Calling For a Flood

So the summer has begun in earnest. I stay up late, just because I can. My family and I spend the days together, I tuck the kids into bed, my husband stays up as late as he can, kisses me goodnight and goes to bed, and then the house is mine.

Not that I'm going to turn the music up loud and dance till I drop. Nothing like that. I enjoy being alone, because in the alone times, especially the late-night alone times, this creative groove kicks in and I find words and music to express the stuff that goes on inside.

There's a price to pay for this lifestyle, of course. Sleep patterns get disrupted, I wake up late, and it's incredibly hard to go to bed early on Saturday night, Sunday being the one day a week when early-morning things are required. Recently, oddly, I've been waking up around 5:30 am, unable to get back to sleep. I'll sit up until maybe 7 or 7:30, then I go back to bed and sleep a few more hours. This morning, for instance. I woke up, looked at the clock: 5:42. Well, good grief. I tried to get back to sleep, couldn't, so I hauled myself out of bed for a while.

The flooding situation here in the Midwest has reached the point of obsession, so I turned on the 6:00 news. Our local television channels come from Mississippi River cities, so I watched an entire news broadcast, story after story on the historic flooding. Up and down the river, town after town, levees were broken and towns were flooding, or levees being shored up by armies of sand baggers. I saw a piece of footage where prison inmates were working alongside farmers, and a clip of Amish working alongside English (that's what Amish people call us), all working together to throw sandbags on the levees. In some places the work is in vain and the river had already burst through. In others, the herculean effort was paying off. Ironically, the only people who seemed relaxed and at peace were the folks of one town that has no levee at all. “We just move out for a few days, then we'll clean up,” with a shrug. “It's a river. It happens.” Happened in '93 and a little in '01. So they move out for a few days. Another story I've seen shows a stretch of levee where the water started to seep through the sandbags, the workers knew what was at stake, so they got up on top of the levee and squished the sandbags down, stopping the water.

I watched for a while, then hovered somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. I saw visions of levees and sandbags—thousands of sandbags, and a river flinging itself forcefully against them. The river was made, not of water, but of people; people tired of man-made barricades holding them back, tamed by levees, straining to return to a natural ebb and flow, the pulse that would fertilize a soil without artificial sprays and chemicals. It was jumbled, like dreams are, and it seemed absolutely normal that this river of people should be striving to breach the levees and flood the earth.

I startled awake and turned off the television. The clock told me it was close to seven. The basement invited me, cool and dark, so I laid down there on the bed, drifted off and slept. I woke up close to ten, feeling strangely refreshed.

* * *

In the 1990s the late Fuchsia Pickett came to the church I attended at that time. She talked at great length about how the Holy Spirit, when He fills a place, or when He sends a great outpouring, does not necessarily have to fall down upon us. He is meant to rise from within us. Her message irritated me somehow. Falling down on me seemed so much better than rising from within me. What was within me seemed measurable and limited, somehow. Surely all the action was from what comes to me from above. We've always sung songs and prayed prayers to God, asking Him to fall upon us. That has always been my understanding of revival.

When I was young we would have revival once a year or so. A traveling evangelist would come and preach at church for a week, and unsaved people would turn up and get saved, or churched kids who weren't saved yet would go forward and make their decision. If you were already saved, you didn't have to feel left out in the cold for long. Eventually he would call for those Christians who'd grown cold to rededicate their lives. If the altars weren't filling up fast enough, he might call on those who felt the call to full-time ministry. Eventually he might call for those who yearned for more of God. There was an altar experience for anyone and everyone. But you waited all year for the big man of God to come to your church, and you would have your outpouring, and he would move on to the next church.

Or there might be the odd Sunday when the LORD would fall upon the place and the pastor would open up the altar and it would fill up. But always there was the sense that God, the mighty Yahweh Himself, was falling or raining down upon us, and the pastor, the man of God, was facilitating. For me and others like me, there was not much I could add to the drama. I could receive what the LORD was pouring out. I could then be strengthened to go out and live my Christian life and lead others to God, but in the ongoing drama of the outpouring I was almost always on the receiving end.

A few Sundays ago when I asked God for an outpouring, He said okay. That day wasn't to be a pouring out from above, but a flowing out from within, and I didn't even know it until it all started pouring out of me into our congregation. I guess what I was asking for was for God to fall on the place or send something big from outside myself. I don't know; maybe He did all that stuff. But to me the wonder was that instead of pouring down on my receptive heart, He poured OUT of my willing heart. Just like Dr. Pickett used to say. The mighty Yahweh Himself. Not pouring through the great man of God, but pouring out through a nameless, faceless mom, a Godseeker.

See, I think my daughter's eye situation has made me hungry. Hungry, first, to see her get healed. Then, hungry to know why some times and places get special treatment. Then, hungry to have God pour out His Spirit here, too. In THIS time and in THIS place. This hunger, I think, is good. Scary, but good.

* * *

The flooding continues here in the Midwest. The rains have stopped, but it's too late to stop the river from cresting. Engineers know that, and, of course, no effort is made to slow the flow, just to keep it in. The river will crest, even though the rain has stopped and inland gardeners like me are getting ready to start irrigating again. The rains have slowed down. They even stopped for a while, but it's too late. All the water upstream from us, the rivers and the brooks and even the drainage ditches are already swollen and rising and even cresting as they join the mighty Mississippi and flow on till they reach us down here in the heartland. And by the time it all gets here the river rages as it strains against the manmade levees topped with sandbags thrown on in desperation. That's how on a beautiful, sunshiny day you have a river breaching levees in a dozen spots, pouring out into the floodplain. The water isn't coming from above now. The rains have come, the rivers are full and the levees can't contain the water. The river is full of it, and it's pouring itself out.

And God is pouring Himself out there in Florida. It's still going on, and people are going down there and catching hold of something and taking it back to wherever they came from And other people are watching on GodTV or on the Internet, and God is bringing an Awakening, like we've prayed for all these years. Is this a big Awakening? I don't know. People say it is. It could be. I think I hear an undercurrent of worry from people involved in that outpouring. Will it stop? How can we keep it from stopping too early? If this is the Big One, will we somehow fail God with our polluted humanity?

Honestly, I'm not sure it matters too much. Because back at the headwaters the rains have already fallen. Up and down the river, many rains have fallen. Every revival, every Awakening, every outpouring, every tent meeting, has brought rain to saturate the earth and fill the brooks, streams and rivers. Rains may continue to fall, or they may stop or slow for a while. But at some point, maybe even at this point, it's too late to stop the swell of the river of God's people. And all the denominational levees, built to contain us and keep us safe and neat and tidy, won't be able to stop the flood that's set to pour out on the earth and wash and fertilize it.

* * *

Almost since the beginning of the Church, there have been schisms and splits and differences. Like it or not, we're divided now, and set into neat streams of God's family, with walls built to hold us in. Levees. And like it or not, those things are there, and so firmly ingrained that I can't personally even imagine a world without denominations and the four walls of church buildings glaring at each other from across the street.

But, see, if the Holy Spirit really catches hold of people like He caught hold of me that one Sunday, then there wouldn't be any of these movements where everyone looked to one man to carry the day. We would look to Jesus within us, Jesus seeking to reach out in love through us, and I can see a great river of us—people who strive to reach out past the neatly built floodgates, the walls of our churches and denominations, flinging ourselves against the floodgates, battering the boundaries until the levees are breached—and we pour God's love out into the streets, and the walking dead, the hungry, the unsaved, will stand open-mouthed as we pour ourselves out into the streets, not seeking somebody's agenda, not making names for ourselves, but sweeping out over the levees into a desolate world. Doing it the natural way—not relying on door-to-door, planned outreaches and Personal Evangelism programs, but soaring from place to place, sharing God's love wherever we go, wherever we find ourselves. And there would be no squishing down the levees, for the flood would sweep over and the levees would be breached, unable to contain the epic flood.

And I know this would be disturbing to our civil engineers, our levee-builders, the ones who truck themselves off to Seminary to school themselves on key doctrines, not only of the Faith, but also of denominations. I know, because honestly, this all disturbs me too. Deeply frightens me, because there's no game plan and there's no clear exit strategy. There's just trust. Not trust in me, thankfully. Not trust in the guy through whom the latest rainstorm started. There's trust in God. God made the river that flowed before people came along and built levees. He made the Church before we built the denominations that hold us in and make us feel safe. He was there before us, and He will be there after us, and He wishes to flow through us and flood the earth.

“Hear me now. I'm calling for a flood.” (John Waller, Calling for a Flood)

The Sunday outflow:

http://realgodseekers.blogspot.com/2008/05/angels-outpourings-and-such.html

Mud, a Wet Wipe, and a Healing Touch

This past week was Vacation Bible School at church. The kids all got a chance to get out of the house every night for a week and do some really fun crafts and games. The church got a chance to pull together and do a project that has lasting meaning in young lives. And parents got a chance to have a break every evening for a week.

Everybody wins. Oh, wait. Everybody, that is, except me. Yeah, I signed up to do Vacation Bible School. I wasn't going to. I get so burned out from teaching. This was a really hard year for behavioral issues, and with added responsibilities on the church praise team I was ready to do nothing for a while once school was out.

However, I did agree to a fairly non-involved job. I was simply to take kids around from one station to the next. Crafts, snacks, games, a short movie, a teaching time. All I had to do was herd the crowd. Right? So I said, if I can have that simple job, I'll do it. I'll be a crew leader.

So began a week of keeping kids from pounding on each other and doing permanent damage to church property. Oh, and there were a few “extra”responsibilities this year. At some stations we actually had to round up the kids afterward and help them process what they learned there. Ask questions. Have group discussions. Help them find ways to apply what they've learned. Sigh. I just wanted an easy job.

Yeah, you know, it's funny. I noticed I'm the only teacher who signed up to help out with VBS. Most of them know their limits. All of this and more came to mind as I was grouching after the first evening.

