Kids, Prayer and Revival--Making Room

“Swing Low! Sweet Char-ee-uht!” I was with the kindergarten class, little five-year-old voices singing happily as they swung low, some of them swinging their bodies so low that their voices had this creepy, upside down kind of tone.

I teach music. Each day I cycle through four different age groups, singing, playing penny whistles, discovering music theory. I try to engage each group, making allowances for their ages and individual interests. It's fun for me, no doubt about it. Hopefully it's fun for the students as well.

So this kindergarten class was singing enthusiastically--”I'm sometimes up, sometimes down, but still my soul is heavenly-bound.” That's when I noticed my school principal, armed with a chair. I groaned inwardly as she sat down with a notebook and pen. It was time for observation.

I had known it was coming, but in my random way I'd completely forgotten that she was going to observe this particular class. I was prepared, of course. Standing unprepared in front of a group of five-year-olds—I might as well just jam my hand under a burning log. You just don't. Still, that class was having so much fun. I wasn't prepared for a nervous observation. But, for better or worse, a page in the file was about to be created.

So we sang a few more songs. After the songs we were to play a card game with a deck that has notes and rests instead of numbers, kings and queens. The kids learn the names of notes playing games like this. It's fun and effective.

And yet.......as we sang, I noticed something. I had this one kid who's NEVER blended in. Usually if I asked them to sing out she would yell the words at the top of her lungs. If I asked them to sing quietly she would whisper at the top of her lungs. Sometimes she would sing an octave too high or too low, just for fun. But today—apparently she was having an epiphany. She was not screaming. She was not singing an octave off. She was blending right in.

So with my boss sitting there waiting to hear my lesson plan, I had a choice. This was a breakthrough. I could turn her discoveries into an impromptu lesson on how to blend your voice into a choir, or......we could do the lesson on notes and rests.

So I took a blindfold out of my closet and started a game of “Blind Man's Blend.” One child would turn his back to the group, wearing the blindfold. I started playing a song, and while the music played I quietly chose three students to come up behind the blindfolded kid and sing. Their job was to blend so well that the one with the blindfold couldn't discern their individual voices. After twenty seconds or so he could guess who'd been singing. For every correct guess he'd get a point. Every child who fooled him got a point. Then it would be someone else's turn to guess. The idea, of course, is the better you blend in, the more points you're going to win. We went around until everybody got a chance to guess, and everybody had gotten at least a point or two.

Then we talked about how nice it is to get a solo and sing your very best; but sometimes it's nice to blend in with your friends. It's a good game for teaching blending, and I'm glad I did it that day, because the girl who'd discovered her inner blended voice got some follow-through. She did VERY well at the game that day, got a ton of points, and had fun.

So later the principal commented on the class. I was feeling embarrassed about deviating from the lesson plan, even though I felt it had been a good choice. My boss is a great teacher in her own right, though, and when I explained she totally understood what happened. In fact, later the report came back saying something about flexibility being a strong point.

I don't always get it right. I'm sure sometimes opportunities slip by without my noticing. But I like to pounce on the teachable moments when they come up. It's good to make room for them.

* * *

That was last year. One day a couple of weeks ago I was with a different class—the second and third graders. This group of seven and eight year olds is a great bunch to work with. Those grade levels are almost always the best class for singing. They've developed the skill to sing fairly well, they can usually understand the things I ask them to do, and they aren't self-conscious yet about singing out.

And with this particular class, there's something else, something kind of indefinable. A number of these kids have a working understanding of God's presence. I first noticed it last year when we were singing a worship song and one of the girls said it was like God was hugging her.

So this one day a couple of weeks ago we were singing “You Are My All in All.” Maybe you know the words. “When I fall down you pick me up. When I am dry you fill my cup. You are my all in all.” When we do songs like that I go ahead and worship. It's Christian school, after all. And it kind of makes room for God to be an active part of class. I keep my eye on the kids but keep my attention on God. So this day a couple of weeks ago one of the kids, an eight year old, standing there with arms stretched out, hands up, and eyes closed, looking pretty intense. I thought, she's imitating something he's seen at church. Kids do that sometimes. It was sweet and cute, and I smiled as we kept singing. Then I noticed a few tears.

After the song she raised her hand and told me it was like her feet were on the ground, but God was lifting her up at the same time. I am pretty sure—in fact, I'm almost positive—this one was for real.

* * *

I remember once when I was maybe twelve or so we had this revival at the Christian school I attended. It happened right during choral singing class, which was held in the chapel room. I don't remember anything about how it started—all I remember is that instead of standing around singing, we were kneeling here and there praying and repenting. Kids were in tears. I was all trembly—that's what I used to do instead of crying. We got right with God and got up, all aglow. Then my dad, who was the choral director, told us to go into other classes and get kids and bring them back with us. So Mildred and I went after this kid named Roger.

I don't know how we got in there and got him out without being stopped. Maybe it was the sight of two girls—both glowing, one with tears, the other trembling. Maybe it was the Holy Spirit. Honestly, I'm not sure. But the teacher never questioned us, and neither did Roger. He just took one look at us, sobered right up and let us escort him back to the chapel room.

* * *

It was nice that my dad was willing to make room in our schedule for revival like that. And it was nice the other teachers made room for us to escort their students out without a word. Actually, in retrospect, the oddest part of that whole spontaneous revival day is that the teachers just kind of made room for it.

