Birthday Flowers

It's hard to explain how I viewed beauty as a child. Oddly. Differently. I suppose I stared out the window around six months old or so, just like any child does. But my memories, of course, don't start that early. My memories tend to center around endless stops at scenic overlooks, waiting while my father took snapshots of valleys or flower gardens. If you look through our old photo albums you'll find pictures of my sister and me pointing at flowers, pointing at rock formations, pointing at historical markers, pointing at faraway mountains—all staged. “Point at the tiger lilies.” “Which ones are the tiger lilies?” “The one that looks like tigers.” “Oh, okay.” Snap. Another one for the album.

Those long roadtrips up and down the eastern seaboard have become an blur of endless stretches, my sister and I snoozing and staring out the car window, followed by tedious stops to look at pretty things. You got out of the smelly car, drowsy from heat, shuffled along with my dad. You stopped and looked, you wished it to be over with, looked at more stuff, then got back in the car for another long stretch of staring and snoozing.

As I grew older my appreciation for natural beauty utterly failed to grow. I'd seen it all, staring blearily over guardrails, the backs of my knees tickled by sweat from plastic car seat covers. I found nature sometimes fascinating, but I did not find it beautiful. It was beautiful because everyone said it was.

I lived on the campus of a home for kids with different kinds of problems. My dad was the chaplain there, and we lived near where the teachers were housed, about a half mile from the school house. So it was not uncommon for me to find myself walking to school with a teacher. I remember one evening—I would have been about fourteen-- my sister and I were walking to supper. The cafeteria was also at the school end of campus, and we were walking with my English teacher, whom I admired. There was an unusual cloud formation overhead and my sister and the teacher were commenting on it. Half the sky was covered by clouds. The other half was clear and blue, with a distinct line marking the boundary between the two halves of the sky. I remember thinking, “It's the edge of a cloud front!” and feeling a delicious thrill at the thought of seeing the edge of a cloud front. The teacher said what she thought the clouds looked like. My sister said what she thought the clouds looked like. I said, “It looks like the edge of a cloud front.”

The teacher said, with a chuckle, “Oh, Connie, shut up!” The kind of laugh you would share with a smart alecky peer, but I wasn't a peer and I wasn't being smart alecky (not this time, anyway). Her comment stung, but I laughed to cover. My sister said later, “Your mouth laughed but your eyes definitely didn't laugh.”

I saw some beauty, but not in the traditional places you look for it. My mother would set me to washing the dishes and there I'd be, an hour later, holding a handful of foam up to a window, watching soap bubbles slide down my hand. I don't know if you know this, but if the sun shines through a soap bubble it creates a prism. And a handful of bubbles was like a fairyland of globes, each one shining with its own little rainbow. I admit it. I was an odd child.

Later on, when I started dating, the flowers started rolling in. I didn't get it, but I pretended I did. I mimicked the way other girls exclaimed over flowers. I learned you could put a corsage in the refrigerator and make it last a week, so I dutifully put corsages in the fridge and threw them away when they turned brown. Woo hoo.

* * *

Ironically I went to Toccoa Falls College, one of the most beautiful college campuses anywhere. I was told I ought to go enjoy the falls all I could, so I took my homework up there a time or two. My homework got damp. After that I studied in my room or the library.

I enjoyed hiking with friends. There were cookouts above the falls and campfires with guitars, so I certainly recognized that nature had its benefits. And while I did not always appreciate nature's beauty, I was utterly fascinated with its wildness.

Near the end of my college career I moved off campus, away from the college scene. I slowed down on classes so I could work more hours. At the slowed-down pace my friends began to graduate and move away. I developed new friends; friends with lives apart from school and its social life.

Then came the Birthday; the birthday nobody remembered. I went through classes as usual that day, then stopped by the snack bar to visit with a friend—my best friend at the time. We talked for a while, and I don't know how it came out, but I remember she suddenly exclaimed, “It's your birthday, isn't it? Oh, Connie, I forgot completely!” I graciously accepted the apology, but then the day continued just like any other. Not that I expected anything. Well......

--most of that day went unmarked.