The second night was pretty rough, too. They've split kids up into multi-age groups this year, so that you might have 5 year olds all the way up to 12 year olds. The idea, I think, was that the older kids wouldn't be jostling into cliques and acting obnoxious and smart-alecky, but would instinctively help with the younger kids. And you wouldn't have a herd of five-year-olds all trying to beat each other up. Nice theory. Here's how it worked out. We had a couple of younger kids in my group, and one of them was always trying to beat up on the other one. We had a couple of older kids, and they jostled around and acted smart-alecky and obnoxious. And we had one kid in the middle who clung to me all week—my oldest daughter. This was my little VBS family of five kids for the week.

Tuesday night they were learning a lesson on helping others. The Bible story was the one where Jesus healed a blind man using mud and spit. When we got to the Bible story station the kids were herded into the room. They were given these athletic headbands to put over their eyes, and the lights were turned off. Once they were “blind” we crew leaders were each given a bowl of oatmeal, which was to be the “mud.” We were supposed to put some mud—not IN their eyes, of course, but ABOVE their eyes. So I was going around smearing a little oatmeal just above each. One girl, not on my crew, was a little freaked out. She did NOT want mud touching her body. Her crew leader let it go. Of course you don't want to traumatize the kids. I know this girl, so I went over to her, leaned over and whispered in her ear, “It's oatmeal.” She heard my voice, realized it wasn't going to be icky mud, and let me smear a little above each eye.

Unexpectedly, something changed inside me during that little exchange of trust. There was a welling up of compassion--caring for these kids, here to have a good time, instead finding themselves blinded with smears of “mud” on their faces. So as we went around the room with wet wipes (hey, we don't have a real pool of Siloam), and washed the “icky mud” off their faces, I found it had become an act of caring help, a kind of compassionate “service.” There was a hush in the room as we moved from child to child with those wipes. I don't know if you realize how unnatural the quiet was, given this rowdy group. One of my crew, a big, burly, clown-around eleven-year-old, was sitting quiet, waiting, his smooth child-brow marked with worried furrows. I wiped his face and whispered, “It's okay,” and watched his wrinkled brow relax and smooth out again. Then we were done, they counted to three, and all the kids took their headbands off, the lights went on, and kids blinked and squinted and laughed with relief.

After that things went back to normal; and yet, things weren't the same at all. Somehow after that the whole week seemed to go better. Kids weren't quite as obnoxious. Little boys weren't pounding on each other QUITE as much. And the older ones started helping out with the younger ones.

AND I got to see that healing at the pool of Siloam from a little bit of Jesus' point of view. And all the other healings He did. Yes, they were “signs” pointing to something important. But they were something else, too. I walked the room, clearing “mud” from eyebrows, whispering encouragement, having compassion on these little furrowed brows that were too young for furrows. Do you realize the depth of God's love for you?

* * *

I remember studying Jesus' miracles in Bible college. We had whole classes on the gospels—I remember Matthew—the class that covered the book. We went through chapter by chapter, discussing the miracles, explaining how they were “signs,” what they pointed to, the theological implications, etc. We knew any theological implication could appear on a test, so he would pause after a point, and you heard a roomful of pens scratching feverishly across paper as you scrambled to write everything down before he dove into the next point.

I wonder how Jesus felt about that? I mean, He was there in that room, wasn't He? We were given lectures on His miracles, His artwork, but all the compassion seemed drained out like liquid from a sieve, leaving a dry pile of theology--did He long for us to understand His heart, His motives? And all the while we were feverishly scratching out facts on blank notebook paper. Later, over supper, the hardcore theology students would debate facts for our entertainment, batting around God's love like a toy ball. I wonder how God felt as His heart was tossed back and forth casually over soup and salad.

* * *

People give and receive love in all kinds of ways. It's amazing how different we are. Some people go out of their way to show others they care by doing stuff they know somebody will like. Other people give gifts. There are people who love to hear the words, “I love you.” For others, it's touch. For a few, time spent together means everything. For me, it's always been appreciation.

When school ended we teachers were given a gift certificate for a trip to a day spa. A little pampering, they thought, would be just the thing for a hard-working bunch of teachers.

You can't imagine how grossed out I was. The thought of being touched by a stranger does NOT equal an afternoon of relaxation for me. A sentiment, I find, that few share or understand. And yet I would not be touched.

I whispered my heresy to a fellow teacher I trusted, who assured me that a manicure or pedicure would be nice. Or I could get a nice facial massage. Are you KIDDING? Don't TOUCH my FACE! But...the school board really appreciated us as teachers. I knew they did. And for the sake of being appreciated I went for a morning with the rest of the ladies and got my hands and feet buffed, dipped in paraffin wax, and a sissy pink shade of polish was applied to each finger and toe.

For me, see, appreciation is almost the same as caring. I really care about those farmers on the school board, trying to figure out how to appreciate a bunch of women teachers. I appreciate them. So I let them send me to a spa to get “purtied up,” showed my nails around everywhere, then a few days later I discreetly took polish remover to my fingernails.

* * *

When I first sent my oldest daughter to school, she would come home at night singing these nifty Bible songs to the rhythm of the backyard swing. I really appreciated that. I appreciated the fact that Bible was her first lesson of the day, and she was telling me Bible stories I hadn't gotten around to telling her yet. I know Christian school isn't for everybody but it was for us, and I saw great value in what they were giving my daughter.

So the next year on parent orientation night I found out my school was going to have to end its music program. The music teacher was retiring. I prayed and thought about it a few days and then offered my services. I would teach my daughter's class music every day. I don't think they heard the part about me offering it for just her class, because before I knew it I was swept into the entire music program, kindergarten through 8^th grade. They seemed a little apologetic when they asked if I could organize a couple of musicals a year. Well, why not? I said. I've done dance recitals and stuff like that. All righty then. And so I've been at it, now, just finishing up my fourth year. See, for me it's not that I really dig serving. It's that I really appreciate the school that teaches my kids the Bible, and helping with music is pretty much the least I could do. When you care about my kids you care about me. And I appreciate that, and I've come to care deeply about these people and their kids.

* * *

Have you ever been broken? We come to Christ broken, hurting and helpless to save ourselves. He cleans us up, sets us on the right path, because He already did what was necessary to save us. He wipes the mud from our eyes, whispers, “It's okay,” and then the light comes on and we blink, look around with delight, the spell of darkness broken. Then we spend the rest of our lives learning what He's given us.

I prefer to remain broken. I don't mean the pain, or the sin that caused it. I like the remembrance, because in the remembrance there's thankfulness and for me, thankfulness is love. It's why my eyes tear up sometimes at communion. It's why I'm at my best when I stay close to the fountain filled with blood, drawn from Emmanuel's veins. It's what makes my writing, music and art such an enjoyment to me. It's because my life, when it's at its best, has become a thank you note to God.

So today, miraculously, my daughter's eyes are almost matched up. It's happened quickly in the last couple of days. It's a wonder to me, like living in the best kind of dream, and not wanting to wake up. I know what God is doing in my family is not just a sterile “sign,” although it may well point to something. When I first started this journey I thought of the faraway Lakeland miracles, and how God was doing some kind of strategic thing, and I thought it could never be for us. Or I thought of the long ago signs of the Gospels, and how they were a strategic thing that could never be for today.

What I didn't know was the compassion, the caring that went into each miracle. “Do you want to be healed?” He would say. Then, “Get up! Pick up your mat. Walk! That's right. Walk!” And people would do it, because He cared. A burdened sigh as He said, “Be opened.” Wept tears for their pain as He healed their dead.

I cry as I write this, partly because I was up late in the night, keyed up about the miracle that's happening in my daughter's eyes. I'm sleep deprived now, you see. But partly I cry because He is gently wiping the mud from my eyes, healing my daughter, saying, “It's okay,” and He cares. And I appreciate that.

Rainbows

Just a short reflection that I started a month or so ago... And now I have the rest of the story to complete it :D

The other day (way back in May) we were driving back into town from the East, looking to the West. We never drive in that way, in fact we rarely get the chance to leave town anymore because of various commitments and involvements. And lack of time off.

Anyway, it hadn't been raining, but there was a lot of humidity in the air. Likely story for our part of the world :) Above us there was bit of a rainbow sticking out of the clouds. I looked around and saw some more pieces of the rainbow scattered through the sky, peeking in and out of the clouds.


A long time ago, LOL, when I was a girl living on the prairie. My mother called this event - a rainbow without rain - a sun dog.

Excitement thrilled through me. What a pleasant surprise - a gift from God, something to make me smile. He promised Noah with a rainbow. While it was meant for Noah, I felt an inkling of a promise to me too.

You see, here's how its been. Godseeker, do you remember way way back at bible study. You described a desert, parched dry, not much left to give. And then a well (our bible study) sprung up in the middle of that landscape. Well obviously over the course of a few years, that well has continued to flow and sprouted a few more and well now, you're practically living in the fertile crescent. LOL

Me on the other hand... Not quite so much. I've slowly been drying up. I mentioned last summer was an emotionally trying time. On top of that I was in several ministries/volunteering that I was in the constant, give give give cycle. I've had to slowly pull back, cuz there just ain't anything there to give! This is new, I'd never felt like this before. And I remembered your description of the desert, I was confused a little how anyone could know God and feel that. Now its clear.

So I went about stabilizing myself, cutting this, adding that, adjusting expectations. So through the winter and this spring I've been stable, things have been ok. I'm producing, not a lot. Overall, while not quite in the desert place, I feel mellow. Ok. not mellow - about two steps less than mellow - numb.

So I was asked to be on the church's softball team. Ok I'll pause for all the laughter.

Anyone who knows me... And yes my real name is attached to this, so I know that there are actually people who know me who might read this blog. {Hi, y'all! drop me a line!} Well, you know that I'm not athletic, I'm not even an athletic wannabe, I'm not even big on watching from the stadium. Read this as I have never touched a softball, nor do I have the foggiest on how to throw or hit or whatever anyone does with those things.

"So, are you in?" she asks...
"Absolutely," I'm crazy.

So I worked really hard this spring/early summer figuring it out. I played a few games. I hit the ball! I threw a ball that someone caught! I caught a ball! I got bruised! AND! I scored!!! :D I was so proud of myself!

