up. I sometimes wonder if I have awakened to my own screaming, which sometimes does happen. If I ask my husband about it later, he does not ever seem to remember, and yet if I get up for any reason whatsoever he seems to wake up and wonder what is going on. So I choose to lie here, trying to focus on something in the darkness with my nearsighted eyes.

Not being able to see, I decide to entertain myself by contemplating why I may be awake. This question prompts an overflow of thoughts to come pouring out. And it isn't just one simple question after another, but an entire dialogue involving each subject.

"What should I wear to my class reunion?" turns into this: Ok, it is going to be a long night at a park. Jeans seem too casual; a party dress too dressy. A sundress may be cute, but which one? I wish I could have lost that 20 pounds I had intended to lose by now. It is going to be in Michigan which is much colder than North Carolina. I may have to wear a coat. Which shoes will I wear? Will sandals work or should I think about my boots? Maybe it will rain, which it does there quite frequently. Cold and rainy, do I really want to wear a dress? And yet, I haven't seen some of these people since graduation day. What will they expect me to look like? Have they noticed my pictures on Facebook? Do they think I look fat? I have had three kids, but I should exercise more. I have no excuses. I can't blame everything on my under active thyroid. And yet, it is the main reason I am overweight. I wonder how I will measure up. Well, I am in my 50s. Who is going to blame me for gaining a few pounds over all of these years? And on . . . and on . . . and on . . . .

I gently nudge my snoring husband to get him to roll over, and decide to check the clock. It reads 4:30 and I am beginning to wonder if I should give up the hope of sleeping and go read something. Knowing it will probably wake him and cause him to wonder if I am sick, I continue to lie here, trying not to think of how tired I will be in the morning. It is already morning. I try not to think of that either. More questions present themselves. Checklists form: grocery lists, college supply lists, imaginary calendars with to-do lists dance before me mockingly. I should not be this stressed. It is summer. I should be well-rested. I try not to focus on how disappointed I am that I am not getting the rest I need.

With nothing to do, I decide to pray. There is a never-ending list of need: a friend who grieves the loss of a loved one; a friend who grieves the loss of her friend while preparing to do her funeral; and a friend who seeks God for guidance in his calling, all come to mind. I think of my son who is at the beach with his girlfriend's family. I think about the future of my son who will graduate from college next spring. I think about what it will be like to have only our youngest son at home with us soon. I am grateful my husband is happy in his work. I wonder which direction my work will take me, as I head off on another series of questions and tangents; my very own rabbit trails leading me on.

I have read that 3 a.m. is when the "veil" between this world and the spirit world is thinnest and the spiritual realm is closest. Spiritual activity, whatever one defines that as, is at its height. This somehow comforts me. Maybe I am meant to be awake. Perhaps it is part of my calling and responsibility to awaken so that I can engage with God, interceding for all those I love.

I have also read that sleep deprivation can result in something that resembles temporary insanity which explains a lot about those early years of motherhood. Our oldest son did not sleep through the night until he was two years old. I felt like I needed psychological counseling. Maybe what I needed was a good night of sleep.

The clock now reads 5:11 and I am starting to count on my fingers how many hours of sleep I had before my middle-of-the-night interlude. Three and a half hours? Is that all? I know the time to wake up is approaching at breakneck speed. My husband will need to get the day started soon. I wonder if I'm going to feel this exhausted all day. I try not to panic since that will not help me get back to sleep. I try to stop the questions, the prayers, the random thoughts. I need to clear my mind of everything but the beautiful tranquility of slumber, like the waves rhythmically coming in, one . . . after . . . another.

Next thing I know it is 6:45. My husband has already been drinking coffee for at least half an hour and it is time for me to begin. I keep telling myself that with the very next cup I will feel revived, reinvigorated, ready to start the day. Three or four cups of coffee later, I consider making another pot.

ascribe worth

Finding myself the elder in charge of the team who will work on worship at my church has already given me many opportunities to pray. Starting with the most obvious question, I have asked with increasing frequency and expectancy, "What is worship?" The only words that keep coming to me are: it is to ascribe worth.

Ascribe worth. To what do I ascribe worth? Looking around my house, no one would ever put my efforts to clean at the top of the list. With laundry piled on the couch, in the baskets on the washer and dryer, and if I would only take the time to look, possibly some IN the washer and dryer, the whites may as well send up flags of surrender as the colors add new decor to the room. The dog hair matted to the carpet, the unwashed dishes in and near the sink, the random shoes pushed halfway under the kitchen table near abandoned sports bags, all attest to the negligence of the lady of the house.

