Heart Song

Tear your hearts,

Not just your clothes,

And return to the Lord your God.

Joel 2:13

"In right, outright, upright, downright, happy all the time;"

I had nursery with my friends a few weeks ago.

An infant, a toddler, and twenty five three year olds ready to dismantle the church. Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. There weren't really more than seven preschoolers I don't think, and there were three of us.  The ratios still seemed significantly slanted to their side.  As puzzles, clay, and stories devolved into chase each other around the table, in some desparation we began singing old Sunday School songs.

It was somewhat successful, I guess.  At least they stopped running around the room throwing plush fish at each other, but to my surprise, they didn't really join in.  They just dropped down on the rug on their bellies, propped their chins in their hands, and stared at us like they expected a stage production.

I'm not quite sure what you'd call what they got, but it did keep them entertained until their parents got back anyway.

In right

       upright,

                 tear your hearts

Out right

         downright

                   not just your clothes.

It's so much easier to watch than participate,

               but where's the joy in that? 

Friend of the Fatherless

"...Assyria will not save us,
we will not ride on horses,
and we will no longer proclaim 'Our gods!'
to the works of our hands.
For the fatherless receives compassion in You."
Hosea 14: 3





Fatherless in a patriarchal society, left without protection, provision, or pride, they threw themselves on the mercies of compassion. Can we really come in any other way?

An ally of power and strength commands our trust and loyalty, like a schoolyard bully demanding honor for the gift of protection.

Towering on horses, exalting in wealth and confidence, we rest on the
pride of the work of our hands until it crumbles to dust at a touch.

Empty, alone, we can finally approach, for the gift of all that we need.

Winter Wanderings

The dog is pacing again, she's driving me crazy. Every winter she gets like this; clickety clack across the kitchen, into the living room and back to the kitchen, staring and whining at the door, begging to go out yet again.

I don't know if it's nerves or confusion or latent memories of her puppy days. It's not because she wants to be out in the snow, not anymore anyway. She loved it once, she'd run her nose through pile of fluff and jump like a rabbit through the drifts, running and barking and begging the kids to join her.

Now she goes out and she comes back in. She snatches her treat and wanders downstairs, then comes back within minutes to pace and whine again.

I wonder if she does it while we're gone all day. Surely not, she definitely expects some result, and she's smart enough to know that nothing's going to happen if no one is here to listen.

So what is it she really wants, another treat, a change of scenery, or does she just hope every minute that surely it will be different this time?

I can relate to that I guess, in the midst of a storm night obsession of watching the weather over and over, of wondering if there's going to be a snow day, as if my attention will make any difference in what the final result will be.

Coax the dog downstairs, turn off the tv, and convince us both to accept whatever will be.

Prophets and Kings

She said to her mistress,

"If only my master would go to the prophet who is in Samaria, 

he would cure him of his skin disease."

So Naaman went and told his master what the girl from the land of Israel had said.

Therefore, the king of Aram said,

"Go and I will send a letter with you to the king of Israel."

2 Kings 5: 3 - 5a

We always think we have a better idea.  The prophet, he was clearly told.  Even as specific as, the prophet in Samaria.  So why was Naaman sent to the king?  

A prophet doesn't sound very important, I guess. Especially to the king of a conquering nation of a different religion.  The king, surely, was the one with the power, the source of any miracles that the masses might have attributed to this insignificant holy man.  

There would be no going through lowly underlings for the vanquishing warrior.  He would go right to the top and demand his boon.  His would take pride in forcing his past adversary to receive his messenger, in rubbing salt in the wounds of the recent defeat, as he forced the king to grant his request.  

Yet the king could do nothing.  He knew he had no power from God.  He was horrified by the very implication and considered it an act of war.  Surely, he was aware that Elisha had the answer, but there's nothing to indicate that he asked.  Elisha had to make the offer himself.

Even the one who should have known best, had no faith in God's order.  A lowly prophet, what could he do?  Why would he even think of sending such an important commander to someone so beneath his notice?

A simple answer, a quiet one, with no fanfare, and theatrics and celebrity experts; how often do I too brush past the gift of God's answer, searching for a little more drama?

  

Back in the Stream

Thick and wide and slow and the river flows.  Peace descending gentle leaching tension, floating downstream on drifting limb.  We sit in trio on an herb garden patio, with a sweet cheerful waitress and the brush of a cooling late summer breeze.

I know why they pass out contracts in the spring.  If any of us collectively remembered the overwhelming exhaustion  of the first two or three weeks of school, the district would never get anyone back.  It's not really the sudden all day standing and moving or even the return of early morning have to be somewhere on time.  It's the constant, every moment "on" of being hyper aware of every movement of every student.  Are they following directions? Are they working on the assignment?  Are they focused on the lesson?  Do they understand my instructions or are they even aware that I've given any?

