Calm in the storm

The wind started blowing. And blowing.  And blowing.  The sky began to turn orange-grey and thunder rumbled.  Lightning flashed. Hail pounded.

Oh yeah--a thunderstorm.
And a good one at that.

I had one boy open all the blinds, oohhh'ing and ahhhh'ing completely fascinated by this natural feat.

The other?
You can probably guess...

Wild-eyed and terrified.

As I held him close, all twisted in his monkey-limbs,
explaining the booms and cracks,
uncovering the mystery of his displaced anxiety,
I understood.

For he and I are not too far apart. 

I worry and fret and wonder and obsess.  From mud stains to life goals. 

And here as I held my wee one, wrought with fear, my heart was at near-explosion limits of love and compassion on the scale of Fukushima, for my shaking leaf.

I. get. it.

I only see part.
God sees full.

I only see the wind...the thunder...the lightning...the hail. In my babe-sense of understanding, somedays the world seems to be falling apart.  The windows shake, the ground shifts, it feels as though it will be like this forever.

But I only see in part.

I don't understand how storms work, how fronts come through, how thunder and lightning echo.  In my fear and anxiety I am blinded from seeing the beauty of its majesty and how the rain nourishes the earth (and gives me a break from watering the garden!).

But He sees the whole.

As my wild-eyes look up, tossed in the storm, I see that I do not need to feel ashamed. For still, still, I am held in a loving and compassionate gaze. In tender arms that soothe and caress.

It's all going to be okay. 
It's all going to be okay. 

For I only see in part.
But God knows the whole.
I only see the storm.
But God sees the life cycle.
And there is no chiding, no "buck-up," no dismissing.
Only deep love.

If you only knew.  
If you could only see the whole. 


Parenting is such a gift.
I'm learning so much from being their mama.
Widening and expanding my own concept of God.
Beginning to really...see.

And give thanks in the storm.

Disappointments

And it rained blood.
Again.
We thought this month would be different.
I felt so sure.
So secure.
The disappointment overwhelms.
Again.
Where did we go wrong?

As I looked in the bathroom mirror wiping the sleep from my eyes,
I saw the reflection of the disciples who were also so sure
they knew the ending.
This time.
This time would be different.
They were sure of it.
And yet,
it rained blood.
Disappointment overwhelms.
Where did they go wrong?

Pain stings.
It pierces.
Blood runs red.

Today I sit in the darkness,
in solidarity with confusion,
unfulfilled dreams,
crushing sorrow.

Yet, I do not lose hope.

For I know the end of the story.
Darkness does not win.
The night does not last forever.
For Sunday is coming.
And the dawn will rise,
blazing like the noonday,
crushing fear,
defeat
and death.

And even if the stick never reads positive again,
my Resurrection sight awakens my inner eye
to see the life that I've been given.

Owen
and
Connor.

Such grace.
Such grace.

Going green

Tonight we decided to go out for a picnic at the park behind our house.
It was lovely.
In many ways.

The boys ate,
played,
explored;
Shawn and I lounged leisurely
watching,
smiling,
full of gratitude for such amazing boys.

It was what I needed.
Actually, it was what everyone needed.
Fresh air,
beauty upon beauty,
getting dirty and not caring.

After we finished up, we explored a nature trail through the woods.
As we slowly meandered on the path
through mustard,
mushrooms,
wild onions,
purple trumpet
and white star flowers,
while keeping our distance from any skinks that might be lurking,

(Sidenote of vileness:  We were terrorized by one Sunday evening that lurked under our couch.  It did not end pretty.) 

we breathed.

We became alive again.

There is just something about being in nature,
in beauty,
in creation,
that re-creates.
That builds the soul,
that centers,
and reconnects.

To myself,
to others,
to the Creator.

I wonder if this mystery of re-creation happens
because I am surrounded by the elements in how it all began.
That I'm going back to the organic connection of what was,
and what still really is,
apart from cell towers,
PBS kids,
cables and wires,
desks and air conditioning.

For in that longing to be reconnected,
truly connected,
in that desire to breathe deeply again,
I am really yearning to behold the One whom holds all these things together.
Oh how I forget.

For my life and all that fills it,
the synthetic stuff and perpherial junk,
after time,
creates stagnant air,
and my soul longs for freshness.
It screams out, "Open the windows!"

That is what re-creation is all about.
That is, at the core, what I long for.
To reconnect with the Beauty that created me.
And all this.
And no amount of primetime TV,
sleep,
and unfortunately, chocolate
will truly satiate.

As we were walking back,
laughing with abandon,
Connor stopped us dead in his tracks.
Listen.
Listen, he said.
Then he pointed up.
Up to the heavens.
There a cardinal sang out to us.

Yes, the heavens.

Of course, it all comes from up there.

A flame in the midst of budding growth.
Passionate beauty,
Spirit gift,
the song of God.