Then it happened... all the voices started creeping in. "you're not a jock" "you can't do it" "they're just letting you feel good" "why are you doing this to yourself" "You surely can't be enjoying yourself" "Amy, This isn't safe"

Various people in my life were discouraging to me about this. And you know what. I liked playing! I really wanted to do it. But all of a sudden I couldn't. I couldn't go, I couldn't throw in front of anyone. Couldn't hit a ball.

I went through a lot of soul searching. Talking with God. Trying to figure it out.

So here's my sun dog. All the different colors arched across the sky. I tried to separate them. Where does one color let off and the next begin. They don't actually its such a gradual even shift in colors. Here's red. Bright clear, it keeps on being red. Then it's slightly tinged with orange. Just a little, but still clearly red. Then red and orange are both there together. Then its a little more orange and then red isn't there. They're side by side. And then yellow enters the picture. And all the way across the rainbow. Until you get to blue, which most certainly isn't red!

Sometimes changes happen so slowly and subtly that we don't notice. Until all of a sudden they are different. So God showed me this rainbow. The rain wasn't falling but the was a lot of moisture promising a change in weather soon. Well as circumstances would have it...

I think I figured things out (for about the billionth time) I went to the local CC and registered for "one" class this fall. Just one. The first one. The start of many. The beginning of a new color.

In about 3-4 years, I will no longer be Amy the SAHM who does graphic design also. I will be Amy, the nurse (who now has a lot of deep and rich life experiences to bring to this new profession). I am getting ready to add the next color to my rainbow :) Thank you, God for showing me the colors & helping me to rejoice with them!

Another Step in the Journey

Sunday morning as we wrapped up praise team practice, it was time for Sunday school and the seniors were starting to trickle in for their class in the sanctuary. Last Sunday I remember going over to Carol and asking her how she was. Found out she was scheduled for this heart cathaterization last Wednesday, and was scared half out of her mind.

This morning was such a different picture. Carol had come in, put her Bible down, and hobbled to the front in fast motion. She was on a mission, and that mission was ME. She came up to me and said, “I want to THANK you for praying for me,” which is what I had done. Others prayed, too, not just me. That way nobody gets credit but God, eh?

So Carol said while she was getting this cathaterization she felt the prayers of all these people. She also said she had prepared for her ordeal by getting together a list of scripture she could say from memory while it was going on. As they started the procedure she started her scriptures. They finished before she did. “We're all done.” She said, “It's over? I'm not finished!”

But the really cool part is this: when they checked her out a while back she had a 45% blockage. Wednesday she had NO blockage. None. She went home with a clean bill of health, at least on her heart. Now she's going to be able to get her knee replaced, which is why they were checking the health of her heart. No more hobbling ANYWHERE on a mission. So we'll be praying for Carol June 18th, which is when her knee replacement surgery is scheduled. I'm also praying, BTW, that knee replacement will be rendered unnecessary.

As I went out into the entryway to go downstairs, I gasped. Kenny was there, greeting people at the door just like he always does. Kenny loves to welcome people in, hand them a bulletin, shake their hand, be the first to give them a smile on a Sunday morning. But, see, we buried Kenny's wife Thursday. Nobody would have thought any less of him if he'd stayed home today. Here he was, giving me my bulletin, and even mustering a smile, and I looked him in the eye, not to pry, but to connect with him today.

It happened really unexpectedly. Last Sunday after church, after that glorious service where I soared on wings from person to person, I got a prayer chain email that Marilyn was in trouble, that her colon had shut down, and she needed urgent prayer. I prayed for her. I know a lot of people did, but Monday she was gone.

This morning there was a big hole in the church. It was right there next to Kenny, where Marilyn always sat. His door job done, he stood through the songs, looking different than I've ever seen him. He looked a lot older today, and sad. It's not that I was staring at him or anything, I just kept looking for Marilyn.

Later we went around for our greetings, and I went and spoke to Carol's husband. We rejoiced for his wife's good news. Then I crossed the aisle and hugged Kenny. He got a lot of hugs today. It's hard to say whether they helped or not. I remember when my dad died hugs helped a lot.

* * *

Almost two years ago we started realizing my daughter was not crossing her eyes on purpose, just for fun. It had gone from the occasional crossing to a pretty steady thing, and it was severe and scary in an older child like that.

Ever had deja vu? My daughter told me way back then that she felt like something that had just happened had happened before. I explained deja vu to her, and said maybe that's what she'd had. She had the experience again a few days later. Then she was experiencing it every day, then several times a day. One time I remember she'd just experienced it, and she said, “I guess I'm just the deja vu kid.” I had to hold it together for her, but I was terrified and I wondered what was going on in her brain that was causing the constant stream of deja vu and a severely crossed eye. I hugged her a lot during those days. I remember hugging her and thinking no amount of hugs today would make up for the lack of them if they ended tomorrow; but I hugged her anyway.

Then an MRI ruled out anything neurological and we went from terrified to practically dancing in the street. My rabid medical goggling produced some hits regarding the deja vu. You see, in those days both eyes were still trying to work. When our eyes focus, they focus together. In a kid like my daughter, when one eye focuses and then the second, the first eye causes the brain to register that something happened. Before the brain has a chance to “time-stamp” the event, the second eye focuses on it. With no time reference, her brain just tells her this has happened before—sometime. Deja vu.

So then a time came when she wasn't experiencing deja vu anymore. We just forgot about it; but recently it's started up again. Which is good news, because now her eyes are both trying to work again. Her weak eye is fighting its way back. Tough little eye; tough little kid. It's an uphill struggle. She has to do her exercises, she has to patch, she has to get plenty of sleep. We go one day without any one of those elements, and there's a huge slide backward. But we slug on, and I pray every night, and I can't think of anything I've wanted so badly. I've chosen my battle and the hill I'm fighting on is my daughter's healing.

So two weeks ago when I pulled a muscle in my back, I asked for prayer and went to bed. My friends prayed for me while I slept and in the morning the pain was gone. Dude, it was amazing. I'm thankful to God. No fuss, no muss; somebody prayed, God healed me, and I got up the next day and did 17 minutes of mime routine. This old mime was putting a little postscript on things, resurrecting a career that ended years ago. That's all. But God healed me and graced me like Samson to minister one last time. And yet this little kid who wants to dance, but can't be trusted in a roomful of dancers not to bump into somebody, that little kid struggles for her healing.

It's a trust thing, really. Some people take up their beds and walk. Others struggle with pain. I don't pretend to understand it, and the story isn't all written out yet. I guess if God healed us all every time the earth would be populated with the elect from the beginning of time on. What a pile of mess THAT would be. I think for each of us there has to be the one healing that doesn't happen—for now.

But does God tell us to pray for our sick? Yup, right there in the Bible. So that's what I'm gonna do. Whatever He wants to do, I'll leave to Him to sort out. For the stuff that's yet to happen, and for the stuff that HAS happened, I lean heavy on grace.

'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

* * *

In a sense this journey that I'm on is about nothing bigger than seeing my daughter healed. In another sense it's way bigger than that. Unexpectedly, I'm changing.

I led worship at a little tiny church in the mid 1980's. That was my first experience at it. When I started I led like some anointed cheerleader, trying to get everybody on the bandwagon; we were worshiping God, and everybody better fall in line. God's grace was on me and I wasn't booted from my job. There came a time of epiphany when I realized that if I wanted to lead worship, then all I really had to do was worship. Like a train leaving the station, all I had to do was say, “All aboard,” and anybody wanting to join me on our “day trip to the throne room” was welcome to join. Just go and they'll go too. It was wonderful and freeing and so refreshing as I just worshiped, and lots of people worshiped too.

Yesterday as I led worship I realized the model has changed again, and I didn't even know it. As I led yesterday I started singing without a word, began to connect with God, and yet I was connecting with people in front of me. I'm falling in love with this group. There was Kenny, of course, and a big hole there next to him. And as we sang “Glory to His Name!” I saw Carol all glowing as she sang from her heart. On Amazing Love I saw O., this guy who came back to the church after a failed attempt at suicide. “Amazing Love, how can it be that You my King should die for me?” O. was tearing up with the perpetual headache for which we pray, and his wife was crying with her head on his shoulder, connecting with God as we sang about the amazing Love that drove them both back to church. Their whole family is struggling, and I found myself praying as I connected with God there. And around the room I was tiptoeing in spirit, not intruding on peoples' time with God, but praying over them as I connected with God and the good words and music—and with people.

So I'm reconnecting with people in worship, not as a cheerleader, but with this new element of compassion. And I don't know whether that element of compassion is changing the way this congregation worships, or if the change was already there and I just didn't notice. People really are connecting with God, just the way we pray they will, and we will. We've gone from being those upstarts who brought in those newfangled choruses—to the people who worship with them. We sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs, and we tell God how much we love Him, and we beam at each other as we share our communal experience.

“And as I wait I'll rise up like the eagle. And I will soar with You. Your Spirit leads me on by the power of Your Love.”

* * *

Sunday afternoon scores of us converged on Deborah's house, armed with our invitations to the annual Deborah G. Memorial Day fish fry. I've been trying for a long time, now, to capture in photograph what it is about that place that's healing. This time I think I got just a little taste of it.

After visiting and eating too much I went around some of her property, armed with nothing more than my little hp camera.

It's really hard to capture, and I know I didn't get all of it. It's more than just the trees and the pond.


There's something indefinable here. Deborah has been praying here for a long time, and she has a true gift of hospitality. She entertains armies of people, giving of herself, cooking huge main dishes and relying on the rest of us to bring a veggie or dessert dish to pass. She mingles and enjoys every person there. Then she lets you go on your own, no pressure, no self-absorption, just go on and have a good time with my little slice of heaven here on earth.

So I went off on my own, quietly scoping the perimeter of the house, looking at the flowers she's planted, the landscaping, the parts she's left wild. Coming around to the front porch, I captured the rockers.

I've been to Deborah's parties where these were filled with people relaxing and chatting while watching the kids play on the front lawn. Today, despite the gorgeous temperature, the rockers were strangely empty. At that moment I heard a faint sound of music—harmonies rising and falling in waves from far away, and I remembered.

