Postcard Challenge #6: Into the Woods

There are days when an itinerary is extremely helpful. Like days when you end up wrestling a fourteen-month-old over a camera and begging her to let mommy take just one Valentine's day picture with mommy's Pinterest-inspired banner in the background like it really matters. Fresh air is extremely helpful in these situations, too.

Enter our challenge for today:

I knew when I got this postcard that I'd head to the Arboretum, one of our favorite places, even if the bank thermometer read 27. We had snowpants and boots. Elisa's half-Michigander. It was worth it.

First on the list was spending ten minutes looking at the sky and noticing what we saw. For the record, I tried as valiantly as someone wearing heavy boots with a baby strapped to her chest could try. I'm not sure we made it all the way to ten, but it was soul-food. I couldn't remember the last time I had looked up. 

The sky was icy blue with thin strips of clouds being pulled across it like... like...As I struggled to find a word that reminded me of what I was seeing (cotton candy? scarf? cheesecloth?), I realized how often lately I jump to reflecting or making meaning. I very rarely just observe. Just enjoy. Just watch without comment. 

It reminded me of a poem from one of my favorite volumes of poetry, At the Pool We've All Got Bodies, also a gift from Kathleen (See? Don't you want to be her friend, too?). 

"...your new poet voice, which sits somewhere

in the bleachers of your brain, 

sees what you see

and tries to commandeer the events of your life into a poem, 

even as you are living them...

Occasionally it's nice just to wash your hands, 

to lather and rinse unpoetically, 

to stay in the water from time to time."

                 -From"Now that I'm a Poet," Lance Odegard

I tried to stay in the water this time and found the clouds were lovely. And that only when I was standing still did I really sense how fast they were moving. Not sure what that all means. I'll leave it up to someone else for a change! 

Next up was documenting ourselves standing under a tree. Because I wanted Elisa to get to see it and because I wanted extra points for wit, we stopped at the mammoth uprooted tree that JMU has left where it fell so that kids can explore it and see how huge trees are when seen from another perspective. 

It was like the barricade from Les Miserables, a tangle of carvings so smooth they seemed polished. We made another valiant effort to hop up on to the trunk but if you were paying attention above, you'll remember the baby strapped to the chest and why we moved on. 

On our way to the swinging bridge we stopped to look at the rings on a freshly cut trunk. 

Now, there's definitely a poem in here somewhere. It was like looking at the loss of a twin or a spouse or a friend closer than a brother. What must it be like for the trunk that remains? 

I knew I had found the place to "arrange something I find into a circle." 

The rhododendron leaves felt very noble, Greek maybe and tragic; it felt right, like leaving flowers at a graveside. 

Only two more items to go. "List the number of people you see." 16. Most were college students on their way to class, though. There was only one other walker like us, two more students who stayed measuring trees with a clipboard. Even the ducks were gone today (though Elisa liked quacking at the birds she heard anyway). 

Last item on the list. "Leave something of yours in a secret location." Now, I know this location isn't really secret, but I thought it would capture Kathleen's fancy. It always has mine. 

At the "Poet-tree," a little placard tells you to "leave a poem, take a poem." So we did. 

I left my poem about aspens and drew out a crispy, water-stained paper. It had a haiku about winter squirrels that isn't really appropriate for me to post here but nevertheless made me chuckle, and a poem about a weeping willow who "wants love but all she can do is look down from above."

I was tempted to "forget" it on the bench after I photographed it, pretend I hadn't pulled it from the basket, let it be exposed to the elements. To be honest, it wasn't a very good poem, not even really pathetic enough to draw sadness. But something stopped me. 

I realized I often do this with other people's words, sometimes other people's lives. If they're not eloquent enough, convincingly packaged, or beautifully presented, I discard them. In arrogance, I leave those I deem "less" exposed and forgotten, dismissing and distancing myself instead. I held onto the paper, another's words she thought worthy enough to leave for someone else to receive. It seems like all we really can do, really. 