In two to three weeks, they'll be in the routine.  They'll know what to do and how to read the shorthand phrases and gestures that move us through the day.  It won't be the end of challenges.  They'll think up creative and covert ways of avoiding the struggle of learning, but they'll give me space to breathe.  As questions melt into habits, I can relax into the days and the joy of teaching; into of the flow of watching them grow.

Daily Bread

They were discussing among themselves that they did not have any bread.

Mark 8:16

They had just come from watching Jesus feed the multitudes with a handful of bread and fish.  They had collected baskets of leftovers.  They had listened to him preach to the crowds and watched him battle with Pharisees.  

And they were worried that they only had one loaf of bread in the boat with them.

It doesn't seem to be a particularly long trip they had planned.  It doesn't even say that they were hungry yet. They just knew they would be in the future.  They focused on the resource in their hands, to solve a problem that didn't yet exist. 

Did they turn to Jesus, watching from the side of the boat?  Did they ask him what to do?  Or did they nervously whisper their worries as they eyed the single loaf, sensing the frustration he must surely feel at their fears?

He doesn't appear to have given them the bread they didn't really need at that point.  He just asked them to recite back to him the details of his past miracles and gave them time to think.

The horizon is clouded with jostling problems that might occur some day.  The wake behind me awash in the blessings of constant provision.  And Jesus rests calmly in the bobbing boat, waiting for me to remember, to trust, to focus on what really matters.  

Healing Love

Then a man with a serious skin disease

came to Him,

and, on his knees begged Him:

If You are willing,

You can make me clean.

Moved with compassion,

Jesus reached out his hand and touched him.

"I am willing,"

He told him,

"Be made clean"

Mark 1: 40-41

It was never about the healing, not the physical kind anyway.  Jesus came to draw us to His Father.  His longing was to reach the people, to touch them with the truth.  Because of this healing, he could no longer even enter the town in peace. 

I always used to wonder why he would tell the people he healed not to say anything.  Aren't we supposed to honor God and show our gratitude for his gifts?  But this time, it thwarted the very work he was trying to do. The jostling, shouting crowds wanted a show, not a sermon.  They wanted to be entertained and awed. Some wanted legitimate cures for their various trials, and some just wanted to be part of the excitement.  Hardly anyone wanted to listen and reflect, to pray and repent.

So why do it?  Why not just walk away?  Why not tell the man to consider his sins, to beg for forgiveness, to set his mind on more important matters? 

Because Jesus was "moved with compassion".  In spite of the turmoil created by this one simple act, He cared about the single unimportant man reaching out to him from the side of the road.  He took his pain to heart and longed to give him joy.  

He still does.  

The Shepherd's Call

And I will give you shepherds 

according to My heart,

who will feed you with knowledge and understanding.

Jeremiah 3:14

There's a lot of shepherds out there.  Shepherds who lead and cajole with enticing words and decadent feasts only skimming the salty spray of knowledge and understanding.  The sheep don't care.  They'll follow a voice, a bucket of feed, or just a another sheep who seems to be moving with purpose.

They demand a leader.  Left to themselves, they'll gnaw a pasture down to bare dirt or collectively run off in confused panic.

Their short stubby bodies can't see much beyond themselves.  Heads lowered to graze or raised to chew their cud, they still have such limited vision.  The dangers of predators, cliffs, and barren fields are as hidden in the distant mists as the blessings of a cool pure spring and succulent meal.  

The shepherd according to God's heart guides them through life.  He sees the distant threats and promises.  He looks ahead for rocks or cliffs that could break the sheep's legs.  He finds the perfect mixture of grasses to nourish them and may force them away from a field they're enjoying, knowing that it will make them sick later on.

He's walked this field before. He knows when to turn, when to stop, when to struggle on.  He decides what they eat and drink and where and when they sleep.   He watches each one and keeps them from wandering off alone.

A shepherd equipped with the knowledge and understanding of God, is the only shepherd worth following.

Summer Images

It's the winding down weekend of summer. It seems odd in the first week of August, but school starts one week from Monday and that begins fall in my mind.
It won't feel like it I'm sure.  After a beautifully cool last week of July, it's likely that the first couple of weeks of school will be the hottest of the year.  We'll be standing out on the bus loop every afternoon, handing out bottles of water to carry the kids through their steamy trip home, and wondering why they're not in a pool somewhere.

But it's over all the same.  The weeks have dwindle to memories;  images trapped in a digital cloud, and the crisscross stripes on my sandaled feet.  On a final fling of summer trip, I decided on a way to extend it.