I got back to the house where I was living alone at the time and settled into some serious self-pity. “Well, buck up, kiddo,” I said to myself. “There are just going to be times in your life when you're going to be alone.”

Then this scripture popped into my head. Funny how that happens. The verse was, “I will never leave you or forsake you.”

“I know, Lord,” I said, sniffling. “And it's not that I don't appreciate your being here all the time, forever. It's just that—well, sometimes you just need that human touch—just to be told you're special.” I summed it up-- “You can't send me flowers.”

Petulant youth. He knew as well as I did how much (or how little) I appreciated flowers.

I was hungry, so I pulled myself together and fixed a little something for supper. I pouted over the dishes. I looked out the window into the back yard and saw a miracle.

A bed of daffodils had apparently been planted by someone along the middle of the yard, and the gardener had mowed around them, and they were budding now. Today—the unmarked day—the daffodils had all gone from bud to bloom. Not staggered out over a week, but all in one day. I quickly dried my hands and rushed out to handpick my own bouquet. I hadn't known there were so many varieties of daffodils! All in bloom right on my birthday! And you know what? They were beautiful. Each one a little marvel, and proof that God loved me and marked my birthday.

I set my bouquet from God on a counter in the kitchen. That evening every time I walked by them, the fresh aroma was a sweet reminder of the miracle, like a little smile between God and me. I've never again had a birthday that no one remembered. But no birthday stands out as being more precious.

I love flowers these days! I can't get enough of them. I look for them everywhere I go. And I'll travel a long way to look at scenery, and I love to take pictures (although I don't make my kids point at things). It's all a marvel, and I view beauty in nature as a gift from God.

So last night my family visited a retired co-worker of Roger's. She gardens avidly now, and loves to share her hobby with company. She showed me around her garden, and I wished I had brought a camera. Later we sat and talked outdoors for a while, then she made us go stand around these little plants—evening primrose, she said they were, and they bloomed at dusk. There was one pretty little yellow blossom, which I admired, but she said, just wait. We stood there and talked for a while, then—I kid you not--a bud bloomed right there as I watched. Then another. Each bud, in turn, bloomed. It's one of the most moving experiences I've had.

On the drive home it occurred to me that this experience was a gift. I mean, an actual, planned, thought-out gift. Yesterday I found myself thinking of that long-ago birthday bouquet, then the primrose show followed that very evening. I said to God, “YOU planned that, didn't You?” Does God smile at us? If He does, He did right then.

L'Chaim

This past week I found myself in the most rare of privileged positions. My sister was in the house. My family had to behave to a relative degree. They had company. My sister had to behave—she was a guest. I, on the other hand—it was my sister, against whom I had faced off in the most competitive of burping contests. My sister will never be quite company to me, and therefore I could pretty much behave as I pleased.

She's all filled up with life. When we were teens she was the boy-magnet, all blond and blue-eyed, spending her babysitting money on pretty things, make-up to enhance her natural good looks and Tiger Beat magazines. I was the auburn, freckled Celt, no big fan of babysitting or little kids in general. My money was made walking dogs and spent on model cars and airplanes.

She once made a rather prophetic comment. She said, “I won't have kids. I'll be the eccentric aunt who comes bubbling in to spice up YOUR kids' life, and then swoops off to live her own life some more.” At the time it seemed far-fetched and I laughed. Today, she is indeed that aunt—sweeping in on a cloud of charismatic personality, showing my girls a good time and leaving behind a trail of fun memories.

She came alone this time, flying to a nearby city and coming in on the train. I picked her up at the depot and drove her home. The train schedules aren't good here in the Midwest, so to get to my town's station would have involved a long day on the train with a rather long layover in Chicago. I opted to pick her up halfway between St. Louis and Chicago and drive her the two hours to my house, a drive that gave us sisters a rare opportunity to chat. She had brought a treasure with her, and she drove so I could pull it out of her laptop case. It was pages and pages of stories.

My aunt, my mother's oldest sister, lost her husband a couple of years ago and is living with her daughter, my cousin. Luckiest of old ladies, her stories are being written down and preserved by her daughter; family lore, stories of my sweet grandaddy and feisty, scary grandmother. And those stories now sat in my lap, over 100 pages photocopied, for me to keep.

