Wherever It Goes

To the church he founded
the same week he was beaten with rods,
and left with many wounds,
and thrown in prison, Paul later wrote this:
But I would ye should understand, brethren, 
that the things which happened to me 
have fallen out rather to the furtherance of the gospel; 
So that my bonds in Christ are manifest in all the palace, 
and in all other places; 
And many of the brethren in the Lord, 
becoming confident by my bonds, 
are much more bold to speak the word without fear. 
Philippians 1:12-14

The thing is, the gospel can't be chained.
See, this was the city where the chains broke with him in them.
Where an earthquake, instead of crushing him under the debris of the jail,
broke him loose,
and woke a dead jailer, and took him out of the dark and into the Light.
These people should have known already what Paul wrote to them --
that just because he had been bound, it hadn't bound the gospel.
It was to their credit that they worried about him.
True brothers would.
But had they forgotten the birth of their own church?

You can't abort the gospel.
I heard a woman say once how she had heard the Lord speak to her
while she was having an abortion.

You can't drug the gospel.
I know people who were plainly changed while high as a kite.
I've heard of drunks mockingly repeating what they heard the pastor say,
only to have a hearer transformed.

I know a man who was living in a garbage dump, hungry, in a Muslim country.
He thought he saw a loaf of bread, and he shoved a child to get it.
But it wasn't bread.
It was a piece of paper, and it said,
"Believe on the Name of the Lord Jesus Christ, 
and you shall be saved."

God's Word has power wherever it goes -- even if that place is a tired church,
or an unconcerned church kid.
It wasn't that I'd never read my Bible before.
I certainly had -- I was raised in church.
But there was so much good literature out there to read.
I wanted the best.
I read in an encyclopedia one day that the Psalms in the Bible
are some of the world's best poetry.
So I began to read them on my own.

When the nightmares woke me up at night,
I remembered something I had read:
He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High 
will abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
My terror changed to peace, and I couldn't stop reading it.
I wept over Hosea, read in the Living Bible version.
You know, the one that says His Word is a flashlight to my steps,
because 'lamp' is so archaic?
Hosea -- a story of a heartbroken husband with a tramp for a wife.
And plainly, God identified with him.
With a man in love, and so unfaithfully treated.
But a man willing to take her back.

I think about Paul, the things that he suffered,
and the man that he was when he was changed.
This was a man who approved the violent death of the church's first martyr.
A man who participated in the tearing apart of Christian homes
and Christian families,
and the legal pursuit thereof.
A man willing to travel to Syria to rout out the Christians from there, too.
A man breathing out threats and slaughter against the disciples.

When the Lord asked Ananias to go to him, Ananias argued.
He had heard of the evil this man had done to the saints,
and the power he had to do more.
Maybe the Lord was unaware of these terrible deeds?
But the Lord said, "He's My chosen vessel."
And when Ananias went, he called him 'brother'.

I'm thinking about and praying often
for our persecuted brothers in Syria and Iraq right now.
But I am also wondering who might be a chosen vessel of the Lord Jesus Christ
who simply has not yet been knocked off his horse?

It has been long years
since I had the joy of spending time with that brother
who was saved in the dump.
I don't know where he is anymore, but his gentleness remains with me.
I have a vague memory of him telling with tears and shame
how he had helped to throw a Christian into a pit.

We brought him to the airport once,
and being Middle Eastern, with a Middle Eastern name,
he was stopped at security, even before the increases since 9-11.
He had an electronic Bible in his bag,
which the agent suspiciously demanded to know about.
He was delighted.
He pulled it out of its case, turned it on, punched in John 3:16,
and showed it to the guard.
The guard was busy, and was trying to move on to the next person.
"Read it!" he insisted.
And the guard did. Out loud.
For God so loved the world, that He gave His only-begotten Son, 
that whoever believes in Him, should not perish, 
but have everlasting life.
His eyes teared up, and he nodded.

Are you praying for these persecutors?
Because some of them may be brothers who just are not yet born.
And they may be the very evangelists God intends to speak through.

