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.

Tuck and Roll

This morning I behaved badly in church. That’s difficult for an old preacher’s kid to admit, but there it is. I got kind of huffy with a “difficult” person in Sunday School. You may know the kind—the one who wants to hijack the group discussion and allow no opinions to be aired that disagree with theirs. Now, normally I do not roll my eyes at people—not visibly, but –well, to make a long story short, I made sure my opinion WAS heard.

Then service started, with my praise team singing a few hymns. Then the pastor came up to make a few announcements, and we were just standing there behind him. I was all for going and sitting down. I was tired, we looked silly, etc. But the other singer said something about waiting until after the announcements, when we would be doing greetings, then we could get down discreetly when attention would be elsewhere. FINE. Stand here and look silly, leave the platform discreetly. As you can see, my mood was a little off. Plus, I’ve been rethinking church anyway. Why does it have to be this big production? Does everything HAVE to be perfect and smooth? Can’t we just leave the platform when we’re done singing? Can it just be about believers getting together to learn from each other so we have steam to go out and be salt and light for the rest of the week? Yes, I was actually thinking all that while the pastor was talking about upcoming donut sales and such.

So then it was time for greetings. Our church has this greeting thing—lots of churches do it. It’s where you go around and shake hands with everyone around you. The “shake and howdy.” My church’s shake & howdy used to be this stilted affair where you shook hands with someone close by, mumbled something polite, then moved on to the next person. A few people later and your duty was done and you could sit down. Nowadays we hug, laugh, chat a little, and it’s hard to get us to stop. We’ve come a long way. Still not exactly meaningful relationship, but at least we loosen up, enjoy each other, the single people get a hug to help out with that touch deprivation problem, and it’s really a good thing.

So it came time to go shake some hands. I warmly greeted my fellow praise teamers, and headed for the rest of the flock.

Maybe it’s because I was really tired this morning. Maybe I was anxious to go say howdy to some fellow believers. For whatever reason, I stepped to the edge of the platform, fully expecting another step before I got to the stairs. I was quite wrong. I stepped out with full confidence and planted my feet firmly on—air.

In that split second I had a decision to make. The most dignified route would be to catch myself as quickly as possible, maybe turn an ankle in the catching, risk an injury but the service would receive only the very mildest of interruptions.

The other choice was to put dignity behind me, tuck and roll into the fall. And that’s what I did. I tucked my head in, curled up and took all four steps completely without the benefit of feet. At the bottom I landed on my shoulder, rolled through my back, rear, and came to a stop (finally) in this fetal position type thing. Not a dignified choice, but a necessary choice, since another injury to the cartilage-torn ankle could have been devastating.

I slowly stood up, surprised to be okay, and got a good laugh out of it. It was one ridiculous little tumble, and somewhere between my shoulder and the final roll to a stop, I decided that church wasn’t meant to be a big show. It’s meant to be us together, encouraging each other, teaching, exhorting, and really getting charged up before we head out there into a tough world. If a singer wants to go sit down, go sit down. If he/she wants to go pray, maybe that’s okay too. If you fall, don’t worry about what you look like. Extricate yourself as necessary.

Most of my life I’ve been stuck thinking that church is supposed to be this big production every week, where somebody has planned everything out, and somebody executes the plan, people are entertained, or learn something, or whatever, then everybody goes home and discusses the service over fried chicken. Right now I’m trying to figure out if that’s what we’re supposed to do. I mean, it brings a degree of order, right?

But maybe we need to make room for the people there who are going through a messy fall. Maybe we don’t need to be glossing over those kinds of things for the sake of a smooth service. Maybe if you’re in a bad situation, your fellow believers should have the grace to let you tuck and roll.

Organizing & Costumes

This last week I have embarked on a massive cleaning and organizing spree. Last Friday one of my friends came over to chat and I mentioned how I have been wanting to reorganize the playroom, someday. My friend said, "let's get started!" Ummmm... OK. As previously mentioned I am not that good with cleaning. Or more accurately, I just don't like to do it. So it took a little cajoling, but we got started and a few hours of sorting, tossing and putting away later we had a clean playroom.

So when my friend left, I brushed off my hands and decided that I was done with that. phew. Ummmmm..... no not quite. A week later here I am sitting in a clean office the boys are playing in a clean playroom and not only can I see the carpet, but it is freshly vacuumed. (Thank you to another friend who gave us a vacuum that she wasn't using. - Everything in our house is in the process of breaking, but that's another story) Not perfect, but a lot better than it used to be.