So all the kids who were repenting and kneeling and sniffling—were their lives all changed? I don't know. I think everyone changed for a while, then most went back to pretty much the way things were. So what was the use of it? Later, after college, I remember something pretty profound I heard a youth leader say. She said you can have an experience with God that's so powerful it knocks you right off your feet. But it'll never do you any good if you don't walk it out. So I guess the value in these revivals is they stop you, turn you around, and give you a good head start. Then it's up to you to keep walking and following God and live out what you got.

So those kids who went through that revival that day. In the big scheme of things, were we better off having gone through it? Well, look at the statistics. Some went on to live for God. They ended up as Christian truckers, restaurant workers, lawyers, regular people. Some even ended up doing full-time Christian work. Then others went on to be non Christian truckers, restaurant workers, lawyers, cops, regular people. Some ended up in crime. A few were killed or died of natural causes. I don't have exact numbers, but I would imagine we average out in a pretty typical way.

So if we came out statistically the same as other schools like ours, then what good did the revival do? We would have been just as well off without that day, right? Well, but then, see, we wouldn't have that powerful memory. We wouldn't remember that God-time.

* * *

For about six months my kids have been praying for Susie. She's a lady in our church who was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. She hit the kids' radar when she turned up at church in a wheelchair. Her hip had given out, eaten by the disease, even before she got it properly diagnosed.

My kids are both pretty good about making room on their prayer lists. Sometimes they even ask: "Is there anybody else sick I can pray for?" Even before Susie's diagnosic, then, they saw the wheelchair and got right on it, praying every night, asking regularly how Susie was doing.

So yesterday she turned up in service wearing a spunky red hat and a big smile. It's been a while since she was here, with the immunity problems and all the sickness going around. So after church I went and said hello, talked a minute, and walked to the back of the sanctuary. I ran into my youngest daughter back there and said, “Susie's here!” “REALLY!?” “Yeah! And the doctors gave her the all-clear. No more cancer!”

She peered into the sanctuary and saw Susie. You should have seen my kid's face. You pray every night for six months, and then the answer to your prayer walks into the building for you to see. She was pretty excited. Then my oldest came along, peered in, said, "Susie!" and went over to say hello. The other one followed, and slowly a small pack of kids trickled over.

I looked on, anxious to make sure they didn't tire her out. Then suddenly I choked up. I realized what I was seeing--the next generation of prayer warriors, happily chatting it up with Susie. She smiled her bright smile and talked with them for a while; happy, I suppose, to find such a fearless little army had been covering her.

Then it was time for Susie to go home and rest. She said her goodbyes, and the next generation of prayer warriors ran off for a quick game of hide and seek.

What Do You Want?

Early this morning I sat down with a steaming coffee. I peered through the blinds and saw—a fresh blanket of snow. A surprise. Light flurries were expected, and here I was looking at a Currier and Ives scene, with fresh, powdery snow still falling. Beautiful it was, and sweet. So here I sit this afternoon. There's a fire in the fireplace, which I've poked a bit to keep it going. I can't wander too far from it before I feel a deep chill, so I'm sitting here close with a laptop and mixed coffee and cocoa (I know—enough with the java).

This past Wednesday was a glorious treat with almost warm temperatures. People traded overcoats for sweatshirts and we all smiled at each other, strangers and friends alike, sharing our comfort and good fortune. Now we're back to extreme cold, having enjoyed the shortest January thaw I think I can remember. So while the beautiful snow scene was nice to wake up to, I miss the sweet foretaste of summer I got this week.

We're into the part of the year when summer seems forever away, and yet these months—January to May—always slip by before you know it. Students live for summer. So do I.

Last summer was like a dream. My family knows I become a rather odd bird come summer. An owl, actually. Nocturnal. I love staying up late. Really late. The hours after midnight are mine--creative hours. I watch them slip by, then I sleep until all hours. I'm never quite sure what will come of my summers. One summer I wrote songs. Another time I arranged a bunch of hymns in neoclassical style. I've learned to just go with the flow and do what seems right to do.

Last summer was different, though. Each night I packed my family off to bed, then I sat up and—spent time with God. I listened to music, prayed, worshiped, sang, played my instruments, but it wasn't about creating stuff this time. Where did it come from? I don't know. Like I said, it was like a dream.

It was the summer I spent praying for my daughter's eyes. I'd lay down in the basement and pray for a while, then come upstairs in the wee hours and lay my hands on her head and pray some more. Incredibly, over the summer, her eyes slowly returned almost to normal.

Toward the end of the summer I would tell friends I just hated to see the summer come to an end. Of course, teachers always get that “oh, you poor thing” look from other working friends. I mean, it's hard to sympathize about a three month vacation coming to a close. It was impossible for me to explain this time, though. It wasn't being lazy I'd miss. I would miss the nocturnal times in God's presence. How would I recoup that kind of time? I couldn't stay up all hours and expect to get up and go to school.

So I was pleasantly surprised to find that although enrollment is up, classes have been arranged in such a way that I only teach four music classes a day. All the classes are taught in the morning. My afternoons are free. All the God-time I spent in the wee hours this summer—that was transferred to the afternoons. I'd teach, eat lunch, grade and plan lessons, then I had precious time to spend with God.

