Out of My Alleged Mind

The Other Grandmother

2012-02-01T09:45:00.000-05:00

One of myfears, and I’m not saying it’s a rational one, is of becoming the othergrandmother; the one who lives further away and doesn’t get to spend as muchtime with the grandkids. When I was growing up, my family spent many Sundayafternoons at my grandparents’ farm. The farm was about an hour’s drive from myhome which, when I was a child and prone to carsickness, seemed an insufferable length of time to be trappedin the backseat of a Chevy. My other grandmother lived about a half hourfurther away, and so I saw her less frequently than I did the farmgrandparents.

I didn’t know my other grandmother well, but I do have a fewdistinct memories of her. I remember that during the extra half hour drive toher house, we passed a small wildlife exhibit which featured a bear kept in acage. The bear’s name was Toby and, even though it would make the trip toGrandma’s take even longer, my siblings and I always begged Dad to stop and letus see Toby the Bear.

I never met my grandfather; he died when my father was ayoung man, before my parents were married. Grandma lived with one of my auntswho never married, in a tiny house in a small town in the Allegheny Mountainsof Pennsylvania. Next door to her house was an actual mansion and, although itsowners shared garage space with Grandma, I never met them or knew anythingabout them. Several years ago my brother told me he saw the mansion listed forsale in The Wall Street Journal, and I realized I’d never learned the story ofwho built it. I’m guessing its first owners were somehow connected with the oilboom which took place in that area in the late 1800s.

Dad and My Brothers, circa 1976

TheAllegheny River flowed through the rear of Grandma’s property. The small townin which she lived continues to host the annual Pennsylvania State ChampionshipFishing Tournament. One year my dad took my two brothers to Grandma’s for thetournament, and each caught monster-sized carp. The younger of the two, and theone who caught the larger fish, still remembers that his measured twenty-eightinches and weighed fourteen pounds.

Triumph Swedish Union Church. Tidioute, PA

I don’tremember Grandma being a church-goer, but I learned sometime after her deaththat her parents, Samuel and Lovina Donaldson, had sold a piece of theirproperty to a small Swedish church in town. The church served a smallcongregation of immigrants who were mostly farmers and oil field workers. Grandmaeven taught me a Swedish phrase: tack såmycket which means thank you, very much. I’m sure she used the phrase whenI made the trek to her house to introduce her to my beloved Swedish fiancé.

When I thinkof my grandmother, I think about yarn. She always had piles of the stuff whichshe would pull out to describe her latest project. I remember the year she gaveme a pink poodle she’d crocheted to cover a bottle of clear nail polish. Evennow, in my home I have three afghans which bear witness to the work of herhands. I remember her in her later years, when she could no longer work herneedle, and felt as though an important part of Grandma was gone.

Grandmaoften kept cans of Pepsi in a refrigerator in her basement which seemed aluxury since, when I was young; my parents didn’t often keep pop in the house.To get to the refrigerator, one had to walk through Grandma’s mudroom, passinga cactus which was taller than both she and my aunt. She didn’t have many toysor games at her house, just a few puzzles and an electric organ which mycousins and I played around with when we visited. Grandma often served us Jell-O,which she referred to as “wiggle food.”

My grandmataught me a technique for memorizing the alphabet backwards, a party trickwhich I continue to pull out to this day. A school teacher by training, Grandmaexplained that the secret was to break down the alphabet into short lettersequences. She told me, “Once you learn it, you’ll always remember it.” And Ihave. The sequence is here:

ZYXW VUT SRQ PONML K JIHG FED CBA

I have noidea if or when I might ever be a grandmother, or how far away I might livefrom grandchildren when they come along. I’m certain I won’t crochet themanything. But perhaps, when they come to visit, I’ll tell them that the realname for Jell-O is Wiggle Food, and I’ll teach them the trick for reciting thealphabet backwards. And as they drive away, I’ll be sure to wave with bothhands.

Sharing another imperfect memory over at emily's place:

A Playdate in Which I Don't Ski

2012-01-27T16:58:00.000-05:00

Snow fallsquietly outside my window at the ski resort where I sit with laptop, books, waterbottle, paper, and pen. I’m not a skier so it makes no sense for me to take upspace in a ski resort, except I need a place to stay while the beloved Swedehas gone off to play.

He’sspending the day at a men’s only sporting clays shoot. The event is afundraiser in support of campus ministry, but nobody’s fooling anybody. It’s anexcuse for guys to spend the day outside with other guys, away from the officeand blowing stuff up. It is playtime, and a chance for my man to spend timewith the man who stood next to him on the day we said, “I do” to one another.

I’m playing,too, in my own way. Jim Brickman plays quietly in the background, through themagic of the internet and Pandora. I’ve got time to sleep and pray; to read andwrite. I just scribbled pages and pages of nonsense about coffee and Jell-O.Maybe I’ll turn my scribblings into something someday. Maybe I won’t. But I hadfun remembering.

I’ve packedSt. Andre cheese and some crackers. I’llnibble on those later while waiting for my daughter to come join me for dinnerthis evening. Tonight will be our first night alone together since the day shewalked down the aisle and said, “I do.”

Today is aquiet playdate, the restful kind. I am reminded of days when, as I child, Istayed home from school because of a sore throat or the flu. I played quietlyin my bed or on the sofa. I rested and slept and allowed myself to heal.

I sit watchingthe snow fall, tipping the edges of evergreens with frosty white. And I wonderwhy anybody would rather be out there skiing.

Linking withLaura @ The Wellspring, embracing the God-joy:

And with L.L. Barkat @ Seedlings in Stone for On, In, and Around Monday:

The Carnival

2012-01-25T15:02:00.000-05:00

Mom stood bythe stove, in the stickiness of a hot summer evening, stirring together peanutbutter, sugar, and condensed milk. The scent of sour milk clung to the stickynight air, escaping through the window screen and reaching me on the porchrailing where I sat watching. I couldn’t bear to be inside the hot kitchen wheremy mother worked. As mom stirred, I knewthe sour would turn into the sweetness of peanut butter fudge. She had alreadymade chocolate fudge and baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies to sell at ourbackyard carnival for Muscular Dystrophy.

My sisterhad sent away for the carnival planning kit advertised during Paul Shannon’s Adventure Time show whichwe watched every day after school on the local Pittsburgh TV station. We plannedour carnival hoping to raise enough money to be invited to the studio andappear on the show. My mom made cookies and fudge on a hot summer evening tohelp us because she’d watched her brother die from the disease.

The carnivalkit came with instructions for planning and advertising our event. We tacked upposters around town, placed ads in TheAllied News, our local paper, and listened for our announcement on WEDA,the hometown radio station. The planning kit included an official letter fromPaul Shannon himself which we took to local merchants asking them to donateprizes for our carnival. A jewelry store owner donated a ceramic elephantdecorated in flecks of gold paint. It had come from a jeweler and was fleckedin gold, so I was certain we had scored a valuable raffle prize worth perhapshundreds of dollars, all because of our official Paul Shannon letter.

We plannedsimple games: ring toss, a bean bag throw, a fishing pond in a wading pool. Iwished we could have had a dunking booth like the one at our downtown streetfair each summer. My dad helped us set up a sheet we could poke our headsthrough so kids could take turns throwing wet sponges at one another. It wasclose enough.

Because wehoped to raise a lot of money and get ourselves on TV, we wanted to charge aquarter for each of our games and for the refreshments. On the night before thecarnival, Dad asked us to lower our prices. He thought a quarter might be tooexpensive for some of the kids in the neighborhood, and he wanted to be sureeveryone who wanted to could come and have a good time.

The day ofthe carnival arrived, and it exceeded almost all of our expectations. Our frontyard was piled high with the bikes neighborhood kids had ridden to our house.Our backyard was full of fun and games and summertime play. We soaked oneanother with wet sponges. A neighbor boy from across the alley must have spentevery bit of loose change he had buying raffle tickets for the gold elephant,which he won.

At the endof the day, we’d raised a couple of hundred dollars. We didn’t reach thethreshold for earning an invitation to appear on TV. We were rewarded with aride on The Gateway Clipper, a party boat which travels the three rivers which meetin the city of Pittsburgh.

Muscular Dystrophyhas not been cured; the Muscular Dystrophy Association continues to holdfund-raising telethons every Labor Day weekend. But perhaps our afternoon ofbackyard summer fun helped a family afford leg braces or a wheelchair. Andremembering my parents as they worked alongside us holds great value, worthmore to me than an appearance on TV or any gold-flecked jewelry store elephant.

Linking with emily:

Living the Benediction

2012-01-22T20:00:00.000-05:00

Churchservices, when I was a child, seemed to have a hard time winding down to an end.Often I’d try to steal a glance at the clock at the rear of the sanctuary,knowing the pastor had preached well beyond the noon hour. A lengthy altar call usually followed thesermon. We’d stand and sing through allthe verses of Just as I Am, only tostart over again from the beginning as though my pastor was signaling his determinationto outlast the very last recalcitrant sinner still clinging to his pew.

Now and thenI’d catch my mother’s nervous glance, and I could tell she was thinking aboutthe pot roast she’d left simmering at home. I often just wished someone wouldhurry up and get saved just so we could go home and eat. I could never tell howmy pastor decided enough was enough, but eventually he’d call us to sing one ofthe verses as the last. He’d offer a prayer, release us, and send us on ourway.

A time ofcoffee and fellowship follows the service at the church I now attend. Before dismissing us to our Styrofoam cups ofsteaming coffee, however, my pastor raises his arms and invites us to receivethe benediction. Often he recites this one found at the end of the book of Hebrews:

Now may the God of peace who brought againfrom the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, by the blood ofthe eternal covenant, equip you witheverything good that you may do his will, working in us that which is pleasingin his sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.Hebrews 13: 20, 21 ESV

Benediction.The word means blessing, and it’sused quite often in Scripture. Patriarchs of the Old Testament pronounced blessingson their firstborn children, and something real happened when they did so. Atransaction occurred. A son received real rights and privileges; he was assuredof his inheritance.

Brothersformed lifelong resentments toward one another based on who did, or did not,receive his father’s blessing. Twins brothers struggled to beat one another outof their mother’s womb, wrestling to grab hold of their inheritance. Brothersthreatened violence toward one another. In one case, there was someunpleasantness involving deception and bowls of soup.

Thepatriarchs of the Old Testament were mere men. They were not magicians whocould speak words of blessing and cause them to happen. Of their own, theypossessed no more power to bless their children than did a squirrel. These mendid what God told them to do; they laid hands on their sons and spoke over themthe words He told them to say. In doing so they conveyed something which hadsubstance, something real.

When my pastorinvites me to receive the benediction, something real happens. He’s not just recitingceremonial words to signal the end of the worship service before dismissing meto my coffee. He is asking me to lift my eyes and receive my inheritance. He isreminding me of God’s promises and, in prayer on my behalf, is reminding God ofthe promises He’s made to me.

He praysthat God will equip me with everything good.
He prays thatGod will enable me to do His will
He asks Godto do the work in me that will please Him.