In the end, I felt like the words we found near the footbridge were true: 

We finished our adventure on a bench near the bird feeders, watching the nuthatches hop upside down and busy, the tufted titmouse flash and pop like powder, and I was reminded of another poem by Wendell Berry, another poet I love: 

Wendell Berry "The Peace of Wild Things" from Schumann Media Center, Inc. on Vimeo.

Thanks, Kathleen, for another invitation to "rest in the grace of the world" and be free.

Breaking Chex...

It was definitely not the most sanitary snack I've ever had.

We were sitting heavy after a long day. There was a lot of whining. A lot of poop. A long walk outside when I should of worn a coat but was too tired to put my own on after getting theirs. This week involved two people on antibiotics and plans for a trip to Michigan moved up a day because of a megastorm. Nuff said.

Now, Elisa was half eating and half playing air hockey with her Rice Chex. She offered me some. Bite. Half to mama. Bite, bite. Half to mama. Break and share, sticky fingers aiming for my mouth and giggling when they met their mark. Breaking "bread." 

This is my Body, broken for you. 

I weary-walk through the story for her: Jesus said whenever we break bread to remember Him. He took bread and broke it and gave it to his friends and told them to remember. 

I crush a piece of cereal. He let his body be broken just like this to be punished for the bad things we have done. 

For all of this. So I can sit here with this eternal being stuffed into an 18 pound body. So I can share the good news that all my mess is made right before God with a person sitting in a booster seat. 

Suddenly, I have gone and told it on the mountain to myself. Suddenly, I am a communicant with Rice Chex Eucharist. Suddenly, I am Peter with my eyes opened after walking Emmaus. 

When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight. They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” (Luke 24:30-32, NIV)

In breaking "bread" with my daughter, in taking in eucharist and breathing out eucharisteo for his breaking, I suddenly recognized Jesus in my midst. I have missed him. 

It's easy to do. He's hard to recognize with those two front teeth and sweet smile like her daddy, even harder with purple lips from angry breath-holding in the midst of the messy mundane. 

But he's been there.

“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’" (Matthew 25:37-39, NIV)

Who else but a baby is hungry, thirsty, a stranger welcomed, naked, and sick? 

Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ (v. 40)

Isn't that the crux of the Advent story? That an entire nation missed the Messiah because he came disguised as a helpless infant?

I have missed serving him in mine. I have forgotten the wonder of a Savior coming like the sticky child at my kitchen table. 

                             

I know this Advent season's crush in a whole new way this year. I know yours is probably as breathless as mine. You might be grieving this season. Ground down by circumstances. Gasping for hope while you gift wrap. 

Don't miss Him.

He might be sitting in your kitchen, your classroom, your car, your broken-limbed family tree, the dark after the lights on the tree are out for the night. 

He came. He was broken. He's revealed when we remember. 

Be one who sees. 

Eyeing Egypt...

Sometimes treasures glimmer where you least expect them.

Like in the middle of the thickness of my Bible, the canyon of the prophets that we usually prefer to peek into from the safe rims, stories we heard in Sunday school on one side, Jesus and his grace on the other. There's some disturbing stuff down there: a man making a campfire over human excrement, the ones speaking God's words knee deep in mud or sawed in half, God saying his light-of-the-world people are living like they're in red-light districts.

There's also this gem of a story, one I'm not sure I've ever read before. Or if I did, I mistook the gleam of an emerald for the glint of a candy wrapper, discarded, no more use for us today.

It begins in Jeremiah 40, right after Hurricane Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon toppled Jerusalem, leaving bodies and a burning heap of a city in his wake. Jeremiah chooses to stay with the handful of people who were too poor to be taken in the exile and those who came out of hiding to join those left. They're under the care of Gedaliah, a sympathetic governor put in place by the invaders.

All is going well until Gedaliah ignores rumors of an assassination threat and is killed by Ishmael, a man of royal blood and ruthless ambition. Ishmael slaughters some more of the remnant and takes them to a nearby country.

In steps Johanan, leader of the army, rushing in to the cheers of the prisoners by the pool at Gibeon. He takes them back from Ishamel and they decide to go to Egypt. They're hoping to avoid any retaliation from the Babylonians for the murder of Governor Gedaliah. Before they go, they stop and ask Jeremiah the prophet what God thinks of their decision.