I teach at the Christian school my kids attend. This school meets at my church, and my classes are held just outside the sanctuary. So sometimes I've been going in there to pray. It's like a little vacation every day. A dream time, just like in the summer. And people have been commenting about the presence of God in there. It's not something that's there because I pray in there. It's something I've stumbled on and am happy to enjoy. My pastor sometimes gets drawn in there and goes up front and talks to God and listens to Him. The school principal gets up early just so she can go to school early and walk around in there and pray. And you know, all that prayer doesn't just disappear into the ether or something. Our church is changing. We've gone from a church held back by meaningless ritual to a group of people who arrive Sunday mornings with expectancy.

* * *

This morning before the service I was kind of hanging out in the prayer room by myself, praying and just enjoying that presence of God. I remembered the verse, “Delight thyself also in the Lord and He shall give you the desires of your heart.” A wonderful verse, but I automatically cringed.

This past summer, the dream summer, I was up in the middle of the night, and I was wondering what I would ask for if God asked me the Solomon question. You know the one. Ask whatever you wish. Wow! What a question. And I was thinking, if I got asked, I would have to be prepared, so I wouldn't blurt out something stupid, like a new car or something. I thought, I should be prepared to ask for wisdom. Wisdom would be good. God really seemed to like it when Solomon asked for wisdom. That's what I would ask for.

So later that summer, unexpectedly, I got the sense one night that the question was on the table. In a cloud of enjoyment of God's presence, there it was: ask what you wish. So I blurted out—I’d like a DSLR camera. Then I cringed and blurted out, no, I want my daughter's eyes to be healed. Then I blurted out, no, wisdom. I want wisdom. Yeah, that's it.

It was a painful fail, and I've regretted the lost opportunity ever since. The God of the universe wrote me a blank check and I asked for a hunk of plastic, glass and metal. And the moment was gone, and I couldn't get it back.

I really had been wanting that DSLR camera. I enjoy taking pictures--the composition, the lighting, the post-processing—all of it. I've been working with a beastly little sub-compact digital for years. I've learned some about composition, and I've learned to trust my eye for things, but when the school bought a new camera last year and I was given the chance to learn it and take charge of it, I immediately saw the advantage of having a better one. Oh, I can think of about a million reasons why I ought to have a DSLR camera, but the bottom line came glaringly through in the midnight test. It was a skewed priority, and my desire to have it told me a lot about myself.

* * *

The camera was a silly thing to ask for anyway. Come fall there would be a little cash income I get each year for extra side work that I do, and I knew I could pick up a camera then. Which I did. I found one used on ebay. I eagerly awaited its arrival, and when it did come in I pulled it out of the box and headed downtown for a memory card and a few accessories, and immediately began snapping pictures. The array of buttons and controls did not intimidate me for long. I'd learned on the school's camera what they all did—f stop, ISO, shutter speed—I was ready to rumble. And rumble I did, snapping hundreds of pictures, posting them for critique, cropping and re-cropping for maximum composition value.

Those free afternoons came in handy, too, and when I wasn't out hunting for subjects to shoot I was scouring the Internet for deals on lenses, filters and other accessories. Life was good, with a fresh burst of enthusiasm for a beloved hobby. And then—I remembered how it had been to spend afternoons with God. I tried to get that back, that drive to connect with Him, that overwhelming sense of His presence, but—something had happened. I tried to tell myself that it was normal, that you couldn't stay on the mountain forever, but—it's no good being hungry and then telling yourself that hunger is normal, you can't stay eating regular meals forever. I think the whole thing about mountaintop experiences being for special times—I just don't believe that anymore. I think you can take the fire of the mountain with you into the valley. I think it can be done. I want the fire of God's presence to go with me always.

Anyhow, I prayed about this. And then I'd go shoot a few pictures, hoping to get some praise pictures or something.

About this time it became clear to me that the problem was on my end. A certain amount of selfishness had crept in, and it would be a good idea to be absolutely ruthless in killing off the flesh. I thought about that, and it seemed the most selfish thing I had done in recent times was – acquire a hunk of plastic, metal and glass. And spend my precious afternoons, my God times, scouring the internet in an effort to feed it and make it a better hunk of metal and glass. My priority had changed. It wasn't God's time anymore.

I thought—fought, actually—for a few days on this. I knew—and still believe—that I could have kept going the way I was going, and I could have led a perfectly Godly life, hung onto my ministries and done a lot of good...but it wasn't the best. There was something better, and it would have been missed. Maybe I'd get another shot at it sometime, someday, but today’s God-time was slipping away.

So the camera is in somebody else's hands now, somebody who isn't an idiot about having shiny new gadgets, somebody who will be served by the camera, rather than serve it. And I—well, the day I handed the camera over I lost what seemed like twenty pounds of useless weight—hanging heavy, right around my heart. I missed it only slightly. That first afternoon I spent a few minutes wondering what to do with my time—no need to scour ebay for a cheap lens and a better eye cup.

That was a couple of months ago. I suppose someday I’ll probably pick up another DSLR, after I’m ready to have it as a servant and not as a master. In the meantime, I’m spending some time reconnecting with God. And started to grow again. And now—I'm learning to cultivate the presence of God in my life, not just in a sanctuary with vaulted ceilings, but between classes, DURING classes, in the car, climbing out of bed in the morning--

This morning, for instance. There I was in the prayer room before service, and there He was, with me. With the verse, the one about delighting in the Lord, unexpectedly, the question was on the table again. What would I ask for? Ask for anything. This time I thought about wisdom, but— God's word tells me I can ask for that one anytime. There's a promise attached to that one. I looked around the little empty—and not so empty—prayer room and realized—God's manifested presence is walking with me these days in ways I've only dreamed. I said, “You've given me the desire of my heart. This is what I want.” With that realization, and with the saying of it, I sensed God's smile.