Years ago I was singing one Sunday and envisioning heaven. In my imagination I pictured myself walking outdoors in heaven, drawn to the door of a gathering place. There was a faint sound of singing coming from in there, and I cracked open the door quietly and went in. I was in the back of a church-like meeting, and people looked around and smiled at me. Puritan costuming, down in time to hoop skirts, right on down to the Great Depression-era clothing my grandparents used to wear. These were my mom's ancestors, and mine. All drawn together to praise God, with one thing in common—these were the seed of the righteous who had been mighty on the earth.

Centuries ago one righteous puritan came over to America – a puritan before the puritan movement went so horribly bad. He undoubtedly shared the odd belief of many of those old puritans—that all their descendants would be Christians forever. Right or wrong, one good thing came out of this strange belief. They prayed for us. Centuries ago this Puritan stranger was praying for me, that I would know God. And not all of us did, but every generation there was a remnant who believed.

There's this church down in south Georgia that's been standing there since colonial times, and many of this righteous puritan's descendants ended up there after leaving New England in the aftermath of the witch trials. They built the little Midway church, settled in as a community, and out of that tiny church came the mighty on the earth. Signers of the Declaration of Independence, U.S. Senator, numerous state-level officials, pastors, missionaries, an unusual percentage of Godly leaders. Theodore Roosevelt had ancestors that came from that church. Today the little church stands empty most of the year, and the descendants are scattered all over the country: scientists, internet pioneers, pastors, missionaries, moms and dads like me. Once a year they have a reunion at that church, and many of the sons and daughters go back. I've never been. The internet connects us now in many ways, though.

So here I was in my heavenly imagination, all those years ago, at the back of this meeting, and these heavenly people turned and smiled and I, wayfaring stranger on earth, felt welcomed and a part of this imaginary group. And it was over in a flash, and I was back in my own congregation singing I forget what song. (I have a vivid imagination sometimes. I'd like to be a writer someday.)

But as I stood looking at those rockers on this porch, I was drawn again by singing, and it was “Amazing Love,” the song we sang that morning in church. I went looking for the source of the music, and found a happy group singing and playing in Deborah's basement.

I was absorbed into the group. I found a spot on the sofa and added my harmonies to the ones already floating up out of the underground room.

And I, wayfaring stranger here on earth, I felt welcomed and a part of this group. I kept choking up as I sang, living the experience on two levels:

Amazing love, how can it be that You, my King, should die for me? I was singing to God at the Deborah G. Fish Fry.

And on a second level, I was with this group, singing together, sitting next to a lady who is going through a heartbreaking divorce, but for today her face was beaming, she was experiencing a refreshing she'd JUST told me she needed, and we were together celebrating God's love that died for us and made us better.

And that, I think, is another part of how God works on earth. We share His outpouring as a community. We are not separate. We are welcomed and part of God's family.

Angels, Outpourings and Such

(Note: I originally wrote this blog a week ago. I didn't plan to post it, but it turns out it's part of a larger story, so here it is.)

In recent weeks I've been drawn to faces. Faces in places where I usually make a point of avoiding them. In the grocery store—I usually go there to get what I need, look around, check out, look the cashier in the face, maybe chat with him or her, check out the face of the person who runs a cart in front of me—we may interact a bit. Here in the Midwest those kinds of encounters are usually fairly cordial--”Oh, I'm sorry.” “It's okay, no problem.” And people know how to put on their “cordial” mask.

So here lately I've been sneaking a peek at faces when people don't expect you to be looking at them. And let me tell you, it's left me aware that the human race has settled for living with a tolerable level of misery. Faces are generally sad, or angry, maybe bored, grouchy—these are the norm. The cheerful face is the exception.

I'm sad for people—and at the same time, they must think I'm absolutely off my nut when I go in there. It's hard not to glow sometimes. I feel like I kind of owe it to God to not try to hide what He's doing in my heart. It's just going to show on my face sometimes. So I go wander around at Walmart, and look at stuff and smile and look at faces and pray that God will bring revival or something so that fewer people will have to walk around with misery etched on their faces.

* * *

Here's an update on the prayer for my daughter's eyes. They do continue to improve, I think. Every night we do eye exercises. AND every night we pray for her eyes.

I've heard there's a healing revival thing in Florida. First response is to try to figure out how to get down there with my daughter to get her in a healing line, just in case it's the real thing. Second response is, what's that all about? Is it real? And if so, why does God choose to heal in one spot—a city in Florida? So I check scripture and find that the idea of healing in one spot has biblical precedent. Remember the story about the guy who was stuck by the healing pool? Every now and then an angel would come along and stir the water and the first person to jump in would get healed. The Bible doesn't say they BELIEVED an angel came along...it says an angel came along—it's more than an old legend. For some reason God had an angel assigned to this pool and the sick people that came there.

But with Jesus came a more blanketing grace for healing. I mean, it seemed everyone who came to Him got healed. In fact, He went to that pool and healed a man who couldn't get into the water fast enough. So at that point all you had to do was get to Jesus and you could count on a healing. That was during Jesus' lifetime. During the apostolic times there were many healings, too. Then things tapered off. So nowadays—what about it? If scripture says, by His stripes we are healed, how come physical healing is not as automatic as forgiveness of sins? I suppose the answer is probably complicated by details about the spiritual world that we don't know.

So I can't get to this healing revival thing, but then I hear about people being healed while watching the services on GODTV. Well, I don't get GODTV. But with the internet being what it is, it doesn't take too much Googling to find bits of services on Youtube, and then there's a podcast you can subscribe to....so I downloaded a few things to listen to, and maybe understand more about why God heals more quickly in some situations than in others—and maybe there's healing for my little girl.

I listened to a bit of a podcast. There was talk of angels assigned for healing, and cities with healing angels waiting to be assigned to them. And I thought, well, that's it. My little town isn't worth assigning a whole angel to it. It's not strategically where you would want to assign such a thing. And all this talk of angels with jobs and healings and heavenly strategiesies has started to seem overwhelming. Really, I want my little girl to be healed. Could I possibly get some runoff while God runs the strategy room? And among all the things that were making my head spin was one question: “God, why DO You heal?”

I was thinking all these things on my way to church Sunday morning. I remember asking Him, “God, You do great things, things that don't make sense, when people pray and ask for them. How about a big dose of You for my church, too?” And God said, I kid you not, “Okay. Let's try it this morning.”

Well, that shut my mouth. I was quiet for that last couple of blocks to church. I was going in early to pick out music and get ready for the song service. I just drove on, dumbfounded. When I got there I noticed the van of one of my dearest friends, Deborah, the prayer warrior. What was she doing here this early? The door was unlocked, so I went in. All was dark. Was she here or not? Had the door been left unlocked? That wouldn't be good. I was relieved to see my guitar had not been stolen; I grabbed it and headed for the front of the sanctuary, where I'd last seen my book of songs. I heard a quiet voice...”Hello.” And there she was. The Lord had sent her in early to pray, she said. My heart skipped a beat. Was this a heavenly plan coming together? “I'm SO glad you obeyed God on this,” I said, and explained just a little bit about why. We shared our amazement for a moment, then I went to look for my book. Couldn't find it. What I DID find was a medley we do sometimes, a medley of songs specifically about honoring God. Well, I thought THAT might be appropriate, dontcha think? God's showing up and we might want to honor Him.

There was a spot between songs, and as the group practiced before church, I knew I was going to say something in that spot. And here's the talking point:

“We have a special guest here this morning. I just wanted to let you know, because I'm SURE you're going to want to get around to greet him and talk with him. I'm sure he's going to want to talk with you as well. It's Jesus Christ. And every time we gather, that's exactly how it should be. The next few songs that we do we're going to specifically honor God.......”

So as practice ended and Sunday School was set to begin, the seniors class was gathering in the sanctuary, and it was time for us to head to our classes. There's tension between me and these seniors. No offense to the senior readers of this blog, but I know there's tension because, even though we sing hymns, we've introduced choruses and an active seeking of God's presence and it's left many of the seniors sometimes tense and suspicious.

I scanned the room as I was getting ready to go downstairs. My eyes lit on Carol. Now, Carol is a sweet lady. She keeps up with every birthday in the church, and sends each one of us a card. Quite a gift, and it's not always appreciated like it should be, I think. I smiled and greeted her and she smiled and greeted me, looking no different than usual. But instead of moving on I stopped, looked her in the eyes, and that's when something remarkable happened. I asked her how she was doing--and I really meant it. She must have somehow known I meant it, because she told me. Turns out Carol's scheduled for a heart catheterization Wednesday. She was pretty scared. So I let her talk about it for a minute and let her know I cared, would be praying, and then went downstairs. And you know, the funny thing is, I really cared. Not like we care in a general way a lot of times, but I wanted to cry for her and her family and the fear they must be feeling for her.

After Sunday school I went back upstairs and started this weird thing, walking from person to person, scanning faces, looking past the smiling church masks, really looking them in the eye and asking how they're doing. I usually tend to be pretty wrapped up in my task, praying, seeking God's presence, and maybe kind of greeting people, but this morning my official greeting mask was down and I was connecting with people. And people were responding differently. It was a most enjoyable experience. I was greeting a lot of the seniors that way. The tension just wasn't mattering. I went over to some people who come from a group home for disabilities. We have about three different groups like that who come (I always find it a positive sign in a church, when they attract people who are “different”). So I went over and greeted them, not just saying hi and shaking hands. I asked names, looked them in the eye if they looked back; we were talking about their names, my name, and I just stood and chatted a minute. Then it was off to more seniors—I kept coming back to the seniors for some reason. And as I swept past the doorway into the sanctuary I saw a face I hadn't ever seen before. I said, “I don't think we've met—I'm Connie,” looking her in the eye in a way that, I think, told her I wish we HAD met—I wanted to know her. She responded like a friend instead of an uncertain stranger. She was Jamie, she was new to the area and was looking at churches. So we chatted a bit and I welcomed her in and helped her find a seat.

And so it went. Now, you have to understand, I am no social butterfly. I hold my own, but I'm about average when it comes to the social scene, and it took some work to get to average. But it was as if Someone with a better handle on social propriety had come along behind me, wrapped His arms around my arms, and was doing the work with me. My feet were propelling me from person to person, my mouth was opening to speak, but Someone else was looking at them with compassion, and was speaking to them, asking them all the right things, and they couldn't help but respond. It was such an effortless, exhilarating experience.