Notice whatdoes not happen in a benediction. My pastor does not raise his arms and say, “Okay,now that I’ve given you a pep talk from God’s word, I want you to go out thisweek and try really, really hard to do what I just said.”

He invitesme to receive God’s blessing. He reminds me that God is at work in me, growingme up to do things that are pleasing to Him. He reminds me of what is alreadytrue about me.

When I getup each morning, I don’t stop and ask myself whether or not I’m going to behavethroughout the day like a gray-haired middle-aged woman. That’s just who I am.Granted, on any given day I may behave like a twelve-year old; but my behaviordoesn’t change what is true about me.

I don’t knowhow your church service typically ends. Perhaps you sing all the verses to Just as I Am multiple times. Perhaps itends with a simple prayer. But. If your service concludes with a prayer ofbenediction, I encourage you to stop and listen to the words. Lift your eyesand receive God’s blessing. Then, after you’ve received your Styrofoam cup fullof coffee, go in peace to live what is true about you.

Grab hold of your blessing. Live the benediction.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Sunday: Snow

2012-01-21T15:14:00.000-05:00

I don't think the way you think.
   The way you work isn't the way I work."
         God's Decree.
"For as the sky soars high above earth,
   so the way I work surpasses the way you work,
   and the way I think is beyond the way you think.
Just as rain and snow descend from the skies
   and don't go back until they've watered the earth,
Doing their work of making things grow and blossom,
   producing seed for farmers and food for the hungry,
So will the words that come out of my mouth
   not come back empty-handed.
They'll do the work I sent them to do,
   they'll complete the assignment I gave them.

Isaiah 55:8-11, The Message

Linking with Deidra:

Five Minute Friday: Vivid

2012-01-20T11:46:00.000-05:00

Although it kills me, not being able to go back and edit, I'm joining The Gypsy Mama once again for her Five Minute Friday writing prompt: Vivid.

Start:

The shopping mall felt sad. I picked through the racks ofleftover clothing, finding only gray and black. I noticed the absence of busyshoppers, decked in festive clothing and jingle bells. I missed the songs ofsnowmen and reindeer, angels and hallelujah. January felt cold and gray.

It snowed last night. Today I look out y window at blue sky,clumps of white hanging heavy from evergereen branches. Chunks of venisonsimmer atop my stove in Madeira, onion, and bay leaf and thyme. The frangrancefills my home. I cranked the Pandora station loud on the TV downstairs. I hear,“Holy, holy, holy. The whole earth is filled with your glory.” On a day liketoday, when colors and smells and sounds are vivid, I hear the truth in thesewords.

But we see through a mirror dimly, scripture says. And Iknow that the brilliance and beauty of this January day will one day seem graycompared to what will be. Colors and scents and sounds will be vivid and alivewhen angels and stars join the song of hallelujah.

Stop.

A Curiosity Journal

2012-01-18T12:46:00.001-05:00

My friendAnn Kroeker posts a weekly curiosity journal to recap her week. She uses thetag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting, and writing to shape her posts.For some time I’ve thought about joining Ann, especially since my primaryblogging strategy has been to find people who seem to know what they’re doingand then imitate them. Also, my writing well has felt a little dry lately. Sohere goes:

Reading

I’ve alwaysbeen one of those people who is reading multiple books at the same time. Nowthat I have a Kindle and can download books at the push of a button, my habits seemto have gotten much worse.

Afterhearing many, many, many of my friends recommend Grace for the Good Girl: Letting Go of the Try-Hard Life, by Emily P. Freeman; I’ve finally gottenaround to reading it. So far, the only thing I don’t like about this book isthat Emily didn’t write it thirty years ago. I’m planning to write a review or maybea series of posts about Emily’s book when I finish it. I’ve highlighted so manypassages; however, I’ll probably end up re-reading the entire book whenreviewing my notes. One particular passage I’m mulling is Emily’s reflection onthe lives of Mary and Martha. She wrote:

Martha’s desire to please clouded herwillingness to trust. . . . Given the choice to please God or to trust God,good girls become conflicted. We know we’re supposed to trust God, but trust isso intangible. It almost seems passive in the face of all there is to do.

Emily’swords read like she’s been living inside my head. Or my heart. Oh, and at thebeginning of chapter twelve, Emily admits she never liked the phrase quiet time all that much. I think shereally is a kindred spirit.

I’m alsoreading The Dancing Priest, a novel by Glynn Young. I postponed starting this one, again after reading many, many, manyrecommendations. Some folks said they started reading this book and couldn’tput it down it. I keep putting it down, savoring it. I’m thoroughly enjoyingthis story and don’t want it to come to an end.

I downloadedand started reading The Jesus Creed, by Scot McKnight. I kept seeing references to this book, and then I learned thatMcKnight is a professor at North Park University where my son goes to school.After I started reading The Jesus Creed, Isaw a reference to it by Ann Voskamp. I figure, any day I’m on the same page asAnn Voskamp has got to be a good day.

Playing

Alumni Chapel. Photo by Tamara Gerhard

Most of theplaying I’ve done lately, I’ve done vicariously. My son just returned tocollege after having been home for four weeks for Christmas break. During thattime he played piano with some of his buddies during an alumni chapel at hisformer school, attended a New Year’s Eve swing dance party, went ice skating,attended a dinner party for which all the guests dressed up, and got togetherwith former youth group members to play and record hymns and praise music. I satback and watched these young people interact, delighting in each one andgrowing in gratitude for these friendships in my son's life.

I'm also thinking, maybe my writing well wouldn't feel so dry if Idid some playing of my own.

Learning

I’m working myway through another book, an E-book by Sharon Hujik titled, How to Move From Blogger to WordPress. I’mlearning, or threatening to learn, about all sorts of interesting things likeFile Transfer Protocols, DNS Servers, and CHMOD.

At one pointthe instructions read: “If you make a mistake here, you will lose access toyour blog.”

If younotice my blog’s gone missing, assume I didn’t follow the instructions. Or havebeen raptured. Even if I destroy my blog, I figure I will have learnedsomething. And I can always start over, right? I’m actually kind of jazzedabout playing around with this stuff, and maybe engaging my brain in this way willhelp me fight off dementia somewhere down the road. Or maybe I’m just playingaround with this technical stuff because right now it seems easier than writing.

I’ve beentalking to some folks about helping me with some site design stuff. They’regood folks, and I hope I get to introduce you to them soon. I just need to earna few more dollars first. In the meantime I may play around on my current site,rearranging the furniture a bit.

Reacting

It got cold and finally snowed for the first time since the freak storm back in October.I’m not reacting well. Also, my Christmas tree is still up. Don’t judge me. Idon’t react well to the transition from the joy and beauty of Christmas to thecold and gray of January.

Writing

See abovesections on playing and learning. Have I mentioned my well’s a little dry?Anyone interested in guest posting?

I know thatwriting helps me write, and I took a long break from doing so while my son wasat home. I don't regret my decision to take time off, but I'm finding it awfully difficult to get back in the rhythm of writing.

So there youhave it: my first ever Curiosity Journal. And a completed blog post.

Let me know your suggestions for when the writing well runs dry. Or your gears get rusty.Or whatever overworked metaphor for getting your butt back in the chair and starting over works for you. Maybe I’ll try some of them.

You know, if I don’t blow up my blog.

New Songs of Celebration

2012-01-16T11:19:00.000-05:00

My soninforms me that there is such a thing as good rap music. I like to think I’mpretty hip, current, and aware for a gray-haired, middle-aged mom. I have anmp3 player. I took my son to a concert by an aging former lead singer of a classic rock band. But I’ve never been a huge fan or rap, hip-hop, or any ofthe other music played at deafening levels in clothing stores at the localmall. I assume most of that music is designed to be played at those levels tocamouflage lyrics which glorify violence, substance abuse and the degradationof women.

Last fall,when I visited my son at his college, he asked if he could play some music forme. He’d attended a concert on campus and bought some CDs recorded by a localindie band. He said that the band members had shared interesting personalstories, telling about the ways events in their lives had shaped them and theirart. “You know, all that stuff you’re interested in and always talking about,”he said.

He popped aCD into the player of the rental car as I was trying to navigate my way throughthe city of Chicago without getting killed. I rolled my eyes as soon as themusic began. It was rap. Or hip-hop; I’m not sure. I can’t really tell thedifference.

“Justlisten,” he said. And, because love is patient and love is kind, I resisted myimpulse to drive the rental car into a concrete barrier and listened. This iswhat I heard,

I’m hard pressed on every side but I’m notcrushed/
Perplexed yet I’m not in despair/
Purpose burning I can feel it when my heart pumps/
All I know it’s more than worth the wear and tear/
Oh giving in is simple/
“Give it in!” Oh giving in is simple/
“Give it in!” Oh giving in is simple/
“Give it in!” though giving in is simple, I am not that simple.*

The Word ofGod. Which is living and active. Life-transforming. And set to a rhythm andrhyme scheme which is foreign to my ears, but appeals to my musician son whodrums on every surface that doesn’t move out of his way.

I’m not amusician. I’m not a poet. I’ll probably never be able to discern anyqualitative difference between good and bad rap music. Old-timey gospel hymnsspeak my love language: Isaac Watts, the Wesley brothers; a little AugustusToplady now and then.

Last night, inhis truck on the way home from church, my husband was playing some music by TheZac Brown Band. Zac Brown, a country singer, strikes me as a good old boy; notexactly a poster child for the church-going crowd. He sings songs about livingchicken-fried and sticking his toes in the sand. Just before my husband turnedoff the truck, I caught this lyric from Zac Brown’s song, Who Knows:

Sing until the darkness it is lifted.

The world isa dark place, in desperate need of songs that will drive away the darkness. Imay never become a fan of my son’s kind of music. But I’m becoming more open toits value.

During hissemester break from college, my son got together with some of his musicianbuddies. This is some of what they did:

Sing to the LORD a newsong,
   his praise from the end of the earth,
you who go down to the sea, and all that fills it,
   the coastlands and their inhabitants.
  Let thedesert and its cities lift up their voice,
   the villages that Kedar inhabits;
let the habitants of Sela sing for joy,
   let them shout from the top of the mountains.

Isaiah 42:10, 11 ESV

And yes,college students and indie rap and hip-hop bands in Chicago; by all means singa new song. Sing until the darkness it is lifted.

(*Simple, lyrics by Tony Pozdol and FreddyBustamante of St. Bagu)

Linking my musical playdate with Laura at The Wellspring:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

A Taste of Home

2012-01-08T22:00:00.000-05:00

Every sooften, during family dinners of my childhood, my dad would wad up his used teabag and throw it at one of my siblings or me. We were usually laughing andgoofing off and, when Dad decided we’d reached our full measure of silliness,he’d assert his authority by flinging a soggy teabag toward one of us. Lookingback, I think the silliness encoded into our genetics may have come from my dad’sside of the family.

So manythings happen around a dinner table, more than mere consumption for the sake ofmeeting biological needs. Parents teach and correct behaviors. Laughter andconversation flow. People tell and re-tell stories, sometimes accompanied byagonizing groans or an embarrassed eye roll. Sometimes angry words erupt or achair sits vacant.