Here's what they say: "Whether we like it or not, we’ll do it. We’ll obey whatever our God tells us. Yes, count on us. We’ll do it.” (Jeremiah 42:5-6 MSG)

So Jeremiah, tells them this good news: "If you are ready to stick it out in this land, I will build you up and not drag you down, I will plant you and not pull you up like a weed. I feel deep compassion on account of the doom I have visited on you. You don’t have to fear the king of Babylon. Your fears are for nothing. I’m on your side, ready to save and deliver you from anything he might do. I’ll pour mercy on you. What’s more, he will show you mercy! He’ll let you come back to your very own land."

But, as if he's watching the resistance pass like a thundercloud across Johanan's face, he adds this: "But do not say, ‘We’re not staying around this place,’ refusing to obey the command of your God and saying instead, ‘No! We’re off to Egypt, where things are peaceful—no wars, no attacking armies, plenty of food. We’re going to live there.’ If what’s left of Judah is headed down that road, then listen to God’s Message. This is what God-of-the-Angel-Armies says: ‘If you have determined to go to Egypt and make that your home, then the very wars you fear will catch up with you in Egypt and the starvation you dread will track you down in Egypt. You’ll die there! Every last one of you who is determined to go to Egypt and make it your home will either be killed, starve, or get sick and die. No survivors, not one! No one will escape the doom that I’ll bring upon you."

And the terrible thing? They still decide to GO. They tell Jeremiah that he's a liar. That's he's in league with the invaders. God couldn't possibly be calling them to STAY. And so they leave and are destroyed amidst the very sands they thought meant safety. 

How many times do I choose Egypt? 

How many times do we, God's people, turn from an offer to be planted because we're not ready to stick it out? 

How many times do we choose the promise of peace and prosperity over the places of God's messy mercy? 

What if the places where God wants to show us his salvation, his deliverance, his mercy, are the very same places of vulnerability, of uncertainty, of rubble needing restoration and places where we're not in control?

Because what if what we fear will catch up with us, what we dread will track us down, and what we hope to escape find us in the times that we flee?

We might not be killed or starved, get sick or die, not like the remnant turning their backs on rubble. But might we find to our horror that:

We run from relationships that seem too painful to repair, only to find bitterness and loneliness seep slowly into the walls of our hearts.

We avoid situations that make us feel uncomfortable or vulnerable, only to find our souls slowly dying from meaninglessness and wasted chances to live fully present lives.

We run from brokenness in our homes, in our neighborhoods, in our workplaces, in the Body, only to find the pain we sought to avoid is waiting where we chose to wander. 

What if life is found in the very places we deem, "unfit to live?"

I don't know where your ruined Jerusalem lies. I don't know what Egypt beckons you with mirages of uncomplicated peace.

But I do know God promises much for those of us who choose to "stick it out" in places of impossibilities, apparent desolation, and tears.

He is on our side, ready to save and deliver, compassionate, hope of our freedom from fear.

May we trust him enough to remain in the rubble.

May we trust that he'll plant something beautiful HERE. 

It So Happened...

"It so happened..."

The words caught my eye this morning like a glint in the grass on a sunny day. "It so happened..." Flippant, really. Casual. Like the person telling the story was holding a cup of coffee and looking over his shoulder at the action in the street. Nothing remarkable here.

And that's what made it remarkable to me.

I was reading this passage from Luke 1:8-12 in the Message:

"It so happened that as Zachariah was carrying out his priestly duties before God, working the shift assigned to his regiment, it came his one turn in life to enter the sanctuary of God and burn incense. The congregation was gathered and praying outside the Temple at the hour of the incense offering. Unannounced, an angel of God appeared just to the right of the altar of incense."

"It so happened" started the rhythm as I read. "It so happened...carrying out his duties...working the shift assigned..."
If this were a movie, there would be no blockbuster beginning. When an angel of God appears and tells Zachariah that he will be a part of heralding the in-breaking of God's kingdom on earth, what is he doing? 
His job. The duties given to him. The shift assigned to him. It just so happened...
At the precipice of the Messiah exploding into the human experience, Elizabeth and Zachariah are living their lives together, honorably, carefully, obediently, and NORMALLY.