We sang our set, I said my thing about Jesus, and it was time to go around and greet people with a handshake. Yippee! I was soaring around the room again, having some fun. It was kind of like flying.

The pastor came by and asked if I could go greet someone new. Her name was "Jamie"....(already on it, pastor)..... and she was the wife of the new town planner....(Well, I won't hold it against her--having spent more than twenty years in the media, I've come to find celebrity to be a little irritating)....and she was Lutheran (Now I was impressed. We're a Baptist church. What was a big-time Lutheran doing on this side of the spiritual tracks?). Oh, well. Whatever her reasons for being here, I'm glad she showed up the one Sunday I would not be scared of a stranger.

So that's about it. No heavy sense of the presence of God that drove us to our knees or to the floor. Healing? Maybe. I don't know. Nobody shouted or anything. Not even a testimony. So was God's presence there? I put the question to Him, and rather than a word for word answer, I got this impression. God is within me. I went to church. I allowed Him to move in me and through me. And yes, since I was there and obedient, He was there. And He was there in the heart of each individual in the room who knew Him. And as we allow Him access to us, He delivers compassion where compassion is needed, comfort where comfort is needed, hospitality where hospitality is needed. Yes, He was there.

On the way out to my car I found myself walking along with my friend Deborah again. She said, “Why have I never seen those scriptures in Galatians (from the sermon) before?” (Deborah has read Galatians more times than I have, probably.) So out of my mouth popped this response: “Because the Holy Spirit was tapping you on the shoulder, saying, 'Your Teacher is here.'” After an affirming pause I asked, “So do you think God showed up this morning?”

“I'll say,” I think, was her reply.

This morning Deborah needed a teacher. Carol needed reassurance. "Jamie" needed to be welcomed to a new place. We each needed something, and God was there to help us each find the thing that we needed. And you know, while I was busy saying hello to people, I think I got a piece of an answer to my question, “Why does God heal?”. When He was here physically He healed because He had compassion on the multitude. He heals today and meets our needs because He has compassion. He just cares. Sunday He walked the room, touching this one, speaking to that one, teaching Deborah, welcoming Jamie, and teaching me how to care about people.

Did He show up? I'll say.

A Bruised Reed

Breakfast in bed—that staple of Mother's Day, the inconvenience we endure to show our kids we appreciate their appreciating us. So far I've escaped. First the kids were to young to think of it. Then they just hadn't thought of it yet; but yesterday my youngest child informed me I was to stay in bed. It had come to this. I was overhearing tall tales of the fabulous breakfast to be prepared for me. Unfortunately, I know how late this child likes to sleep; and on Sunday I prefer to get up early and read a little Scripture with a cup of coffee. Knowing how late she likes to sleep I took my Bible to bed with me. I set my one-cup coffee maker ready to go nearby and went to bed. I awoke to the sound of....nothing. No alarm. In fact, no time showed on the clock at all. Electricity was out. So I went in search of a battery-operated clock. There was plenty of time for a chapter of Scripture. Coffeemaker wouldn't work, so I boiled water for tea on the gas stove. Couldn't go back to bed. I needed daylight with which to read, so I found a window, settled in with tea and some good reading and waited.

One thing I'm pleased my daughter is learning is to relish a good day. The thing she hasn't learned yet is that things don't have to be perfect for you to have a great day. She woke up with an awful sense of a day gone awry. She wailed on about how it was a terrible, bad day. How can you make toast without a toaster? And toast, practically speaking, is really the extent of her culinary skills when she's on her own. And furthermore, what's breakfast in bed without bed? So I laid back on the sofa and told her that what I could really use is a granola bar. I mean, what's in granola if it's not oatmeal (porridge for the British readers)? And how about a banana and an orange to go with my granola bar and tea? So she scurried around, happily fetching items for a makeshift breakfast.

How did the tradition of breakfast in bed for Mother's Day get started? I don't know, although I suppose I could Google it. I remember feeble attempts to create a feast for my own mom, and maybe she made breakfast for HER mom. I don't know. Funny how traditions grow and change, sweeping us along as a generation marches through its allotted time, departing and making room for the next.


* * *


Lately I've gotten on this weird kick—odd facts from the Bible. There really is some interesting stuff in there that people overlook. For instance, anybody who's spent much time around the Bible knows that people lived almost a thousand years before the great flood; and even after the flood people were living a good deal longer than we live. Five hundred years Shem lived after the flood. And they kept living that way, five hundred years or so apiece, until this guy named Peleg came along and at that point lifespans were cut down to a trifling 200 years. Don't know what that's all about. But it's there for anybody to read, and people read it all the time as they go through Genesis. The thing is, though (and this is where it REALLY gets weird), we tend to read this stuff as the short-lived vapor people we are. Most of us will probably get to see our grandkids. Some lucky people will see great-grandkids, but it's very unlikely that you will see your great-great grandkids.

But if you get to live 500 years and you have your first child at around 30 (which seems to have been the norm back then), then when your great-great grandson comes along, you get to be there to celebrate. In fact, you'll be there when HIS son comes along, which is exactly what happened to Shem. In fact, Shem's great-great-great grandson Peleg started the trend for a shorter life, living a mere 200 years and then dying. After that Shem lived a bunch of years celebrating the births of his descendants and mourning their deaths, because he lived on and on, a relic of the pre-flood times enduring in a broken world.

So it was a whole different kind of world right after the flood. The patriarchs, as we call them, Abraham and Isaac, happened to be on earth at the same time as a guy who was here before the flood. People wonder where the Jewish people would have learned the story of the world's origins, but the answer is right there in scripture if you do the math. Going by the time line you read in Genesis 11, Noah himself would have been around about 50 years after his righteous descendant, our own Father Abraham, was born. Did they know each other? We don't know. Could they speak the same language after the tower of Babel? In fact, since apparently Noah and Shem were probably around in the time of the tower of Babel, what language did they come out speaking? If Noah spoke the language of the line of Shem, he could have passed on some good life lessons and Godly heritage to Abraham and his family. What a weird world to have lived in, where Abraham shared the earth with many of his post-flood ancestors.

I've also been reading bits of the Apocryphal books. My church tradition does not view them as inspired Word of God. Neither do I, but I'm reading them to know what people were reading and being influenced by when they were writing down scripture. I imagine there were some very good and some very bad non-inspired books out there, just like there are today.

Jude quoted the apocryphal book of Enoch, by the way. Doesn't mean Enoch is inspired, although the particular passage Jude quoted is apparently inspired, just by virtue of the fact that it's in the Bible now.

Still, I was surprised when our pastor quoted an apocryphal book last week. Something about a physical description of Paul. He explained that this particular piece of literature was written early in the 2nd century AD, so it's quite possible that this was an accurate description of somebody's memory of what Paul actually looked like. Well, that was interesting. Maybe it was an accurate description and maybe it was not. The “maybe it was” made it worth a listen, so I listened.

According to this writer, Paul was short. (Hmmm. I can relate to that.) Hair was scanty. (So is my husband's.) Legs were a little crooked. (Bowlegged guy, sounds like.) Knees projecting. (Bummer—bowlegged and knock-kneed. Makes you wonder if he got through rabbinical school without having “kick me” scrolls taped to his back.) Large eyes. Okay. His eyebrows met. (EWWWW....unibrow! Guess razors weren't in fashion yet.)

But one thing he had going for him in this – um – “challenging” description was this: “full of grace.”
So this is the guy who tried to kill all the Christians until he got knocked down and found Christ—and found a purpose. He was constantly getting beat up and thrown in prison. In spite of all this he started churches all over most of the known world. He also had some kind of “thorn in the flesh,” which every theologian has tried to decipher. What was it? A bad joint? Walking from town to town with knee problems could have been his thorn. I've even heard people suggest a nagging wife. Something bothered him enough that he kept asking God to remove it. And instead of taking it away, God said, “My grace is sufficient.” Not exactly the happy ending one looks for in a good story.

It's plausible that the thorn might have been his looks. I mean, it can be hard to have a commanding presence with a strong handicap in the looks department. It's unfortunate but it's true. So if that's the thorn, here's a cool scenario my pastor played out:

You have a guy starting out life short, bowlegged, knock-kneed, bulgy eyes and with one big eyebrow. He finds Christ. He proceeds to change the world, because that was his destiny and his calling, to drive right through the personal challenge he faced.

So after he finds Christ, what do you have? A guy short, bowlegged, knock-kneed, bulgy eyes, now he's gone bald, unibrow.......and FULL OF GRACE. And it was enough. It was enough to change the world, to expand Christianity into the Gentile world, and write many of the books of the New Testament.

While this sermon was going on, I was relating in all kinds of ways. Wow. Thorn in the flesh. Needing something. Asking God for that something. That something is not here. So what do I have? GRACE. I was so into the message that I didn't stop to think about what my thorn in the flesh was. But at some point I stopped to wonder why this particular message was hitting me so profoundly. What was that thorn? OH Yeeees.....my daughter's crossed eye.

I have asked and asked. I have asked from the bottom of my heart. I have asked in effectual, fervent prayer. I have asked regularly. It improves slowly, but still when I get up in the morning and wake her up, she looks at me—and it's still there.

This is not my thorn, I know. It's hers. But since I'm asking in faith, and I haven't received my answer yet, in a way this IS my thorn. And I do ask in faith when I ask. I believe He plans to heal her.

In the meantime, “full of grace.” What is the good that is here, and might NOT be here were it not for the crossed eyes? Hmmm.

When my daughter was in kindergarten she was quite possibly the most popular child in her class. She was the only one who could turn a real cartwheel and do a back flip. She was the only girl who could hand-walk the monkey bars from one end of the play equipment to the other. She could run faster than the boys, and at that age they all loved her for it.

You know those snapshot memories you have that stay with you? Well, I have a memory of walking past the lunchroom during lunch hour the day every child in class got an invitation to her birthday party. The class was abuzz with the upcoming social event, and she was surrounded by red-faced, excited five year olds, one little girl holding court in a fog of popularity. The words floated out into the hall where I was walking by: “I invited ALL my best friends.” And the kindergarten class cheered.