Too Many Apples

My garden has been a little neglected of late.
The tomatoes are a jungle
that has made passage down the rows nearly impossible.
I go out to pick ripe ones, and I find them.
But there are clusters in the middle whose flashing red is beyond my reach.
The large leaves of the suckers obscure my view,
and the spiders have wrapped webs around the thick growth in the center
that makes me loathe to reach in to grab some.
I planted tomatoes because I love tomatoes.
I want to eat them, not let them go back to the earth.
So I recruit my husband, and together we begin to cut.
The goal is to make the fruit reachable,
to give ourselves a clear view,
and to trim away what only drains resources,
complicates the purpose of the plant,
and causes good fruit to go to waste because it cannot be seen to pick.
To simplify.

I saw a news story today that set my mind thinking about cutting back, too.
A sheep was found in Australia who had never been shorn.
It looked like a tribute to Twinkies.
A good shepherd shears his sheep, cutting back that heavy wool,
freeing it to walk and to live.
A sheep that is never shorn is wasting its energy, and getting far too hot.
And a good gardener cuts back even green growth.

A local farmer was talking with me several weeks ago,
and I asked him why the neighbor's apple tree (which overhangs my garden)
was throwing its apples into my garden before they were ripe?
He asked me some questions about the tree, the way the fruit clustered,
and the state of the apples that fell.
Then he told me there were too many apples.
They were crowding each other.
He said that if we were to carefully twist off every other apple,
the apples that were left would grow large and healthy.
That was something to think about.
Twisting off healthy fruit for the sake of healthier fruit.

My Dad Didn't

My Daddy.
Sometimes I think a lot about him.
He is sixty today.
He fathered two daughters before he got a son.
I am the first.
I got him when he had no experience.
When he was still young, and he worked so hard,
he was usually asleep in his chair before I went to bed.
He let my sister and me fill his hair with barrettes.
He chased us around the house on his hands and knees,
and tickled us when he caught us.
"Daddy! Play Tickle Monster!" we shrieked.
He let us ride his back and pretend he was a horse.
He has a broad, strong back,
and it was difficult for our little bodies to hang on and balance.
I loved him because he bought me a Tonka truck
that I could drive my Barbie around in.

He let me climb in the rafters of houses he was building.
Sometimes let me up on the roof with him.
But also reacted with alarm when he saw me go higher than I should have,
or act carelessly with things that required caution.

When Dad was building our first from-scratch house,
we lived in a garage he had built.
In laying a good foundation for the house,
he had to pump loads of soapy sand mixture into the footprint to level it.
I got home from school that day,
and my mom told me to dress in messy clothes and come help.
I think we were helping air bubbles to release or something,
but basically we were given permission to jump off the foundation walls
into a sloppy wet mudhole.
It was awesome.

He never acted like women and girls threatened him
with brains and opinions, or pink paint and flowers.
I remember when he was getting ready to teach out of John one day,
and he came to a passage Bible teachers argue about.
I was a teenager, and he read me the passage,
and asked me my opinion on it.
And then he listened to my answer.
We were not afraid to speak if we had something to say,
and he was never too puffed up to listen.
When he had sons, we weren't suddenly banished to the kitchen.
We were welcome around the dining table
when visiting pastors came to our house.

He corrected us calmly, when he had to do it.
Mom did more of the day to day instruction,
and he didn't undermine her authority with us.
He didn't come in and undo what she had asked of us.
He reinforced respect with his own respect.
He wasn't much of a voice-raiser, except when he was on the phone.
I wonder if his hearing was going,
because he always raised his voice to talk on the phone.

He is not a meddler in other men's business.
If asked, he gives wise counsel.
Sometimes he'll give wise counsel in spite of not being asked.
Usually because the consequences of the error being committed
are going to harm someone else.
But I have watched him teach things to other men,
and he teaches them in such a way that they feel like men
even though the mistake they are making is not too manly.

I wanted to be a building contractor when I grew up,
because my daddy was a building contractor.
I still want to be like him, but in my own woman-way.