Sometimes it takes a little encouragement from a friend to get where you should be going. Whether it is a massive (yes) cleaning and reorganizing. Or completely overhauling your life. I wouldn't have been able to do either without my friends.

This week was Halloween. We were invited to a couple of costume parties. This was the first time since jr high that I actually dressed up. It was fun to pretend to be someone else for a couple hours. At the first party I was a nurse and at the second I was Becky Sawyer - overalls, freckles and straw hat.

Sometimes as a Christian I feel like I'm at a costume party. Some of us are pretending to be someone. In high school, when I was a new Christian, there were so many things that I turned from, that it really was like pretending that I was someone I was not. A lot of people were confused. Twelve years later, I feel like I've really grown and changed a lot. Jesus is continuing to work on making me more like him.

My husband and I lead a young married couples class, and a comment that I've heard twice this fall is "I don't know how seriously you will take us as new Christians." What? I feel like a new Christian a lot of the time myself. Don't they know the struggles I went through to be here? I guess all the cleaning and reorganizing that I've done has disguised who I was. I need to let the real me peek through a little more.

Happy Feet

Okay, so for a very long time now, I’ve had this dance that I’ve wanted to do. It’s not a dance I’ve ever seen anywhere—well, not quite. It’s a step dance, and I started wanting to do this dance when I was a kid in Tennessee and the old timers would do their buck dances and their clogging, and it was all totally hokey and corney to me. And yet….. they were having so much fun. I wished for the fun.

Then when I grew up and moved to the Midwest I studied for a long time at this dance studio run by these Christian African American ladies. I learned some of the roots steps, and it started to mix inside of me with what I remembered. I kind of wished I could put it together and just dance it. I wished.

I’ve been in church services where they had cleared a big area for people to go dance, and that seemed like a great idea, but as soon as you got out there somebodywould look at you, and you’d get all self-conscious, and that would ruin it.

It’s not that I was a rotten dancer. I spent a lot of time and money studying ballet, mime, jazz and modern, and it was exhilarating to grow and do my best to excel in those disciplines. And I would sometimes dance up a storm in a choreographed frenzy, and it almost felt like flying.

And yet there was this other dance inside of me; a very free dance. It kind of grew as I grew. It’s a step dance, that much I knew; maybe a little Irish, a little southern, more than a little African. All floating around in there; and sometimes I would hear just the right kind of music, and I wanted so badly to dance it. Once I went to this outdoor African American gospel music festival. At one point in one song, my feet were really itching to do that dance. I almost did it, too. But, I mean, you would have to get up out of your seat, and people would see you, and that self-conscious thing would mess you up, and…..I still wish I had done that dance that day.

I couldn’t really capture it when I was alone at home, either. It’s one of those things where you had to be in the moment, with the right people, with the right energy, and together you would be creating something. I do wish I had known how to capture it at home.

Then I came back to my Baptist roots, which pretty much ended the whole dance thing. And even while I was dreaming of still finding a way to dance some more, I totally trashed my ankle. I mean, torn ligaments, torn cartilage, and a healing process measured, not in weeks, but in months and even years. And that pretty much ended the whole thing with that dance inside me. I do wish I had done it just once before I did my ankle job. I wish.

That brings me to this week, and the frustration of near-burnout. See, I’m producing this musical at the school where I teach music. Next Friday is the big performance, and here I am trying to pull all this stuff out of my kids that’s not quite there yet. I’m busy, tired and frustrated, and yesterday I never left the building after school. I stayed and painted the set, grabbed supper in the lunchroom and went upstairs to the sanctuary to practice with my praise team for church Sunday.

And they were all burned out too. The other guitarist was a mess of spiritual warfare. One of the vocalists didn’t even want to be there. The pianist was exhausted from her harvest. We were a mess, and it didn’t bode well.

Practice went HORRIBLY. The bassist and drummer were missing, the pennywhistler looked tired, and at one point two of the singers were arguing over who sang what part. The guitarists (including me) were making mistakes all over the place.

On inspiration I pulled out these stovepipe top hats we’re using for the musical, and gave everybody one. So we were all wearing top hats, playing our songs. We relaxed, laughed at ourselves and tried again, and the air started to clear. This time the set felt really good. God’s presence could be felt.