I had already started making a picture slide to help introduce myself to my new class.  It was mostly just to remind myself what to say.  Those first days are always so awkward.  It doesn't feel right to just jump into lessons as if we all know each other, but do they really want my litany of who I am and how long I've taught and what my kids are doing?  They're twelve.  They're terrified of life in their own skin and what's going to happen in the hall when the bell rings.

So I made my slide to make it focused and quick and hopefully slightly interesting.  I used pictures of places we've lived while traveling with the Air Force, places I knew many of them had never visited.  It usually generates some interest, particularly when I tell them about Alaska, but I began to realize just how long ago that's all been now.  Alan left the military over thirteen years ago now.  That's longer than most of them have been alive and so, completely irrelevant to them.

So I'm creating a new slide, a summer life slide, of  my bike trip, the botanical gardens, floating the river and climbing rocks.  Between the pictures are numbers significant to me, with clues in the pictures as to what that significance might be.  Their assignment will be to make use of the scientific skills of observation and critical thinking to make predictions about who I am and what I do.

Well it sounds good doesn't it?  I think it will be more fun than a boring monologue and generate some interesting conversation.  So, the only question is, am I developing new and exciting ways to engage my students, or blatantly taking advantage of a captive audience to show off my vacation photos?

Hidden Treasures

I will give you the treasures of darkness

And hidden riches of secret places,

That you may know that I, 

the Lord,

Who call you by your name,

Am the God of Israel.

Isaiah 45:3

My newly grown children balance on the cusp of the rest of their lives.  It's so hard to have no answers for them.  They stare alone into a future blurred by endless choices and narrowing prospects.  They long for concrete decisions and an iron clad contract.  They struggle to deal with the reality that they can barely glimpse past the next season.

I remember that terror of being just out of school.  I remember nights of wondering where I was going from here, of questioning how could they give me a diploma?, I don't know anything.  

If we're honest, it's really no different later in life.  We're just better at pretending we know what we're doing. We set long term goals, open retirement accounts, and plan our careers as if we're really in control of any of it.    

Yet, the greatest treasures rarely come from the plans I make and the goals I set.

The greatest treasures are hidden in the mists of unknown,  in the darkness of the future, in the secret places of the future I could never have imagined.  I never could have dreamed of the places I've been, could never have planned out the life I've had.  Those unexpected blessings, the joys of the unimagined gifts of God; that's where we learn to really look to Him, and acknowledge His hand on our lives.

     

The Temple of God

He began to build on the second day of the second month in the fourth year of his reign.

2 Chronicles 3:1

David longed to build a temple to honor God.  He drew up the blueprints, he assigned the roles of the priests and Levites, and even determined the weight of the gold and silver for the lamp stands and utensils. It was his most cherished dream, but it would be left to his son to fulfill.

Solomon had to have been thinking about it since the day he took the throne.  Maybe it had been the backdrop of his whole life.  Did he pour over the plans with David as a young boy?  Did he listen to his father's dreams and expand them in his own mind?  Did he examine beautiful buildings and sculptures and take note of the artists to recruit for the temple work?

Even after taking the throne, he didn't just rush into throwing it together.  All those years of planning and pondering and it's been three years now that he's had the authority to do something about it.  I'm not sure I'd be that patient.  I'm way too good at getting an idea and plunging into it with the plan of figuring it all out as I go along.  There have been many emergency calls to plumbers that way. 

Solomon began with a foundation.  He organized crews of thousands to cut and carry stone, then wrote to the king of Tyre requesting lumber and woodsmen and artists.  He negotiated payments and sent workmen of his own to join them.  He gathered the supplies and assigned the crews.

Finally it was time to build.

They built walls lined with gold.  They created woven tapestries and engravings of palm trees and chains. They crafted columns and porches and enormous sculptures.  They brought in the gold and silver holy items for the worship rituals.  

For seven years, the crews of Solomon worked to create a place of magnificence and beauty.  For a lifetime, David planned and sketched and dreamed.  All that time, all that manpower and devotion went into preparing a place to meet God.  

The buildings are long gone now, just as Jesus prophesied.  Today, God meets us where we are.  Our bodies have become His temple. So what have I done to prepare?  

Botanical Gardens

I wonder whose job it is to create these designs.

I guess it would get tedious after awhile.  There are rows and rows of them.  It seems like such a peaceful calming way to spend a morning though; trailing a rake in swirling lines around the rocks and bushes, outlining the borders of the gardens, and smoothing away the imprint of animals and leaves and limbs from the previous day.

It's as hushed as a world apart here.  The knobby pebbled sidewalk scarcely registers my steps.  Birds call back and forth across the wooded path.  In the distance is a splash of water and the muffled chatter of children tossing fish food to the enormous koi and the interloping geese.