My dad was so accepting of the personhood of his wife and daughters,
that I have found myself sideswiped a number of times
by men who claim to be Christians
and stomp down the personhood of the Christian women in their lives:
who shout them down if they speak truth.

My husband said to me one day,
"I think some men like to exchange 'shut up' for 'submit' in the Scriptures."
I'm glad my dad didn't.

So Much Dirt

I was out in the garden weeding again,
counting tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers,
and looking with glee at the purple turnips swelling up.
Examining my yellow zucchinis.
And reaching into the tangle of tomato plants
to pull those weeds that want to take over out by the roots.

So much dirt.
You need the water to loosen the weeds,
but the water also makes the dirt so much dirtier.
I had flecks of it on my face, and ground into my knees.
I weed barefoot, so I'm sure you can imagine the state of my feet.
I wore gloves, to give me courage around the pincher bugs
and the spiders lurking in the leaves,
but the mud still got through.

It made me think about the importance
of washing with the Water of the Word myself
even as I try to help someone else pull their weeds.
Because that dirt just gets on everyone.

"My friends, if someone is caught in any kind of wrongdoing, 
those of you who are spiritual should set him right; 
but you must do it in a gentle way. 
And keep an eye on yourselves, so that you will not be tempted, too.
Help carry one another's burdens, 
and in this way you will obey the law of Christ."
Galatians 6:1,2 

That We Might Hear It Later

Flipping through a book on my shelf this morning,
I found notes from something I wrote down about five years ago
on the back of an overdue notice from the library:
"Simon was so convinced of himself, that he couldn't hear the Lord."

I am thankful that the Lord speaks anyway:
that although our self-confidence shuts our ears to truth spoken to us,
He speaks it that we might 'hear' it later,
once we've failed in our estimation of ourselves;
denied Him, and cursed to emphasize our lie;
and run away just as weak and fearful
as all the weaklings we set ourselves up as stronger than;
and wept bitterly at our own inconstancy;
and our failed love and diminished strength.
That His love holds on to us through our failure to hold on to Him.

"But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith will not fail.
And when you turn back to Me, you must strengthen your brothers."
'When you are converted,' some versions say.
When you've done a 180.
When you've come around.
When you repent,
you'll be in a position to not just be strong for you,
but to make others stronger.
Real strength does that.
It makes others stronger.
It doesn't just rejoice in its own authority,
its own ability to conquer.
But it pulls strength out of grace, having failed,
and makes other people's hands stronger.
It stands beside the tired-armed, and helps them hold their arms up.
It doesn't just yell at others to Stop Limping!
It digs out the splinters as painlessly as possible,
so weak little feet can walk again.

He sees weakness and future failure,
and prays faith and strength into it.
And that very failure becomes the strengthener of the weak.
He is the Lifter of our heads, and the only good we have to boast of.

And turn your eyes and look at Him:
knowledge of coming failure in His friends
is met with hope, prayer, mercy, love, and forgiveness.
Though He is leaving them,
He does not fret that they are not what they ought to be.
I fret about those I consider it my duty to perfect.
But our Jesus isn't fretting.
He trusts the work of the Holy Spirit in Peter.
He prays for him, and speaks to him what he needs to hear,
and although He knows perfectly well Peter can't hear Him,
trusts His words will hit their mark
and do their work even after He's gone. 

Beautiful Things

Hilary and Kate made me cry with their beautiful music tonight.
I wanted to share it with you, too.
Please go listen to this.

Delaying Thanks

I expected my husband home Friday afternoon.
I sent him off last Saturday to a conference.
He rode in a bus with several other men, and to get down,
they drove straight through,
and arrived exhausted about 22 hours after he left me.
Thursday at noon, they began the drive north,
and I got regular texts along the way.
Towards the top of California, he told me they had blown a tire,
and were stuck until the tire shop opened the next morning.

The progress on Friday was slow.
It became more and more clear every hour
that an evening appointment was not going to be met.
They were hot and tired.