Then we were pretty much done. We were sitting around in top hats, singing and talking a little. Then the other guitarist started to play, just for fun, the jazz percussion he likes to do. Something was clicking with him, and there he was, sitting there with his top hat on, playing like a house a’fire. And you know…I felt that dance again. I wished my ankle—

And then I snapped; and I was tired of just WISHING. I put down my guitar and hat and started to dance. Part of me knew that people were noticing, but mostly I didn’t care. It was me and God and that dance, and the music. The singers started tapping these water bottle caps on their chairs, and the rhythm was incredible! And the dance came out just like I thought, a step dance with a little Irish, a little southern, a lot of African American roots, and – surprise – some stomp.

So there’s another one down on my list of dreams to fulfill before I die. I keep listening to the audio recording over and over. I can still feel the dance, and for the first time, feeling it is enough. For now.

And the ankle? Nothing a little ice and ibuprofen couldn’t take down. It was well worth the cost.

Now! Here's a link to the song. Listen. YOU tell ME how you could listen to that music and not have happy feet.

Dons Happy Feet Music.mp3


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It is what it is

I have a saying I coined in high school when I went through a particularly bad part of my life. It's "what a difference a day makes" and that is so true. Most things, if you wait 24 short hours, will change. Or they seem to change.
Unfortunately, my YEAR has been a series of days upon days upon days. I, like A., can only stand back and say "unbelievable" I have seen the highest of highs and had no idea I could be this low. I have always found writing very therapeutic and have posted several things on my friend Lon's blog. He has been kind enough to tolerate my ramblings and allow this kind of pseudo-anonymous group therapy.
To see it go here http://dailybuildup.blogspot.com/
I apparently also like bumper sticker type sayings to help me through some rough spots. Where A. has latched on to "unbelievable", I have grabbed "It is what it is"
You see, I am the complete opposite of A. in many regards. The anti-A if you would. I love neatness, order and purpose. I thrive off of schedules, graphs and charts. Not only does everything have a place but everyone has a particular way they are to behave in that place. Except for this year they didn't.
Nothing is where it should be and it seems no one is acting or reacting in the way in which I think (and expect) them to. It's very hard for me. Sad even. But I am slowly learning this inflexible attitude hurts me as much as it helps. Yes, I set tons of goals and reach them all (before deadline) but I also have a tendency to loose sight of the people and the joy.
In no long flowery definition, no veiled attempt at hiding it, I am hurting and searching for joy. All of a sudden I find myself where everything is out of place and there is no clear cut purpose or goal set before me. At first I was reeling, trying to scramble for a new project or goal or just to put things back in order. Then I stopped.
Simply stopped.
Sometimes to do nothing is to accomplish a great thing.
I know we have a lot of work to do. I know it is good work and that God is with us. I just don't think He wants us to forget to be with each other while the work is being done. I have missed the connection with friends , the laughter, the joy of working together to serve and the caring follow ups when one of us has something go wrong. It is truly the connections to each other that make the work worth doing and not seem like, well, work. As we move forward to accomplish our plans, let us not forget each other.

http://www.stservicemovie.com/

unraveled sweater

Well, I don't have much to say right now, obviously. Nothing too insightful. Nothing too deep and leering about my life or events around me. Life is interesting though. you never know what kinds of twists and turns you will take. This last year has been -borrowing the statement from LaRae Roth - "Unbelievable!" Unbelievable in so many different aspects. Unbelievably amazing. Unbelievably sad. Unbelievably frustrating. Unbelievably exciting. Unbelievably inspiring. Unbelievably unbelievable! Its unbelievable how God has been with me through it all.

He knows what we all need. I needed a period of reflection and testing and then growth. I needed direction. I've been floating through life waiting for something to catch up with me. Unfortunately it did.

It was like wearing your favorite bulky, cuddly sweater. Then noticing a piece of yarn is sticking out awkwardly. You quickly try to tuck it in and hide it. I'm painfully self conscious and will spend a lot of time trying to discreetly tuck away loose threads. This thread was not going to be tucked away. So going against my better judgment, I just pulled it, and pulled and pulled, and pulled....

So suddenly this summer I realized that I had completely undone everything. I was naked and there was a whole mess of yarn around me. Figuratively, not literally, don't worry no indecent exposure. I just realized that I needed to focus my life. I had things and stuff scattered everywhere. I had no goals. And I was unbelievably sad. Luckily, some of our selah sisters where there for me. Thank you.

So I've been reflecting on where I've been and where I'm going. I know what I want to do with my life. Trying to focus on rebuilding things that have come unraveled. Only hopefully better and not leaving the loose threads. So during the process of tearing down and rebuilding I've realized that some really incredible things have happened. I don't want to itemize them here. But things are unbelievable. I can't say that things are great. Or even good. But I think that they are going in the right direction. And I know what God has called me to do. :)

Selah.