And yet, I have been here for hours praying, reading, researching, and thinking. I am living out the Mary and Martha Bible story with me cast in the role of Mary who sits at the feet of Jesus, hanging onto his every word, while her frustrated sister, Martha, does the housework to prepare for the guests. My problem: I have no Martha and my housework is not getting done!

I ascribe worth to those who love me and whether or not I can always fully demonstrate it, there are relationships that I value. It is more than making time to have coffee with friends or picking up the phone to chat, which, by the way, I do not do unless I absolutely have to. Sometimes it is more of an understanding that people are there, not necessarily available at my every whim, but can show up if need be.

One of my favorite visions of Jesus is the one in which he happens to be standing on the path of a familiar wooded park I frequent, taking me by the hand and walking by my side. What comforts me the most about this is not that I finally have him all to myself to ask him question after question, whatever my heart desires, but that I have no need to ask him anything because he already knows my heart, my desires, and my needs. I ascribe worth to a God who quietly walks with me when I need him to.

When I contemplate the communal worship of church there is a great deal to consider. It begins in the parking lot. What happens when one exits a vehicle and heads toward a sanctuary? Has any contact with a Creator been made yet? When does "church" begin? Walking into a narthex, a word not ever spoken out loud by anyone except for church people who need to deal with it, does the person feel more loved if he or she is greeted or does the thought of being greeted cause one to find another way into the pew? There is freedom in anonymity, regardless of what those extroverted greeters think.

As the music begins, to bring order to those who have found friends with whom to converse, the music leaders, be it a choir director, worship leader, or any combination thereof, invite the congregation to join in the singing. Songs may be taught, appear on screens or handouts, or in hymnals. Musical preference will often outweigh the reason for the singing. It is supposed to be about ascribing worth to God and not to ourselves which is an easy enough thing to forget when the praise song is going into its eighth repetition of the chorus or the hymn only serves to remind one of a relative who went on to glory a very long time ago.

Sermon messages, liturgical readings, dramatic portrayals, poems, prayers and promises--are all intended with one idea in mind: to ascribe worth. Entertainment is not the goal though quality is. Inclusion of all is in theory a wonderful idea as long as preparation is part of the plan. Giving our best to God is at the top of the list.

Worship is a uniquely personal expression, not something I even feel comfortable talking about with most people. I love Jesus. That makes me sound like a freak. It could even lend itself to a psychiatric evaluation of which I would not pass because I believe in a God who communicates with me and not just the other way around. And what God speaks to me is a message that only I can hear in ways that only I can hear it. The Tower of Babel account in the Bible does not seem so strange when I consider that we communicate with God in ways unique to each and every one of us. We have been given individual personalities, gifts and callings. No two of us are alike, have ever been or ever will be.

Given our vast differences, we are commanded in the Bible to not forsake the assembling together, but are to exhort one another to love and good works. As the people of God, our purpose is to meet in unity to ascribe worth to him while loving our neighbors as ourselves. We are to invite all. Challenged to communicate and meet a diversity of needs, we struggle to understand the call of God on our lives. It sounds so grand and glorious. But the pencil in the pew still needs sharpening and the bulb under the baptismal bowl is burnt out.

And once the final song is sung, candle is perhaps lit, and prayer spoken, what then? Do we all abandon the beautiful carriage that has carried us into the heavenly realms of worship just to watch it turn back into a pumpkin? Are we challenged in our thinking to attempt one small act of kindness in the course of the following week? One kind word spoken to someone who needs grace?

Ascribing worth is the beginning of worship--an act that flows out into the streets. If everything we experience at church is thrown into the recycling bin along with the bulletin on our way out the door, our worship is in vain. It is supposed to matter that we worship. It is to effect a change in our hearts and minds to the extent that we cannot go back to living how we did before.

Needing to transition from waiting at the feet of Jesus to evaluating the tasks of the day, my life beckons me to reenter its rhythm. Sadly, that Martha never did show up.

living near water

When I am asked where I'm from, I usually give the name of the town: Hart, Michigan, population around 2,000, six miles from the family farm in Elbridge Township. But when I let my mind wander to memories of home, I always seem to end up fifteen miles west, at a Lake Michigan beach, in the village of Pentwater.