Even the roar of the city traffic beyond the fence seems low and subdued; present, but unobtrusive, not really a part of this realm.

I wandered from plot to plot, tracing the smooth designs in my mind and imagining the creation of each.  It was only at the end that I wondered how the artist would feel tomorrow.

Is it frustrating to find all that work disturbed, or is it a joy to have a fresh canvas to create.

Art Hill

We went by the rule of "follow the crowd".  It seemed like a reasonable choice as there was a steady stream of humanity winding their way over the streets and trails and sloping fields of the huge city park; all traveling in the same general direction.  The parking spot I quickly and easily found made me very suspicious that I was going to regret the choice when it was time to leave again, but time was short and I really wasn't sure where I was going.

My daughter told me about it; a weekly old movie in July, shown on a giant screen on the hill beneath the art museum.  The night was cooling, the full moon was rising and I had thirty minutes to drive downtown, inch through the traffic, and hike from whatever parking spot I could find to the screen.  What could go wrong?

Actually nothing.  Aside from the niggling worries about that way-too-convenient parking spot, it was a pleasant easy trek to art museum.  My daughter actually had other plans that night and didn't go, but my oldest son is always up for an adventure and helped me lug lawn chairs up to the museum grounds.

The gigantic screen towered at the bottom of Art Hill.  Fountains splashed in gentle constant arcs reflecting in pool behind it.  The Princess Bride spooled out on the tiny sliver of screen I could manage to glimpse through the crowds splayed out across the hill.

It didn't matter, watching the movie didn't really seem to be the point.  There were food trucks and picnic baskets.  One family in front of us even brought along a low table for their snacks.  Children bounced and played and occasionally watched the screen.  I could almost quote the movie as it played; a  number of people did exactly that at the favorite scenes.

Through a short intermission for equipment repair, I watched the fountains below and the lights of the planes overhead.  I wrapped up in my throw as a cooling breeze floated in over the pond and the movie resumed.

A few minutes of restless chatter, a roar of cheers and applause at the vanquishing of the six fingered man, and the movie was done.

In the midst of family scrambles of gathering bags, and blankets and sleepy children, we found ourselves among the first down the hill and back to our car.  We drove easily out of the lot I had expected to be stuck in, comparing our favorite scenes and already planning to return next week.

crossing the line

So I'm officially obsessed I guess. I actually bought a subscription to a bicycling magazine today. Most of the articles, and all of the ads, are way beyond my skill level of course.  

The articles about training regimens and speed trials and serious competitions didn't really move me. Neither did the fancy and highly expensive equipment. Clipping my shoes to my pedals inspires only visions of some very spectacular crashes, and those tight little outfits on my way-to-close-to-fifty body are out of the question. 

But I loved it anyway. There were pictures and stories of amazing trails and haunting back country roads.  None of them, in this issue, were close to where I live, none were really particularly likely to be places I could ever travel, but still they were just enough within the brush of possibility to dream. 

Best were the articles about casual riding for the joy of the open air and the slow motion peepshow of the world in motion.  It sends me out again day after day in the longing to feel the pull of my muscles, the wind on face, and the peace in the spinning of my tires.  

For His invisible attributes,

that is, 

His eternal power and divine nature,

have been clearly seen since the creation of the world,

being understood through what He has made. 

Romans 1:20

There's so much beauty in the world we touch and hold; the spray of an ocean wave crashing at my feet; the tumbling rolling hills cascading through a valley; the tiny geometric precision of wildflowers clinging to a bluff.  

Beyond our reach, stars sweep the sky in seeming immutability until they implode into black holes or burst into glorious novas.  The heavens expand, galaxies hurtle through space, grasping into eternity.  To lay in the grass on warm summer night, to stare into the depths of the infinite field of stars, is to brush the train of God, to teeter on the brink of glimpsing all He is.  

It's a symphony in celebration of it's greatest master; with the heavens the irrepressible conductor.

Sunset Glow

Rippling circles interlocking in the lake

Giggling toddler bouncing on the shore

Pudgy fingers swaying to toss another stone

Safe in the circle of his father's arms

I'm watching the sun go down and watching my gas gauge descend while sitting at yet another red light.  I'm desparately hoping one of the two doesn't end my quest for an evening ride before I can even get to the park.  The first park I try is closed for construction, the bridge to the lake is still out, and every signal between here and my detour route is red.  The gas gauge is still sinking.

Pink tinged clouds glow across the lake as I finally manage to pull in.  If the trail is closed, no one has managed to convince the rest of the city yet, so I pull into the first spot I see in the crowded lot.  Bikers and walkers, dogs and toddlers, teenagers on roller blades, and small children proudly teetering on tiny bikes weave together in the evening breeze.  It's warm and muggy still, in the clinging heat of the day, but the slightest hint of cool air brushes in from the lake.