I couldn't help but glance at the treasures in my lap as we chatted on the way home. There was so much there to remember, and even more to read and absorb for the very first time.

* * *

Some of this stuff I had already heard from other relatives. My cousin Sammy, for instance. Sammy and I have struck up a friendship over the years based on a mutual interest in family history. When Sammy was a kid he and his brother were sent to live with our grandparents, about the time my mother was in her teens. They were there because his family was struggling, pretty hard. Sammy's mom, my aunt, had gone away to “rest.” She had been run ragged, you see, worrying over her husband's gambling addiction. Life was rough on that family, and the kids were at the grandparents' so she could do her thing; and then they sorted things out and came together as a family again.

Things didn't really pull together for Sammy's dad, though, not until he was saved and swept into what was then the new Charismatic movement. He was never the same after that. Never went back to the old stuff. Much later, after the kids were grown, Sammy's mom and dad did a lot of things with my family for a while.

I will always remember the excitement we felt, my sister and I, when Aunt Sally and Uncle Sam pulled into our driveway. Aunt Sally was a true Southern eccentric lady with her big floppy hats, classy southern drawl and peculiar ways. Uncle Sam stood in stark contrast. A Brooklyn-raised Italian, thick with an accent that made him sound somehow important to our southern ears. He was a believer, of course, by then, full of stories of his ministry to drug addicts, his work with troubled youth, and his relationship with God. He would tell a story in the way that leaves you clinging, white-knuckled, to the edge of your seat.

We went to Opryland in Nashville one year, my family and Aunt Sally and Uncle Sam. Back then there was this roller coaster there called the “Wabash Cannonball.” I'd never been on an upside-down roller coaster before, and I gulped nervously, staring up wide-eyed as this one loomed over us. I loved a good roller coaster, though, and it didn't take any convincing to get me in line with my sister and Uncle Sam. My parents hung back with Aunt Sally, happy to wait until we got through the half-hour line for two minutes of insanity.

We finally did get through the line and rode the coaster. I remember screaming and raising my hands and my long hair dangling over the ground as we were thrown upside down in the corkscrew turn. Uncle Sam went white under his dark brown skin and he lost all the change from his pockets. Too soon it was over and we rounded the last turn and pulled into the station. My sister and I were laughing weakly as we were walking away when Uncle Sam cried, “Let's do it AGAIN!” and we got in line and waited a half hour to do it again. Uncle Sam was an adult who knew how to play, and this was an amazing thing for us to see, like a gift. And we loved him for it.

He was so full of life that it came as an extra hard shock weeks later when Aunt Sally called and said he had died of a massive heart attack. My dad took the call, told us the news and then retreated into himself. We all retreated, walking around the house as though lost, like strangers, not making eye contact. I didn't know why I couldn't talk about it. I guess I was embarrassed to see my pain mirrored in my family's faces; and there was my fragile mother to protect and shield, and you couldn't shield her from this one. So she kept to herself so I wouldn't feel bad, and I kept to myself so she wouldn't feel bad, and we all kept to ourselves and felt bad anyway.

* * *

So this time it was my sister pulling up to a house, and this time it was MY house, and she was swept in to smothery hugs from two excited little girls, another set of sisters, MY daughters.

But on that two-hour drive she had dropped a seed that found a nagging spot in my thoughts. She says that these days she takes anti-depressants to cope. And she says that often they don't seem to be enough and she entertains thoughts of ending her life. We talked of depression and what it's like to be middle-aged women, of medical things and such.

The week moved on as if nothing had been said. As usual I entertained hopes that this was the visit where the tide turns and she comes to know God as her friend. But again this wasn't to be the time. She remains ensconced in the belief that what she would give up is greater than what she would gain. She spent her days entertaining my family while we entertained her, and then the two of us talked late into the nights. We talked of family and laughed uproariously over the dysfunctions of our childhood years. It was all good and fun.