Go for a walk.
By yourself.
With your family.
Recreate together.
Re-create your spirit.

Working the interior soil

The red, clay soil felt cold in my hands as I dug deep, trying to loosen the earth.  As I squeezed and pulled, breaking the clumps of humus apart, I realized that the process of growing takes preparation.

In order for my salvia to take root and thrive,
the soil must be tended.
It must be tilled,
fertilized.

I must prepare.
I must dig deep into the soil of my soul,
I must not be afraid to do the hard work and get dirty,
because it is from this place that growth happens.
Formation occurs.
Shape takes form.

She came tumbling over.
"Wat yo doin'? Yo planting flowers?  Oooohhhh--let me help!"
Her first-grade body jumped right in exploring the tools, digging deep.
"I know how to use a shovel.  I saw it once in a movie."

So we dug.
Together.
City girl.
With the Menno.
In the dirt, hands now the same color, we plunged deep.
Reaching deep and loosening,
planting and spreading,
we created something beautiful.

But it was more so that this.
For as new beds were forged,
in the midst, the Gardener was cultivating me.
For in the process of working my hard clay dirt,
the rocks and weeds blocking me from receiving and offering
love,
generosity,
and thanksgiving,
were being thinned.
For here working by my side was Joy.

And the sticks and stones
of my Pharisaic grumble mellowed,
because she illuminated my own hypocrisy by her simple honesty.

Perhaps I needed Tutti's drop-by visit more than she did,
to unearth
and revive my dry bones,
tired bones,
thinned bones,

with the wonder,
the miracle,
the mystery of Possibility.

As the sun sank and goodbyes rang into the night,
I stood, cascading water over our garden.
Praying with face wet that Rain would fall upon me,
watering the places within that had grown dry,
crusty,
hostile,
making me pliable
and capable
for nurturing
new life.

The Lord will guide you continually, 

and satisfy your needs in parched places, 

and make your bones strong; 

and you shall be like a watered garden, 

like a spring of water, 

whose waters never fail.

~Isaiah 58:11

Getting bathed

I generally pride myself on having fairly clean children.
But with boys, fairly is the operative word.
As Connor was snuggling with me on the couch
the other afternoon reading a book,
that sweet baby-freshness
just. wasn't. there.
Baby-foulness was more like it.
When was the last time Connor got a bath?

Living with smells...
it makes me ponder my own...

Lazarus had been dead 4 days.
In a swelterly climate
human remains don't last long.
Even in a dark cave,
the stench would be fierce.

Take away the stone,
Jesus calls.

NO--the stench.
The stench of my doubts,
fears,
insecurities,
permeates thick.

You haven't even given your child a bath yet?
What kind of mother are you?

But more than that...
darker and deeper grows the tomb.
Is that all that defines you?

The darkness hides.
And lies.
Though small and confined,
I know the limits.
Although limiting...

But living in the stench,
is not really living.
It is death disguised.

The Easter season is about awakening to who we really are,

to who God has called us to be,

for the sake of the world.

I'm not talking vocational terms,

but formational terms.

How am I being called to resurrect love,

light,

patience,

peace,

gratitude,

forgiveness...

in my life?

So that the world might know the One from whom these things come.

Forget about the stench, I hear.

Believe.

Believe that I am capable of doing far more than this.

Far more than you can ever hope of...or imagine.

Again he calls out--

Roll the stone away!

Just as Golgotha could not contain him,

so too,

he invites me to rise to new life.

COME OUT!

Go and take a bath.

                     

The good life

Vacation with preschoolers, is not a vacation.
By any stretch of the imagination.
Do not be fooled.

However, it does constitute a trip.
A change of scenery,
a change of pace,
a change.
Period.
And with the monotony of daily life,
change is good.

We just got back from a lovely almost two-week trip.
It was warm,
it was sunny,
and there was sand.

As I was (momentarily) sitting on the edge of the expanse of wet,
gentle breeze kissing my face,
I thought,
Life Is Good...

even amidst my seagull chasing,

sand kicking,

soccer scoring,

wave jumping,

sea shell hunting 

beach bums.

No, there was not much relaxation here.

But there was rest.

Not so much in the physical sense,

but in the Sabbath sense.

By stepping back out of my normal, 

daily routine,

even if for only a moment,

I see more clearly.

I. am. blessed. 

More than I realize. 

Taking Sabbath,

being mindful of what is,

pausing to take inventory,

and giving thanks,

renews life.

Because it reminds me again,

and again,

and again,

that at the core,

beyond the superficialities that cloud, 

life really is good.

I have people to love

and who love me,

legs to run,

arms to hold,

laughter to hear,

chocolate ice cream to taste. 

Memories to make. 

And perhaps the greatest realization is that,

I don't need sun and sand to get it.

For nothing in my life really changed,

but me.

Being open and willing to see,

what 

really 

is.