The Birth of a Child

A week ago I had the gift of witnessing the birth of my newest niece. It was the first time that I've been a witness to a birth. It was an incredible experience.

The mother pacing the floors, knowing of the pain to come. Uncertain of what awaits in the next hours. But, she also knows of the joy that comes after the pain. She's willing to go through unbearable pain for the gift. The gift of new life. A child that she will hold. She will teach the baby how to eat, how to speak, how to crawl and walk. She will teach the child how to say please and thank you, how to take care of her dolls, and fix her hair, how to read and write.

And so she waits as the pains come more and more intense. And concentrates more and more on her body and the baby within.

Finally, the point comes when the pain is excruciating.

And then baby arrives. There is a moment of silence.

The mother exhales as baby's lungs take in her first breath.

Now there is joy! A cry from the baby, tears and smiles from the mother as she sees her child and the pain disappears. Joy radiates through the room. Exclamations of how adorable this child is. The possibility of what this new life has in store for us is overwhelming.

And as I reflect on it tonight, Christmas eve, again I'm overwhelmed by emotions.

Tomorrow we will be celebrating the birth of another child. A child whose arrival takes away the pain of the whole world. Before He was, we were hopeless and lost. Life was painful. But now that He has arrived there is joy. If you know Jesus you know that the pain of this life is replaced with His Joy and the possibility of new life.

Merry Christmas!

Clarity

The first round of stuffy heads is making its rounds through my household. The stuffiness set in just in time to cause craziness for me right before the killer chem test. I thought that I would have a whole free day the day before because my anatomy class has already taken break. I had it planned, roast in the crock pot first thing in the morning, do some quick straightening. Start in on teaching B next, as he worked towards his independent work, I would start in on going over chemistry. Work through the practice problems, find some extra study help online to work through. I would know the info forwards and backwards.

And then I woke up yesterday morning. scratchy throat. stuffy head. yech. No need to change plans much, but maybe I'll take a nap instead of working through so many practice problems. Then the kids woke up. They weren't good either. Now many kids do that whole stay in bed and be waited on all day thing. Maybe put in some good old movies and snuggle with hot tea. Nope, not my 3 year old, not this time.

High energy all day, bent on destroying everything in sight. In essence, if he's not feeling well, no one nor anything else will either. 'Please, God just give me some patience with J and some clarity with Chem.' Very little was actually accomplished yesterday.

-----

A couple weeks ago we pulled into the driveway after dark.. The moon was full and bright enough that the light penetrated through the blanket clouds. B noted how nifty that effect was. I explained that the clouds were translucent. Not thick enough to completely block the bright moon and not clear either.

About 30 minutes later I took the dog out for a quick walk. Interestingly enough, in that short of time all the clouds had been swept away and the stars were shining brightly along with the moon. Its breathtaking to see all those lights twinkling on the velvety dark background on the November sky.

Clarity. Please, God, through the muddle that my life is, give me clarity - sweep away the clouds of regret and sadness and distractions - keep me focused. Keep my mind as crisp as this November night. Be the moon and the stars that guide me.
--
The constellation Orion greeted me. Hello old friend. I think I've written about the stars and constellations before, so forgive me. Orion is often striking to me on the nights that are so clear. Of course, in 29 years, clarity isn't always so simple.

Teenagers often challenge their mortality. Living like their immortal, dangerously balancing on the edge of life and death. The first time someone close to you loses their life it is shocking. In fact, I don't believe death ever loses its bite. I ran outside and looked at the stars, concentrating on something that would take my mind off of the pain. Wiping away the tears and trying to remember the formations of the stars. Praying for someone who was gone.

Then again, a couple years later, laying on the frozen ground, sleet stinging on my face, losing the feeling in my hands and feet. Knowing that it was hopeless. The clouds in the sky broke and through them the stars twinkled out at me. Blinking through the ice droplets, I could see Orion peeking at me. I pray that I'll see daylight again. I had to get up and keep going - that much was clear.

So anyway now, my clarity is much crisper now. Maybe a little excessively. But I still appreciate the encouragement that God has written into the sky for me (and well everyone really.)
----

So this morning, I'm feeling stuffy and icky. My phone won't stop ringing and my children weren't being the self starters (not a surprise) I have the chemistry test hanging over my head, but I'm in too much of a rush to review my notes or think chemistry thoughts even. And I don't really care. Just take one thing at a time, right? Sure, whatever...

So I get to class and sit down. The test is handed out right away... here we go. Stuffiness and clouds sweep aside and the next 45 minutes I have clarity that I know could only be grace. Needless to say, I did Ok on the test. It was a difficult one. I wouldn't have been able to do it without clarity.

Superficial

Superficial. adjective
concerned with or comprehending only what is on the surface or obvious
shallow; not profound or thorough
being at, on, or near the surface

Many political conversations have transpired this week. For me, most noteably, between my 11 year old and whoever will listen and answer his questions. Usually its me because we see a lot of each other, but he has had the valuable opportunity to inquire of others their opinions.

In this the term superficial has become a favorite. Of course, we have to define this adjective for him. He knows the gist of what it means, but because he's a 'grabber' he has to know what precisely this means in the context that we are using it.

Of course we have to seize the opportunity to utilize the self help skills. "You know where the dictionary is kept." "Yes, mom, but what does it mean in this instance."