The Passoverwas a family meal instituted by God on the night He delivered His people fromslavery in Egypt. He required them to celebrate this meal every year by eatingparticular foods, celebrating certain traditions, and telling and re-tellingthe story of their deliverance. While preaching about the Passover, my pastorpointed out that when God wanted His people to memorialize their deliverance Hedidn’t lecture them or preach them a sermon.

He invitedthem to a meal.

He invitedthem to a meal where someone might have placed his elbows on the table; where someonemight have overcooked the lamb or knocked over a glass of wine. He invited themto a table to laugh and tell stories and enjoy each another’s company. Perhaps Jewish fathers became so exasperatedwith their children that they flung unleavened bread in their generaldirection. Flawed people who sinned against God and one another were called togather around a meal to be reminded of their desperate need for deliverance.

Jesuscelebrated the Passover with his disciples, telling them that He had eagerlylonged to eat with them on the night He was betrayed. He told them He wouldn’tcelebrate with them again until the Passover was fulfilled in the kingdom ofGod. In heaven, Christ waits to eat with them again. He waits for all His disciplesto join Him; eagerly longing to sit at the table, laughing and enjoying thecompany of those He loves.

My son andmany of his friends have been home from college for the past few weeks,celebrating Christmas vacation. Many of them compared notes about the foodserved in dining halls on their campuses. All seemed to be grateful for the opportunityto enjoy family meals, familiar tastes of home-cooking prepared with love.

So manythings are happening when God’s people gather around the Lord’s Table, somethingHe told His people to do until He returns. We remember our stories. We sit nextto flawed people who sin against God and one another. We are reminded of the greatcost of our deliverance. We eat familiar food prepared in love.

And the Lord’sSupper is a meal which tastes like home.

Manygathered around tables during the holidays, preparing and eating traditionalfoods. Every good thing which happened at those tables points to a better meal,one where no one burns the turkey, no one speaks in anger, and no chairs sitempty. There Christ waits; eagerly longing to share a meal with those He loves.

My dad willbe at that meal. I wonder if there will be teabags in heaven.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Laura @ The Wellspring:

Sunday: Love

2012-01-07T20:00:00.000-05:00

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.

I Corinthians 13:7, 8 ESV

Joining Deidra

Five Minute Friday: Roar

2012-01-06T09:14:00.001-05:00

I've never done this before, joined Lisa Jo's Five Minute Friday writing prompt community. The challenge, write for five minutes about a single word, not stopping to edit or correct. Control freak that I am, putting unedited work out there that I haven't agonized over and second-guessed really doesn't get my juices flowing.

But today's prompt spoke to me: roar. So here goes:

Start:

The devil is a roaring lion, so Scripture says, but he hasno idea who he’s messing with. Especially when it comes to my kids.

Because when I see him prowling around, tempting them tosin, or doubt, or fear, this momma roars right back. I’ll knock on heaven’sdoor with all my might. Persistent widow? She’s got nothing on the persistentknocking of a momma who loves her children and wants the protection of the Lionof Judah. I’ll pray as I walk, sit, stand. I’ll get down on my knees. I’ll textprayer requests to my friends asking them to pray with me now.

The world is a dangerous place, and a lion Is on the prowlseeking to devour the ones I love. And there’s no way I’m going to let thathappen.

God’s word says, “No weapon formed against my people willstand.” No weapon. No enemy. No animal roaring in the distance. I join my roarto the Lion of Judah and send the enemy slinking away in defeat.

Cowardly lion.

Stop.

Click the button above to read more five minute responses to the word: roar.

Drink

2012-01-05T10:54:00.000-05:00

Delicate Arch, Arches National Park near Moab, Utah

A fundamental rule for hiking in America’s nationalparks is to leave no trace. In order to protect and preserve the park’s naturalresources, hikers are advised to take only photos and leave behind onlyfootprints. My family violated that rule, however, the year one of my childrenthrew up all over Delicate Arch.

It seems this particular family member had neglectedanother fundamental rule listed in the park’s hiking guide: Be sure to take and drink water. A gallonper person per day is recommended; don't skimp, even on short trails.

Dehydration can set in when hiking in the desert,resulting in headaches and nausea before one even is even aware of feelingthirsty. As a family, we’ve learned tocarry an adequate supply of water and stop frequently to re-hydrate. Neglectingto drink can have serious consequences.

One of the projects listed in Tsh Oxenreider’s newe-book: OneBite at a Time: 52 Projects for Making Life Simpler is to drink morewater. Tsh says, “We know we need to drink lots of water, but most of us stilldon’t. It’s probably not because we don’t have access to it—it’s either becausewe forget, or because we’d rather drink something else. Our bodies functionfully when we’re hydrated, but we often run at less than full capacity.”

Images of water flow throughout the pages ofScripture. Sometimes water is in short supply, and sometimes God’s peopleforget to drink what is available to them. There seems to be a whole lot ofdrinking going on in Scripture; some of it good, some of it bad, and a wholelot of it pointing toward God’s abundant grace.

When God sent plagues upon the enemies of Hispeople, He made their water undrinkable. (Exodus 7)

The people of God grumbled about not having water inthe wilderness. Responding with mercy rather than judgment, God provided water,in abundance, from the rock. (Numbers 20)

When fleeing from his enemy Saul, David longed todrink from the well of Bethlehem. (2 Samuel 23:15)

God told the prophet Jeremiah that His people hadcommitted two evils: They had forsaken Him, the fountain of living waters, andhad carved out broken cisterns for themselves which couldn’t hold water.(Jeremiah 2:13)

While in exile, God’s people had to pay for thewater they drank. (Lamentations 5:4)

Yet God continued to invite his thirsty people toreturn to Him and drink: “Come, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; andhe who has no money, come, buy and eat!” (Isaiah 55:1)

Jesus said, “Ifanyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as theScripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.’” (John 7:37, 38)

During some of my family’s hikes, we came close torunning out of water before reaching our destination. It was frightening,feeling thirsty while not knowing how close we were to the nearest water source.Too often I think of God’s blessings as being scarce; mere trickles of water,barely enough to sustain me. I allow myself to wander, thirsty in thewilderness.

But God offers me more than mere trickles. He gaveHis people water in abundance from the rock, enough to satisfy not only theirthirsts, but those of their livestock as well. This He gave to grumbling peoplethrough his servant Moses, even though he acted disobediently. Christ offers meliving water, enough that rivers of it can overflow from my heart. I can drinkthis water deeply because Christ drank from the sponge soaked in vinegar(Matthew 27:48) and from the full cup of God’s wrath. (Matthew 26:39)

Christ drank the cup of God’s wrath and offers me,instead, the cup of His blessing.

This year, I’m thinking about taking Tsh up on hersuggestion about drinking more water, and I hope to do so mindfully. I haveaccess to water, and in abundance. I never need to worry about going thirsty. Eachsip of clean, life-giving water provides an opportunity for me to consider whatit means to drink deeply from the river of living water. I want to learn tofunction more fully in the life Christ offers and begin to cultivate a mindsetof abundance, rather than scarcity.

In the year ahead I’m also hoping to be more mindfulof those who don’t have access to clean water. According to Compassion International,every day over 4,000 children are dying of water-related diseases such ascholera and typhoid that are easilypreventable. I’m hoping that in my year of drinking, I’ll be moved togratitude for what I have, and to compassion for those who continue to thirst.

My word for 2012? Drink. This year, I’m planning todo some serious drinking. Care to join me?

How precious is your steadfast love, O God!
   The children of mankind take refuge in the shadow of yourwings.
They feast on the abundance of your house,
   and you give them drink from the river of your delights.
For with you is the fountain of life;
   in your light do we see light.

Psalm 36:7-9

For more information about how you can help provideclean water for those in need:

CompassionInternational

Blood:WaterMission

(AllScripture references are taken from the ESV)

Linking with Bonnie @ Faith Barista:

And joining the community at One Word 365:

A Place I Don't Know

2012-01-03T12:15:00.001-05:00

My name isNancy, and I’m a recovering planner.

With a flipof a page, my calendar tells me it’s time to get back to real life or somethinglike it. On my way to drop off my car for servicing this morning, I saw naked,discarded Christmas trees lining city streets. I stopped behind yellow buses returningchildren to school as adults resumed normal work routines. I’m sitting at mycomputer, trying to get back into my writing pattern, watching my cursor blink,and wondering what to say about the activities of the past few weeks or aboutmy plans for the New Year.

Because Ithoroughly enjoyed my break from blogging over Christmas. And I have no ideawhat to expect in the year ahead.

I likehaving a plan and knowing what to expect. Life, for me, slips into a sweet spotwhen I’ve got it organized with calendars, lists, and spreadsheets. When myhusband takes me out on one of his death-defying hikes over and throughmountain passes, I like seeing the map and knowing how much further the climbis to our destination.

I don’treally have a plan for this year. Most years I’ve had specific tasks toaccomplish, goals to work toward, or milestones to commemorate: home schoolingmy kids, visiting colleges and filling out applications, celebrating graduations,planning a wedding. This year I flipped open my new calendar only to be greetedby a succession of blank pages. I think I’d like to linger a little whilelonger in the warm glittering joy of Christmas rather than confront the harsh,cold reality of blank calendar pages.

One of the highlightsof the past few weeks, in addition to having my children home for Christmas,was seeing them reunited with old friends. My son and his friends comparedexperiences from their first semesters in college. They discussed the qualityof the food in their respective cafeterias. Some reported that they loved theirschools and could hardly wait to get back. Others said the first semester hadbeaten them up pretty badly; the transition was harder than they expected.Several, after choosing a particular school because of a specific major offered,found themselves intrigued by a completely different program of study. A fewwondered whether or not they were on the right path and how their classroomexperience might possibly ever translate into anything in the real world.

I want totell my son and his friends that they’ll be okay; they’ll figure things out. Althoughlife may feel uncertain at the moment, I’m confident God has created and giftedeach of them for His purposes. I trust that, by His Spirit, He will equip themto discern His calling on their lives. But I don’t really live that way. I wanta plan, a step-by-step, connect-the-dots, turn-by-turn GPS leading me to acertain destination by a certain date, world without end, amen.

By faith Abrahamobeyed when he was called to go out to a place that he was to receive as aninheritance. And he went out, not knowing where he was going. Hebrews 11:8,ESV

I understandthe value of planning. I know I’ve been the recipient of many good thingsbecause my husband is exceptionally gifted at the whole long-range thinking andplanning thing. But I also know how tempting it is for me to look for comfortand security in making and having a plan. I’ve witnessed enough of my own fearsand frustrations when I’ve seen my plans go astray. Or completely blow up in myface.

So I’m enteringthe New Year, trying to make peace with uncertainty. I’ve got some ideas, someplans; some goals, but I’m trying to hold them loosely. I’ll keep writing,keep trying to respond to the blinking cursor. But in the year ahead I want to beopen to where God is leading, even if it’s to a place I don’t know.