Then at the beginning of her next school year the eye started to cross. We got her under an eye doctor's care and found glasses to be completely ineffective. Surgery was suggested. We've settled into a plan of eye exercises combined with diet and rest, and in the end if she still needs it she'll get the surgery. In the meantime we pray every day and wait for God to reach past the doctors and touch her wandering eye. She never does cartwheels on the playground anymore. She has no depth perception and is prone to falling. She sometimes sees double, and because her eye turns in she has almost no peripheral vision on that side. And, of course, she's fallen out of favor with her class.

As I've said, we have her do these eye exercises. In one of them she puts on these 3D glasses, one lens red and the other green. Then she is supposed to color with a red crayon. If she only uses her strong eye (covered by a red lens), she can't see what she's coloring at all. If she switches and uses her wandering eye she will see what she's coloring, but it will be black. If she uses both eyes together she will see red. This exercise seems to be the most effective one the doctor gave her and so she does this one every day. At first she thought it was great fun to color every day, but it didn't take too long for her to tire of it. So a battle of the wills ensued. Then I realized—hey! Every computer has a paint program. Why don't we let her color on the computer? That made all the difference—for a while. Then she tired of THAT game and the fight was on again.

That was before I got the bright idea of reading to her. So now every day she paints for a while and I read to her from an interesting story book. Then when I finish a chapter I try to get her to stop painting while she begs me to keep reading. Sometimes I comply. Sometimes instead we talk about what's going on in her eight year old life. We've come into some nice bonding times talking while she paints red on the computer.

I've watched her deepen as a person while we talk about the playground politics which plague the lives of little girls. She's fallen out of favor, of course. It happened quickly and without much fanfare when she turned up at school with glasses and a crossed eye. Kids just kind of gravitated to the next girl on the totem pole. But you know, I've watched her deepen as a person while she learns to navigate life from ground level. Some of the politics are pretty tough this year and she watches her friends fall into and out of favor with the popular girl. And my daughter is just kind of quietly there for them when they fall out of favor. Part of me says she would never have been that mean if she had stayed popular, but who knows? I'm glad she's been spared that possibility.

So she's been graced to deepen as a person, and her mom...

I never knew anything but an adversarial relationship with my own mom. We make peace when we visit these days, but there were some hate-filled years when I was young. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. So part of me has waited for the day when my girls turn on me and start the hate cycle for another generation. I've tried to make things better for them by being reasonable but firm, and by being a friend, but part of me waits for the rejection I heaped on my own mom.

Fortunately, there's grace. Grace for my mom and for me as we rebuild things, and grace for my own girls. Sometimes my older daughter joins us and we sit on the floor and all talk while the youngest does her exercises, and we're building something special. Maybe it will last. Maybe it won't, but they'll remember and cherish it, I hope. It's a grace. A grace that maybe would not have been there if my daughter had not been tied to a computer doing boring eye exercises.

So this morning I laid back on the sofa, playing the part of the mom of leisure while the little one scurried about bringing me fruit and granola. I looked at her eye and it still turned in. I will still pray. Firmly, insistently, and with faith I will pray. But for today she's still a little clumsy, sometimes sees double and the poor kid has no peripheral vision. And for today, we are full of grace.


“Isa 42:3 A bruised reed will he not break, and a dimly burning wick will he not quench...”

Breathe

My daughters have recently become ballet fans. Or rather, fanatics. Since they acquired “Barbie and the Twelve Dancing Princesses” (the DVD) there's been no living with them. You call them to the table and they glide lightly in, feet pointed gracefully. They do dainty little traveling turns from room to room, moving around the house like a corps de ballet. What can one say?

So I was surprised recently when I found the Bolshoi Nutcracker on TV and got loud, instant complaints from the little ladies. “BOR-ing!” “When can WE watch something?” “What's on Noggin?” I kept saying, “Just wait. It gets better,” but it never seemed to. I could have just made them watch it, or at least made them do something else while I watched it, but instinct told me if I forced the issue I could accelerate the inevitable time (it's coming) when they'll tire of ballet. So instead I said, “Let's not watch this. I've got something better.” And I pulled out an old “Ballet Magnificat” video cassette, ready to pull that one too if they got bored. To my surprise, they loved it! They couldn't get enough of the premier Christian ballet company going through their 1994 repertoire.

Of course, I was enjoying it too. I haven't seen this one in years. It's so old I'm lucky I didn't damage the heads on my VCR. On this video you can enjoy several really nice suites. The first one is set to some of Integrity's Hosannah music, all classically styled. I was enjoying one of the first few songs, “I Will Sing of the Mercies of the Lord” with the girls. The song starts with a couple of ladies coming out with tambourines. They do some middle eastern folk style moves, in the way that ballerinas often do folk steps—with almost superhuman grace. But then when they got to one particular part of the song, I did a double take. Hey! I recognized that set of moves! I knew it really well, in fact. It was mine! And I was transported back to 1993, a year before the video came out.

That was the year I went to a Jerusalem Worship Dance seminar. My dance company had told me numerous times I should go to one of those things. Rich gatherings of worshipers who also happened to be dancers. It was designed for church dancers like me. The bigwigs in the world of worship dance were brought in to teach us, and they would pool their creativity, and teacher and student alike would come away with ideas to enrich the next year of choreography. This particular year I went for the first time. I did not know what to expect, so when the brochure said there would be a chance to bring a piece you were working on and they would help you with it, I didn't know enough to be self-conscious about it. I picked out a song I was indeed working on and brought along a cassette.

I flew into Washington DC full of excitement, dance shoes packed away carefully. I was swept into a world of visual extravagance, where there were so many beautiful things to see that one was almost overwhelmed. Sondance was there, a duo I had admired since the beginning of my dance experience. That alone would have been enough to draw me. And there was Ballet Magnificat, Liz Dimmel, and many others with far more experience than I had. We sweated through rigorous master classes, and I felt like I held my own, not the best dancer by any means, but a respectable student at this level.

When the evening came for us to get help with our pieces, I was good and scared. I felt a little like a kindergarten crayon artist showing fridge art to Rembrandt. But, I'd signed up, and I really wanted some input on this piece. So I danced it. I forget the singer, but the song was called “Clap Your Hands.” It was done in that neoclassical style that used to be popular, combining synth with classical chord structures. The lyrics went something like this:

Clap your hand, all ye people.
Shout to God for joy.
For He is King over all the earth.
His throne is established in righteousness.
And now He comes, His people to bless.
Clap your hands! Clap your hands!
Shout to God for joy!

I didn't want to go clapping through the whole song. The sound of my palms smacking together jangled one's nerves and fought with the sound of the music, so I devised this nifty Semitic-looking move where your hands didn't actually meet, but you mimed a clap. And in that second-to-the-last line you did a little traveling turn in one direction, did your mime clap, traveled back the other way, and clapped again. When I got to that part and did my little move, I heard this voice, “I LIKE that!” and my worship dancer's heart rejoiced, because you were always were looking for ways to praise God and you derived your ministry from encouraging people to worship with you. And I had high hopes that what I was doing was translating into praise for them, so I redoubled my efforts and put everything into it. Probably way too much into it, and when the song ended, I sat down, puffing and sweating, to get my critique.

The dance was well received, especially the one move. There was room for improvement, of course. Although I honestly can't remember what they said (probably to straighten out my arabesques or something), I appreciated that the one move got communicated to them. If they GOT it, then it must be clear, and it would hopefully minister at my own church, too.

But while I sat there with my mouth hanging open, panting, my lungs filled with the cold, dry air from the hotel and my bronchial tubes started to swell. Never having experienced that before, I wasn't concerned about the fact that it was getting harder to breathe. I mean, who hasn't been out of breath before? And I'd danced pretty hard.

Then it was time for the next dancer, and I got up and went back to my seat. Breathing got harder and I got up to go to the ladies' room so I wouldn't disturb anybody. Things went from bad to worse. I couldn't exhale. I coughed hard, got the air out, then I couldn't inhale. I kept trying, getting more and more desperate. This lady came in there, not with the conference, but somebody staying in the hotel. I tried not to disturb her, but at this point I was absolutely fighting to breathe. She asked if she could help, so I pointed to the double doors behind which the conference was still going on and choked out something about getting somebody from in there. A moment later in rushed the Sondance duo, as well as Liz Dimmel. So much for not wanting to be a bother.

Somebody handed me a paper bag, thinking maybe I was hyperventilating. I wasn't, but the bag was helpful in that the warm, moist air from inside my lungs was sent back down, relaxing the bronchials. I sucked greedily on that paper bag, then looked up in relief. They stayed for a minute or two, talking nicely, and then went back to the workshop. Embarrassed, I got in my sister's car and drove back to her house, where I was staying there in DC. I felt much better the next day and enjoyed the rest of the conference.

Over the next few years I would go to a conference when I needed refreshing, and I might meet up with Liz or Yvonne or somebody, and we always laughed over the paper bag incident. I had a few more incidences like that, and eventually was diagnosed with exercise-induced asthma. It's pretty manageable these days. In fact, I haven't had an episode since I got too old to dance; but I'll probably always remember and hate the feeling of desperation you get when you can't seem to get that all-important next breath.

You know what's kind of cool? I didn't realize it at the time, but my little clapping move found its way into the pool of creativity that seemed to follow those conferences. I used to pick up Christian dance videos from here and there, and for a year or so I saw that move done over and over. The JWD dancers did it. Sondance did it at the next Jerusalem Worship Dance conference. And although I missed it at the time, Ballet Magnificat adapted it to tambourines and put it on their video. So that's my little contribution to the Christian dance world.


This week I went to ask our pastor what his Sunday sermon was going to be about (I was picking out music), and he mentioned something about being desperate for God. Immediately my mind went to the song, “Breathe.” I can resonate to that song.

“This is the air I breathe, Your Holy presence living in me. And I—I'm desperate for you.”