At 9:00 that night,
it was finally time to head to the meeting place to pick him up.
I pulled out of my driveway just in time
to see a flaming pink and purple sky behind the distant mountains.
In the other side of the sky hung a supermoon.
The temperature had come down enough
to enjoy the half hour drive in the beauty
I usually am closed up in my house for.
I put the c.d. in my player of two cello players my sister sent me as a gift,
and found myself breathing thanks at this forced pleasure.

I wonder at the seemingly meaningless delays that obstruct us.
Having a young baby,
I am regularly stopped on the side of the road feeding her
because she can't wait.
I try to point the car at something interesting and enjoy the delay.
I don't want to forget to look up when there is something worth seeing.

I was one time traveling to a conference myself
when we inexplicably took the wrong route.
It was a route we had driven before.
There was no excuse for the mistake.
Half an hour or an hour beyond where we should have turned off,
we noticed the mistake, and had to turn around and retrace it.
We were all so disappointed, because we ended up in a horrendous traffic jam.
It took forever, but we finally came upon the cause of the traffic jam.
There was a semi truck and several small cars
scattered and crushed all over the highway.
Recalculating where we would have been if our own timetable had been met,
we all grew quiet as the awareness of God's hand
obstructing our way for our own good sunk in.
I often think of it when I am irritated at obstacles.
Maybe this obstacle is God's provision for my needs.
Maybe this obstacle
is something I will thank Him for when I can see more clearly than I can now.

I don't know why always.
But I have seen Him stop me and thanked Him later more than once.
I might as well look around at the sunset and the supermoon,
and listen to the cellos, and breathe in the spearmint on the evening air
and thank Him now.

Living With Transition

My mother posted pictures of a remodel they are working on
in response to water damage in their laundry room.
The repair goes beyond the laundry room, into the kitchen
because of future plans for the house.
She said this, after explaining what they were doing,
"Don't know when we'll be able to completely finish the kitchen 
but we're willing to live with transition to save steps later."

I grew up walking on splintery plywood subfloors,
and writing Scripture verses on exposed sheetrock,
because the walls were unfinished, too.
We lived in a number of different houses.
Sometimes my parents bought places that needed a lot of work,
and although they were 'finished', they weren't quite right,
and they were promptly plunged into an unfinished state.
I remember when they ripped out the living room and kitchen floors,
subfloors and all, and I had to jump down in between the studs
onto the pea gravel in my bare feet outside my bedroom door
before they poured a foundation right through the big picture window.
When it was finished, it had become an appropriate home for people,
and no longer a haven for snakes and banana slugs, and spiders.
They left every house they ever owned better than they had received it.
But quite often that meant we lived in it with some lack for awhile,
while we waited for the resources to finish.

Sometimes the changes were to enlarge,
or to make it more functional for the family we were at the time.
Sometimes they were repairs of things that had worked well
when they were put in, but something malfunctioned,
and damage had been done.
As an adult living in my own home, my dad also helped us sometimes.
I bought a house that had leaked behind a bathtub wall,
and mold had become a problem.
Over and over again the previous owners
had added new caulking over the mildewed old.
The mold kept overtaking the shaggy mess.
My dad helped me rip it all out.
New sheetrock was in order before the tile surround could be put in.
Stripping back is part of building up.
Without the stripping back, the same problem will again seep through in time.

One time I was surprised with a new laundry room when I got back from a trip.
It was so beautiful, and functional.
But a few years later, a flood from my broken washing machine
necessitated tearing out the brand new floor and laying a new one again.
Homeownership involves responding to problems at hand
before going forward with dream projects.

Buying a home wisely includes getting problems assessed before you buy.
The last home we bought had a list of issues we needed to consider.
None of them were dealbreakers -- it was a house worth buying --
but some had to be addressed before we could fix other things.
The electrical had to be replaced
before I bothered painting the upstairs hallway.
The house had plenty of power,
but the way it was arranged meant that we were constantly blowing fuses.
It required redistribution, and it needed new wiring.
Replacing wiring sometimes doesn't look like anything is happening.
Just a few new holes in walls, and little piles of drill dust, and little by little,
a change in how the power is being supplied.
The power becomes less noticeable, because it's responding as it should.
But once it's finished, the insurance rates go down,
because a danger has been eliminated.