The crowds thin on the far side of the path.  Birds skim the grasses defending their nests and a heron sits frozen at the bank waiting for his catch.  The day slows down in the spin of my wheels, and dusk descends with the splash of the waterfall as I wind back around to the entrance.  I even manage to coast safety into the gas station down the hill.

Faith in the News

First, 

I thank my God

 through Jesus Christ 

for all of you

 because the news of your faith is being reported

 in all the world

Romans 1:8

Today's news isn't quite so uplifting.  A murder trial, a plane crash, and a an angry mob consume the space on every news site.  A quick search for "news of faith" didn't yield much better.  There was a story of an arrested missionary, a preacher who shot his own son, and two bishops accused of child abuse.  

As I understand it, Paul had never been to Rome at this point, he didn't even know these people he was writing to.  Yet everywhere, he was hearing about them, hearing about their faith.  He was encouraged and filled with gratitude by the reports.  So what exactly was being reported?  Was it a church growing in numbers or growing in strength under persecution?  Was it a giving spirit reaching out to the poor or sending missionaries to other cities?  Or was it quiet lives lived with such honor before God that even their persecutors had to take note?  

What ever it was, it had to be spectacular.  I can't imagine that people really have changed all that much.  For all we complain about the barrage of bad news, for all we question why the media can't just focus on something positive for a change, the truth is, they only sell what we're buying.  Anger, violence, and chaos capture attention.  They bring us back minute by minute, to check out the latest updates and pull in the audience to pay the advertisers.  

So what would it mean to wake up tomorrow and see that the news was all about people of faith?  Would we listen, would we honor the stories with our focus and praise?  What would the story be, how would the world respond,  be if the cameras followed the church for a day?  

Grant's Trail

I wanted to try a new trail today.  In one week, I start on my Katy trail trip.  I wanted to continue training, preparing for the trip, but I didn't want to get bored with the Katy before I even started.  So I hunted up Grant's trail.  They don't exactly make it easy.  I have no idea if that's intentional or not.  On line there are maps and pictures and enthusiastic comments.  There are lists of parking lots and warnings of where not to park.  What there aren't, are directions to those authorized parking lots.  They vaguely suggest north of the highway, south of the highway, and show friendly little balloons at intersections on a miniature map.  My efforts to expand the map so I could see where everything really was had no effect.

In the end, all I could do was plug the unknown cross streets into the GPS and hope for the best.  Initially, the drive made perfect sense.  It lead me past the bike shop I knew frequently hosted rides there, and toward the highway I expected.  Then it took an odd side street turn, then another.  I quickly lost what limited sense of direction I had and began to wonder what would happen when the directions ran out.  I wasn't really sure the trailhead would be at that intersection, just that it seemed to be near it.  Would I recognize it when I got there?  Or would I be wandering lost in an unknown neighborhood looking for something I didn't know how to identify? 

Yet, to my complete surprise, just as the GPS cheerfully announced my destination, a beautiful, clearly labeled trailhead materialized just ahead of me.  There was plenty of parking, a clean, sturdy outhouse, and informative signs.  Not sure I'd ever be able to find it again, I bookmarked it and got out to explore.

The trail was beautiful.  It's a wide paved path lined by trees and farmland, winding alternately through busy city streets and quiet residential parks and yards.  Initially, though, there were lots of crosswalks, lots of waiting for traffic lights and passing cars.  It was a little frustrating, and I felt at the time that I probably wouldn't be interested in doing the trail again, just because I'm so used to the continuous flow of the Katy trail.  It wasn't long though, before I was into the more rural sections and relaxed into the eight mile ride to the end.  On the way back, at about the fourteenth or fifteenth mile, I hit the city section again.  This time, though, the crosswalks seemed fewer and felt much more like a welcome break than an annoyance.  It was sixteen miles of honeysuckle, horses, and hidden off-shoot trails to explore on another day.  

I'm really glad I bookmarked that route.          

Eyes Up

So, today I officially became one if those people who gropes around for her glasses while wearing them on top of her head.  It's become a constant reflex theses days  push them up to read.  Push them down to see where I'm going.  So does that mean I'll be giving in to bifocals soon?

Not a chance. 

In part, because they seem completely useless.  My husband got a pair a couple of years ago, and still seems to spend an enormous amount of time taking them off to see, then having to search for them again.

But even more, I think, is the fact that I associate them somehow with my third grade reading teacher.  Mrs McDonald I think her name was, and she was a lovely women.  She didn't even wear bifocals actually,  just a pair of 1970s torquoise reading glasses that perched at the end of her nose and hung from a gold chain around her neck.