Hey, and pray for us - the selah sisters. To be a little bold about it: I don't know what's going on, but there is a rift between some of us. I think we have all been in the process of tearing apart and rebuilding, whether we wanted to or not. God has lead us to this place. But we are all feeling a little disconnected with each other. It seems like when we are wrapped up in reflecting and redefining we lose track of those around us. So Pray for us. I think that as individuals and as a group we need it.

a.

Back In Time

If you make it as far as my profile, you'll learn that one of my favorite movies of all time is "Trip to Bountiful." It's an independent film done on a low budget with wonderful acting, directing and horrible editing.

In that movie an older lady is trying to get back to her childhood home, a town called Bountiful. Her mean daughter-in-law prevents her, forcing the poor woman to stay home with her and her husband in a cramped, two-room apartment. But she escapes--buys a bus ticket, and the rest of the movie revolves around the trip back.

She gets to her beloved hometown to find it dead. No one is left. She looks through her house, and you can feel the eerie feeling you get when you walk through an abandoned homeplace--the memories are there, but the trappings are gone. Cobwebs and dust cover everything. No voices--just crickets, birds and memories.

So that's what it was like when I revisited this old blog. It's been years since I could get on -- I had forgotten my password, even. So -- I ran into A. last week, we talked of the old blog, and I determined to get back. Of course, it had that old, abandoned house feeling. The memories we shared, the voices -- and some rather nasty cobwebs.

In Bountiful, the woman entertains the idea of fixing the old place up and living there, but she knows she's too old and her heart is in bad shape, and so it's a pipe dream. It'll never happen. Well, I have entertained that thought here. I cleaned out the cobwebs--spam by the dozens--and even fixed up the place with a new template, and here I am blogging. Who knows? I haven't given up the idea. I may stay and blog. Ladies, if you still have your emails set to receive notice of a new blog, and if you've made your way here, would you care to join me? We no longer share a Bible study as we did, but we share many of the same things we always shared.

We've all done the things Mamaladybug said we'd do. She warned us that we'd grow up and fly the coop. I think maybe she thought we'd start Bible studies of our own, but instead we've followed our giftings and done some extroardinary things. I think it must have been hard for Mamaladybug to see us go, and yet she's got to be proud when she remembers where we all started. Hey, Mama--good job! Kudos! I'd have never done some of this stuff without the confidence you inspired and the grounding you provided.

If you guys want to report in, maybe we could start it like a family reunion. Where are you in your life? What's going on? How have the Selah Sisters affected you in the ministry you now do? Then, maybe we can take it from there.

I'll do my report in an upcoming blog, but first I'd like to say something to the cobwebs: :~?

Yes, we know we've got a great blog going here. Weird how you came back with such consistency, saying the same things over and over. No, we do not wish to participate in your home-based spamming pyramids. No, we don't want to purchase the various unwholesome products you've touted. And, no, we do not wish to grow back our hairlines. Not at this time, thank you. However, you won't see this little notice. Thanks to new settings you won't make your way in here, and good riddance. Have a nice day.

Okay, back to the Selah Sisters. My apologies to some of the nice blogs we linked to. The new template erased those settings, but I plan to get links back up for the best of them.

Homesick

Here we are again at the end of summer. Sometimes I think that this is the best and the saddest time of the year all wrapped up into one exhilaratingly quick blink of an eye; and then its fall. This is the time of year that we've all spent so much time outside that the outdoors feels like home. You are so used to the emerald greens that when they start to fade you continually tell yourself that it isn't true, your eyesight must be getting bad.

"Poor little booger," my oldest is playing with the baby when suddenly starts lamenting. I inquire about this statement. To which he responds, "he has got to be sooo homesick now." What we are at home. Doing our familiar bedtime routines. How could you get more "at home" than that? Well let me tell you, through the eyes of a child. B just pointed up to the ceiling. I look up and the realization of what he meant poured over me like honey - sweet, yet the implications were sticky. I often forget where my true home is. Yet my children who haven't graced this earth as long as I have, haven't taken their eyes from their true home. Some days they are a blessing to me, the unrestrained happiness only a child can know. Their eyes and hearts are still mostly pure and untainted by the world. Yet I know that there will be a time soon when they too will have to have their sins washed away. To regain this purity that is so natural to them now.

Yes, now that you mention it, I'm homesick, too. We all are. Maybe we don't all know it because we fill the void with something else, but all of our hearts are yearning to be clean and pure and for our home in the sky.