*that means I have to think* Ummmm.... Another learning opportunity - metaphors and similes are always fun! "Beauty is only skin deep, never judge a book by its cover, still waters run deep - does this answer the question, cuz I can go on all day?"

Slightly sidetracked we start to discuss how accurate these metaphors are. But if someone is beautiful on the outside, can't they be on the inside too? Or what if their outward beauty is only a reflection of their inward self confidence. Can't people who are inwardly ugly possibly be outwardly ugly, too? And mom, don't you still pick out your books by their covers? I never see you actually read the summaries. Yet you still find some really good books.

Hmmmm.... stumped, I think he got me. "Yes, yes, well yes but not necessarily, and I do - why are you spying on me? I also end up with really rotten ones on occasion, but yeah, most of the time I'm pretty good at choosing."

Interesting conversation that we had. Of course I brought it back around and applied it to the political discussion that we were having. Simply put, sometimes you can string together words in such a way that you are speaking a lot and get a lot of positive feedback, but actually not be saying anything of substance.

But back to our rabbit trail. Looks can be deceiving. But are they always?
PSA: Sometimes superficial things (good or bad) could be an overflow of underlying issues.
Yes or no?

PS. A good book with a good cover: "The Book Thief" by Marcus Zusak Its a book that will make you laugh hard, cry harder and love life a little more and fear death a little less.

Anatomy

I barely mentioned my classes. I love them. Yes, they are hard, and its difficult, but its fun. I really like learning about the world and having a new angle on life. I'm making new friends can't be all bad, right?

Taking science classes is so cool. I keep thinking, wow, God did this. For every level that we dig into chemistry or anatomy it gets more and more complicated and intricate. And I keep thinking that this is not random, someone really smart had to put all this together.

As we are looking at each system of the body, all the different layers working together and interacting in just the right way is amazing. Sometimes we will look at something, break it apart, slowly digest how it's working. And then the teacher will say, but remember this isn't just working in isolation - not this one reaction is happening. For example, the neurons have to have so much stimulation to create an action potential to converse with the other neurons via neurotransmitters. We will look at just one way they do this, and it takes like an hour to explain it all out. But then we think about how it really functions, millions of these reactions happen at the blink of an eye. That's just astonishing!

Don't get me wrong. I've always thought the human body was amazing and intricate. And I know that God created something very special. And I knew it was amazing. But to start to quantify how amazing is mind boggling. Almost akin to looking up into the small portion of the milky way and thinking about how big the universe is. Phenomenal.

And then there's chemistry. In high school, I was really bad at chemistry. I don't know why, but I just didn't get it at all. I wanted to, but I just don't think that it liked me. Or maybe I was distracted.

Anyway, I really didn't know what to expect for this time around in chemistry. Its not easy, but I seem to be understanding it better this time. As applicable as chemistry can be to everyday life, what we are doing seems so far removed. But in anatomy we are actually using a lot of chemistry to describe what happens in our bodies. So I think that's helping. That and being around other people that aren't under the age of 12 is definitely a good thing :)

And I'm now certified to do CPR. There is the potential that I can maybe help save someone's life! Isn't that cool?

So that's school in a nutshell. I can't wait until I get to actually start nursing classes, but that won't be until next fall, so I'll try to keep my excitement in check.

Thoughts on Time Travel

This morning after church my older daughter handed me a little box of raisins.

“Thanks. Where'd you get these?”

She's been in a rather verbose mood today—even more so than usual. So I waited while she explained that everyone got a box of raisins in junior church today—well, not everybody, because some of the kids didn't want them and so they said no thank you so the teachers didn't give them any. But everybody else got raisins. EXCEPT the teachers didn't give themselves any so everybody got raisins except the teachers and the kids who said no thank you. Except she didn't say no thank you even though she doesn't like raisins because she knew I liked raisins so she went ahead and took the raisins—and said thank you—she remembered to say thank you—because she knew I would like the raisins. No, she didn't say thank you because she knew I'd like the raisins. She accepted them because she knew I'd like the raisins. She just said thank you to be polite. So, here, Mommy, are some raisins.

So I said thank you and tucked away the raisins.

“Just don't eat the ones that I already chewed.”

What!?

“Well, I just wanted to try them, because you never know when your taste buds are going to grow, and I've been in a growth spurt, so my taste buds might have changed.”

A gentleman standing nearby was snickering.

“You....” I shook my head. She'd tried a couple, hadn't liked them, so she'd put them back in the box.

“Well, you could wait eight hours for the germs to die off the ones I chewed, then you could eat them. That way you won't be wasting them. Or......you could just throw them away.”

By this time the gentleman was almost doubled over laughing.

So I handed her the box and explained that some lines I just wouldn't cross, and asked her to please pick out the ones she'd chewed and eat them or dispose of them herself, which she did.

The gentleman, wiping tears, thanked us for the much needed laugh and then he was out the door.

The whole dialog is fairly typical of what goes on between this child and me. Chances are it would pass into the mass of moments you forget—but for the guy who needed a good laugh. He'll remember this one.

