Prayer Chain

My sister-in-law is learning to crochet.

Loop by loop,

          a baby's blanket,

                              thick and soft and warm,

flows beneath her hook.

A hope,

     A prayer,

          A promise, 

For our tiny new-born nephew,

     And his topsy- turvy heart.

A vision unfurling,

                               of clutching fingers,

                                    of baby giggles,

                                                                 of peaceful nurturing sleep

A tangible expression of rock-solid faith,

     In the One who guides the surgeon's touch,

                    Who gently untangles 

                                    every wayward strand.  

     

Bremerton Ferry

I've decided I need a ferry in my life.

It was all rather a shock when we went to visit our son near Seattle last summer.

I knew he lived on a peninsula.

I knew he had to take a ferry to come and go with any efficiency what so ever.

I even knew we would have to take the ferry to get to his house.

Somehow, though, I had a small ferry in mind.

     A quick trip across the bay ferry.

          A maybe fifteen minutes if we timed it just right ferry.

The conversation when we got off the plane didn't quite go as expected.

"We're here.  We just have to pick up the rental car and we'll be on our way.  If you want to meet us at the dock, we'll go get some dinner."

"You won't be here in time for dinner.  The ferry leaves in fifteen minutes."

"Oh.  Well, I preregistered the car.  Surely it won't take too long."  (Seriously?  You'd think I'd never rented a car before.)

"Aren't you at the airport."

"Yes"

"The airport is a good hour from the terminal."

"Oh.  Well, ok. I guess we'll just catch the next one then."

"That's an hour."

"An hour?"

"And the trip is over an hour."

"An hour???"

Yes, an hour.  And that didn't include sitting in the line waiting to drive onto the ferry, then sitting in the line waiting to drive off.  It seemed interminable on that first ride.

People really do this every day?

I couldn't imagine the planning to meet the schedules, the enforced captivity, the constant tension of lost control.  An hour, each way, for every casual trip into town.  

For that one hour, there was absolutely nothing I could do about time.  I couldn't hurry the captain, I couldn't pass a slow vehicle, I couldn't rush to meet a schedule.  It was all completely out of my control.

Control.

The ultimate fantasy of modern life.  With our phones and messages and voice mails and all day every day contact, just who is really in control?

All through that week, as I floated day by day, twisting through the inlet, back and forth, I relinquished all thoughts of control.

For fifty-five minutes, all I could do was talk to my family, read a good book, take a quick nap, or just stand on the deck and watch the mountains float by.  

What a wonderfully peaceful way to live.   

Perspective

I opened my FB page and found the most horrendously awful picture of myself.  

My eyes are droopy and bagged,

          from the not quite sleep of a night on the ground in a tent,

They're bloodshot and watery,

          from the smokey flames of the campfire surrounded by family-friends,

My hair is a scraggly, tangled mess,

          I packed that hairbrush,

                                  I know I did,

                                                Didn't I?

                                                        Somewhere?

My face is red and chapped,

          from outdoor,
                   all day,
                         hours of biking,
                                       and hiking,
                                                and scrambling through rushing streams.

I'm laughing,

         I'm happy,

                    I'm clutching a bundle
                                          of wriggling,
                                                     bouncing,
                                                             irrepressible, life.

I really love that picture.

Battle Plans

Then he prepared a great feast for them,

and after they ate and drank,

he sent them away and they went to their master.

2 Kings 6:23

It opens like a classic movie finale.  

The embattled hero, Elisha, stands alone with his one trusted friend.  Surrounded, out numbered, out gunned, they wait in the valley, it's always a valley, with heads held high.  

The terrified servant declares it's the end.  The calm and confident Elisha reassures him; God will never let them down.

Suddenly, silently the mountain tops bloom with the multitudes of allies engulfing the conquerors.  

With war cries echoing off the hills, they swoop down into the battle, conquering the enemy, celebrating their victory, and cheering as the hero gets the girl and the credits roll.  

Well, almost like the movie.  

No war cries, no massacre, no girl;  Elisha just quietly leads them into the city as the hosts of heaven watch from the hills. 

He protects them, he feeds them, he lets them rest, then sends them on their way.

A unique battle plan to say the least.  

I wonder what they thought.  

Where they afraid to eat the food?

Did they cringe at every sound, waiting for the swing of the sword?

How far along the path home was it before they really believed they were going to be spared?  

How did they ever explain it to their king?

Whether in gratitude or confusion, or total humiliation, I doubt they ever forgot that day.  

They would live, forever in the shadow, of that one encounter with God.  

   

Push Back the Leaves

On a weekend still cool enough I turn back for my sweater, the first tinges of summer heat  brush the air.  Strawberry season drifts to it's close, brief and hidden in the tumultuous turn of the seasons.  

It looks rather discouraging at first glance. Long green rows are dotted with bubbling children, scatterings of dark, soft, overripe berries, and plants that weightlessly dance in the sun.  The farmer points us to an abandoned section with a smile, a box, and a lifeline;

 "Don't be afraid to push back the leaves.  If they were easy to find, they've already been picked"

True to the promise, they're there.  They hide in the shadows of the thickening leaves and the mounds of earth.   I scoot through the stiff hay layering the ground between the rows, nudging my cardboard box with it's softly rattling tumble of loot.  I lift layers of leaves, and gently push aside tangled stems and vine rotted fruit to find the hidden gifts.  

Brightly glowing in their first touch of sunlight, they're a hint of the miracles waiting to be found if I just take the time to look.     

Lifted Eyes

I will lift up my mine eyes to the hills...

Psalms 12:1

Hiking the rain softened trail, it's easy to be lost in the stones beneath my feet.  Step by step, I skip to a more secure boulder, and swing my legs over a fallen branch.  The soft morning air brushes the wild flowers that dance at the edge of the path.  Stopping for pictures, stopping for breath, I lift my eyes to the beauty that almost overwhelms me.  

It's a pleasant walk, within the radius of my arms.  I could stay here quite happily, engulfed in the trees and the flowers and the sounds of the birds.  Yet the glory lies just outside that self imposed bubble. 

How often do I forget to stop, 

to lift my eyes, 

and to embrace the gifts that surround me?

Thou Fount of Every Blessing

Bagpipe hymns,

On lavender trails,

Haunting over waters

From a wrought iron bridge.

Blessings of sunshine,

Blessings of warmth,

Blessings unnumbered 

of a day off in Spring.