This year we are keeping my oldest home to school him here. After long deliberations, we have decided that, for now, this is the best that we can do. We are looking forward to this year, many neat things planned. I do believe that God has lead us to this path for a reason. What exactly I'm not sure yet. It seems like my path in life is meandering, but I know that He leads me down the straight and narrow.

Love,
A.

It has been hot.... real hot. We have all had cabin fever. And have been cranky. Some days the little window air conditioner we have could barely keep up with itself let alone the room it was in. Outside has been worse. But lets not talk about unpleasant things.

Yesterday afternoon the rain came. I don't think that it has rained since June (I can be proven wrong on technicality, but it hasn't rained like it needs to rain.) Today, the coolness of the morning greeted us in such a way that I knew today would be a good day. Not to cool. And thank you God not to hot. Today has been a day for doing things.

However, I had an appointment to keep, well a morning one and then an afternoon one. I took my boys with me. Yup, a little disgruntled about the situation. So afterwards I surprised them by taking them to play and walk around the park and then to get sno cones. Its amazing how one day of great weather soothes the soul. Mends hurt feelings. In the same way reading His word does. I need to work on spending more time outside and with Him.

A look at the head joint. 

Any idea what this is? Someone gave it to me last night. It has six tone holes like a pennywhistle. It holds like a flute, but with a strange little mouthpiece so you don't have to worry about embrouchure. A fife, maybe? 

So much to do, so little...

It's been way too long since my last post. I guess we've all found ourselves in over our heads as far as business. A., I think of you often, even though I don't get to see you so much during the summer.

I've been so busy since I started teaching. And the church I go to has been eagerly creating opportunities for me to use what musical skills I have. Not that they're suffering for musical talent. They have wonderful singers and musicians, great guitarists, and the pianists and organists are topnotch. It's just that they're always looking to plug in new musicians any way they can.

I've rediscovered tin whistle, which is a little-recognized, but much-heard instrument. Most people who enjoy movies have probably heard it played. It's the instrument that makes the theme to Titanic so haunting. Most people think it's a flute played very expressively. It's not. It's a Celtic instrument, kind of an end-blown flute. I played whistle right after I graduated from college, put it away for a long time when I was busy with ballet, then raising a family, and now I'm back at it. I use it as a devotional tool. Sometimes I play to God. Sometimes I laugh or weep with it. And sometimes I play it in church. Our scheduler has put my whistle on the offeratory list. Not long ago we put together an arrangement of "Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus" with violin, tin whistle and piano. I hope it was as devotional to listen to as it was to play.

Only thing is, now I have three instruments (whistle, guitar, keyboard), plus voice, to keep up with and practice each day and still be conscientious about raising the kids and being a good wife and mom. This could never have happened when the kids were younger. And it's my feeble excuse for not keeping up with the blog.

A., I'm praying for you during the busiest part of raising your new boy. You and your family are on my heart often.

I know many of our two or three regular readers are out of the habit of checking back, but if you ever check this way again, please drop a line in the comments. I'd love to hear from you. And I'll try to get busy and write regularly again.

Certain Paths

God never fails to surprise. Certain paths that I thought I was choosing by my own free will. I now know that He was leading me. And for a purpose.

I've been blessed with the birth and 9 1/2 weeks of raising my second son. This is so much more than what I imagined. Yes, different. No, not what I would have chosen. But I do know that All things God works together for His good.

I have spent the last several years developing myself spiritually and mentally. Challenging myself to know God more. To read more. To live more. To cook more. To garden more. To be healthier. To be more frugal. God was actually challenging me, not I challenging myself. Its fairly clear now. He knew that in order to raise my next son, that I needed to know many new skills for the challenge ahead. I'm glad I've already stored up that information, because learning on the job would have been a bit harder.

My first son has been his own challenge to raise. And I'm continually learning. I trust that God is steering me in the right directions with him. But, I can't believe how different my second son is. With his own set of challenges already. We have had many dietary issues with him, and after weeks of trial and error, my diet is restricted to meet my sons needs. I now have to read all labels. If I cook from scratch that is best. Which I now know how to do fairly well. I can eat whatever I raise in the garden, so out come the well worn gardening gloves. But most importantly I need to draw from my knowledge of God's love for me to make it through my days. The verses that I have memorized are honey to my soul when I need to be nourished. No I don't have time to dig and ponder over the word. But, I have a wellspring in my soul that will not run dry in times of need.

Follow your heart down the path that God leads it. And surely He will care for you all of your days.

Love,
A.