You see, I know what it is to be desperate for the next breath, to fight and scratch and long to breathe one more time. I sit here clicking away on a sunny day, enjoying the warmth of the evening sun, drinking in deep, calm breaths. But I happen to know that, calm as I am, I have a desperate need for that next breath.

Did you know that in the Greek language the words “Spirit” and “breath” are the same? Pneuma means “Spirit,” “breath,” and also “wind.” Are you comfortable in the place God has you? Good. Are you in a hungry time? Good, too. Whether you realize it or not, you and I share one thing in common: a desperate need. I'm desperate for the next thing God's Holy Spirit is going to do in my life. He's my Breath. He keeps me alive.


Refiner's Fire, recorded Friday night (3-28-08)
Breathe_3-28-08.mp3

You don't have to be beautiful....

...to be fearfully and wonderfully made.




I was out tromping in back a few days ago and pulled back some bark on a fallen tree, looking for something to photograph. This little wonder was there. You can see its fearfully and wonderfully made insides.

I suspect this is one of the many varieties of immature insects tended by wood ants. There was fresh evidence of wood ant activity nearby, and you can see the honeydew droplets on this fellow, waiting to be harvested by hungry ants.

How did an insect with no creativity or intelligence learn how to harvest honeydew from larvae? Which ant thought of it first? How did she teach the others her lore? Who told the ant that to keep a steady supply nearby, one must tend to the needs of the larva, defend it from predators, and bring it the correct variety of leafy plant to eat? Could it be that there is a God who wrote these things into the ant's DNA?




From this photograph I learned that sometimes it's good to use a longer focal length. It would have been nice to have the back of the larva in focus too.

Constellations

As the emotions were building up inside, I was struggling to find an exit strategy. Somehow to quickly and painlessly remove myself from the conversation. Every word that I said, though, ensnared me deeper into the argument. Yes, I could just let them win, but I couldn't, not until they understood me. Emotions were cut and oozing - I didn't feel like I could contain myself any longer.

Finally, saved, I burst out into the inky black night. The coldness of the air searing my lungs, freezing the tears to my face. Throwing up my arms, I look to the stars. My lovely stars. And everything fell back into perspective. I was small and my troubles insignificant. As wide as I could stretch out my arms, the night sky was much bigger. and prettier.

The autumns and springs of my life are marked off with the rising and setting of Orion and the filling up and pouring out of the big and little dippers. They felt like my closest friends, seeing all and knowing the secrets that I whispered to them. They centered me.

When I learned about how God set the stars in the sky in the beginning and every night calls them out by name, my heart shown bright with tears. Before I even was, he was tending to the stars so one day they might comfort someone. Guide someone home in the cold darkness. The wind, snow and sleet whirling around can get me confused at where to put me feet. I might trip and fall. But if I'm patient and look up sometimes there is a hole in the clouds and the stars are shining through. And soon the storm will clear.

Rising and setting, they never change. Sometimes my view is obscured, but they are still there. Like God. There are times when we can't see what he is doing, but he is still working.

This Is His Blood

If ever there was a week when a person got beaten up emotionally, this would be the one for me. Can't put my finger on any one thing, just a bunch of things all converging to make it Connie's “Get Beat Up Week.”

First was the hearing which brought home to us all that my friends are really going through divorce—the point at which people begin to lose hope that it could all go away and things could get better. For weeks now every time I go to pray, or connect with God, I feel that pressure behind the eyes that tells you you're on the verge of tears. Friends' pain can be a heavy burden.

Then there was the brochure photography job, which at another time might have been great fun, but coming at my yearly peak of burnout (the school year is coming to a close, but there's a Spring Program yet to do), it's with mixed feelings that I take on anything.

Then two students near and dear to me left in a clash of two cultures. Two of our Korean students skipped out this past week and may not come back. I was in the process of ordering nice pennywhistles for them to take back to Korea, but now they're unexpectedly gone. I invested a great deal of my week trying to explain what I know of Asian culture to the school administrators, but I don't think I made much headway.

And on Friday another of our students left because her mom can't afford private school any more. They live too far away to be able to afford the gasoline it takes to get here. This student is also my daughter's best friend. My daughter, who has never grasped how to make friends, finally got it, and had a good friend—who is gone now.

After school on Friday my kids went swimming with some friends, leaving me cleaning up my classroom and then choosing songs for Sunday. When I got done I took my heaviness down to the office. I knew I needed a good “sliver of time,” I needed to rejuvenate, and I had some time to myself. I asked the office personnel for ideas. The secretary suggested a haircut, but my stylist is busy and doesn't do walk ins. The pastor suggested I go turn on the sound system and play my guitar too loud—that's what he would do. That sounded like the best advice yet, but I amended it by grabbing a penny whistle instead. I also left the sound system off. The vaulted ceiling in there makes it a VERY nice place to whistle. I played for about an hour or so. You know, though, I'm frustrated with my playing right now. Life is too busy and I don't take enough time to practice, so when I DO practice I beat myself up for not being better. Still, a penny whistle played under a vaulted church ceiling is healing, even if played imperfectly. It helped some.

Friday nights I don't set my alarm. I relish sleeping until my body feels like waking up. At this point I had no hope that it would help, but it's my thing, so I didn't set my alarm. But sleep wasn't meant to happen that night. One of my kids was sick all night, and I was up with her, running back and forth with buckets and doing the mom thing.

All of this converged Saturday into one exhausted, burnt out human mother. I ran my healthy child to knitting class, picked around online here and there, and did little else. I did not nap. I don't know why.

Last night, then, I made a deliberate decision. I would not set my alarm to go to church. Roger could run the kids to church. I was playing hookey. I had no crucial part in any song the praise team was doing. They would be fine if I didn't make it.

So I woke up this morning at 6:22, my normal time. I sighed heavily and turned over. I woke up again at 6:30. I sighed and turned over again. I woke up again at 6:40. This time I realized God wasn't letting me off the hook. If I was playing hookey, it would NOT be because I failed to wake up. Almost like He was saying, “You're awake. What are you going to do?”

Well, I felt rested and fine, so I got up and got ready and went in early, just like always, to practice with the team. Oddly, my body was rested but my mind was numb. I told God, “I hope You have a good reason for my being here.”

After practice the pastor approached me. He had this look in his eye that I've come to recognize. You see, I'd almost call him a victim of abuse. For more than 20 years he's been stuck at this church, running scared and fulfilling legalistic demands. He's told me that he asked God over and over to release him from this church and let him go somewhere he could really help people. Because for 20 years God has been giving him ideas for helping to release people from their legalistic bondage and for 20 years people have been shooting down his ideas.

Four years ago I started going to this church—it's about the time he started saying, “I don't care. If God's giving me ideas, I'm going for it.” And our church has been changing into a much more dynamic, fluid place. But you can still see the victimization when he comes up with an idea and he's afraid you're going to shoot it down.

So he had this idea. He said he was really sorry he just came up with it yesterday, and he knew we hadn't had time to prepare, but could we do this dramatic reading of scripture, and if we couldn't that was fine, and.....

Well, his idea was really doable, and I presented it to the first praise team member I ran into and we did this reading and it turned out really well. In fact, it turned out to be a real “God thing,” and, I suppose, gave me a purpose for showing up at church this morning. If nothing else, our pastor has a little more courage to step out next time God gives him an idea and there's no time to plan for it.

So it was communion Sunday. Ah, communion. That last pocket of resistance where legalism and meaningless ritual retains a tight grip. I know communion, or mass, is a ritual fraught with meaning, but as with all ritual it can lose its meaning if you never remind yourself of that meaning. And there's this tight “deacon” hold on communion. I mean it. Once a month our Baptist church puts on a liturgical dance. The same one every month. First all the deacons line up on the front row wearing their best suits. They all kind of glance at each other so they can sit down simultaneously. The pastor says a few words over the elements—first the bread, or mini-crackers, and then they stand up as a unit. They pass a sliver of bread to every person in the church. We wait quietly, examining our lives to ferret out any stray sins that need to be turned over to God. The deacons return to the front. They put down the bread. They sit as a unit. We eat the bread. Then we start over with the wine—or juice, I should say. In Baptist church you use juice.

Now I have to say, once they've passed the bread out to all those people, most of those who are going to examine their lives already have. And believe me, this morning I had plenty of badness to examine—my heart was still playing hooky, even if my body had made it to church. Honestly I did confess as best I could during the bread part. But--we must go through with the ritual a second time for the “juice,” eyes closed, looking like we're examining ourselves again, while all the time we're thinking of sports or lesson plans or of not spilling juice on our clothes. This time I decided to nix the meaningless hypocrisy and open my eyes and just wait, so I did. I was up front with the praise team, and so while I tried to respect peoples' privacy, my eyes wandered around the room.

There was my friend, here at church, even though she was in the midst of divorce—a life crisis that puts my bad week in perspective. And back there on the fifth row back was “O.” with his family. A few weeks ago that family turned up at our church, all with eyes as big as saucers, looking shell-shocked and in pain. It turns out O. recently tried to shoot himself. He survived, but the shock and trauma drove him and his family back to church. And so O. is trying to re-learn the skills that a bullet took from his brain. His speech is slow but good now and his short-term memory is coming back, and he'll probably be getting surgery soon to mend the torn rotator cuff in his shoulder. But O. and his wife are back with God now, and thankful that he survived even as he deals with the aftermath.

And there in the back were my beloved Korean students with their mom, here at church in spite of the sting of their experience, here to find some healing—here together with a larger family that tries our best to transcend cultures. And as I looked at my “juice” in a little cup, I realized that the one thing that pulls us all together in this imperfect building full of imperfect people, besides the need for healing, is a thread of blood. A thread that binds the hurting, the displaced, the tired, the misunderstood. What pulls us all together and heals us is the blood of Christ that we celebrate in a ritual. A ritual that has meaning when we reach out and allow Him to cover our badnesses with His blood.

So when the deacons returned, glanced furtively at one another and sat down as a unit, the pastor said his words over the cup and we all drank together. And this time I think I got it.

missing you

Well ladies- I have to say that enough time has gone by that I really have started to miss each of you. I am always amazed that God gives me what and WHO I need right when I need it. Even if I don't kow He does. This should not amaze me, because he is well...GOD but it does.
I am glad He gave me each of you. I do miss you all.
(Yes- A. I know I will see you today!) I think I miss the feeling of all of us sitting around the table with cups of tea. Chatting and praying and eating God's word, bite by delicious bite.