* * *

When I was in Bible college one of my most memorable experiences was writing a paper for some theology class on Time and Eternity. I was arguing that if you carefully defined eternity you could reconcile man's free will with God's predestination. If you ever want to hear how I got there send me a private message and I'd be glad to bore you with the details. But in the course of writing this paper I knew I needed a substantive way to wrestle with the concepts swirling around in my mind. So I talked a friend into dialogging with me. We'd come home from school, I'd run up to her apartment (we both had apartments in an old, seedy hotel), maybe she'd come down to mine, and we'd talk for hours about time, how it works, what eternity is, how it works, what it would be like to live without time, all the stuff that makes a good time-warp in a Star Trek episode.

One idea that never found a place in the paper has stuck with me all these years. I think time runs backwards.

* * *

We move forward in the time line, passing from event to event, past, present, then future. We don't think about it, of course. Today slips into tonight, we sleep, wake up to a tomorrow that's now the new today, remembering the past, anticipating the future, but generally just living in time the way we live in air. We don't think about it. It's just there and it's just necessary.

As a kid—a young teen—one big highlight of the year was the regional fair in Knoxville, Tennessee. All my friends looked forward to it. We saved our money and were given tickets for the rides. These were not just typical carnival rides, either. These were the real thing, rides like the big amusement parks have. They had this roller coaster—I think it was called the Galaxy. That thing was awesome—till I rode the Wabash Cannonball in Nashville. But at the time the Galaxy was the biggest thing I'd ever been on, and between that and the loud music and the junk food and running around with your friends, it was definitely an event that was tough to wait for. It would get closer and closer, then it would be almost upon us, then we'd be on the road, then we were caught up in the experience, riding the rides, eating the food—riding more rides and feeling a little sick, eating to feel better then riding more rides—and then it was over.

* * *

So we move forward in the time line, but what about the events? They get their start in the future. We're separated from them by months, a seeming eternity. Then they're close—so close you think you can't bear it—then they're here. We reach out and grasp them, pull them into our past, and then they're behind us—forever a memory. Like two teams passing, shaking hands after a well-fought game, we reach out and grasp a seemingly endless line of events, acknowledging them before we reach out to grasp the next one. Moving always forward as the events we reach for move in the opposite direction—backward.

Less than a month ago my husband, a runner, elected to go to a heart specialist to see if they could do something about these palpitations he sometimes gets when he's out running. They ran him through all these tests, put a 24 hour monitor on him, and then the doctor called and asked him to come in for an office visit so he could show him the results.

Well, that was irritating. This specialist is a two hour drive away, and couldn't he just explain things over the phone? Nonetheless he went in to “discuss” things with the physician.

That day I got a call at school from Roger. He seemed shaken. Said we needed to make arrangements for the kids for a couple of days, because I'd be driving him to the hospital in the morning—to get a pacemaker put in. It all happened fast. The next day I found myself sitting in a cardiac surgery waiting room while Roger had a one-hour simple procedure done. Only as the time slipped by, and the second hour was almost over, I suddenly looked around me and grasped the moment. Here I was alone in this waiting room, no idea why things were taking so long, and why hadn't I thought to bring a friend?

I got up and walked around a bit, found a computer station with internet access, and tried logging on and updating friends. The browser was ancient, but it managed to bring up a favorite message board and I typed an update in the prayer forum. I went and sat down, feeling a bit less alone.

You know, I hadn't seen this one coming. With all the things I look forward to—and the things I dread—sitting in the waiting room while my forty-something-ish husband had a pacemaker put in was not on the list of upcoming events. Yet there he was, groggily enduring, numb but aware that a surgeon who was used to older, softer bodies was even now struggling to push a pacemaker behind his well-built chest muscle.

Things have settled into a new normal now. He's always been so approachable that people are just physical with him. Pounding him on the shoulder, throwing playful punches—he's pretty relaxed and fun to be around. But now he has to be on his guard. There's a spot under his shoulder blade that can't be punched, playfully or not. There's a device there; a device that means he can't fix the car anymore, or use cordless power tools. No more arc welding—well, that, at least, was never an issue. He can't go through electronic security checks at the airport. He'll have to endure hand searches. You know those automatic doors at stores? He has to walk quickly through them. Always aware. Always on guard.

But even with all that, it's better than not having the pacemaker. You see, his tests showed that his heart was stopping at night. Sometimes for as long as ten seconds. Just for fun, stop right now and watch a clock as ten seconds go by. Chilling, huh?

So in God's grace, the problem was found and corrected. So even though we had this unexpected thing come at us—and even though it was not an easy thing—God's grace has seen to it that a worse unexpected event never grasped me by the hand and pulled me into the future. Chances are better now that the kids will grow up with a father, that I'll wake up each morning and my husband will still be there.

So I see time as a two-way road. We travel time in one direction while our events come at us from the other direction. We can reach out and grasp them as they go by or we can take them for granted. I'm a grasper. That's why I like to take pictures and record my music. The moment will always, in a sense, be with me.

We can choose, of course, to ignore the event that's here now while looking ahead to some future thing we don't really have yet. Or we can mull over some past thing that has no right to ruin our present, but could if we let it.

I choose to reach out and grasp the moment. Speaking of which, there's a beautiful fall day outside, I have a camera, and I've been sitting at this keyboard a bit too long...........

perspective

Its been a few weeks. Not much has been going on. It seems like classes are starting to blend seamlessly with the rest of my life. The boys are adjusting well. I'm adjusting well and love learning all kinds of new things. Good times :)

----

I've never been to hung up on being in the 'in crowd' or not being there. Needless to say since it wasn't important, I was *so* not 'in'. Therefore its never been a concern of mine whether my boys were 'in' or not. After all they are boys and boys seem to be just not concerned about that sort of thing.

