the power of His resurrection

Earth expectant
Anticipating the morning
Sun, origin of sun, original Son
Time all before, all to come
Eternity in a moment
Rising

This week began with the celebration of the reason for our hope.

Garbed in fresh tie (Jim), and hats and dresses (the girls), we joined our church family to fellowship and be glad that our Savior is risen and that one day we too will rise to be with Him, to be like Him.

As I entered the week, and the celebration, the words "the power of His resurrection" reverberated in my head.  They sang out in the pauses, and I had my eyes and heart open to seeing that power around me.  And I saw much that gave me joy and encouragement.

I savored the touches of beauty and order with which the week began, expectant and hopeful.   

I include these pictures here to remind myself that these sweet trappings of earth that feebly point a finger at Beauty were, too, a part of the week to come.

Because somehow, before the close of Easter day, everything rapidly became very messy and I found the words "where is" creeping in before "the power of His resurrection" and a question mark following.

There was the mess of living.  

Incidents (four tornado warnings and a funeral) and accidents (suture removal) brought the unplanned into everyday, leaving four little girls and two big people tired and grumpy.

There was the mess of being messy.  

Flip flops, rain boots, and Sunday shoes competing for space and spilling out of the shoe basket and off of the shelf (helped continually in their pilgrimage across the family room floor by an 18-month old with a shoe fetish!).  Winter clothes and spring clothes in various stages of trading places, colliding on nearly every horizontal surface and in a mountain on the laundry room floor.  Ongoing discovery of secret hiding places for the paraphernalia of living that come into play when the order is given, "Go clean up your room."  Goldfish crumbs strewn throughout the living room - which leads to the issue of the mess of disobedience.

There was the mess of relationships.  

The film of fractures felt rather than declared.  Words that glanced like a flat pebble across the surface and never plunged into the depths of the real.  Longing across gulfs.  Silences that scream, sharp words that hit false targets, concealing.

There was the mess of hearts still needy - including my own.

And in the middle of it all, there I was, hating all the mess, longing for beauty (and, incidentally, contributing to some of the above temporal messes as I neglected my domestic domain at times in order to seek to capture it through a camera lens!), longing to see the transforming power of the gospel in love and joy and communion, longing to see the arm of the LORD bared in working wonders, and wondering where the power was.  The lump in my throat took up semi-permanent residence.

A phone call with my brother Jack began to shift my vision away from the mess and back to my Source. As I shared a bit of my struggle, he said, "Al, the only way I've been praying for others lately is that God would pour out His grace on them.  Because sometimes real self-awareness can kill a person.  I mean, literally kill them.  All the promises I read of God's compassion and mercy are for them, too, though it's easier to see it for myself.  His Grace may mean that He works slowly, as much as they can stand at a time."

Aha.

In a moment I was reminded of how God has worked in me.  How patient He has been.  How He only revealed my heart to me in stages and how, when He worked in a big way, the massive upheaval I experienced brought me to a place of wanting to die, literally die.

I began to taste the dust in my mouth again and remembered again that I had forgotten that I had died.

A phone call and prayer with one of my sisters reminded me that I had been forgetting to praise, forgetting to believe and hold on to the promises of God.  We prayed the promises before Him, asking Him to do according to His Word.

And the dust filled my mouth completely as I reflected on how far I had wandered from a place of
seeking in stillness,
waiting willingness,
quiet expectancy and praise.

I rehearsed my heart, and it told that I had sought to be loved more than to love, to be understood more than to understand, to be encouraged more than to encourage.  It told how far I was from being like Jesus.

Asking for forgiveness, I realized that my vision had shifted to the pointing finger and away from the One to whom it points.  And my failure to be like Him was because I was failing to see Him - letting discouragement and hurt and impatience get between.

And discouragement, hurt, and impatience had gotten in the way of recounting the wonderful deeds of the LORD in that week, in that mess:
- the email from a friend that so richly expressed the mercies of God to us both;
- the movement toward victory in a little heart, prayer and the Word disarming defiance;
- moments of laughter and fun;
- grace given to make apologies, make oneself vulnerable;
- phone calls and notes that reminded us of God's continuing presence and continuing work.