Living with transition requires patience from the dwellers.
The laundry room cannot function while it is disconnected for remodeling.
And leaving things undone for a little longer may save steps later.
You see, that laundry room-- the one that had to have its floor replaced again?
The subfloor had been rushed to meet the deadline for the surprise.
As we were fixing it, I heard a comment:
"This should have had cement board for a subfloor."
The plywood couldn't take the water.
It swelled up and broke the grout when it flooded.
Another day spent preparing it properly (and living with the transition)
would have meant not replacing it again later.

Notes From the Garden

I pull a lot of different kinds of weeds from my garden.
Just because it's green, doesn't mean it's good.
I want to see my garden full of green things.
But not the green of weeds.
I'd rather see empty brown dirt around my potato plants
than this abundance of greenery that chokes out the health of the real things.
The last potato in the row, the one close to the edge,
has a lot of green on it.
I look closer, because the leaf shape seems wrong.
It has been entwined in a viney weed.
It takes me a long time to free the plant.
The weed that has entangled it started growing a foot away from it,
and crept over inch by inch.
It wound itself tightly around the potato,
strangling it out in its climb higher.
I feel along the length of the vine, until it enters the earth,
and grasp it and pull out its roots.
But its body is still wrapped in and around the potato.
When I finally pull it free, the potato sags,
because it has been unaccustomed to supporting its own weight.
It doesn't know how to stand, and its leaves are small and look beaten.
I wish I had gotten there sooner.

There were some happy surprises, too.
Some volunteer tomatoes seem to be growing well.
I left them where they stood, though I did not plant them there.
And buried under the weeds, as I pulled them away,
the purple leaves of basil that I thought was bad seed advertised its beauty.
First one, then two, then six or so plants made themselves known.
A joy to find good seed among the insidious weeds.
All is not lost.
I weed on.

And That's Because It Is

Sometimes
it feels like life is throwing containers of cold moldy oatmeal at you
when you open the fridge,
while you are trying to fix a meal for someone else,
and there's a baby crying in the background.
And that's because it is.

To Lift Others

I got a note from an old friend a few days ago.
Told me how the Lord had brought me to mind in prayer.
Spoke of faithfulness, and thanks,
and friendship with God,
and sunlight.
Isn't it good to hear encouragement?
Have you given any out lately?

I found myself pondering
how words of thankfulness and blessing that we hear
slip down the drain when one complaint is voiced.

But thou, O Jehovah, art a shield about me; 
My glory and the lifter up of my head. 
~Psalm 3:3

I am thankful for those who let Him use them to reach out and lift others.

The Water and the Weeds

I turn on the sprinkler for a few minutes in the garden,
letting it pool up on the dirt.
Then I turn it off and wait so it can soak into the ground,
as I go around watering the rest of the things I have planted.
Once the water has soaked down, and no longer pools,
I take my bucket and squat down in between the rows
and begin another day's weed pulling among my onions.
The dirt is wet enough to cake on my hands, and under my fingernails.
What are these weeds? They're everywhere.
I focus on one small area at a time, carefully grasping each one at the base,
and applying slow steady pressure with a gentle twist.
When I am careful, and don't rush the work,
the weeds come sliding out satisfactorily,
all the way down to their slender root tips.
They pile up in my bucket.
The vegetables I planted become visible.

My toes go numb in this position, and I stand up to stretch.
I double over, and work awhile that way,
to let my toes and the back of my legs rest.
It was a hot day, and the garden earth lets off a cool vapor.
I think about Adam walking in the cool of the evening,
and wonder what the Lord showed him there in the garden.
I think about weeds and water and good soil.
How we need to be softened up with the Water,
so our hearts can let go of those bitter roots.
How skipping the watering makes the weeding impossible.
The roots break, and the weeds hang on.
I don't want that good seed to be choked out.