She sat at a stool in the front of the room and smiled over them to make a point as she read to us.  I really liked her. Even after she kicked me out of her reading class, very kindly by telling me I needed to be in the higher level class, she treated me as one of her own.   

I still remember the aching cold of that winter day a few months later.  Groups of us huddled in the doorway before school, hiding as best we could from the harsh Oklahoma winds, when she hurried up the steps for work, her keys jangling in her hands.  She didn't have the authority, or probably the space, to let us all in early, but she did tell her own students they could come in and wait in her room.

I hung back and huddled more tightly against the cold aging red stone.  It had been an eternity in my eight year old mind since I'd been in her class.  I didn't even expect her to remember my name.  But suddenly she was calling to me, smiling and beckoning as she held the door to bring me into the warmth as well.

So how could I not want to emulate that beautiful woman?  She seemed ancient at the time of course, but looking back I realize she was probably younger than I am now.  So with memories of her kindness  will I make an appointment,  get the glasses, take my own turn at peering at the world over the top of my lenses?

No, probably not.

Judges 16:10

Then Delilah said to Samson, "You have mocked me and told me lies!  Won't you please tell me how you can be tied up?"

                          Judges 16:10

You'd think he'd get a clue.  Four times Delilah begs him to tell her how he can be conquered.  Four times, she tries it.  And each time, she brings his greatest enemies into the house to ensure his defeat.  Did it never once occur to him that this person can't be trusted?  Did he really think when he finally gave her the whole story, that she wouldn't test him just as she'd done before?  Or did he just have such a  colossal ego that he really believed he couldn't be conquered anyway?  

Or course, the story isn't really clear on how long all of this went on.  I think I tend to read it as each episode taking place on consecutive days, but it doesn't really say that.  In fact, the last one does say that she begged him day after day, so maybe there were longer periods of time in between that allowed him to forget or rationalize what she'd done before.  

I'm just not sure I'd forget someone trying to kill me.  

I'd like to think I'm more aware, more discerning, that I wouldn't be tricked by such an obvious ploy.  It's probably not true.  Samson focused on his own goals; a beautiful woman; his own contentment; an end to the nagging; and even his own pride; ample past evidence that he could win any battle without much concern as to whether God was in it or not.  

What do I focus on every day?  My schedule, my plans, my expectations for where I'm going and the response of those I expect to meet.  How often do I really listen, really focus on surprise interruptions and unexpected requests?  Do I take the time to consider the past and analyze results, or do I just do what's most expedient to move on with my day?  

A few seconds to stop, to breathe, to focus on God.  It could have saved Samson's life, made it the blessing it was intended to be.  

What could it do for mine?

      

                     

We started the day at the farmer's market.  A brisk walk away on busy Saturday streets in May.  It wasn't quite warm and the sun teased in and out with the gathering clouds.  The market was bright with the hope and promise of spring, even though very little was actually ready yet.  We wandered through, buying only walnuts, but soaking in the bubbling joy of being outdoors.  

We never even questioned the draw of the river, ending there almost by default.  Traffic roaring across the bridge overhead was muted by the quiet shady peace of the campus park.  We walked across that bridge together one night, daring the shudder of the passing cars and deep dark power of the river below.  She walked across it alone more times than I think I want to know about, strong and brave from the day she was born, always off on an adventure.  

It's graduation day.  She'll cross that stage this afternoon, as we squint across the cavernous room, struggling to pick her out from the streaming mass of black robes.  With hugs and laughter and resolute faith, she'll march out onto the mist shrouded bridge of life.  

It had to be the most amazingly perfect day for a float ever. The sun was bright but the air slightly cool.  The rain swollen river was wider and a little faster than usual. It was just enough deeper to skim over the get out and drag it over the rocks turn. It was Friday morning peaceful, with only our family and a few other people out. No blaring music or drunken shouts, just rippling waves, turtles sunning on a protruding branch, and the splash of water in the river cave. 

Is there any such thing as a solitary daisy?  All along the road they're  clustered together, a winding path of light and cheer. They seem so delicate, with such long narrow stems, but not a single one is broken or even bent in spite of 

the remains of last week's storm struggling in the woods behind them. 

Once proud trees lie collapsed like a child's tower.  Huge, powerful roots poke uselessly into the air. Everywhere, is the evidence of the force of the wind, of the power of its destruction. Everywhere except in in these gatherings of brightly swaying joy. 

        

         

It's a powerful analogy of this first day of annual family reunion weekend. My cluster around me, renewing my strength. An infusion of belonging, of lifelong support. 