Enter the Birthday. We had the birthday party for B last Saturday. B'day parties aren't high on my priority list, but I try to make the day special for the boys. And we celebrate every passing year, in a special way. Some years I'll wake them up extra early and 'make' them eat cake for breakfast. One year we took B to Chicago for the day. Sometimes we will do the party thing.

B has always wanted a mini golf birthday party, but because his b-day is in mid October and we live in the midwest that has never been possible. Too cold and the mini golf place closes at the end of September. Well after much nagging this year, we booked the last available day to have the party, Oct. 4th. I figure, its just to celebrate the passing of time, it doesn't have to be on the day, we will do it.

So we go and invite all the kids that B is friends with. Being that we homeschool - there weren't very many to begin with and then there was a make up football game for 1/2 of them that had been rescheduled to the day. Well, there were just a handful that were able to be at the party. I was dissappointed, but oh well, its just a day and a time for fun for B and whoever can join him.

Like I said - I'm not concerned. Day of the party, we head over to the mini golf place. There was a party ahead of us. Again not a big deal. Until... a kid from the other party came up to B. It was someone he knew from one of the many activities the kids is in. He asked why B was there. B explains and the kids like where are all your friends? Its your party right?

At that moment it dawned on me. The party before ours was for a kid about the same age as B - it was one of those huge knock down drag out blasts of a party that all the kids are wanting to go to because 'everyone' is going. Like think 50 of your best-est friends in the world. (insert eye roll) Ok, then here's B's group, a mixed sort of group, 5 really tight friends, boys his age or younger or older, a girl, and J. Oh and then various older family members that wanted to see the birthday boy.

So there it was... A twinge of jealousy. I think my eye twitched as this boy from the other party asked again, so where are they? I don't remember how B handled it, I'm sure he did fine - despite a rough early start at socialism, his social skills are excellent for his age. Usually just the right mix of humor and a sparkling of wit and sarcasm for tough situations.

And for a few moments I watched the 'in' crowd. I was curious for a bit, what do 'in' people do? I lived vicariously through them, just for a bit. Then I looked back at my boy at his 11th b'day party. His friends were laughing and joking. Mutual acceptance. Everyone was comfortable with each other and with the adults. Relaxed fun. I glanced back at the 'in' crowd. Everyone is glancing at each other. Checking to make sure they were 'ok'. Making sure that that their presents or jokes where the best. Fun, but not quite so relaxed. Actually, if there was a 'how to be the best party attendee' award, a few of these kids would have been winners.

Jealousy cured. I love being ourselves. Take us or leave us just as we are. We aren't popular or perfect, but at least we know that we are liked.

A spin off of "Mommy" from Amy's perspective

"Mommy" Awwww.......

That's a word that I love to hear. I hear it often. In all sorts of ways, whining, grunted, sing song, mommy come see what I found.

In contrast to you... I have been called Mommy for more than a third my life now. Its a role I'm fairly comfortable with. I didn't know it but its who I am now. It's embarrass slowly wrapped its arms around me, encompassing all I think about and all I do. Not a bad thing. Just how it is. 11 years of being mommy most of the time including the last almost 4 years of being nothing but mommy day in a day out.

One of the things that I love the best is taking the boys places. They are both at the age that they don't have to constantly touch me, but hover around, sometimes running ahead and sometimes lingering behind. Always close though. I never have to remind them of that. They actually like being with me. Anticipating what kind of cool things I'll point out or maybe some spontaneous fun that I'll cook up :)
---

So I started pre-req classes for nursing school last week. I LOVE it! Its interesting and challenging. B is as about as interested in my classes as I am, so I get to come home and tell him about everything I learn. Plus, one of my good friends is watching the boys so instead of catching up every few weeks, I get to chat with her everyday!

But something's different. All of a sudden I'm not 'just a mom' anymore. This thought occurred to me all of a sudden this week. Of course I've found a group of mommy friends - I seem to attract young mom's :D Something about that gives people an instant connection...

People in our classes are getting to know each other. I've been asked what occupation I used to have. Well... way back when I used to have a fun and fulfilling job as a graphic designer. But that wasn't important. In between, spending time connecting with my kids, teaching them, entertaining them. That's what is guiding me. Its interesting because I used to really love graphics. But the less I did graphics the less I wanted to do more. The more I connected with real people, the more I wanted to not spend my life behind a computer screen. The more I wanted to help people. Really help.

So anyway, I'm lost in my retelling... But somehow I was jerked out of my mommy role. Again I am someone besides the boys's mom. (Of course I still am their mom, but ya know) So when I realized that I was kind of shocked. Surprised. So, now I'm not 'just a mom'... ;)

Of course all this while I've been dialoguing with Abba. Please get me through this day... this week... this semester these pre-reqs. Guide me, keep me fresh and compassionate. Heiress used to use this line and I think I should probably, too. God, keep your arm around my shoulder and your hand over my mouth. Yes, I'm not as shy about things as I was the first time to school. And I think that I need to work on being a little more selective about what I say :)

I think I lost something in translation... but ask me in person & I'll explain it better... Meanwhile, first test is on Monday! Am I ready? :D

On Parenting and Prayer

The title “Mommy” comes as a mixed blessing. I hear that word spoken a lot these days, and after 35 years of just being “Connie,” the new title still takes me by surprise; even ten years later. “Mommy.”