I had just read of Zachariah and his wife, Elizabeth, in the paragraph above it: " Together they lived honorably before God, careful in keeping to the ways of the commandments and enjoying a clear conscience before God" (Luke 1:5-7, MSG). 

That gives hope to us mamas who's floors look like this:

Those of us with bruised knees and babies with fevers and oatmeal on the floor...again. Those of us working behind computers or behind fast-food counters or behind pulpits. Those of us bending over student's shoulders, or lawnmowers, or elderly loved ones.

The beauty of the stage being set for Jesus to arrive on earth is that the kingdom of God can break in when we are doing the duties, assignments, and daily life given to us, whether it be mundane or headline-making. God, it seems, is oblivious to counters that look like this:

and prone to start his greatest stories in the hearts of those living quiet, faithful lives and enjoying a clear conscience before Him. 

The second thing that caught my heart's attention was Zachariah's job on the day he found out he'd be padre to THE Prophet. He was burning incense. 

The New Testament has wisps of this incense wafting through its pages: 

"Follow God’s example, therefore, as dearly loved children and walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God." (Ephesians 5:1-2, NIV)

"...The gifts you sent. They are a fragrant offering, an acceptable sacrifice, pleasing to God." (Philippians 4:18, NIV)

"For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing" (2 Corinthians 2:15). 

Our lives, our quiet lives of obedience to Jesus, service to those around us, faithfulness in sacrifice and in love, are our incense offering to God. 

If we keep offering our ordinary selves, we might find ourselves like Zachariah, with a message from Heaven in the midst of our mundane, glory right beside us where we never expected it to appear. 

May more whispers of a coming kingdom come where we find ourselves, "it so happens," to be. May we be faithful, ordinary "wide-eyed in wonder and belief" (Luke 11:33, MSG).  

Elisa Meets A Burning Bush...

Your first forsythia flames lemon-yellow...

Enjoying a warm spring day and wonder here today...

"Kernels" of Wisdom

Two women, one six months pregant, the other with a nine month old son, freezing a bunch of corn. It had to be educational, right?

Life Lessons From Our Sweet Corn Adventure

If you've got a friend by your side,
you can conquer more than you could ever conquer yourself.

Keep the littlest people happy, and everyone's happy.

Life's Too Short to Keep Your Hands, Home, Heart from Getting Messy.

Who Really Needs More Toys?

Simple pleasures might be found in the most unlikely of places :)

Is there a relationship or task where you feel like all you do is invest time and effort? 

Be encouraged that...

Worthwhile things in life require effort up front...

 

...but yield fruit that will last through tough winters.

There's a reason God gave us community...
an overwhelming chore can turn into a day of sharing with a friend

that helps both families. We weren't meant to do life alone! 

What can you do today with a friend that you usually do by yourself? Can you turn an act of consumption to an act of community?

Thanks, God for the energy to get this done today. By his strength alone...

Miss

Getting Smaller...

Lately, I've been feeling like Alice. Alice in Wonderland to be exact. I didn't know I was Alice until I was lying in bed with a cold, thinking over how to put into words what God has been teaching me lately. A picture came to mind of Alice shrinking and growing, growing and shrinking, before a door in a tree. "Paging" through Sparknotes and Wikipedia (further evidence of lying in bed with a cold), I confirmed what I remembered from growing up: Alice had to get smaller before she could ever enter Wonderland.

I shouldn't be surprised. Jesus himself used this "shrinking" language when he speaks of a kingdom that can seem at times as absurd as Wonderland: ^"And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." (Matt. 18:3-4). He takes it a step further when talking with Nicodemus, claiming we need to be born again, become spinning cells turned gasping newborns. Apparently, getting smaller is no new idea I've stumbled upon. However, it is an idea that feels important, forgotten, and nourishing to me in a way I've only begun to understand. 