Rejoining Jen and the sisterhood:

Getting What I Wanted

2011-12-23T09:21:00.000-05:00

Having received my gifts early, I'll be taking time off from my blog to enjoy them. Merry Christmas to all I've met here in this space, and in real life. You are gifts to me. See you in 2012.

Emmanuel! God is with us.

The Hard Work of Christmas

2011-12-21T07:00:00.000-05:00

Each year Imake traditional Swedish Pepparkakor for Christmas, and each year doing so isone of my least favorite tasks. Working from a family recipe handwritten by mysister-in-law, I roll and cut out nearly a hundred thin ginger cookies; a jobwhich keeps me on my feet for several hours. I wish I could cut the recipe inhalf and make fewer cookies, but it calls for only a single egg and I have yet tofigure out how to cut a raw egg in half. Although I enjoy them, Pepparkakor arehardly my favorite cookie. The dough is dry, crumbly, and hard to work with. Theolder I get, and the more excess weight I carry on my hips, the more my jointsobject to the hours I spend standing at the counter rolling out crumbly dough.

So why do I do it?

I'm honored to be hanging out with my friend Michelle DeRusha @ Graceful today. Won't you click here to read the rest of the story?

Introducing The Beloved Swede

2011-12-18T20:00:00.000-05:00

I was goingto take this week off from my blog. My son is home for Christmas break, and Iexpect my daughter and her husband to arrive mid-week.

However, my husbandsent the following to our pastor in response to his sermon last Sunday evening.The text was I John 2:7-11, Paul’s admonition to love one another:

Beloved, I am writing you no newcommandment, but an old commandment that you had from the beginning. The oldcommandment is the word that you have heard. At the same time, it is a newcommandment that I am writing to you, which is true in him and in you, becausethe darkness is passing away and the true light is already shining. Whoeversays he is in the light and hates his brother is still in darkness. Whoeverloves his brother abides in the light, and in himthere is no causefor stumbling. But whoever hates his brother is in the darkness and walks inthe darkness, and does not know where he is going, because the darkness hasblinded his eyes.

The Swedeisn’t a writer; he’s an engineer. But both my pastor and I thought he had somegood things to say, things worth sharing. Besides, posting his words here givesme the opportunity to show you a picture so you can see just how good-lookinghe is. So, as this week’s offering for Michelle’s Hear It, Use It Community,meet the Beloved Swede:

I mentionedthe movie Gran Torino last night–inthe context of Frank (I think that was his name) allowing himself to be subduedin order to subdue his enemies. That ending was unexpected and powerful in manyways.

It has beena long time since I saw that movie, so some of the details are fuzzy. But, Imean to watch it again.

Real sin isugly and disturbing. Gran Torinodeals with real sin. It also illustrates real sacrifice and redemption—which iswhy the movie is so powerful. I think it also does a decent job of illustratingreal-life hate and love, and the often-times difficult path between them.

Frankprobably really hates his Hmong neighbors—at least because they remind him ofhis real war enemies. Frank is a lost soul. A life already ended. Setting asidewhat initially motivates Frank, (a beer I think) he ends up taking small stepsof being near these people he thinks he hates—but, really does not even know.The edges start to come off as Frank simply spends time and learns about thestruggles of these people. Simple knowledge turns to investment. Investmentleads to caring. It is an imperfect process. In the end, Frank gains back hislife and sacrifices it so that former strangers might simply have the chance tolive their lives in relative peace.

Frank is acomplex character, sometimes ugly—so are we as sinful people. I think theprocess illustrated in that movie, however, while extreme in its circumstances,is not far at all from the way it works for all of us. We can’t simply commandourselves to love others. We need to stand alongside, invest, give; sacrifice.It is in these actions that we learn how to love. Christ did these things andwe need to practice them. In doing these little things, we are loving—even ifthe real caring does not come until later. I think we have a tendency to thinkthat loving always starts with a warm fuzzy feeling – or that it should. So, wewait around for the warmfuzzyfeelingbefore we make our move. I think more often it starts with an uncomfortablefeeling and awkward steps.

The darkness is passing away. The true lightis already shining. May God give each of us grace to love one another well aswe gather to celebrate the One who surrendered Himself.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Also look for me at Michelle's place again on Wednesday, where she has graciously invited me to guest post.

Sunday Before Christmas

2011-12-17T19:00:00.000-05:00

Lights in Park City, Utah; Winter, 2007

. . .the darkness is passing away and the true light is already shining. I John 2:8, ESV

Linking with Deidra:

Going Postal At Christmas

2011-12-16T12:25:00.001-05:00

Revisiting a post I wrote last Christmas in honor of the good people who work at my local post office. They're the best!

Last Saturday, I had to go to the post office to mail Christmas presents.

I know. What was I thinking?

I used to be the kind of person who had Christmas cards out by the first of December and gifts wrapped, packed, and shipped no later than December's first weekend. I considered it my personal gift to postal employees everywhere to plan ahead and help them out during this busy season.

I was terribly proud of myself for being so organized. And smug. But life got in the way this year, and pride goeth before destruction and all that, so I was ready to show up at my local post office and do penance for all my years of smugness.

And was delightfully surprised.

The employees at my local post office had gone all out for their customers, determined to send each one away smiling.They had set up a television and were showing How The Grinch Stole Christmas for all the customers who waited in line. Earlier in the season I had stopped in and found It's a Wonderful Life playing on continuous loop.The woman at the counter said showing it helped keep everyone smiling, because each customer seemed to have a favorite line.

There was popcorn and candy at the counter, and the employees joked and laughed with each of us pathetic, bedraggled, delinquent package mailers. Customers began conversations with one another. One woman told us she was shipping copies of her family history out to her relatives.We all shared in the beauty of the gift she was giving.

We shared in community in my little local post office on the last Saturday before Christmas and, in the last place I expected, I received a beautiful gift.

Originally posted December 20, 2010; edited and revised.

Blue Christmas? You Can Dance If You Want To.

2011-12-12T11:20:00.001-05:00

We sataround the table, my husband, my mother and me; Christmas lights draped fromthe restaurant’s ceiling beams, seasonal music playing softly in thebackground. I glanced at my mother, catching her just as she wiped a tear fromher eye. I stopped to listen to the song which played.

It was Elvissinging; I’ll have a blue Christmas,without you.

I have to behonest. I think that song has got to be among my least favorites in the entire Christmasmusic catalog, and I’m not sure it represents Elvis at his musical best. I usuallychange the station when I hear Elvis singing the intro in his halting, bluesystyle. The song just never packed much of an emotional punch for me.

But mymother had just buried her husband of thirty-three years. She was facing herfirst Christmas without him.

Christmas issupposed to be a time of great joy, of celebration with family and friendsgathered all around. But each of us, I imagine, has experienced a season when maybewe just weren’t feeling it. Some may have lost a family member during thepreceding year; others may be estranged from a loved one. Headlines confirmongoing economic uncertainty.

In her book,God in the Yard, L.L. Barkat wroteabout the value of experiencing grief in order to enter more fully into seasonsof celebration. Recalling a childhood history which included both divorce andalcoholism, Barkat wrote:

David Whyte says we spend too little timeexperiencing griefs, so they stay hidden, and our joy stays hidden with them. “Itis as if the two are simply two ends of the same whole. Remove the experience atone end of the scale by curtailing our capacity for grief and the wholeemotional body shrinks to a bland middle, curtailing equally our capacity forjoy.”

In hisseries on the life of David, my pastor preached about the song of lament Israel’sfuture king wrote following the deaths of Jonathan and Saul. Scripture saysDavid tore his clothes, wept, and fasted; he and all the men who were with him.David then said his song should be taught to the people of Judah, so thatfuture generations could join in grieving the fall of Israel’s anointed.

Severalchapters later scripture paints a picture of David at the other end of theemotional spectrum, dancing before the Lord as the Ark of the Covenant was returnedto Jerusalem. David’s joy was so unrestrained that his wife voiced contempt forhim. Unfazed, his response to her in 2 Samuel 6: 21 was, “. . . I will makemerry before the LORD.” David danced even after seeing one of his men struckdown for demonstrating carelessness in approaching God in his holiness. Givingvoice to the depth of his true grief, and knowing his utter unworthiness toreceive mercy from a holy God, freed David to dance and make merry withunapologetic joy.

The year Ilost my father, just two weeks before Christmas, was the season I learned tolove the holiday most dearly. Every year I read articles and listen toconversations about how best to keep Christmas celebrations centered on Christ.Maybe the best way to do so is by fully entering into the blue-ness of theseason, daring ourselves to tell the truth about what’s messed up, broken, andsad in our lives. Because when life is all hunky-dory, I don’t know how desperatelyI need tidings of comfort and joy. Without entering into grief and sadness, Idon’t really know how much I need Jesus.

“Go hence,to have more talk of these sad things,” Shakespeare told his audience atthe end of his tragedy, Romeo and Juliet.Perhaps doing likewise will pave the way for a merrier, more Christ-centeredChristmas this year. He came to make his blessings flow, far as the curse isfound.

You candance if you want to.

David Whyte, cited in: Barkat, L.L. GodIn the Yard: Spiritual Practice For the Rest of Us. Ossining, NY: T.S. PoetryPress, 2010, pp. 105-106.

Linkingwith Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jenand the sisterhood:

Sunday

2011-12-10T16:00:00.000-05:00

Photo credit: Justin Wirtalla

I will sing for joy in God,
   explode in praise from deep in my soul!
He dressed me up in a suit of salvation,
   he outfitted me in a robe of righteousness,
As a bridegroom who puts on a tuxedo
   and a bride a jeweled tiara.
For as the earth bursts with spring wildflowers,
   and as a garden cascades with blossoms,
So the Master, God, brings righteousness into full bloom
   and puts praise on display before the nations.

Isaiah 61:10, 11; The Message

Quietly waiting in joy, this third Sunday in Advent, and linking for the first time with Deidra and her Sunday community at Jumping Tandem:

Christmas is Coming, The Goose is Getting . . . Flat?

2011-12-09T12:45:00.000-05:00

Thoughts ofChristmas dinner probably call to mind traditional foods: a stuffed, roastedturkey with all the trimmings; a pineapple glazed ham, studded with cloves; afestive crown roast of pork wreathed in a string of fresh cranberries. Fewpeople, I imagine, picture themselves either serving or eating Christmas road kill.

Severalyears ago the beloved Swede and I lived near a friend whose husband traveledfrequently for work. It seemed she often found herself in the most unlikelypredicaments when he was out of town, leaving her alone with the kids. Once shecalled, asking my husband to come over and rescue her dog which had gottentrapped under the porch, behind a snow bank. Another time her kids werepretending to be horses, jumping over hurdles they had built in the living room,when her son fell and broke his arm causing it to dangle at unnatural angles.She asked if I would come over and stay with her other kids while she took himto the emergency room.

So it cameas little surprise when our friend called one day, near Christmas, to say herhusband was out of town and she needed some help. She had accidentally run overone of her pet geese in the driveway with her minivan.

