January 21, 2012
And ever we breathe grace
Time does not ebb.
“Ebb” suggests a back-and-forth dance, like waves or breathing, and time is no such thing. It is a rush, a gravity, one direction only and no pause or stop or return. Time is the mud in which children are planted, and time coaxes their limbs to grow and those faces to slim and those little tongues to sprout words that astound. Time carved itself around my Evan-boy and grew him up into a little person.
So much has happened since I last chose (or attempted) to write. And what a silly thing is a blog for sharing our lives! Yet I have been so blessed by certain blogs that I regularly read, I am encouraged to write about the life we lead and the Creator who leads us – the Maker of time in which we move forward.
But what to say? That neither Evan nor his father is who I expected him to be? That the past year has caused me to stumble and ache more times than I should mention? That life and I have looked each other in the eye and blown hot breath in each others’ faces like bulls readying themselves for goring? I will not, but God knows. I will say, however, that while time is the mud – the niche - we wallow in, grace is the air we are birthed into.
Friends, all I know is grace because that is the substance I see most often. No matter what I am feeling, how stressed or confused I am as a mother – or how buoyant or joyful or amazed! – how easy or fragile my days are, how brilliant my child or how frightening our doctor’s prognoses, grace is what wraps around us to sustain us. If I teach that sweet, sweet son of mine anything in this life, it should be that God’s grace is a free gift, a welcome balm, a three-corded rope to grab hold of with blistered fingers, a roof over our heads and the rock under our feet. A shelter, a destination, manna. That grace is all we need, and all we really have.
All of Evan’s new words (and there are many), and all the weight he’s gained (and that is precious little), are through the grace of God.
And therein, son of my bones and skin, lies all our life’s sweetness.
November 15, 2010
Multitude Monday: upon drawing ourselves up to breathe
101. Using naptime to have coffee and almond cookies.
102. A busy weekend.
103. My trusty old cell phone that has become Evan’s new favorite toy.
104. Teaching Evan to say “hi Grandma” while holding said cell phone to his ear.
105. Family parties…even when the family isn’t technically mine.
106. The nervewracking but ultimately empowering experience of going by myself to a party where I know only one person.
107. Beautiful photography by a friend that usually ends up as my desktop wallpaper.
108. November finally showing her true colors…and temperatures.
109. Energy-efficient space heaters for very cold bedrooms.
110. Rereading some old favorites.
111. Because I find number patterns fascinating, November eleventh was a nice treat…looking forward to it even more next year. 
112. Grace: the assurance that no matter how far I feel from God, no matter how my lungs ache for heaven, He is never more than a breath away.
October 23, 2010
At the end of a difficult day…
This is truth: that lies become dust, like so much useless ash, in the shadow of the Cross. That stepping close to Christ means shedding the vicious words spat at you and dirty threats levied at you and whatever volume of tears choke you and simply being lifted up by grace, like a sleeping child lifted under the arms or an ocean wave curling its foaming shoulders moon-ward.
If there is nothing else my son learns from me, then let it be that faith requires more of us than just belief. It requires us to look in the faces of our enemies and forgive them. It requires us to know that we are loved and sacred and holy even if we stand alone in a dark room and wrap our arms around our chests to keep our sore hearts from melting out of the spaces between our ribs. To know that there is light in darkness – that even a tiny pinprick dispels the demons. It requires us to come, crawling if we must, toward the Savior on the Cross and accept His death in order that we might have life…and have it in abundance. Even emptiness and want is an abundance of life, if we consider it all as grace.
October 18, 2010
Wisdom in the weary things
I have no advice to give anyone. My sister-in-law is having twins this winter, and little by little I pack Evan’s old things (that would suit little girls) into a cardboard box with Post-It notes attached describing how to use an item or telling them it’s okay to dress their daughters in blue pajamas because they’ll grow out of them so fast it’ll hardly matter. There is a note in there telling my brother he’ll make a wonderful father. One telling them not to worry about cleaning the house – just sleep when they can.
Advice I was given.
It’s all good advice, but I cannot claim any original thoughts. I have no pearls of wisdom that I can capture on a small square sticky note, no helpful hints I can whisper like secrets across the many miles between my Little Mister and his aunt and uncle and soon-to-be cousins. The only way I can show them how to live is to fling my arms open wide and expose the rivulets of blood still drying on my chest.
The wounds I’ve encountered. The lashings I’ve taken. The times I’ve tripped and fallen and gotten up bruised, shaken to my core and weary with the effort of rising. That is the only way I know of to give any advice: to uncover the battle scars and say, “See what God has made of me? I am alive and well, His Spirit has made me whole.” I am not crafted from anything other than my own mistakes and delusions, my own folly, my self-ness. Yet the Potter has taken such raw and useless materials and has stained the glass so that others can see what bold colors come of brittle things. What beauty comes from the misshapen: the broken, set, and rebroken-to-heal life.
I have no advice to give my brother and his family. They will simply have to look at me to see that all is never, never lost.