 Before we found out we were expecting, Patrick and I had planned on becoming foster parents. We had  remodeled our guest room to accommodate a kiddo in order to be available for a student of mine who was removed from her dad's home because of some pretty horrific abuse. When she was placed with her mom, we decided to keep with the plan, since it didn't seem like a baby of our own was in the works. It seemed something meaningful, something needed, something "kingdom worthy."  It certainly felt good to be those "giving Weavers who were going to welcome troubled kids." Ahh, significance. We continued for several weeks after I learned I was pregnant, struggling to incorporate the training into our schedules and the competing visions for our future that now emerged. The striving and guilt over wanting to "pull out" left me weary. Finally, during one of our Monday night prayer times, we felt the release to let go of what we had felt was our "duty for the kingdom." That week, I turned in my letter of resignation at school and called the social worker to say we'd no longer be attending training.I didn't know it yet, but God was calling us, especially me, to "get smaller." 

I always knew the kingdom was full of paradoxes: suffering brings glory, the first shall be last, the meek shall inherit the earth; the books I was reading helped flesh this out. I had just finished Grace Matters, a fabulous memoir of Chris Rice, one of the co-founders of Antioch, a racial reconciliation community in Mississippi. After 12 years of wearied work, a spiritual mentor suggested the community focus less on what they were doing for God's kingdom and more on the love of God for them, no matter what they could provide. What followed was a revolution of everything they believed about who they were, a release from significance that brought significant freedom and grace to battle-scarred hearts. Later, as Rice mourned the loss of his yoke-fellow, Spencer Johnson, he had to learn to "live the Sabbath", doing more for the kingdom by doing less, in fact nothing visibly for the kingdom, except to experience the coast with his family.

This resonated with me as we said goodbye to our glamorous plans of foster-parenting. Even as I lamented the loss of a great conversation starter ("Did you know we were thinking of foster care? Yeah, we hear it's difficult..."), I felt something truer than any impulse I'd felt before: to grow big in the kingdom, you need to grow smaller.  

Growing lettuce with our neighbors (who might just throw the seeds every which way), eating dinner on the front porch, sharing Peeps with the kids wrestling on our front lawn, eventually raising one newborn instead of loving on 54 babies at school, these things might seem small, insignificant really in the face of tremendous need and horrific evil in this world. However, in the backwards way of the kingdom, it might be we are right in the center of God's will for our lives. We are slowly letting go of the illusion that God needs us, slowing grasping that knowing God's love and embodying God's love might be the most important "kingdom work" we ever do. 

God has elaborated on this with another book, Grace and Necessity by Rowan Williams: a recommendation from my friend Bethany and the most difficult book I've read in a very, very long time. Williams explores the nature of art and making art through the beliefs of French Catholic philosopher Jacques Maritain. Maritain believes that what is seen as beautiful is most often the work in which the creator took care to seek the good of the work itself above all other goals, whether the goal to gain money or fame or even to benefit humankind. Isn't that true of parenthood? A loving parent seeks the good of her child, not because of the child's potential for fame or even because of the child's potential to change the world, but because of love.   

Could it be that the most beautiful families and communities, the most beautiful relationships, the most beautiful lives are filled not with desires for significance, nor desires to do/be great for the kingdom of God, but with simple desires for the good of those in them? 

The idea is in Scripture, too. To his people living in exile, God spoke, ""Build houses and make yourselves at home. Put in gardens and eat what grows in that country. Marry and have children. Encourage your children to marry and have children so that you'll thrive in that country and not waste away. Make yourselves at home there and work for the country's welfare. Pray for Babylon's well-being." (Jeremiah 29: 5-7, The Message)

God doesn't say, "Work to do great and significant things so my kingdom can come in Babylon." He doesn't say, "Better get busy building friendships so you can add to your tally of converted neighbors." He says to work for the country's welfare. Ask for its well-being. Seek its good. And because Jesus is the Good God, if we are seeking the good of those around us, we will give him and be him by default.


I can't pretend to understand this mystery yet. It goes against every desire I've ever had to do something worthwhile for God. But as I grow smaller, I feel like I'm getting bigger glimpses of Wonderland. May I keep shrinking until I can enter in. Will you come, too?