My friendlived on a lovely, country horse property with a small, idyllic pond in frontof the house. She’d purchased several geese from friends who raised them forfood, thinking their presence would add a touch of charm to the little pond.Each time she pulled in the driveway toward her house, however, the geese wouldcharge toward her van, attempting to bite the tires. One day, one of the geesemade a fatal miscalculation when charging toward the van and my friend foundherself with a freshly killed goose in her driveway.

Not knowingthe proper way to dispose of a dead goose, my friend thought about putting itin the freezer so her husband could take care of it when he got home. Insteadshe called my husband, the mighty hunter, and asked what he would do. Realizingthe goose had been freshly killed, and bred for food in the first place, theSwede said, “We’ll take it.”

He broughtit home, plucked that bird, and put it in the freezer. And on Christmas day weenjoyed roast goose with apricot and cornbread stuffing. It was delicious.

Years later,our friends introduced us to several of their acquaintances. It didn’t takelong for them to make the connection, “Oh! You’re the ones who ate the petgoose for Christmas!”

“Yes,” weresponded. “Yes. We are those hillbillies.”

Our story ofthe road-kill Christmas goose has been told and re-told, and we continue to meetfolks who have heard it second-hand. And I’m convinced that, one day, the husbandfound himself on a business trip, seated on a plane next to a writer who workedour story into an episode of The Office. Watchthe clip, decide for yourself, and then tell me, “Do you think our little storywas the inspiration for Dwight Schrute?”

So, whatwill you be serving for Christmas dinner this year?

Empty Nest Christmas Tree

2011-12-06T12:25:00.001-05:00

We pickedout our tree together, just the two of us, the way we had back in the beginning.Back then, the beloved Swede and I had few ornaments to hang on our tree. Duringa quick trip to K-Mart one Friday evening after work, we picked up two stringsof lights, some ornament hangers, and a package of red satin balls. We decoratedour tree to the sound of a couple of Christmas records we had purchased, one byAnne Murray and the other by Barbara Streisand. We owned only a handful of otherornaments back then: an angel tree topper the Swede’s parents had given us theyear we’d gotten engaged, handmade gifts from our new friends, another newlywedcouple; a straw angel we’d found in a Scandinavian gift shop during ourhoneymoon. We were young and in love and, in our eyes, our sparsely decoratedtree was a thing of beauty.

Over the yearswe began to collect ornaments, picking up souvenirs from our travels together. Ona summer vacation in Vermont, we picked up a glass ball painted to look like acow. Friends had offered us free use of their ski cabin, which was about asmuch as we could afford to spend on a vacation back then. A ceramic mountaingoat which has been dropped, broken, and re-glued several times reminds us of ourbackpacking trip in Glacier National Park. Our tree holds memories of the yearswhen it was just the two of us, years when we were waiting for children.

When ourkids came along, we started building their collections. Each year, the firstornament our daughter pulled out was a baby bottle dated the year of her firstChristmas. Her foster parents had given it to her, those who had cared for herwhile we were awaiting approval to adopt. Next she always hung the cardboardtracing of her hand, the one our pastor’s wife helped her make one Sunday eveningin the church nursery. Each year she’d measure her hand against it, surprisedto see how much she’d grown. Her collection reflected her changing intereststhrough the years: cross-stitched ornaments she’d made from scraps and piecesof my embroidery supplies; a replica of Samantha, the American Girl doll she’d savedher money to buy, a girl playing a flute, mementos from her trip to Switzerland.

The year ourdaughter left for college we put up our tree early, during Thanksgiving break,so she could join us in decorating it. Last year I packed up all her ornaments andsent them home with her to the newlywed apartment she now shares with herhusband.

I carried myson’s ornaments upstairs this year, wondering if he wanted us to save them sohe could hang them when he returns from college. “Go ahead. You hang them,” hesaid, his interest in family tree-decorating having waned over the past fewyears. The Swede and I took turns pulling memories from boxes. Some brought smiles;others, tears. We found the ugly Grinch ornament, the one which probably came asa Happy Meal toy and which we used to discourage him from hanging on the tree.It now resides in a prime location, front-and-center on the tree.

I stared atthe picture of him, fused to a piece of Christmas fabric; the one of himholding the gingerbread house he’d made in kindergarten. I found a spot forSchroeder and Snoopy, the ornament which plays “Linus and Lucy,” and couldalmost hear my boy playing it the way he used to on our piano. I pulled Chipand Dale from the box we purchased at Disney World, recalling how my son couldn’tremember which character he’d met at the park was Chip and which was Dale. Ilaughed at the Elvis cow ornament, the one we’d picked up in an ice cream shopduring one of my husband’s many business trips to Park City, Utah. I wonderedhow much longer my son’s ornaments would reside in our home and tried toimagine where they, where he, will be when they leave.

We decoratedour tree together this year, just the two of us, just the way we’d begun allthose years ago. We didn’t say much. Christmas music played softly in thebackground, instrumental CDs we’d picked up in Vermont and in Santa Fe. Weremembered, our tree bearing witness to so many good years, years of God's goodness and faithfulness; years which have passed byall too quickly.

Linking with Jen and the sisterhood:

And shared as a Community Post at The High Calling.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year To Be Lucy and Ethel

2011-12-03T08:18:00.001-05:00

Mama always says, "Don't wear your bedroom slippers to the shopping mall."

But Mama's wisdom doesn't necessarily apply during Christmas. Especially when you've got some brand new jingling elf slippers:

And you're on your way with Ethel to get your annual Santa picture taken:

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First we had to have lunch and exchange gifts. And nothing quite sets the tone for a Christmas gift exchange like a retro diner which serves 26-inch hotdogs:

Over the years, Ethel and I have adorned ourselves for our photos with some fairly ridiculous accessories: reindeer antlers, elf hats, feather boas. This year, after reading an ebook about practicing Advent, we decided to deck ourselves in purple. Yep, all day I was a long, cool, walking Advent pillar, and so was Ethel (although she's not nearly as long). All day we engaged in our own little secret Advent conspiracy.

Because writer Anne Lamott said, "You don't always have to chop with the sword of truth. Sometimes you can point with it, too."

So we walked around all day bearing witness to the Source of ridiculous joy. And the amazing thing we discovered was: Once you know what you're looking for, you start seeing evidence of it everywhere:

Ethel gave me the most fantastically amazing handmade gift of love:

She saw a picture in a catalog of a sweater beaded in peacock feather patterns and thought to herself, "I can do that." And so she did. God has gifted my friend with amazing creativity and mad art skills.

I gave Ethel ice cube molds in the shape of false teeth. Because I'm classy like that. And because I know that someday, when we live next door to one another in a nursing home, she's the kind who's always going to be stealing my teeth. And I look forward to growing old and ever more ridiculous with my friend.

Then she opened the elf slippers. And we were on our way:

We like to believe we add a little joy to Santa's life, making the season more merry and bright for everyone:

For it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself.

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Happy Advent and Merry Christmas from Lucy and Ethel!

Linking our Advent playdate with Laura @ The Wellspring:

And, even though this may not have been what she had in mind, with Charity @ Wide Open Spaces who is hosting an Advent community writing project for The High Calling:

Chesterton, Lucy, Ethel, and Santa: The story of how our tradition began

Discovering Advent: E-book by Mark D. Roberts

Why I Want More For Christmas

2011-11-30T17:37:00.001-05:00

ThisChristmas, I want more.

I know. I’ma follower of Jesus. I should be focusing my attention on celebrating theseason in a Christ-centered way. I see the ads on TV and in my mailbox, theblatant appeals to consumerism and greed. I read about Christmas shopperstrampling one another in an effort to snag this year’s hottest item for a fewdollars less. In this country, we celebrate the birth of our Lord by exchanginganimal print Snuggies ™ even as children across the globe cry out in hunger andin need of clean water.

So we talkin our churches and across the blogosphere about doing Christmas differently. Wewant to focus on those things that really matter—the shepherds, the angels; thestory. We try to come up with fresh ways of communicating biblical truths to ourchildren, attempting to dispel fairy tales and myths. We try to teach them, andourselves, to squelch desire and want less.

But what if Christmas really is aboutwanting more?

I rememberchildhood longing, the desire for something better and new. When the glossy,new Christmas catalogs arrived from Penney’s and Sears, my siblings and I tookturns poring over their pages. I circled and starred my favorite items, thingsI didn’t even know I wanted until I saw them on the pages of the Wish Books. I made a list,alternating my hopes and dreams on paper in red and green ink. I noted colorsand sizes. I wanted a rock tumbler. A candle-making kit. An outfit that wouldmake me look less dorky when I walked the halls of my junior high school. Iremember Christmas as a magical time when I dared to dream big and believe Icould have the things my heart desired. I imagined life could be better.

I didn’tknow, back then, that my parents could afford few of the items on my list.Usually, by the time I posted it, my parents had already completed theirshopping. I received few of the items from my lists. When I did unwrap a gift andfind in my hands something from the shiny catalog pages I knew my parents had heard the cry of my heart, perhaps recognizing my desire to appear less dork-like among my classmates.

It didn’ttake long, however, to realize that the gifts I had longed for failed to meetmy expectations. The new outfit didn’t look nearly as good on my gangly teenageframe as it had on the model in the catalog. I learned that the rock tumblerwould take weeks to polish my chunks of granite into smooth chunks of granite. The candle molds leaked when Ipoured melted paraffin into them, spilling hot bayberry-scented wax onto mymother’s kitchen counters, dripping it into the crack next to the stove. I’llbet there’s still a pool of hardened wax between the stove and counter top in myold house.

Although thegifts I imagined would bring me joy failed to satisfy my deepest longings, I’mglad my parents didn’t tell me to stop hoping and dreaming. In hisrecently published e-book titled Discovering Advent, theologian Mark D. Roberts wrote of children and their hopes andexpectations for Christmas. He said,

Rather than discouraging these hopes (whichis a hopeless task!), I would urge parents to help their children get the“feel” of Advent by relating their hopes to biblical Advent themes.

I don’t wantto stop hoping and dreaming, and I’m not sure it’s wise to teach children to doso. Perhaps instead we should recognize desire as a good thing, a holyrestlessness for things to be better than they are. I’m not content believingthat this life is as good as it gets. Maybe the problem with Christmas isn’tthat we hope for too much; it’s that our hopes are too small.

Because whatI really want is to live in a world where everyone I love is happy and healthyand whole. I want the entire family gathered around a table, where food andwine are abundant and good, and there is no tension or conflict. I want beautyand lights and music everywhere, and all the time. I want to live in a worldwhere cancer, mental illness, addiction, and abuse don’t exist; where childrendon’t die of hunger or preventable disease and aren’t trafficked as slaves. Iwant to see organizations like Compassion International run out of children whoneed sponsors.

And I fullyexpect to get everything on my list.

Because allthose stories about shepherds and angels remind me that God knows the deepestlongings in the hearts of his people, and He keeps His promises. The birth ofthat baby fulfilled all the promises of the scriptures and the prophets. Sowhen scripture tells me that the Joy of Every Longing Heart is going to return,and He is making all things new, I dare to hope for unimaginably bigthings.