When I recognized the ingratitude of my heart, I realized that the reason that I tasted the dust is that I am dust.

Until this mortal is swallowed up in immortality, I will always be dust.  Yes, I am being changed, being transformed to be like Him, but I will never not need to be in that place at His feet.

LORD Jesus, be pleased to bend down and write with your finger in the dust that I am words that bring hope and healing, that remove condemnation and judgment, and encourage others in righteousness.

I, even I, will sing unto the LORD,

For ever and for ever the Adored;

I, even I, though I be dust, will sing

To Him Who even now is conquering.

             - Amy Carmichael

I'm going to keep looking unto Jesus, somewhat the way Cordelia eyed this coconut cake, eager to see all that He will do in our midst.  Hopeful.  Expectant.  Patient with joy.

"My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed:  I will sing and give praise." Ps. 57:7

egg-citement

getting organized...

...and they're off!

in spite of her slow start, the first egg is found by Grace

sometimes you can't see the forest, or the egg, for the trees

the competition is heating up

little sister studies big sister's technique

is it a keeper?

the master egg trader working a deal

do you get double the treats if you find the same egg twice?

Grace gets good advice for next year's hunt, like "golf balls don't count."

one person's junk is another's treasure

happy! anniversary - April 17, 2011

A few pics from our day of rest and gladness...

The girls, in last year's dresses, waiting to leave for Sunday school (waiting for Mama who couldn't resist pausing from getting ready in order to take these!)

After morning worship, lunch at home was hotdogs with all the fixin's 

(a family favorite from Jim's childhood)

Loading up for a mountain adventure...

   "Have you ever seen the grass so green, or a bluer sky?"

This is the way the ladies ride...

On the Blue Ridge Parkway, our first stop was Greenstone Trail.  The girls proved themselves to be good hikers and enthusiastic climbers.

Next, a tour of the historic farm at Humpback Rocks (not officially open but still fun to walk around).

Here Jim and the girls wait for Mama to catch up - with Jim's dream garden in the distance.

Back down the Parkway, we stopped for ice cream at Baskin Robbins and then it was back to evening service to feast some more - on the Word and at the Table.

"Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good!

Blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him!"

Psalm 34:8

on remembering (to praise)

A year has passed.  


Like a birthday or an anniversary, for weeks the date of our departure has been staring at me from every calendar, circling my thoughts and emotions back to the beginning and back through the journey.  


A year since the LORD led my little ones and me away from our home for a season.  We arrived in Texas at the beginning of hurricane season and at the beginning of a season of change, a season of wilderness, of darkness and light, of bondage and freedom, of great and mighty things being done... and being begun.  Of pain.  And, yes, of joy.  


The date has dared me to be silent, to overlook, to pretend it never happened.


But to do that, to ignore the way in which the LORD chose to work, is, in a sense, also to ignore His working.  And I don't want to do that.


In order to praise, I need to remember.  




So I look for ways to celebrate what the LORD has done, and I remember. 


I remember on Sunday, as I sit peacefully with Grace in the nursery, that Sunday 365-revolutions-of-the-earth ago - 


...when, while getting ready for church, open hostility was declared, 


...when, in the nursery with my oldest and youngest, the fever pitch of the battle not against flesh and blood left bruises and gouges on my arms and shoulders, 


...when, hearing the sermon broadcast over the monitor as I cried out to God for help, I felt abandoned and shut out.


I remember how on that Sunday afternoon a year ago my sister called me from Turkey, and I wept and we prayed.  As I am remembering and fighting for joy, she calls me, and I weep as we pray.  


I remember that evening as we sit cosily, thankfully, as a family around the supper table how on that Sunday evening a year ago I had looked across the table at darkness and anger and had prayed for empathy.  I seemed to enter into the darkness, then a wave of nausea washed over me and my head began to vibrate.