I spot a huge weed, and prepare for a struggle with it,
but the water has done its work, and it comes out easy.
I am careless over a small one, because it is small,
and I move too fast, and it wasn't watered well, and it breaks.
I'll have to work harder on it the next time.

I don't finish this time, just as I didn't the day before.
It will not be finished.
But tomorrow, I'll pull a few more after I water.
The rows are getting clearer, and the good seed is growing.
The weeds will get smaller.
They won't go away entirely, but it will be clear which side is winning.
Each day when I finish what I am doing,
and see how much was accomplished, I am surprised.
It was more than I expected -- even though so much is left.

Quiet Living in an Unquiet World

It was one of those nights best communicated
by a cranky baby,
a chili dog,
a chest cold,
a light in my face,
and heavy equipment working on a road not far from my house.
Can I please have a nap?

Most nights, I head to my bed nearly giddy with anticipation of sleep.
It's so disappointing when the snorting and complaining start up
just as I begin to drift off.
And when I wake in the morning,
it would be nice if I felt more rested than I did when I laid down.

I started my day with coffee, and a hungry baby who left me one-handed.
I've been reading the book of John,
and I balanced that while holding the baby and sipping the coffee.
It feels good on my throat, and lessens the coughing a little.
There is a crashing sound from upstairs,
laughter from another room,
and strains of Oh My Darling, Clementine playing from the harmonica.
The harmonica makes me smile.
I owned one myself as a kid, and never once played a real song on mine.
My son was playing two or three before he had owned it 24 hours.
But this is Quiet Time.

Quiet Time is that magical thing Christians urge each other to have
in order to grow spiritually.
First Thing in the morning, when you are fresh.
Except I am not fresh.
I am exhausted.
It consists of reading one's Bible prayerfully just as the sun comes up,
and all the rest of your family are still sleeping.
Mine are rarely still sleeping,
and I feel like the sun was shining in my face all night.
It was really the garage light, but nearly as bright.
Then, of course, that Sweet Hour of Prayer.
When they truly are silent,
and I am not interrupted by announcements of the cat having thrown up,
or the toilet overflowing,
I do spend more time 'in prayer'.
And if the baby is sleeping when we go to bed at night,
he holds my hand and we whisper together softly,
holding our breath when the snorting and kicking starts up.
But most days, it's here a little, there a little.

I think about ambition for a quiet life while I fold laundry.
About working with my own hands while I pull a few weeds in the garden.
I pray for a grieving friend while I rinse the plates,
and sometimes it's less words
than just a heart lifted up to heaven with an ache and a sigh.
I trust the Holy Spirit to know how to minister to that sighed-over friend.
I think about the phrase 'the God before whom I live', as I live,
transferring loads of laundry,
and changing diapers,
and cleaning out the spaces between small toes.

Study to be quiet...
I'm trying.
Trying to get it right.
Practicing again when I got it wrong.
The Scripture calls a quiet spirit very expensive to God.
It's worth cultivating.

Just Words From a Song

He giveth more grace when the burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength when the labors increase.
To added affliction He addeth His mercy:
to multiplied trials, His multiplied peace.

His love has no limit, His grace has no measure,
His power has no boundary known unto men:
for out of His infinite riches in Jesus,
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again!

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
when our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
when we reach the end of our hoarded resources,
our Father's full giving is only begun.

His love has no limit, His grace has no measure,
His power has no boundary known unto men:
for out of His infinite riches in Jesus,
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again!

It's beautiful at any time, but it was sung over a coffin today.
It is the weak He displays His power in,
and when are we more weak than in the face of death?

I Needed You

I needed you.
I needed you to wreck my world.
To yell into my quiet life,
and smear your sticky fingers on my windows,
to highlight how dirty they are anyway.
It was easy to be the perfect mother when there was no one talking back to me.
When my theoretical children showed off my parenting theories.