October 17, 2010
Multitude Monday: when all the world turns over new leaves
84. The dubiously named “Indian Summer” of mid-October, when t-shirts come back out of winter storage and windows are flung wide.
85. The inspiration to write something.
86. Salsa and sour cream. Delectable.
87. Energetic conversation with a friend.
88. Purple-and-white crocheted giraffes for my nieces, made with love.
89. Books from the library that have been on hold…that no longer are!
90. A baby who can happily entertain himself while Momma does some housework.
91. A baby who smiles when Momma’s work is done and it’s time to read or go exploring outside.
92. The bite of wine on the tongue: a taste that has been unfamiliar since summer.
93. Reacquainting myself with old friends.
94. Evan learning to clap. “Yay!”
95. Thanksgiving placemats and door decorations welcoming us home.
96. Studying baby sign language.
97. Homemade apple pie, made from memory with love and MacIntosh apples.
98. Evan putting himself to sleep effortlessly. Amazing!
99. The purging of recipes clipped from magazines: copying them onto index cards and filing them neatly away in my mother’s old wooden recipe box.
100. A plane ticket home for Christmas – a gift from my father for Evan and myself. Blessing beyond measure.
October 12, 2010
Living for the colors of dying
Peak leaf season in Michigan finds Momma and Punkin strolling along suburban sidewalks with our chins tilted up, ignoring the uneven cement and fallen branches. We gaze, awed, at the painted trees, their glorious dying a celebration and a gift.
It is in the last breath of summer that each leaf gathers itself up, succumbs to the burning blaze of orange or gold or crimson, and drops – its energy spent all on the last moments of life. It seems as if the greenness of living was only preparation for the dying…the beauty that comes in expectation of the leap from normal, the gliding on the wind towards completion.
May I find the boldness (somehow) to live for the dying…to wait patiently and gather strength enough to burst forth in creational beauty and then, with all my heart, to let go of it all and slip softly into the Next. To bring full circle all that was wild and sun-drenched growing and make room for all that follows; to give one last exclamation of gold-burnished joy and then just…float.
October 11, 2010
Mirrors and birds and pieces of the antichrist
It could just be that the antichrist comes in pieces. Bit by bit, disassembled, dangerous.
When I was in high school, there was a girl in my dance class who had the most amazing leaps. Mandy, or Mindy, or something like that. I used to stand right behind her in line in order to get a good view of how she wound up, giving a little hop with the leading foot to add some momentum, how she always looked up before lifting her sturdy legs. I saw her leaps in my head as I took my turn across the floor – I gave everything I had, leaping as if my life depended on it, and in my head I pictured myself looking just like Mandy/Mindy did. I was so pleased. But when she didn’t return to take class with us the following year, I actually had to watch my own leaps in the mirror.
I saw myself give a sad little hop that accomplished nothing but wasting energy. Saw myself leap low, with straight legs and a forcibly uplifted chin. My leaps were ok…but hers had been better.
It is a damaging thing to see the truth about yourself after some time has passed imaging yourself differently. And that is how he attacks us, this brittle antichrist in segments: he breaks small and filters into your mind. That’s the first to go. Your delusions of truth are wiped clean, and your Dorian Gray face comes barreling through. It is painful and abrupt, and while it might have been a necessary thing to do (erasing facades), the method was cruelty. The antichrist’s unholiness comes in the way he twists truth to suit his own needs.
And the lies. Oh, there are lies as well. Because when we see the honesty of our very selves, we can begin to doubt that we are any good at all. The brittle devil-man catches us doubting what we see naked in the mirror, and tells us that the truth of what we are is wrong. That the facades we erect are a much better version of this creature we’ve become, and so the most humane thing to do is to cover up the mirror, to walk away and pretend that we’re not blind. But God’s truth says that He created us, that He loves us, and that He sees us as we really are – without turning away.
I love the old saying, “You can’t keep a bird from flying over your head, but you can keep it from building a nest in your hair!” I don’t know how many times I’ve told the devil-bird that he’s not welcome in my hair…and there will be many more instances like that. Hands clasped suddenly to cheeks in horror at the brittle piece of ugly honesty I see, eyes wide in disbelief at all the time wasted on delusion. But then the only thing to do is take a leap of faith (even if it’s low to the ground with a nonsense hop of a start), and look in God’s face for the mirrored Truth of what we really are: precious.
October 5, 2010
Multitude Monday: thus falls Autumn on our shoulders
63. A library within walking distance.
64. Crunchy leaves along the sidewalk to the library.
65. Bars of harvest moonlight sighing softly across the bed sheets.
66. Little fingers waving good morning from over the crib rails.
67. Free haircuts from cosmetology students.
68. Bags of clothes, shoes, toys on their way to Goodwill.
69. Turning the TV off.
70. Reading about the Amish, stuttering short apologetic prayers of well-wishing for the Mennonites on the street where I grew up that I never got to know very well.