Because I think wanting more is the mostChrist-centered way of keeping Christmas of all.

So I willgive and receive gifts this Christmas; some of which will satisfy hopes anddreams, however imperfectly. And I'll support the work of those who offer hope in the name of that Bethlehem baby. But rather than trim my wish list or pare down myexpectations this Christmas, I’ll give full voice to my deepest longings anddesires. Join me?

If someone asked what your deepestlongings were for this Christmas, what would you say?

Joining emily:

And Bonnie @ Faith Barista:

And wishing a happy birthday and hoping for big things for David, my Compassion child who turns five years old today! Click the link for more information about offering hope to a child through Compassion International.

Broad Brook Anthology: A Vermont Playdate

2011-11-28T11:34:00.001-05:00

Lately, itseems as though checking my email feels an awful lot like walking down thedriveway to my mailbox. The real mail, the stuff worth making the walk orlogging into my account, lies buried beneath ads for Black Friday and Cyber Monday.I glance through my mail, both virtual and real, toss most of it into therecycle bin, and return to my writing or to household chores. Last week, however,in the course of scanning and dismissing most of my messages I nearly missed animportant invitation from an old friend.

The messagecontained an announcement about an upcoming performance on which my friend hadcollaborated. Just over the border in southern Vermont, the town of Guilfordwas celebrating its 250^th anniversary. A local resident, a poetnamed Verandah Porche, had spent several years interviewing elderly townresidents, mining their recollections of a lifetime shaped within the farmlandsof the Connecticut River Valley. And until I typed that last sentence, I didn’trecognize the whimsy in the name of the woman who authored this project.

My initialresponse to the invitation was to dismiss the play as a small-time production,most likely performed with poor acting and amateur props. Then I stopped tothink about my friend, a gifted photographer, and the quality of work I’ve seenhim produce. I begin to consider the possibility that this little local productionmight actually be very good, perhaps even better than every Christmas pageant I’dever attended throughout my life. Besides, I hold a special place in my heartfor old-timey family history, even if I don’t have a personal connection tothose involved in the stories. The beloved Swede and I found we had some freetime on our schedules, so we decided to make the drive to Vermont.

I am so gladwe did. The production, titled Broad Brook Anthology, combined the recollections of local townspeople into aplay for voices. The work was namedfor the stream which flows through the community connecting many of the familyfarms which provide context for the stories. Performed in the town’s historicmeeting house, a company of six actors local to Vermont and New York gave voiceto the reflections of the town’s elders. My friend had photographed theresidents in their homes as they had told their stories; and he projected theirportraits, interspersed with historical photos, throughout the course of theperformance. Another resident composed original music for the play which a trioof local musicians performed.

We heardstories, stories about working hard on the family farm and of getting up earlyto deliver bottles of milk. The words: Wewere poor but we were satisfied, echoed throughout a number of thenarratives. We laughed as we heard tales of mischief wrought in the days of oneroom schoolhouses, of children who fled to the hills at the sound of the recessbell never to return for afternoon studies. We saw photos of a devastatingflood, one which shaped the earliest memory of a resident who watched as thecurrent swept away his young cousin. We eavesdropped on courtship stories, manyof which began at square dances at the local Grange hall. We viewed weddingphotos of brides dressed in vintage gowns standing next to handsome men inuniform, some of whom had just returned from the war.

The finalline of the performance came from a man who is now widowed but remains in thesmall community where he lived, loved, and raised a family. He said he findspeace in his solitude, surrounded by familiar landscape. He wanders the woodsand hills of a place which shaped his life and considers the awe of existence itself.

This effortby local townspeople in celebration of their shared history accomplished somany good things. The play, and the years of work which went into creating it,honored the stories of ordinary men and women who had lived, loved, played, andworked in community with one another. Many of their stories have now been preservedin both image and word. A local poet, photographer, and composer; severalactors, musicians, and audio and video technicians exercised their crafts,combining their efforts to produce something which was beautiful and good.

After theperformance we returned to the home of our friends, nibbled on slices of freshapple and chunks of Vermont cheddar, and told stories of our own. We caught upon one another’s histories, and shared our narratives of living, loving,playing, and work. At the end of the evening we said goodbye and turned downtheir dirt road, heading away from their place and toward our own.

And thismorning I can’t stop thinking about the awe of existence itself.

Photography for Broad Brook Anthology provided by Jeff Woodward.

Linking with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Monday:

And with Laura Boggess at the Wellspring:

Black Ice

2011-11-21T19:30:00.000-05:00

From the archives, a Thanksgiving story. Happy Thanksgiving, dear friends!

As newlyweds, the beloved Swede and I faithfully made the eight-hour drive home to celebrate Christmas with our extended family. When our children came along we wanted to create traditions in our own home, giving them memories of waking up in their own bedrooms on Christmas mornings. For years, after Christmas I would pack up gifts for my mother and load my kids into the car so that they could share part of their school vacation with their grandmother. Unfortunately much of that vacation time was usually spent with eyes tuned to the weather channel, trying to plan our escape home before the next winter storm hit.

One year, I decided to play it smart and take the kids to visit Mom at Thanksgiving when winter weather wasn’t likely to be as threatening. The day before Thanksgiving, we enjoyed beautiful, sunny, sixty degree weather throughout our drive across Interstate 80. Thanksgiving morning, we awoke at Grandmother’s house to large, fluffy snowflakes which continued to fall throughout the day.

We celebrated Thanksgiving at my aunt’s house, nearly an hour away, and ate turkey and cranberries and pie, sharing stories with cousins I hadn’t seen in years. As evening crept in, I began to feel uneasy. Snow had continued to fall throughout the day, and I started thinking about wet roads freezing over once the sun set and temperatures dropped. We said our goodbyes and carefully packed up the leftover cranberries and pie. Because Thanksgiving was over, I popped Christmas music into the tape player so we could carol our way home.

I tested my brakes a few times to see if the pavement was icy or just wet, and chose the road through town rather than the scenic drive through narrow, twisting, tree-lined back roads. Just a few miles before reaching my mom’s house, however, my daughter gasped as the car began to spin. As it turns out, those signs which read, Bridge Freezes Before Road Surface, are there for a reason.

We had hit a patch of black ice, and I had become completely powerless to bring my car under control. My immediate thought was, “I’ve just killed both of my children and my mother.” My next thought was prayer, “Lord.These children belong to you.”

So often life feels like this, as though I’ve hit a patch of black ice and I have no ability to stop the spinning. I don’t know when I’ll stop or where I’ll stop or how much it will hurt when I do. I know I am powerless and circumstances are completely beyond my ability to control.

In the book of Isaiah I read about God’s people trembling at the approach of the mighty Assyrian army. The Assyrians were savage and fierce. They thundered down the road toward Jerusalem and were seemingly unstoppable, these instruments called by God to discipline His people. It probably seemed as though life for God’s people had spun completely and utterly out of control. But then Isaiah spoke these words about the approaching army:

This day they will halt at Nob; they will shake their fist at the mount of the Daughter of Zion, at the hill of Jerusalem. Isaiah 10:32.

God stopped the army at Nob. He halted the danger within spitting distance of His royal city. The enemies of God’s people could shake their fists at Jerusalem, but no more. God had allowed evildoers to advance but brought them to a screeching halt when His purposes had been accomplished.

God halted my spinning car. By the time He did, we had spun across two lanes of a divided highway, crossed the median and two lanes of oncoming traffic, rolled over and landed upside down, leftover cranberries and pumpkin pie smashed into the ceiling. Through the stereo speakers, Andy Williams’ voice continued to sing, It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

The driver’s side window had shattered, and I literally crawled across crushed glass to get to my mother and children. I heard their sweet voices,

I’m okay, each called out.

Wow, now we can get a car with a CD player! my son said, finding the good in the terrifying.

And there was good yet to come. Cars pulled over and stopped, presumably to see if anyone was still alive. They offered blankets to keep us warm. One of the first to stop was a nurse. Or maybe she was an angel; I don’t know. I do know she was summoned by my loving heavenly Father, and she came.

My seventy-five year-old mother hung suspended upside-down in the car, strapped in by her seat belt. The nurse cautioned us against trying to release Mom until an ambulance arrived, thus preventing her from falling and sustaining a severe injury. This kind stranger sat with my mother inside the car, checking mom’s pulse; keeping her calm.

We should have been dead, all of us, but each walked away without a scratch. And I walked away with more—comfort and assurance that my children did, indeed, belong to the Lord Jesus Christ; security in knowing that our lives are in His hands, confidence in knowing that God has purposes yet to fulfill in and through us.

I don’t have control over the icy patches in life, the evil places in this broken, fallen world that threaten the lives and happiness of those I love. But I do know Who does. And He will stop the spinning when He has accomplished His purposes.

Originally published November 10, 2010

Appointment With God

2011-11-19T10:44:00.001-05:00

Come on in. Have aseat, he says. You’re late.

“I know,” Imumble, eyes bowed.

This isn’t the first time. And I noticeyou’ve missed several appointments lately. You do realize the importance ofthese meetings? I held high hopes for you; now I’m not so sure. I may have towithhold some of the benefits I intended to offer you.

“I’m sorry.I overslept. I’ll try harder. I promise.”

He saysnothing. He’s heard my empty promises before.

Well let’s get to it then. Did you finishthat reading I left for you?

“I meant to.Life got kind of hectic.”

Hmm. I assume you brought your list ofaction items?

“They’rehere; though I’m sure I left out a few things.”

I lay mylist before him, jabbering on about the merit of each item. I offer my take oneach, suggesting possible next steps he might consider. I wait for a response.

Not bad, he says. Here’s what I can offer you. I can agree to numbers 2, 5, 7, and 8.I’ll give you healing from the head cold, allow you to find the pay stub youlost, grant you the job interview you wanted, and smooth things over with thewoman from your church. But 3, 4, 6, and 8 don’t quite line up with mypriorities. They don’t fit within my overarching vision. I’m not saying they’recompletely off the table, but you need to rethink those requests and see if youcan get them to line up more closely with my will. But don’t expect me to makethis easy for you. Don’t expect me to outline my will in crayon for you, makingit obvious. You’re going to have to do some digging and see if you can figure itout for yourself.

“I’ll seewhat I can do,” I say, tucking my list back inside my notebook; casting aglance at my watch.

You don’t really enjoy these meetings, doyou?

“It’s notthat. I just know I haven’t accomplished much lately. I’m sure you’redisappointed. I’m afraid you’re going tobe upset with me.”

Well that’s something you’ll have to work onthen. I see our time’s up. Good meeting. See you tomorrow, same time. Don’t belate.

We shake hands.

For years I wrestledto commit to a consistent quiet time with God. I lived as though time with him followedan exchange similar to the one above. Lately I’ve been rethinking the wholeidea of quiet time. I read through scripture and begin to question whetheror not it’s actually a thing, one God requires of me.