I remember on Monday as I go about the business of our home - making meals and beds, doing laundry, schooling the girls, laughing, scolding, talking about everything and nothing - how my head still vibrated when my friend Barbara came to pray with me; how at first I couldn't pray and then I prayed for mercy; how my heart was tight; how I couldn't think clearly to prepare a meal; how we made the circuit of fast food restaurants and I tried to act normal when Jim came home.


I remember on Tuesday as I conceal the everyday circles under my eyes, scraping the last bit of makeup from the green compact, thinking of its purchase that day the year before - not the product I usually use but they were out of stock.  Different makeup for a different year.  I remember how we had sat in the parking lot of the mall, fast food meals in laps, looking at a lifeless carnival waiting for Friday.  Its empty promise of pleasure seemed to mock me.  I tried to talk to the girls about how fun the rides can be as I considered the invitation we had just received to come away and rest for awhile.  I determined not to go without his permission.


I remember on Wednesday when, at the mall to look for dress pants for Jim, I see a lifeless carnival waiting for Friday.  I am thankful that it has been set up at the other end of the parking lot.  A little difference eases the memory.  I look more closely, seeking to be glad in remembering, and see something that makes me smile.  A ride at the far end of the carnival would be lit up on Friday night with this hopeful name, "Starship Exodus."  


Exodus.  I remember that He had prepared a way for us.  He went before us, even into the darkness, into the cloud.  


Later that day, I mention to a friend the struggle I had been having in remembering with joy.  Speaking it out loosens its grip on me.


As I go on remembering, I ask for grace to draw the contrasts and give thanks.


I remember the sacrificial ways our family cared for us, the friends who reached out, the body of Christ that prayed, the gentleness and patient ministry of shepherds, of the Shepherd.  


I remember the greatness of His mercy in bringing salvation to Jim, wholeness to our family.  


I remember the purposes of the LORD in my heart; how HE, as our pastor taught, used difficulty to stir up the sediment of sin.  I remember how HE purposed my pain in order to bring about my freedom.  


As I see the girls laugh and play, express themselves, talk to people, I remember and draw the contrast and I give thanks.


As I listen to Jim read the Word and pray with the girls as they settle down for the night, I remember and draw the contrast and I give thanks.


As Jim and I grow in new ways of oneness and I fight to keep my heart open in spite of hurt, I remember and draw the contrast and I give thanks.


I think about how God purposes that the major deliverances of His people become milestones of giving praise to Him.  All through the story of God's people, they are commanded, and given instructions in how, to remember and give thanks - with feasting and song and giving gifts of food to the poor.   


I think, too, about how the celebration of a great deliverance probably felt the first year it was celebrated (the Exodus?, Esther?, the exiles' return to Jerusalem and the rebuilding of the temple?).  The greatness of God's deliverance was felt in proportion to the reality of the distress.  I don't doubt that the bitter was remembered, was felt, with the sweet.  In fact, the bitter drew the contrast which magnified the sweet.  


Light was celebrated in overcoming darkness.  


Love was exalted as hate was vanquished.  


Our God to whom all things are possible does the impossible, in a way we could never imagine - that HE might be glorified.  That we might tremble as we rejoice in our nothingness before Him.  


It is true in each story of salvation.  


And when it comes down to it, that is our joy.  We have a Redeemer who drank the whole cup of the wrath of God for us that we might drink of Him and live!


He sings a love song over us, 

"I came to my garden, my sister, my bride, I gathered my myrrh with my spice, I ate my honeycomb with my honey, I drank my wine with my milk." 

He drank the bitter with the sweet so that we might take the invitation,


"Eat, friends, drink,
and be drunk with love!" (Song of Sol. 5:1)




We ate and drank today... we feasted!  At noon at McDonald's, a fast food feast that was all sweet in the pleasure we had in one another.  


We had song today, around the breakfast table, declaring the greatness of God in lisps and signs:  "My God is so BIG, so strong and so mighty, there's nothing my God cannot do!"


We gave gifts of food to the poor... ok, not the poor exactly, unless you count starved-for-company  poverty.  We shared our evening meal with the young man who is housesitting for Jim's colleague.  