A New Year

A new start.

God in his graciousness makes life interesting. For that I am thankful! I love change and different things and new things. I get grouchy when I'm doing the same things over and over. I'm a type B person. Organization eludes and frustrates me. The first thing that usually happens when I walk into a clean room is a mess!

In my previous posts I noted how I was freakishly organizing and cleaning and straightening. Weird. For me. I was keeping myself busy. Just FYI, for me that's a sign of all isn't well.

At any rate enough is enough.

On New Year's Eve we had friends over. We weren't planning on staying up until midnight... But we started playing a game and time flew. As we finished the game and started saying our good byes, we noticed that it was 11:53... 7 more minutes and we could spend Midnight together. Sure, why not? So as we were passing the last 7 minutes of the New Year, we started talking and we were discussing next week's Sunday School lesson that they were teaching.

As luck (actually God) would have it, we needed to consult the Bible about which verses for sure. I went and grabbed the handiest Bible off the book shelf.

So at Midnight, the four of us were sitting around the table pouring over the word of God. How cool is that?

Cold chills flew through me as I realized that this was the first bible I owned. It was given to me by Vanessa, the friend who invited me to Youth Group. At Youth Group, I met Katie who explained who Jesus was and what he did. I didn't open that Bible until a couple months later when I accepted Christ into my heart because of those 2 friends (and some more). I read through the whole thing in about 6 months, before I moved back home. I used it for several years And then it started falling apart and got retired. That bible was replaced by another given to me by a dear friend, Jo-Mama, who gave me a more adequate understand of His Word. She is the friend that baptized me. I love her dearly! So I could probably go on and on telling you all the 'lineage' and stories of my bibles, but I'll spare you :)

So here I am. Reading in Genesis 24, the story of Isaac and Rebekah. Out of my first Bible, in the First Book, Right at straight up New Year's. God was calling me back to him. Start this year off with Me, I am the First, Through Me - you have life. Simple as that, A., simple as that. Really.

So right now I'm anxiously awaiting our friends' lesson.

Christmas 2007

Remember when you were a kid and Christmas was about ending the torment of wrapped gifts under that tree? You know—the ones with your name on them? The oddly-shaped one, the nice, neat cube, the long, skinny one—they all made you curious, and they all teased you. If your family was like mine, they sat under there for weeks, calling your name.

Christmas has actually been a little disjointed for me, most years. Our family, like many, did not have a lot, so you knew there was probably goiong to be a lot of nothing under there, but still there was that hope. Hmmm.

One Christmas when I was ten or eleven my dad actually asked us what we wanted. I'd never been asked that before. I was stumped for a minute; but I'd always wanted a guitar, so I asked for a guitar. I knew, of course, that the question was rhetorical, but it was fun just to ask for something totally outrageous.

So the oddly shaped package turned up under the tree that year, but there was no name tag. Later claims have been that the tag fell off. I just assumed it was something really nice from my dad to my mom. And on Christmas, when we were winding up the gift-opening thing, my dad told me to hurry up and open that thing. I was genuinely surprised. It was the guitar. A twenty dollar classical guitar, but it was a guitar. I played that thing all the way through college before I finally got myself a better one.

Later on there were the years when I could not make it home, so I was the awkward guest that you invite to your family gathering—the one that knows he or she doesn't quite belong there. That was me. Now, though, I have a family of my own, and Christmas is about long road trips to grandparents' homes, to participate in grandparents' traditions. Which, I guess, is better than being the awkward outsider, but somehow the whole thing of making traditions of your own is still missing.

And then there are the Christmas carols. Nice pieces of tradition that remind you of Christmas past, but never quite reaching me on a spiritual level. I've always resented the fact that the whole rest of the church seems willing to give up worship for a month or so, enjoying bright, cheery carols that don't quite reach the part of your heart where your relationship with God dwells.

This Christmas, though, has been different on every level. It started when we were batting around the idea of staying home. The problem with that has always been that my kids are the only grandkids on both sides of the family, so everyone always wants a shot at seeing the grandkids. For my husband's parents, that's not a problem. They're hearty and hale and they love to travel. My mother, on the other hand, is disabled and no longer drives. That would leave her limping through a Christmas day with my sister in attendance, and my conscience level doesn't allow for that. To my surprise, though, Roger's parents agreed to stop in at my mom's house and pick her up for the eleven hour drive up here. Wow! We accepted, and my mother did too.

Even before company arrived there was something different about this Christmas. The carols were hitting me on a new spiritual level. O Holy Night, for instance. “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn” was hitting me as it never has before, and I was worshipping as I played the arpeggios on guitar.

Then before I knew it the house was full (my sister flew in too), and we were into the full holiday season. I've never entertained on this level and for such an extended period before, and it took some adjustment, but before I knew it I was cooking big meals and baking desserts and having a great time making the house a welcoming place.

Which brings me to what Christmas is to me this year. I know for my kids it was opening the presents, in spite of all my efforts to instill the real Christmas story. There's only so much you can do with a husband whose idea of a good time is to go running through the garden with a handful of sleigh bells just to excite little girls who ought to be asleep. They'll have to find a more mature meaning someday, I suppose. I can't venture to guess what Christmas was this year for anyone else in my house. But for me Christmas came on Christmas eve.



A very dear friend with a very large family had invited me to bring my clan out to their clan gathering on Christmas Eve. She couldn't bear the thought of another dead Christmas Eve, and rightly thought that the intermingling of two clans would liven the party. Besides, all of her children have sung together in my praise band, I sing with them, and the blend has always worked in the most remarkable way. They all knew my sister and I blend like “butter” and would probably blend with them too. And being the harmony hounds that we all are, it looked to be a great musical evening around the piano.

So Sunday night when my voice slowly began to disappear, I fished through the medicine cabinet for every remedy I could find. I gargled strong salt water every hour or so. I desperately tried to suppress every voice-damaging cough, but nothing worked. If you've heard my Christmas greeting in TPE, you've heard what was happening. It got worse than that. My sister kept trying to get me to stop talking, but.....

Monday evening I packed up my share of the cooking, and then I grimly packed up my guitar and pennywhistles, determined to make some kind of good music anyhow. Driving was slow with snow and ice on the roads, and they live about twenty miles out in the country. The air was cold, but crisp. Upon arrival we were all welcomed into the warmth of a generously decorated lodge-style home, and all of my company immediately felt at home. None of my singing friends were too happy to hear my voice, but everyone was determined to make the best of it, so we put away our wraps and headed right for the piano.

First, my fiddling friend and I played whistle and fiddle together for a while. Then I pulled out my guitar and the singing began. My sister spent a few songs being shy, then I urged her over and she joined in. It was SO-O-O nice to sit there surrounded by such nice harmonies, and the blend was as good as I imagined. And when I heard a hole in the harmony, I fell back on the instinct of a child-trained alto, and attempted to fill the hole. I squeaked out a note. Then I pushed harder, and realized if I pushed hard enough, I could push past the squeaks and airiness and hit a rough bit of Bonnie Raitt-type voice. So I pushed hard and filled that harmony hole. My throat creaked and groaned, but the voice held. I was in heaven.

We sped happily through Rocky Top, lingered deliciously over Wayfaring Stranger, and then got to Uncloudy Day. Singing that song, I felt the reality of a better place, where a full view of my Lord was waiting for me. And my little mother (she's very short), who is not always completely with us (she's heavily medicated), got up and came over closer to the music, which is her way of telling us that it's very go-o-od. And right there, pushing my voice out into that room, surrounded by my family and like-family, singing of God and heaven, that was Christmas to me. That in one long-ago night our world was taken from a savage place with a pocket of godliness in the Middle East to a promise of peace on earth, for the WHOLE earth; that we all sit in peace on Christmas Eve, celebrating the night that history was split, enjoying Christian fellowship and caringly blanketing our pagan family members with compassion—that night in Bethlehem is worth celebrating. A birthday so special that most of the civilized world showers one another with gifts. A birthday party celebrated each year the world over.

And when the song was over my little mother applauded vigorously , we all applauded each other, and then we sat down to a lovely dinner.

I'm clumsy.

Did you know that? I think that you might have. I'm not graceful on my feet like Godseeker, I'm not graceful with my spoken words like Heiress. I trip over my feet when I walk... My words either spill out of my mouth before I can capture them Or the "cat gets my tongue" so to speak and when I should speak up, I can't force the words out.

That said, I had an awful bruise on my shoulder blade. Right at that spot where you always have the itch you can't reach? Yep. My shoulder was tight and it hurt to move. That was the day of the monthly roller skating party that one my organizations has. Yes, I had to take the kids. Usually the older kid gets the chance to go play with his friends and I take young kid duty. This day I told him flat out, he was in charge of his brother. He must have seen the pain in my eyes. He didn't argue, he took over, very adequately taking charge of the little one.

So I was left to talk to the Mom's... Usually thats a joy! Adult conversation! Not this day. As some one who talks best with her hands flying, every sentence was whinced through. God apparently guided me to the right table to sit down. Or maybe I just plunked myself down at the nearest one ;) Anyway, One of my friends that I don't get to see much shared the table with me. We chatted a little bit. I'm sure she knew my heart wasn't completely in it. So I finally confessed I was hurting. She perked up. She had something that I could try. I wasn't so sure... I had taken some painkillers and it didn't even touch the pain I was in.

She dug around in her purse and pulled out a tube of something and handed it to me. Shrugging her shoulders she said, "its Arnica, who knows whats in it, but it works." I promptly went to the bathroom to contort myself into a pretzel to apply it. Oh well. At least I tried. I walked back out. And by the time I sat down relief spread across my shoulder and it relaxed. I was so grateful for my friend's generosity! We had a nice time afterwards. The older child still took care of the younger one :) My shoulder felt lots better for a long time afterwards... A couple days later I bought my own tube of Arnica. Its great stuff!

Sometime we just need a little bit of friendship to get us through the tough spots.