This pastyear I read a book written by a woman who met God in the Yard. She wrote of delighting in his presence. She got me thinking that's what I want to do. I want to enjoy God. Maybe even glorify him.

Working on some material for a women's Sunday School class starting this week at my church. This is a piece of it.

Linking with L.L. Barkat who got me thinking:

Laura Boggess in her playdates series:

And with Michelle in her Hear It, Use It community:

Joyriding: The Airplane Story

2011-11-16T15:41:00.001-05:00

When I was ateen my dad wasn’t terribly strict, but there were certain boys from whom heforbid me to accept rides. I grew up in a small town, and my dad knew who had areputation for reckless driving. He never said anything about airplanes,however.

One Fourthof July weekend, I was scheduled to work at the local pizza shop. I stayedbehind while the rest of my family traveled to my grandparents’ farm. I was afairly responsible kid; I held a job, participated in Young Life, and had atrack record of making reasonably good choices.

After myshift I drove to the local McDonald’s to grab something to eat. Although Icould have eaten as much free pizza as I wanted while at work, somehow it madesense to my teen brain to spend my hard-earned dollars on greasy fast-foodburgers. Besides, McDonald’s was the center of my town’s teen universe, and Iknew I might run into my sometimes-on-sometimes-off-again high school boyfriendthere.

I was right.Just as I pulled into the parking lot he pulled in next to me. In the passengerseat beside him sat a friend, a young man whose father owned one of the twofuneral homes in town.

“Want to goto Cleveland?” asked the sometimes boyfriend.

“Sure,” Isaid. “Do you want to drive, or do you want me to?”

“We rented aplane,” he said.

I rememberedhearing the voice of Mrs. McGinnis, the school’s secretary, crackling throughthe static on the intercom, and disrupting classes for an importantannouncement. She congratulated two of the school’s students for achieving thedistinction of becoming the youngest licensed private pilots in the state. So,of course, this girl with the reputation for making good choices said, “Okay!”And off we drove to the local airport.

In mydefense I had an uncle who was a private pilot, and he had taken me up in the airwith him several times. And these two were licensed pilots, I reasoned. “Howdangerous could this be?” my incompletely formed teenage brain must haveconcluded.

Because itwas the Fourth of July, we were able to witness fireworks displays below us. Itwas a perfect summer night, and the lights below shone with stunning brilliance.All at once it occurred to me that my parents were somewhere down there amidstthe lights below, and they had no idea where I was. They slept soundly, notknowing their responsible daughter flew overhead, having entrusted her safetyto the hands of two teenage boys.

If I werethe parent of my teenage self, I would have grounded me for all of eternity.World without end.

We arrivedsafely at the Cleveland airport and found a small sandwich shop which was aboutto close. Because I hadn’t eaten at McDonald’s, I was hungry. All I couldafford was an order of fries which probably cost four times as much as those Iwould have eaten had I stayed safely on the ground back in my hometown.

After weate, we returned to the plane for the return trip home. The flight wasuneventful, and we arrived safely. None but the three of us knew about our latenight Cleveland escapade.

Until.

Severalyears later, when I was in college, I took a human development class about deathand dying. I was given the assignment of interviewing a funeral home owner andwriting a paper about the process of planning a funeral. I scheduled anappointment with the father of my Cleveland adventure co-pilot, and drove homeone weekend for the interview. My mom thought the project sounded interestingand asked if she could sit in with me.

“Sure,” Isaid.

When wearrived for our appointment, the funeral director shook my hand and asked, “Aren’tyou the girl who flew to Cleveland with my son that night?”

My motherlooked at me. I looked at her.

“I nevermentioned that? Funny story. . .”

Thankfully thestatute of limitations on parental anger must have expired by then. Thereseemed little value in grounding me since I had moved on to college. But yearslater, Mom was able to exact a small measure of revenge.

When my kidswere teens, I hammered them about the importance of making good choices. I knewfrom experience that even responsible kids sometimes did really stupid things. Oneyear when my daughter was in college she decided to spend fall break with hergrandmother. While she was visiting, my mother asked her,

“Did your momever tell you about that time. . ?”

Telling my tale of childhood stupidity and linking with emily:

Family Reunions

2011-11-15T05:00:00.000-05:00

During eachsummer of my childhood, relatives gathered for extended family reunions. On a givenSunday afternoon, in the blazing heat of July, my grandfather’s people assembledin a park in rural western Pennsylvania. The following week, my grandmother’s folkswould gather, each bearing a Styrofoam cooler or picnic basket carrying acasserole or dessert.

For manyyears I had a hard time remembering which relatives belonged on which side ofthe family, or how any of them were related to one another or to me. For manyyears I probably didn’t care. All I knew was that for two Sunday afternoons ina row, I would get to load up my plate with all sorts of good food, there wouldusually be watermelon, and I would have an entire afternoon to play with mycousins.

Enjoying the hospitality of the fabulous Deidra Riggs over at her place at Jumping Tandem. Won't you join me there for the rest of the story?

When We Disappoint

2011-11-14T11:36:00.001-05:00

When mydaughter was a baby she napped in a crib in her upstairs bedroom, painted pinkand stenciled with bunnies. One day, after she had woken from her nap, I pickedup my sweet baby girl and started carrying her down the stairs. And then Islipped and fell.

I was in pain,the seeing-stars-I’m-afraid-to-move-and-find-out-I’ve-broken-something kind ofpain. While I was trying to figure out how badly I’d battered and bruised myself,my daughter cried out in pain of her own. She had a rash on her chin, receivedfrom having been dragged down the carpeted stairs. Her eyes bore a look ofutter betrayal as if asking me, “How could you do this to me, my own mother?”

The pain Ifelt paled in comparison to the ache of knowing I’d caused harm to my daughter.It wasn’t intentional, but I felt responsible nonetheless. I had failed my child, the one who looked tome for security, protection, and love.

My pastorhas been preaching a series of sermons on the life of David. Last week hehighlighted an episode in which David failed to protect his family. While onthe run from King Saul, David took his family and hid out in Ziklag in the landof the Philistines. He even assisted the Philistines by participating in their raidsagainst the Amalekites, Girzites, and other desert tribes. Saul didn’t pursueDavid while he lived among the Philistines, and he and his family remainedthere in relative safety for over a year.

Some of thePhilistine commanders grew nervous, however, about taking David into battlewith them. David was an Israelite, an enemy of the Philistines, and thecommanders questioned his loyalty. David was dismissed from the ranks ofmarauding Philistines and sent home to Ziklag. Upon arriving home, he learnedthat the Amalekites had raided the village and carried all its wives andchildren into captivity.

While Davidwas off doing battle with the Philistines, he left his family unprotected andopen to harm.

Then David and the people who were with himraised their voices and wept until they had no more strength to weep. ISamuel 30:4, ESV

I’ve wept too;in the knowledge that my actions have caused harm to those I love. I’d like tosay that dragging my daughter down the stairs was my one and only act ofdisappointment, but that’s not true. I’ve made careless decisions, some of whichwere outright self-centered and sinful. I’ve responded in frustration and angerrather than in love.

Leaning onconventional parenting wisdom I repeatedly grounded one child and generallymade life miserable in an ongoing battle over schoolwork. The problem withleaning on conventional wisdom, however, was that it blinded me from seekingGod’s wisdom and recognizing my child’s learning disability. That thing Godsaid about not leaning on one’s own understanding? Turns out God intends thosewords for parents. Turns out, he intends them for me.

Nobodyaround here is getting nominated for mother-of-the-year any time soon.

I wounded mychild with angry words, through my lack of patience and understanding. I grievemy actions and have wept bitterly. I am tempted to curl up into a ball anddeclare my utter worthlessness as a parent. But that’s not what David did:

. . . David strengthened himself in the LORDhis God. I Samuel 30:6, ESV

God doesn’tcast aside those who fail, those who disappoint. The Lord met David in his sorrowand strengthened him. My pastor directed us to these words, written by David inPsalm 25:

Remember not the sinsof my youth or my transgressions;
according to your steadfast love remember me,
for the sake of your goodness, O LORD!

Good and upright isthe LORD;
therefore he instructs sinners in the way.
He leads the humble in whatis right,
and teaches the humble his way.

Psalm 25:7-9, ESV

This accountof David ends well; he gets his family back. My daughter’s chin healed, and Idoubt she even remembers the day I dragged her down the stairs. But not allstories end well, at least not on this side of eternity. My actions may causewounds which run deep, resulting in scars that last a lifetime. Who knowswhether David’s wives and children were haunted by recurring nightmares afterbeing captured by ancient marauding tribes? Scripture is silent on this point,and I believe it’s wise not to speculate when scripture is silent.

But thispassage offers hope. It reminds me that God is the one who rescues and deliversfrom all harm, even the harm caused by my carelessness and sin. So I ask hisforgiveness and pray for healing. I need passages like this to remind me thatGod doesn’t give up on me, even when I’m undone by my failures. He forgives andstrengthens the mother who cries bitter tears.

Honored to have this post included in the December, 2011, round up of featured posts at The High Calling, selected by David Rupert at Red Letter Believers.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Keeping Secrets

2011-11-10T16:49:00.001-05:00

In a frameatop my piano is a photo, taken a number of years ago, from a wedding in whichmy entire family participated. We’re all dressed in our beautifulBarbie-and-Ken-doll clothes and are smiling happy wedding smiles. Also in thepicture is a young adult, one I don’t know personally, but one who isintimately connected with the horrific news swirling around the campus of my Alma mater. The photo is a sobering reminder that there are real people in realpain behind the sensational headlines.

I can’t readthe stories; they’re too ugly. I’ve read just enough to have images etched inmy mind I wish I could erase. Unspeakable horrors were committed againstchildren. I’m compelled to respond in prayer, though I hardly know how to prayfor something so big and so ugly. I beg for God’s mercy on behalf of those whowere abused. I pray for healing of mind, body, and soul. I ask that each namebe transformed from Victim to Triumph of God’s Grace. I pray for thosewho minister to students on campus and in the surrounding community.

Powerful menallegedly kept deep, dark secrets for a very long time. When the secrets were exposed,the extent of the damage seemed incomprehensible. The river of grief flowing throughHappy Valley is deep, and it is wide. If the charges are true, the lives of thoseabused, as well as those of a wife, children, grandchildren, co-workers, and friendsof the accused will never be the same. There's been a lot of collateral damage.

I keepwondering whether the man under indictment kept his secrets so perfectly and sowell that those surrounding him honestly didn’t know; or whether his friends,family and co-workers knew or suspected, but failed to act. I’m having a hardtime figuring out which scenario is more disturbing.

If you see something, say something is aslogan crafted in this age of international terrorism, one which asks citizensto be alert and speak up when something seems out of place. Clearly its warningneeds to be considered more broadly. The guy in the cubicle next to you may notbe plotting nuclear and biological attacks, but he may be contemplating unimaginableharm toward the child next door, or around the block; or in your home, or inmine.