After dinner, we laughed as the girls squeezed themselves into last year's spring dresses, dresses that were hanging in the closet in Texas when we arrived, a welcoming gift, a token of love.  I used cuticle scissors to cut off the sashes that were making it impossible to button them so that the girls can wear them one more time tomorrow.  


And we'll smile and laugh as we remember, and, more, we'll rejoice in growth and change and contrasts and in the goodness and greatness of our God!

conversations in the garden

This past week, I spent as much time as I could out in our yard, tackling the beds around the house - weeding, pruning, weeding, digging, planting, weeding, hoeing, mulching, hauling... did I mention weeding?  

I've never been much of a gardener (lack of opportunity, mainly, and confidence, partly) so everything is a bit of a question.  A visit with my friend Barbara for tea included a tour of the garden during which I gleaned as much input as I could and during which she helped me wrestle several root-bound trees and shrubs out of pots and into the ground.  She also identified for me as "columbine" what I thought was a curly clover, after which I stopped pulling it up.  

Later in the week, I enjoyed a visit from another friend, the former gardener-in-residence at Pleasant Pines.  We visited as we dug and grubbed, releasing one of the flower beds from its shackles of overgrowth and last year's glory and unearthing a scattering of beauty to travel down to Georgia with her to connect her new home to the old.  As we toured the yard and I gleaned more information about the plantings throughout, I pointed to one bed saying, "There's some columbine."  I was feeling pretty good about my newly acquired knowledge and the casual way in which I displayed it until Sharon replied, "That's clover."  A closer inspection did, in fact, reveal the very commonplace clover I have recognized all of my life until I discovered columbine. 

Ah, well.  So, in gardening, as in most other endeavors of my life, I am an amateur.   But, as another friend and I were discussing just the other week, just because we've never done something before (or our mothers never did it!) doesn't mean we can't learn to do it now.  

And there are advantages to being a beginner.  There is the heightened awareness that comes with the new.  Our senses, which jog along through the routine and mundane, come alive in the undertaking, bringing with them the poignancy that touches on childhood.  A garden in spring is a wonderful place to be fully alive!

I made discoveries other than columbine this past week (one does a lot of thinking when the blood is rushing to the brain, bent over in a death match with crabgrass!).  I share them here as a list with no particular order, making no claims as to their importance or originality:

1)  Dirt smells good! (a rediscovery)

2)  Worms that are cut in half do not grow into two worms.

3)  Gardening opens conversation.  We talked about many things - my daughters and I, my friends and I.

4)  Someone needs to make a mud-proof dictionary.  I imprecisely defined "tenacious" for my two oldest several times.  Here is my shortest definition:  tenacious = crabgrass.

5)  Gardeners wear gloves for a reason.  While historically resistant to wearing gloves, three days of stinging, lacerated hands attempting to do dishes and give baths convinced me of their necessity.  

6)  In our eagerness to get rid of the ugliness of old growth, weeds, or dead leaves, it is easy to damage the tender new growth it encases.  Carefulness, gentleness are needed in beginnings.  This is true of plants and souls.  

7)  Some bulb plants will not bloom if their bulbs are not exposed.  What seems to suggest greatest vulnerability is a condition indispensable to its beauty.  This, too, is true of plants and souls.

8) In the garden (and in life), I do not create beauty.  I am simply privileged to experience it, to wonder at it.  And, yes, to have a small hand in pointing others to it.  

Consider the lilies, how they grow:  they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.  Luke 12:27

not a lily... but still glorious.

what came of trying

I began this blog to be in the running for a scholarship to a conference, and the scholarship went to someone else.  I have to say that I am honestly not disappointed.  The scholarship went to a young woman who has an already-established area of ministry and whose service will be benefited by this opportunity.  

I, on the other hand, though willing to serve the LORD in any way that HE may choose, have no defined service or ministry outside of my home at this time.  So, while it would have been inspiring (and, yep, scary!) to attend a conference of hundreds of other women seeking to use their gifts for the glory of God, I also had a hesitation in that it could make it more difficult for me to see my place in this here and now.