My happiest days were spent having picnics with my family or friends before splashing in the waves or riding on a floating device out to where the buoys marked out the swimming area. Running back under the shade of a small tree to apply more Coppertone 8, the highest strength sunscreen at the time, I would usually go home sunburned anyway. After spreading the therapeutic baking soda paste all over my red skin, letting it dry, and eventually washing it off, I would peel in a day or two before going back outside for more sun. And yet, going to the Lake was always worth it. The body of water embraced me, as the sun baked my skin, and I would find comfort for all that was wrong in my world.

On my saddest days I would sit alone in the bluffs reading or writing in my journal. Walking barefoot on the fine-grained sand up and down the shoreline gave focus to my thinking; the rhythm of water and wind calmed my spirit. I would sometimes find a piece of driftwood to lean against as I poured out my heart to the water, the sand, the birds, the sky, . . . to God. Cradled by the warm sand, I could fall sound asleep.

The Lake, in all of its life-giving beauty also takes lives, as one living near water is well aware. As we breathe in the fresh air we are reminded that we cannot breathe underwater. I would often bring a raft with me when I went out over my head since the water was so cold my legs would cramp and the raft would help me make it back to shore. The water was somewhat warm enough for swimming by the end of August and too cold right after Labor Day. When one's lips turned blue, it was time to get out.

There was more to do than just to swim, as boats on the Lake were abundant. The summer I worked at the yacht club I was invited to take a ride on a sailboat named the Northern Light. Sailing on the cool, smooth water of the Lake while the sun was setting is a once in a lifetime experience for someone who will most likely never become a member of the boating crowd. It was different from the experience of riding on the car ferry that carried my family across the Lake on family trips, or the smaller ferry used to transport us to Mackinac Island on our family vacations. Being on a large, luxurious sailboat allowed me to be someone else for a couple of hours; someone like those who lived in this northern resort village in their summer homes, while local girls like me served them their steak and seafood, and brought them their drinks.

One summer I worked across from the dock at a restaurant called the Dry Dock, a restaurant so small it only took two waitresses to work the dining room on any given night. Groups of men from the boats with big appetites would fill the place up and as long as we kept the food coming, they would reward us with even bigger tips. Though waiting tables was not something I enjoyed or was any good at, the homemade soups, freshly baked breads, combined with local produce, meat, and fresh fish made for some of the best restaurant food around at the time. I did not mind the work when it included getting a taste of the good life.

The seafood I would buy for myself would be every bit as delicious though far less expensive as I would obtain it from a local fish shop: Lake Michigan perch, lightly breaded and fried. When I could not get to the fish shop, I could always stop at the soft serve ice cream shop for deep-fried breaded mushrooms to take down to the beach for a tasty snack. And of course the soft serve vanilla cone dipped in the kind of chocolate that would instantly harden providing a satisfying crunch was another one of my favorite beach treats.

Soon I will be traveling Up North with my husband to attend a class reunion. I haven't dipped my toes in Lake Michigan in four summers. I read that the last of the ice melted on the Great Lakes at the beginning of June so I am not foolish enough to think that swimming will be much of a possibility. Of course, swimming has never really been a great possibility unless one has a wet suit. But if we can bear to step into the cold water, on the hard-packed sand, and allow the brisk air to send us grabbing for our jackets, we can walk together along the shoreline, talk about the stops I will want to make and the people I will want to see. Looking toward the West at the setting sun, we will pause to remember how our lives together began, turn toward the East, then travel back to our home in the South.

inherited

The antique silver tea service has found a place in our dining room, upon a vintage table cloth covering the credenza that is filled with glassware, serving bowls, and small figurines of angels and old-fashioned Christmas carolers. On the wall above it is a mirror with a large leaf and vine border. Hanging over the table is a rather spectacular crystal chandelier; near the window, an antique wooden plant stand. Though each of these fine quality pieces are different, they all have one thing in common: they are inherited.

The dining room table and hutch were wedding gifts as are the china, silver platters and almost all of the rest of its contents. I did get to be the one who picked out the dining room set, along with the china, over a couple of decades ago, and yet the individual style of these items somehow gets overshadowed by my mother-in-law's many other items reflecting her unique personal taste which was quite different from my own.