I needed you.
I needed you to struggle through sounding out r-a-t,
so the impatience could rise up in my chest,
and I would know I need my Father to be patient with me, too.
Because sometimes, the simple things in His Word
are the ones I'm stuck on, too.
Love-one-another.

I needed you.
I  needed you to come late into my life,
later than we wanted you,
after we knew we were failures.
A little gift of grace we couldn't earn.
A gifted miracle.

I needed you.
I needed you to stare up at the sky and shriek that you saw an airplane,
because I was too old to look up
and wonder at the impressiveness of flight until you reminded me.

I needed you.
I needed you to hold me while you sucked your fingers
and laid your head against my chest,
and sighed and fell asleep and drooled on me:
to watch your belly rise and fall with your sweet baby breaths.

I needed you.
I needed to learn to give,
and to pray,
and to hope the best for you when your spelling was atrocious,
and your writing was behind.
I see you in your future -- perfected in the things you practice doing now,
and I never saw anyone like that before you.
Love believes all things.

I needed you.
I needed your trust to teach me about trust;
your fears to help me to lay mine down;
your bickering so I would value peace.
In correcting you, I correct myself.

I needed you.
I needed to hear you laugh until you couldn't breathe;
I was serious, and you were carefree.
You taught me to laugh at myself.
To see the person with the sparkly eyes
behind the milk mustache, and the dirty clothes.

I needed you.
I needed you to forgive me for blaming you for taking what I lost myself.
To throw your short arms around my neck and kiss me
even though I got it wrong and made you cry.
You've borne with me, and taught me grace;
how families have to choose over and over again to love and to forgive,
because in being family, we have much to forgive each other for,
and we aren't always so lovable.
But we always need it, don't we?
And sometimes the one with the loudest voice needs the most gentle handling.

To Breathe Quietly

We drove up into the mountains to explore around a lake today,
and to throw some fishing lines in and get the kids some casting practice.
To soak the sunlight into our skin
and watch the birds fly
with their wingtips just touching the surface of the water,
and the ducks thrashing around together wildly,
and to hear the water sloshing softly at our feet.
It's important, I think, for human beings to learn to breathe quietly,
and to listen to natural sounds.
It often gives me a chance to notice things.

It's wetter than here.
I showed my son the moss growing on the north side of the trees,
and handed my daughter a stick with lichen on it
I could only describe as radioactive green.
A bumble bee flew into our fishing net,
and I picked it up to take a closer look.
The trees are taller here than my kids are accustomed to.
I watched them rub their hands over the bark the same way I used to,
and I pointed out how big and prickly the pine needles are
compared to the soft White Pine needles they are familiar with.

To the eye, this yellowish stuff is far greener than it appears here

As we drove through the forest,
my eyes were repeatedly drawn to the vivid green
that some of the trees sported.
Greener than anything else I saw.
And yet, looking a little closer,
it was all the dead branches that looked so alive,
coated as they were in death-eating moss.
The living branches weren't so showy.
They were duller, but they were alive and fruitful.
Those verdant showpieces were unstable, brittle, and fruitless.
Something to ponder.

The forest of the future

And then there were the empty spaces.
Except they weren't.
Because what was growing in them was the forest of the future.
It wasn't so noticeable today, but in a few years,
you won't be able to see the forest for the trees.
Those trees have taken root already.
They're healthy, and they're growing.
They're alive, and in due season will bear fruit.

Now You Offer It To Me

That thing that made you weep and sent you reeling,
and the thing that hurt too much to bear alone,
that pushed you to seek comfort 
and to beg for company --
it resulted in a hand reached out to steady,
and a drink that when you swallowed quenched your thirst.
And the words your sister told you let the light in,
and the light was just enough so you could see.
You're still standing in the comfort, like a blanket,
warmed enough that now you offer it to me.