Several years ago one of my daughters, I forget which one, experimented a time or two with calling me “Connie.” I let her know that it was NOT going to be okay to call me that; I was “Mommy” to her. The name "Mommy" was special between her and me and she was to use it. Now that they’re both getting into their “mid-preteens,” I’ve tried to let them know that “Mom” would be okay with me, but these days they’re the ones who insist on calling me “Mommy.” Mom just doesn’t sound right to either of them. Yet.

I hear the title maybe a hundred times a day or so. Sometimes when I hear “Mommy” I kind of have to grit my teeth and prepare. I hear it whined at the top of somebody’s lungs (I didn’t even know you could whine at the top of your lungs!). “MO-O-O-O me-e-e-e-e!” I know something’s not right in somebody’s world and she's expecting, right or wrong, that I’m to do something about it. Sometimes it feels like a burden. Sometimes it feels like an accusation. Like somebody’s saying, “I’m hungry and YOU’RE not doing anything about it! What’s WRONG with you?” So I sigh, pull myself out of the equation and decide which to address first—the need the child feels, or the tone of the child’s voice. If it’s not an emergency I’ll have her try again, coming to me without a whine. It’s a bit like hitting your head against a brick wall. I’ve been doing it numerous times a day for years. I’m assuming one day they’ll both get it.

And then there’s this other way I hear the title, “Mommy.” It starts with a feeling, little butterfly hands, and arms wrapping themselves softly around my waist (it used to be my thigh), and then the word, sweetly: “Mommy.” When I hear that word, spoken that way, it doesn’t matter what I’m doing. I’m immediately drawn away from my task and that child becomes the focus of my attention.

* * *

This summer we started a nice mommy-daughter ritual. It really started when my sister was here and we went to the library, checked out some books and took them over to a coffee shop. Well, we’ve done that ever since, every Thursday when my husband was at work. Only school is back in session now, and we can’t really go on Thursdays. ‘Sokay, though, Roger works on Saturdays too and so we go every Saturday now—just the three of us. Roger has his own daddy-daughter rituals—hikes and trips to the YMCA; the library is ours.

So this past Saturday a neighbor kid’s dad called and asked if my girls wanted to come over and play. I explained what we were doing and offered to let his daughter come along, which he did. They enjoy playing with this neighbor kid, so a trip up town would be fun, I thought, for the three of them. It was set. We were all getting ready to go, and they were to cross the street to get the neighbor girl. I reminded them to look both ways (mothers!), turning back to the kitchen as the door closed. Then I felt the butterfly hands—arms hugging my waist, and a soft voice said, “Mommy.” I turned to give her a hug and saw her furrowed brow.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” I asked with a quick squeeze.

“I think I just wanted it to be a Mommy-daughter thing” was her reply. She was asking what no true southern woman—or former southern woman—can give. She was asking that I take back an invitation.

But you know what? The thing she asked for was exactly what I really wanted. A Mommy-daughter day. And the way she asked was extraordinarily sweet. We went ahead and took the neighbor girl along with us, because it was the right thing to do, but from now on it’ll be just the three of us.

* * *

So there’s been a journey going on with me, starting with a quest for healing for my child’s eyes. I heard about some healing revival going on somewhere and suddenly realized it was something I really wanted for her. I’ve prayed quite a bit about it, and seen her eyes progress from very crossed to almost normal. And now, with school starting and a tougher schedule, she’s regressed some and her eyes cross again as she looks back at me. But you know, I’m glad I asked. And I’m still asking, because the prayer has added a sweetness to my life and her crossed eye really is better than it was.

But it’s not just about the eye anymore, much as I’d like to see that resolved. I’ve journeyed through some wild places—spiritually speaking. And even as the healing revival has imploded, just as one would expect where inhumane pressure was placed on the shoulders of a single human to carry the thing—even still, I’ve learned how to pray. When you pray, you don’t put on your whiniest voice and wheedle, “A-A-A-A-A-ba-a-a-a-a! Abbah FA-A-A-A-ther!” “DA-A-A-A-A-de-e-e-e-e! I NE-E-E-E-ED this! You PRO-mised! What’s that ‘by His stripes’ passage about if it’s not about my situation right here!? Huh?”

Uh—no. That’s not the way. Unless you really want God to grit His teeth, sigh, and turn to you and deal with your tone of voice.

There’s a better way. You find your way to His presence, wrap your arms around the sweetness of it, and just enjoy for a while. “Daddy.” And the more time you spend there the more you begin to sense what He wants to do. And those are the things you ask for. And it starts out as a laying down of your own wants, a sacrifice, but then the more time you spend there the more you actually WANT the things that He wants, and the prayers start to change, and the things He wants are the things you ask for, because you feel His big heart and sense His real hurts and you want to see His Heart’s desire be fulfilled. So God’s things are your things.

Today I’m still praying for my child’s healing. It’s not because that’s what I want anymore, although I deeply want that. And to be honest, I’m still not really sure He wants her to be healed in the present. But I am sure of one thing. He wants me to pray it. I sense it when I ask. Maybe because it’s the catalyst that draws me to Him. Maybe it really IS what He wants to do. Maybe it’s about all the fringe benefits—time spent with God, drinking in His sweetness, carrying that back out to the world around me. Maybe there’s some other reason I don’t understand yet. But I know this—if He wants me to ask, I feel no need to whine, and I feel no need to be shy about it. I do feel the need to touch Him, to say His name, to enjoy His presence, and I find in the process I am healed myself.

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