And after all the pondering and the short period of waiting, it turns out that the desire I had felt was met in the trying.

First, there was the longing to create with words (you know the delight of a good stretch after a long period of stillness?).

Second, and much more importantly, it has been on my heart to share my story with you,

to proclaim the beauty of the Gospel,

to declare my nothingness and HIS greatness,

to recount the wondrous deeds of the LORD in my life and family.  

I am thankful that I was able to follow through and thankful that Jim encouraged me to do so.

I have been asked about my ambitions as a writer.  I don't really have any anymore.  I don't want to be like the servant who buried what was entrusted to him; however, neither do I want to seek my own life.  The LORD will guide me continually, giving me the work that HE wants me to do day by day - today it was pulling weeds, tonight it is paying the bills :) - and then equip me to do it.  "That in everything HE might be preeminent." Col. 1:18  (Thank you, Rachel, for encouraging us to memorize this!)

I'm honored that you have shared this experience with me.  Thank you for letting me share a bit of my heart with you.

And, if I'm feeling the need to stretch, or to speak in the assembly of the goodness of the LORD, you may be hearing from me.

Story Still Yearns

A girl of four - leaning over her big sister's shoulder as she struggled with her primer - learned to read.  The love of story, both to inhale and exhale, was strong from the beginning.  The quiet one of six in a busy house could hide contented with book and infuriate older sisters who, because available, were called on for the bulk of the chores.

A girl of seven delighted in the challenge of crafting random elements - person, place, or thing - on paper scraps drawn from a fish bowl into story.  Often the story she would try to tell was bigger and faster than her pencil, the resulting narrative making leaps that puzzled her readers (i.e. teacher, Mom, Dad) and later herself.

Girl in adolescence devoured every book she could find and discovered the joy of reading a story again and again, unpacking it - opening it like a gift to discover new layers, deeper meaning - a treasure hunt made possible by the process of growing up.  The theme she liked best was love.

Girl in adolescence poured out heart on paper in verse, angst rolling from ballpoint in teen-typical bad verse, bad because its drama begged the reader to prefix it with "melo", and bad because it failed to illuminate the under layers of heart need even to herself.

Girl in adolescence chose suicide for the theme of her four part creative writing assignment.  Her work, atypically, was given a B, because, as her teacher said, it was too self-serving.  Um...

Girl in college discovers a vast world of words and reads, and writes, and acts, with intensity and joy.  She connects the pleasure and possibility of words with the idea of Creator, begins to grasp the significance of world spoken into being, of Word become flesh.  In the beginning was the Word.

She has ambitions - for herself and for her soul.  She fails to see the conflict between them.  Fails to see the fissures of heart that early scribbles sought to reveal, fissures that yawn open when disappointment shakes her earth leaving her aware of her brokenness.

Broken and aware, she begins to try to get back to Eden.  Eden before the fall.

And she rails against the Creator of the tree with its fruit, of her with her brokenness.  The emptiness that poured from her ballpoint now stiffens her neck and hollows her heart.

And she longs for HIM all the while.

And still the theme she likes best is love.


Love finds girl.  Eden seems regained, at least for a while.  But the exchange of vows, the sharing of a life, doesn't take away the emptiness.  And the sharing is hard when both are broken.  He can't love enough to fill up the empty spaces, and sometimes he can't even love.  And his love is no substitute for HIS love.

Girl wonders where beauty has gone.  She used to ache at the smell of fallen leaves after the rain, breathe deep the sky at dusk, wonder at the world and feel it in her marrow.  Now it can't seem to penetrate.  She feels entombed and wonders if it will always be this way.

A butterfly flits on a bush in afternoon gold, and she tells him, "That's what joy is."  But she doesn't feel it and wonders if it is gone forever.


Life finds girl.  Emptiness fills up with work and play, ambitions of another sort take shape.  Every task, every relationship, every interaction is charged with intention - to get it right, to make it perfect.  To make herself right, to make herself perfect.  To regain Eden.  She comes to HIM with her labors, her offerings, but knows it's not enough.  She cringes away to keep trying.