    

                         

 Well, it's one way to go camping I guess.  A big scary storm, a gigantic tree toppled over the power lines, and three days without electricity.  Electric trucks from all over the country are still lined up on every street, so I know hundreds of people must still be out.  We still don't have cable, so I have no idea how they're fairing or what levels of frustration they're reaching, but I imagine it's pretty high.  I feel a little guilty knowing that, about the fact that I actually really enjoyed myself.  The weather was mild, the hot water still ran, and fire wood was scattered like Easter eggs.  It was hard work clearing the branches and raking the debris, but it felt wonderful to be outside using my muscles after the seemingly endless winter.  I loved cooking over the fire pit and relaxing on the deck.  I loved having my family sitting with me reading and talking on the swing instead of holed up behind a computer.  

It's a stretch to compare it to camping, with running hot water and comfortable beds, but the scent of wood smoke and a cool morning breeze lull me into feeling that I am. 

           One who was formerly a blasphemer, a persecutor, and an arrogant man.

                                                               1 Timothy 1: 13

Paul repeatedly referred to himself as the chief of sinners.  An odd designation to our ears of a man who grew up in the strength of the temple, who dedicated his life to learning the law, to following its every command.  I think we might point more quickly to a terrorist or a serial killer, to one who destroys for the pleasure of destruction.  

I guess I always thought Paul's use of the term either crushing guilt over his earlier persecution of Christians, or a prod of conviction to his followers; is this is who I am, where does that leave you?  

He gives more detail here though.

       A blasphemer:  irreverent to God

            A persecutor:  hostile to the children of God

                   An arrogant man:  proudly refusing the instruction of God

It's a terrifying list that blankets a world of history, that explodes through every newscast of the day, and sidles into every quiet house of deceptive calm.  Those heinous choices worked by the obvious villains, spring from the same heart as mine.  What is any sin but the assumption of superiority to God?        

It's the official start to summer project season.  I bought a sander, a yogurt maker, a can of paint, and some stain.  I drooled longingly over several styles of deck lights, but managed to resist them.  Not out of any level of self-control, but because I couldn't figure out how to hang them.  I'm sure I'll be back.  

The projects of the day consisted of pulling down the old broken back screen door and sanding and painting the scarred remains of the wooden one.  It doesn't look great, but should at least alleviate concerns that we're hosting a bear cub in the back yard.  

It's storming, of course.  Shelby's cowering in the basement, hiding under anyone's feet who will let her and dreaming I'm sure of putting a few more terrified trenches into my still-wet door.

Pita bread or a rather thick semblance of such, was the morning's cooking experiment, and now seven jars of thickening milk are hopefully, gently warming themselves into yogurt.  

Early morning bikes over the river, a peaceful beginning to a joyous day.

Honeysuckle breezes,

       Soft with the tease of rain,

                   Fuzzy toddling goslings,

                         Stumbling across the trail,

                                        Wary hissing mamas,

                                               Protective in their wake,

                         First real morning of ought to be at work and I'm not,
                                                                 Bliss

                      Come away by yourselves to a remote place and rest a while.

                                                           Mark 6:31

Excitement devoured by horror.  A giddy joy of victorious service eclipsed by the terrifying reality of the execution of John.  I imagine them crowded around Jesus, chattering like children, each nudging another aside to step just a little closer, to absorb the validation of his affectionate response, to release their fears to his strength.

The story doesn't record what he might have said to encourage or comfort them.  There are no explanations or reassurances to calm their spirits, he just asks them to come away.  Come away, not go away, suggesting he has every intention of coming along.

 Come away, to a remote place.  Remote, quiet, away from the crowds, away from the demands, away from the angry dissension.   A place to rest.  

What would it be to rest with Jesus?  

In a world that spins faster every day, where the voices never end, and horrors pile like autumn leaves on the constant barrage of news sites, the greatest power might be the strength to stop; to breathe, to focus, to rest a while with Jesus.

I will exalt You, Lord,

because You have lifted me up,

and have not allowed my enemies to triumph over me.

Psalm 30:1

David seems almost giddy in his joy.  I imagine him breathless, eyes darting and heart pounding, nearly in shock it's really over.  There won't be one more battle hidden behind the distant cliff, one more sleepless night of starting at every sound, one more heavy weapon to lift against those he once defended.  "You have lifted me up," he declared, almost floating on the joy and relief of the gift of this day.  

Yet history tells us how fleeting this peace would be.  How long did he really have before reality set in?   There would be the infighting and struggles of establishing a new kingdom, of bringing a battle worn people back into unity, of proving his worth as the chosen of God. 

Didn't he know, in some small corner of his mind, how harsh this new battle would be?  Did it niggle at his joy?  Did he drift from celebration to strategy?  Or did he just revel on the joy of the moment, on his gratitude to God for the gifts of the day?  