Walking into the front room, one's eyes are drawn to the variety of candlesticks gracing the top of an antique piano. The candlesticks, heavy and sharp enough to ward off an intruder, were inherited; the piano, which happens to be a rare antique that would be valuable if refurbished, was given by a man who bought a house with a piano left behind in it. Above the piano is a large mirror with an ornate border that looks like it goes with the piano. On one side of our couch, one of the few pieces of furniture we actually went into a store and purchased for ourselves, is a beautiful wooden end table with a brass lamp on top. The coordinating piece holds our stereo. A couple of trunks, one we got at an auction holds collectibles, many that are also inherited--from my mother; the other is a trunk I've had since childhood that continues to hold bits and pieces of my life. The last time it was opened my moldy wedding bouquet that I never throw away was right next to my high school portrait that my mother insists I hang up. I never do.

There is a framed print above the couch that we saw in a black and white photo of my husband and his mother when he was her only child. That was how he knew he had seen it first when it came time to divide up her belongings. That and the rose chair that used to set in the corner of her bedroom he decided he would like to have; both of which were sent to us by his sister sometime after the estate was settled. We will never know if the chair was broken before it was shipped or if it got broken along the way. There had been so much breakage . . . along the way.

An appraisal was done to assess the value of my mother-in-law's most prized possessions. The plan was to divide them evenly among the three siblings. The problem was one of the siblings wanted to use the appraisal as a guide, the other wanted to choose according to what she desired to have, and the third was not able to use any of the items since he lived alone in a group home setting for those with mental illness. As the daughter-in-law and sister-in-law, my voice was eventually silenced and I had to stand by while my husband's hope was crushed as two men and a truck disappeared some of his inheritance into a storage unit the day before the distribution of goods was to occur. We would then be threatened with a lawsuit to turn over the family jewels, though in the end I got to keep the diamond wedding ring given to me by my husband since his mother had given it to him explaining that she received it from her husband who had received it from his mother. The lucky recipient of the third-generation diamond, I have often wondered how it could have more meaning to someone other than the bride who received it at the time.

In the midst of the family turmoil as attempts were made to divide up a household of memories, I wrote a letter and suggested we sit down as a family to have a discussion before the communication that was already tenuous at best had completely ceased. My letter was ignored and I was figuratively shown the door. Five years later an email to cover over everything that had occurred, without doing the work of reconciliation, was not the restorative balm it may have been intended to be. Other packages would arrive randomly through the years, containing what was left of a woman's life that had been reduced to stuff to be divided between people who no longer called themselves a family.

Forgiveness had become a reality for me when I struggled to fight back in the midst of the intense battle and I had heard the still, small voice in my heart tell me that what I needed to do was to admit that the money was not mine. Barely providing for our family at that point, I was not eager to receive this news. But God is faithful. He did not hesitate to remind me that the money did not belong to the other family member either. The money had always belonged to God, as everything ultimately does. It was at that moment I unclenched my fists and with upturned hands gave thanks to a God who provides. Soon after that, the settlement was finalized without a lawsuit. Each of the two households would be allotted a certain amount of family heirlooms. And reconciliation would continue to elude us all.

Recently my husband was contacted by his sister to alert him to the fact that she was again moving, had no more need of the silver tea service and wondered if he wanted it. He has wanted it for the past nine years. It arrived in two separate shipments; one large box containing the set itself along with pieces of china that match one of the sets we were given, and one containing only the very large, heavy silver tray. Unwrapping it was like taking the bandage off a wound. After this amount of time a wound should have completely healed. But it never really has.

I stare at the silver tea service while I drink my coffee, remembering what it looked like when we used to have dinner at my mother-in-law's home. We were never served tea from it and I was always nervous to have the boys, who were very young at the time, go anywhere near it or the rest of her precious belongings. Now that many of those items are in our home and our boys have grown into men, it is a different feeling. I cannot really put my finger on it, but it feels like more than just loss. It is the loss of what we had hoped would happen in that family while my mother-in-law and brother-in-law were still on this side of heaven. It is the hope anyone from a dysfunctional family has--the hope for more. More communication. More time to work out problems in a less intense way. More consideration for the personalities of all involved. More love.

The antique silver tea service has found a place in our dining room. Its cold beauty remains untarnished, unlike its family of origin. I do not know whether to put it back into a box or begin serving tea.