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
the Father of mercies and God of all comfort;
who comforteth us in all our affliction,
that we may be able to comfort them that are in any affliction,
through the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.
For as the sufferings of Christ abound unto us,
even so our comfort also aboundeth through Christ."
2 Corinthians 1:3-5

"For even when we were come into Macedonia our flesh had no relief,
but we were afflicted on every side;
without were fightings, within were fears.
Nevertheless he that comforteth the lowly, even God,
comforted us by the coming of Titus;
and not by his coming only,
but also by the comfort wherewith he was comforted in you,
while he told us your longing, your mourning, your zeal for me;
so that I rejoiced yet more."
2 Corinthians 7:5-7

Soul Sisters

"I had a bad dream last night," she told me.
When she told me what it was, I agreed.
It was a very bad dream.
I asked her to read Psalm 91:1 to me --
a verse that has chased away nightmares in my life.
I suggested she learn it and keep it in her heart.
And she told me that she had awakened her sister in the night,
and that her big sister had prayed with her,
and let her fall asleep in her bed with her.
Oh, how good and pleasant it is when sisters dwell together in unity.
I am so blessed to have my daughters ministering to each others' needs.

Come Together Again

Every successful marriage
has had thousands of choices to come together again.
To be joined.
To come home to her every night,
and to say yes to his advances.
To try again, even if she gave you the cold shoulder.

It isn't the vows that bring the intimacy --
those only begin the marriage.
We speak words of love to one another,
but they must be said again.
And we must choose to yield ourselves to one another.

We long to commune, to lessen our loneliness, to be joined in community.
Paul advised that each man should have his own wife,
and each woman her own husband,
because of sexual immorality.
"Let the husband render to his wife the affection due her, 
and likewise also the wife to her husband."
This is apostolic marriage counseling.
That we would have a spouse, and give ourselves to them.

"Do not deprive one another 
except with consent for a time, 
that you may give yourselves to fasting and prayer; 
and come together again 
so that Satan does not tempt you because of your lack of self-control." 
So much about this passage is so practical.
Have sexual intercourse with your spouse.
This is one very specific way we can serve their spiritual needs.

The intercourse of marriage--
sexual, emotional, financial, spiritual--
is a mysterious display of Christ and the church.
That abiding in the vine that Jesus spoke of is a plant life display.
They are both about connection, unity, exchange--
intercourse resulting in fruit.
In human intercourse, it is a choice that presents itself again and again.
We Christians are presented again and again
with the option to interact with Him intimately, or to shut Him out.
If we want to bear His fruit,
if we want our union with Him to be successful,
we must yield.

Perhaps you have said 'no', and it has become a habit to say 'no'.
I'm too tired.
I have a headache.
We've grown too far apart.
I've washed my feet; how can I defile them again?
Seek Him again, because His heart is still for you.

Or perhaps it is worse than just not opening up when He came to you.
Maybe you called Him 'master', and lived in His house,
but never saw Him as your husband.
Maybe you have never been close,
and all your children have been someone else's.
And He is broken-hearted over your infidelity,
but you are hard-hearted.
Make a choice to be His for real.
He'll buy you back from the auction block of your whoring shame,
and call you His own,
and let you bear His children.

I will heal their backsliding, and love them freely,
 for My anger has turned away... 
I will be like the dew to Israel; 
He shall grow like the lily, and lengthen his roots like Lebanon...
Those who dwell under His shadow shall return; 
they shall be revived like grain, and grow like a vine. 
Their scent shall be like the wine of Lebanon.

And you will find yourself saying,
"What have I to do anymore with idols? 
I have heard and observed him. 
I am like a green cypress. 
Your fruit is found in me."

In Mismatched Socks

Thinking about my Mama this morning.
I'm thankful to have a real mom.
Not a plastic Christian mom,
but a real flesh-and-blood one --
who I saw fearful, and praying,
and perplexed, and encouraged.
A mom who could apologize,
because she didn't think she was always right
just because she was the mom.
Sometimes I think that was worth more
than doing everything perfectly the first time.
A woman who said she used to pray,
"Is it possible to be pregnant and in the Spirit at the same time?"

She let me dye a pink streak in my hair,
and when her friends questioned the wildness of it,
she said, "You dye your hair. What is the difference?"
She did not expect us to look like catalog kids.
And she let me go out in mismatched socks.