I'm far to ready to worry about the future, to fear the inevitable next trial lurking in the mists of my mind, and to forget to bask in the joy of the battle just won.  

                            

 Five days.  From winter's harshest blast of this or any recent year on Monday, to spring gorgeous sunshine on Friday.

I thought those bushes were gone
forever.  They were crushed to about a third of their normal height by the weight of the snow.  I expected bent and broken branches that wouldn't recover all summer.  I expected to have to pull them all out and start over.

But just five days later they're springing back,  as green and strong as if they lived the winter in gentle care in a green house.

Does the pressure make them stronger?  Does the soaking moisture invigorate brittle limbs?  Is it just a spring gift to a hopeless gardener who wasn't going to figure out any way to save them anyway?

I revel in the gift today.  The  gift of recovered shrubs, of the warmth of spring, of sunshine glinting off daffodils just beginning to  bloom.

It feels like break-up, Alaskan style.  The vaporizing snow is sinking almost visibly, shoveled piles dissolving from feet to inches in a single day.  Icy water streams over rocks and streets and sparkles in the sun.  It's not quite warm, but not that cold.

Birds materialize from everywhere. They hop from icy branches to sidewalk to steps.  They mercilessly mock the cat, quivering at the window swishing his tail and chittering in the back of his throat.

It's bike in the shop day.  Summer tune-ups in the midst of the snow.  My fingers are a little stiff and cold fastening it onto the rack.  The strap on one side is broken, so I tug the bungee cord tight to hold it secure.  It feels so good to pull it down and roll it into the shop, to talk with the technician about repairs and trails and rides to come.  Another stop and promised new strap and a season of riding is ready to begin.

March madness blizzards; basketball, white-outs, and a over a foot of snow.  Not quite the spring break I was expecting.  The sun is high and clear all day, but the wind is sharp and soft streaming snow is everywhere.  It's a peaceful day.  I let the cat in and let the cat out as he struggles to understand that nasty stuff on the deck.  He shakes his feet angrily and huddles shivering into a sliver of sunlight, but as soon as I call him back in, he's glaring his open sesame stare right back at the door again.  

After a day of playing with recipes and clearing piles of clutter, I'm relaxed but a little restless and ready to brave the cold for the chance to be out.  The park is quiet, but not quite deserted. A few brave runners, some college students taking fun costume photos, and ducks by the dozens gliding through the icy lake.  My feet are cold and my knees are damp.  I've tramped through soggy mud to reach the waterfall and knelt in the ice for the perfect picture of the setting sun glinting off snow covered trees.  It's a perfect joy of imperfection, of accepting and embracing a change of hopes gifting a beauty unknown.  

It's the first tease of spring; sunshine, warm breezes and seventy degrees. The trail is nearly deserted. Crackly brown leaf strewn and surrounded by skeleton trees, it's leaches winter stress into the wide slow-flowing river.  It's one day gift, a single day off, a single day's hint of warmth to come.  It'll be back to forties tomorrow, I'll be back to work on Monday.  But spring break's just one week away, a hint and a promise of spring itself not too far away.

The Butterfly House

It was 92 degrees in there.  

A sunny glowing mist bath, vibrant with floating, fluttering colors.  

Snow edged tight against the glassy walls, 

where geese perched on the ice covered pond, 

just beyond the touch of the warmth. 

Butterflies,

 endless,

 overwhelming,

 impossible to take in.

  Enchantment in flight, 

 winter doldrums released.

Let your eyes look forward;

fix your gaze straight ahead.

Carefully consider the path for your feet,

and all your ways will be established.

Proverbs 4: 25-26

Slippery steps on a treacherous hill, 

             stinging kisses of flurries squinting my eyes,

In the peaceful gift of the wintery night,

            considering the path is simple self preservation.

A gasping laugh and an unexpected slide, 

           a thrill of the brush of reality 

                            hovering in the depths 

                                    of the dark, abandoned trail.  

A joy in traveling the dusky night,

           following the steps of one who's gone before.

They're walking away from me.

         Happy,
              Strong,
                   and Confident.

Off on the lives they're meant to live.

            They touch homebase on the twilight days of Christmas break,
                                playful,
                                      excited,
                                            and slightly bored.

Enjoying the last pretense of childhood freedom
     while chafing to return to the responsibilities of the lives they've chosen.

I savor the brush of their laughter,
                           a quick evening hug,
                                      and semi-reluctant
                                                agreement to a tromp through the woods.

 Leaf crunchy trail
            reveling in their antics
                   I'm misty proud of all they've become,

And not quite sure if I'm touched or horrified
                                    when they stop to look back
                                                             and check on me.
                          .