Story still yearns.  She sets up a writing studio.  And sits down with her emptiness.  A poem... good.  A story begun.  But not finished, because she knows she really has nothing to say.  Nothing to offer others who are also empty and broken.


Another life finds girl.  A life begun inside her, soon to be born into her brokenness.  In the moments it takes to develop the pregnancy test, she knows - she can't get this right, she can't make this perfect.  This time she comes with empty hands, crouching in fear and desperation before HIS gentle promises.  "Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and grace to help in time of need." (Heb. 4:16)


HE takes two children in hand, the new mother and her little girl.  The mother desperately clinging, not realizing that HIS hand has been grasping her all the while.  And she begins to read HIM again and discovers anew the joy of reading Story again and again, unpacking it - opening it like a gift to discover new layers, deeper meaning.  She is on a treasure hunt made possible by the process of growing up.

And she begins to see that the theme has always been Love.


The little girl is loved deeply, and not perfectly, and the girl-now-mother agonizes over the weight of her responsibility.  She strives to keep the little one in Eden but sees that the fallenness she fears for her daughter is as close as the union which gave her life.  And her journey toward HIM is also a journey away from him.


Into a divided house two more daughters are born; as each arrives, the girl-now-mother is less fearful, more joyful.

She begins to write again; the story begun before grows but isn't finished.  She thinks she knows how it should end, but it keeps taking on new shapes, and then life gets in the way.


She sees HIS goodness in difficulty teaching her more of Himself.

          She sees his anger, his coldness, his distance... and hurts.  Soon not feeling becomes easier than hurt.  

Grace begins to be understood by her heart.

          She makes a choice to love against feeling, and a fourth daughter is born.  Her name is Grace.

She prays and waits.  

Darkness and his anger grow with her prayers.  

The little girl whose beginnings brought the girl-now-mother back to HIM is caught in the crossfire of heaven and hell, and the joy fades, and so does the strength, and, at length, HE leads her with her little ones out for a season.

In that season, he who sat in darkness sees a great Light.  

And she who had Light seems to be in the dark.

And it is all part of HIS goodness, HIS redemptive plan, the story HE is writing of us, a story of Grace.

After that season, a divided house is reunited, made one for the first time.  

And HE who brought her and the little ones back lays her low in the dust before HIM.  The emptiness she had felt before is magnified.  The neediness overwhelms.  The pain of self discovery is greater than anything she had ever known.  

HE is peeling back layers to make room for the treasure.

As she thinks about being in the dust, she realizes that somewhere along the way she had forgotten that she had died with Christ.  And she lies down and asks that the only life in her be HIS.  

And with the dying, comes freedom.  

Freedom from fear, 

freedom from seeking the approval of others, 

freedom from striving before HIM for anything, 

freedom to have nothing, know nothing, and be nothing apart from HIM.

And she knows it is Grace, and it is also grief.  And with the grieving, she begins, haltingly, to thank HIM for it.  

And with the thanks, comes joy.  And courage.  And hope.  And peace.

A heart open - to joy, to pain.  Hands open.

This one who was once in the dark, just as she had been, is now in the light but is at the beginning, just as she was, and stumbles, just as she did, and fails to love, just as she did.  She learns not to look to him for the needs of her heart, but to still, and always, look to HIM.  And when HIS love fills her, and flows through her, she can give freely.  And when she receives, it is another gift of Grace.  To be held with thanksgiving and with open hand.

She has these gifts, these desires, to share.  Story still yearns.  

And she sees these four little girls, stories in the making, little women becoming.  And this man at the beginning of realizing Grace.  And her greatest work in being a part of their unfolding story... contributing editor?  Proofreader?  

And she asks HIM to not let herself get in the way.  She wants to be an instrument.  HE is the Author.

The emptiness she once feared is now a blessing, for through it can flow all that HE is and all that HE gives.  Not clinging desperately but grasping confidently HIS precious promise, "Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, 'Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.'" (John 7:38)