71. Piano music, well-played.
72. Gluten in homemade bread and being able to eat it.
73. Recipes for all those fall apples hanging sweet-heavy on the branch.
74. The anticipation of hayrides.
75. Giving up Halloween.
76. Pumpkin Spice lattes…especially ones bought with coupons.
77. Cardboard boxes full of treasures like Thanksgiving decorations and holiday greeting cards.
78. Norman Rockwell calendar counting down the days til I’m an Auntie!
79. Walking downtown with friends, old and new, to see ArtPrize, scarf flung ’round my neck.
80. Faithful old cell phones that remind me we do not need the cyber world at our fingertips every moment of every day, tempting as that may be.
81. Windex. It cleans “a multitude of sins” including little fingerprints on the glass slider door.
82. My darling Grammy, who turned eighty-two this year, who wrote me a letter every week all through college, who has never met her only great-grandson, who lost her dear husband to Huntington’s Disease earlier this year, and who still plants beebalm flowers along her driveway.
83. The “hope and a future” promised to us by a faithful God who opens our eyes to what *could* be.
October 1, 2010
An existential melancholy in few words; or: How Not To Write A Proper Blog Post
I’ll tell you the things that I am. I am Momma (or rather, Ma-ma-ma). I am daughter to Steve and Moe. Beloved child of Christ. “Teachuh” to little girls in princess tutus. Eventual Auntie to two womb-sharing baby nieces. Inconsistent writer. Loose-gripped housekeeper.
The things I am not are scarier, and much more abundant. The things I am not are what distract me from Adonai, Jehovah, Yahweh, Elohim, Christ, Spirit, Father, Savior, Lord. The things I am not but pretend to be keep me from the things HE is. And so my knees see more of the floor these days.
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***In my attempts to filter my thoughts and private life into such a public forum, there have been some casualties. Please forgive the tidbits, you have my word there will be more substantial pieces coming…
September 24, 2010
Jesus, Ed, and the singing ten dollars
I gave a homeless man my last ten dollars because Jesus would, and so would Ed Dobson. But I didn’t like it.
That afternoon I had finished reading Ed’s book “The Year of Living like Jesus” ….The aftertaste of his journey was still in my mind as I picked up a few groceries at Meijer, got cash back from the debit card because I was looking forward to running a quick shopping trip to find long-sleeved shirts for fall. It had been so long since I’d shopped for something other than groceries or necessities, and I could taste the retail buzz on the tip of my tongue. I could also hear that $10 bill singing jubilantly in my wallet, and I’m pretty sure there was a slight smile on my face as I pulled out of the Meijer parking lot. As soon as my car rolled down the one-way path onto the busy Beltline, there he was: a middle-aged, haggard, rumpled man holding a makeshift cardboard sign that read “HOMELESS AND HUNGRY PLEASE HELP”.
Oh great, I thought. And then I did an utterly shameful thing: I hit the power locks on my door, rolled up the windows, and plunked my sunglasses onto my face. I could feel the embarrassment and discomfort rising like steam in my conscience, the Jesus-voice in my head tsk-tsking away. There were justifications running wild through my thoughts: Look at all the other cars in front of me ignoring him! I’m a young girl alone in my car, engaging him could put me in danger! It’s all I have and he’d probably just use it for drugs anyway!
Well now…what has happened to your heart? That voice was in Ed Dobson’s deliberate speech, tinted slightly with Ireland. He had been following Jesus and trying His life on for size for an entire year; I couldn’t do one brave thing, knowing full well what Christ would have me do?
I squirmed and wavered for the entire time it took me to drive around the block, back toward the grocery store. I decided that if the man was still there, I’d give him my ten dollars, and believe with my whole uncomfortable heart that God would bless me. Usually when I intentionally choose the godly path, there is a warm sense of rightness that flows like brandy down the throat and blood through the limbs. But not this time…I felt like the child told to clean his room. I didn’t wanna (stamp, stamp, pout).
The man was still there. Sign abandoned, sitting on the ground, head in hands. He hardly looked up as I drove toward him, until he realized my car was slowing and the power windows were whirring open. I beckoned him over, handed him my folded bill, noticed the light of surprised gratitude shining on his dirt-stained face, grit my teeth, and smiled back at him. He said “God bless you” over and over while I nodded and drove away. All I wanted was to tell him to apply for a job at the Meijer he was begging in front of, but it might not have come out in a Jesus-like voice, so I held my tongue.
My intellect tried to comfort my loss: I reminded myself of the widow whom Jesus praised because she gave out of her poverty and not out of her wealth. I recalled Dr. Dobson giving away many of his custom-made suits, giving money twice to the same man who came knocking at his door, giving rides to strangers. I told myself my father was a generous man and he’d understand my decision. I told myself again and again that, if my son had been faced with the same scenario, I would want him to be the kind of man who would show compassion and grace to another, to the poor that Christ surrounded himself with. I would want my son to follow Jesus – period.
And so the sense of loss abated. I didn’t feel that pervading sense of glowing warmth that choosing holiness often brings…but I knew it had been the right decision. That doing something difficult may not feel good. But it is the good way.
It gets close to Christ.
It reaches a finger toward the hem of His robe.
And it sets us free.