My family of origin is, of course, very different from my husband's family. His is much more healthy in many ways. He and his parents tend to travel through life, though, not stopping along the way, a constant making of plans and carrying them out and moving on quickly to the next set of plans. Even an evening slide show at Roger's parents' house is an event to be planned, carried through and then you move on, planning the events of the next day. I, on the other hand, like the stops. I view life as a series of snapshots, where you collect remembrances from each stop on the timeline.

We built lovely snapshots, remembrances, this week. Thursday Roger went off to spend the day in the Quad Cities working, so it was just us girls. The four of us went to the library, then we marched, armed with books, across the street to spend time at a local coffee shop. My daughters dove into their books, while my sister and I pulled out laptops and spent some time surfing the net. It's a wonderful little coffee shop owned by Christians. The internet is free, kids are welcome (there's even a little play area), the coffee is good and the chocolate-laced desserts are delicious.

We spent much of the afternoon there, then my sister walked up the street to scout out a new Italian bistro in town. She made them photocopy their menu for her and brought it back for me. The menu looked good, so we packed up our things and relocated.

There was an indoor balcony, which of course piqued the kids' interest. We were told it was kind of warm up there but we climbed up to check it out anyway. It was comfortable, with fans gently blowing the air in cross breezes. We stayed. The small balcony was empty except for us, with a quaint view of the town square through filtered blinds on one side and the bustling downstairs on the other. There was a sofa and overstuffed chairs to which we could retire after our meal if we wanted.

The evening was like a gift. The two sisters and the two sisters, out together, we raised our glasses in a toast—a lemonade, an apple juice, a raspberry tea and a glass of fine wine. With the view of the town on the one side and the lively little restaurant on the other, the toast that came to mind was, “L’Chaim.” To life. And my sister's laugh rang out, that appreciative laugh you give when “L’Chaim” is invoked in a toast. But there was something more I wanted to say with the toast, so I cast about for the right words. “To quote the one good line from that unremarkable Lionel Richie song,

'Life is good, wild and sweet.'”

And we connected. I could tell because her brows raised and she nodded appreciatively as our glasses clinked and we toasted the evening, with the balcony to ourselves, the view, the cross breezes and the “sisters squared” and all of life.

Friday my sister and I wandered the house, restless, the last day of a lovely visit. We quarreled over nothing and made up with tears and sweetness. On the way back to the train depot, just the two of us again, I asked her to call the next time she entertained thoughts of suicide. I laughingly threatened to put one of the kids on the phone when she did. It was an ignorant thing to say and of course I would never do that, but I do want her to call; and I wanted to drop my own seed, a remembrance of the ones who would be hurt the most.

Sometimes when you entertain such self-driven thoughts you forget those who would be hurt the most by the action. Feelings overwhelm and loom larger than life, urging you to snuff it out. But the world left behind by someone who voluntarily checks out leaves the biggest of holes, and as hard as it is to imagine going on with life, it's harder to imagine the hole that the memory of your stolen life would leave.

Saturday I found myself avoiding God, wandering the house, restless for I don't know what. My sister's absence from the table was keenly felt. I wonder if my feeling of loss found a mirror in God's sense of loss. She's also absent from HIS family table. Life is so fragile. Time is so fleeting. I'm never quite comfortable with the fact that she's not safely enfolded in God's family yet. Maybe say a prayer for my sister today.

Time is now fleeting; the moments are passing,

Passing from you and from me.

Shadows are gathering; death's night is coming,

Coming for you and for me.

Come home; come.

You who are weary, come home.

Earnestly, tenderly Jesus is calling,

Calling, “O sinner, come home!”

* * *

Saturday night as I was getting the kids ready for bed, I asked my youngest to say her prayers. She opened her mouth and burst into tears. I wrapped my arms around her and she molded herself against me. We ached together for a bit. She has a hard time saying goodbye, you see, and hasn't learned any skills for hiding her emotions. I keep hoping she'll never have to learn them, but she probably will anyway.

We stayed together for a while like that, then I tucked her in and went in to say good night to her older sister. I laid down by this one's side and we talked about things, facing them without fear, staring at the ceiling while we talked. Life is a wonder, but it's also a shadowy, rocky road. It's much better if you face it together.

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...”