It’s easy topoint fingers at those who failed, and failed miserably, at Penn State. But Ihave to ask, “How many of us have failed to speak up when seeing othersbehaving in ways harmful to themselves and others?” Have you, have I,confronted the friend who always seems to knock back one more drink than seemsresponsible? What about the co-worker who always closes his web browser whensomeone walks near his cubicle? Who pays attention to the young woman hiding inher dorm room at the end of the hall, the one whose wrists are covered in bandages?What of the friend who confides she chats online with an old flame late atnight while her husband and children are asleep?

Am Icourageous enough to speak up when I see these things? Are you? How many of uswant to allow the possibility that the worst we might imagine about anotherhuman being could be true?

And what ofmy own secrets, and yours? The stash of candy kept hidden in the laundry room?The purchase I hope my husband won’t notice? A bad decision made years ago thatcontinues to haunt? Data fudged on a report? Some of the secrets we bury seemsmall and laughable; others run serious and deep. If allowed to fester andgrow, those secrets and our shame are capable of causing great harm toourselves and those around us. If scripture is true and the ugliness in theheadlines teaches anything, our sin will one day find us out. There is simplyno such thing as personal sin.

It’s hardbeing Penn State proud in this moment. I feel like removing the decals from mycar and tucking my blue-and-white jacket away toward the back of my closet.This scandal hits a little too close to home for me, but not because I sharespace with someone in a wedding photo. It hits home because I know I’ve gotsecrets. You probably do, too. Maybe one of the lessons coming out of HappyValley is a call to listen anew for the voice of one crying, “Where are you?”Might the grief in this moment help us find courage to expose our secrets tothe light of healing grace? Might it teach us to show up in the lives of othersand help them find courage to do likewise?

Linking with emily, looking for beauty in the brokenness:

All That Is Within Me

2011-11-07T10:48:00.001-05:00

Bless the LORD, O mysoul,
and all that is within me,
bless his holy name!

Psalm 103:1, ESV

All? Blessthe Lord with all that is within me?

My time, mytalents, and all my little quirks: with these you ask me to declare that youare, and that you are good.

You ask meto love you with heart, soul, mind, and strength.

With my body,with all the senses you gave me, you call me to bear witness to your presencein this world.

Let my wordsbe pleasing to you and healing to others. Allow my laughter to reflect yourjoy. Call songs of joy and lament from my mouth, even if they’re not always onkey. Make me glad for the gift of joining my voice with those of others inworship, in affirmation, in questioning, and in confession.

Awake myears to hear the heavens pouring forth speech. Allow me to recognize the songof the night cricket and of the child crying for comfort. When I hear fingerscoaxing music from piano keys, remind me of your voice singing stars intocreation.

Open my eyesto see beauty everywhere, in your word and in the world you formed by it; inthe bright blue autumn sky and in the sun filtering through yellow leaves, inthe geese flying in formation and in the red fox slinking through the yard.Allow me to see the vast, intricate, and varied beauty you have woventhroughout all of creation. May I recognize your image in those who create andoffer their gifts to the world. And when I see ugliness, remind me that you aremaking all things new.

Make myheart glad when I step out my front door and breathe in the scent of autumnleaves and of wood smoke ascending. When I catch a whiff of baby powder or the scentof Jergen’s, allow me to revel in the landscape of memory and the gift of thosewho come to mind.

Allow me totaste your goodness in the bread and the wine, and in the steaming delight ofwarm apple pie and the comfort of my morning coffee.

Use my handsas instruments of healing, reaching for the shoulder of one who is weary. Allowme to tap out words on a keyboard and text messages that encourage. Whethergripping a steering wheel or immersed in dishwater, use my hands to build yourkingdom.

But all, Lord?How can I offer all that is within me when dark and ugly still linger deep,down inside? Fears. Doubts. Insecurity. Anger. Resentment. The baggage of life.How can I bless you with these things?

Give them to me.

Give them to me, because they are of no useto you. You can’t fix them; you can’t heal yourself of them. They will keep youfrom me, from coming to me and knowing of my deep delight in you.

Give them to me, all of them. Believe that Iam the one who crowns your life with compassion, who redeems your life from thepit and heals all your diseases.

Give them to me.

Bless the LORD, O mysoul,
and all that is within me,
bless his holy name!

Reflection on a scripture reading from The Relevant Conference. Linking with Michelle:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Stewarding Memory

2011-11-04T08:34:00.000-04:00

My tombstone is probably going to read: She still doesn’t know where her car keys are.

I’m a relatively intelligent woman. I’ve earned a degree, held several respectable jobs, and raised two children. I can recite most of the dialogue from It’s a Wonderful Life. I remember lyrics from old Partridge Family songs which, as a child, I used to belt out into a microphone I’d built from Tinker Toys. And, yet. Sometimes I forget to mark withdrawals in the checkbook. I forget to order heating oil. I can’t begin to count the number of times I’ve asked a friend to swing by my house to see if I’ve left my iron plugged in.

Memory can be a fickle thing, but like all of God’s gifts, it ought to be stewarded well.

I'm honored to be featured over at The High Calling today. Won't you click here to read the rest of the story?

Relevant Gifts

2011-11-03T12:05:00.000-04:00

When Ivisited England with my daughter several years ago, I found this version of aRussian nesting doll in a gift shop at York Minster:

The outsidedoll represents King Henry VIII, and nestled inside are dolls representing eachof his wives in the order they were dispatched: Divorced, beheaded died;divorced, beheaded, survived. I thought I desperately needed one of these quirkydolls until I flipped one over, saw the price tag, and calculated theconversion from British pounds to American dollars. I decided I’d be satisfiedwith just a picture.

Attending The Relevant Conference was, for me, like receiving the gift of a nesting doll.I didn’t receive a single gift at the conference; I received many, layeredwithin one another. The outer shell, the gift holding all the others inside, wasthe extravagant one my husband gave me. In paying my registration fee, pickingup my expenses, and agreeing to sacrifice the presence of my delightful companyfor several days, the beloved Swede encouraged me to continue writing and tellingmy stories. He is a good man, and so much better than I deserve. And as all theladies at Relevant who saw pictures will attest, he is one good looking Swede.

The nextlayer, the gift I was most anxious to open, was that of meeting friends I’veknown only through online words and pictures. Hugging Bonnie, our gracioushostess here at the Faith Jam, was a highlight of the conference as was meetingMichelle and Deidra. I met Mary, a new friend in real life, and am now lookingforward to getting to know her through her words and pictures online.

We sharedstories, laughter, and tears together as friends; we prayed with and for oneanother. I listened to others, those who have lived stories similar to mine,and I heard their encouraging messages, “Yes it is hard, but God is faithful.All will be well.” I sat with these women and shared meals; we joined ourvoices together in singing praise. And I know we will do this together againsomeday.

Layereddeeper inside the conference I found the gift of challenging, thoughtful wordsfrom so many. Like so many others, I’d come to the conference eager to hear fromAnn Voskamp, she whose life-giving words I’d found during dark days in my life.As humble and gracious in real life as she appears in her writing, Ann eschewsthe very notion of fame. Yet in response to God’s call to sacrifice the quiet anonymityof Canadian farm life, she offers to Him her words for the feeding of many.Blogging, she reminds a room full of women, is not about us, but about “washingthe feet of your sisters.”

Singer andsongwriter Shaun Groves, who organizes trips for bloggers on behalf ofCompassion International, spoke about the power of words to keep God’s mercy inview, even amidst the reality of devastating poverty. Shelly Noonan, in tellingher story of walking through pain, reminded us that “even our pain doesn’tbelong to us,” but can be offered for the healing of others. Laura Booz encouraged us to believe, “You become passionate aboutJesus when you understand His passion for you.” Tsh Oxenreider spokeabout “finding our sweet spots,” the intersection between our skills and ourpassion.She also showed us some pretty happening tools for navigating the world of Twitter.

I unearthedlayer after layer of gift during my weekend among fellow bloggers at theRelevant Conference and also received a hefty gift bag filled with books and othertreasures. I’m sure I received gifts I have yet to discover as I read backthrough my notes and chew on words I heard. I came home from the conferencedeeply convinced of the power of story. My stories matter, and so do yours.They are gifts we offer to one another.

Linking with Bonnie and high-fiving her on the news of her new book contract!

Also adding my link over at The Relevant Conference Blog.

The Heart and Voice of a Friend

2011-11-01T13:19:00.001-04:00

It was thefirst time I’d heard her voice.

We’d met,through words and pictures on each other’s’ blogs. I first started blogging byposting a weekly gratitude list and linking it with Ann Voskamp’s community. Iknew absolutely nothing about the rules of etiquette governing blog world. OnAnn’s site I saw thumbnails, small pictures linking to the gratitude posts ofothers, lists each had made of weekly thank offerings. I wasn’t sure if I wassupposed to read and comment on others’ lists; if it was nosy or creepy orstalkerish to do so. But I did. I looked through the thumbnails and at theother blog titles and found one called Curious Acorn. I figured whoever chose that title must have been some kind ofmarketing genius. The curious word choice drew me in. Is the writer curious about acorns? I wondered. Or, is the blog about acorns that arecurious? That doesn’t make any sense.

So of courseI clicked. And I made my very first internet friend.

I met Jodi,an artist. And, as a left-brained, linear-thinking, spreadsheet-loving gal, Ican tell you that very little of the way artists process life makes any senseto me. And I think I’m only beginning torealize how desperately I need them in my life. I just don’t let them do themath when we’re eating out somewhere and it’s time to calculate the tip.

Despite ourdifferences, I found a kindred spirit in this artist girl I’d never met. Welove the same movies, we laugh at the same things. She is the Diana Barry to myAnne Shirley in the same way my friend Ethel from real life is the madcapcounterpart to my zany Lucy.

How is itI’m always the redhead?

Anyway. Jodiand I have walked through similar pain in our lives. We’veprayed for one another and for the other’s family. We love the same Jesus. Sowhen I realized I would be in her neighborhood for The Relevant Conference, Idared to ask if I could come and meet her.

Come hungry, she said.

An earlyOctober snowstorm moved in during the course of the conference, disrupting anddelaying travel plans for many. I called Jodi to update her on my plans and lether know when to expect me. And I heard her voice for the first time.

I found myway to the home of the Curious Acorn; I met Jodi and her family. She told methe stories behind the pictures on her refrigerator. She introduced me to hergrandbabies. She spoke in a calm, quiet, deep, soothing voice; one like an NPRvoice but without all the smugness.

I saw thefamous chalkboard pantry door from pictures on Jodi’s blog. She wasn’t kiddingwhen she’d told me to come hungry. She fed me well; she nourished my soul.

On asideboard next to the table she’d written words she’d asked the Father to giveher, words just for me:

If it’spossible for a house to breathe peace, Jodi’s does.

Mostparents, I imagine, are as concerned as I am about the amount of time theirchildren spend on the internet, and rightfully so. We warn our children aboutits dangers; we tell them not to reveal personal things to strangers. Weencourage them to get outdoors, to embrace life in the beauty of God’s goodcreation. I believe God made us embodied spirits and placed us in particularplaces in space and time. We have been created for community and intended to reflectGod to our neighbors. We are to inhabit the places we live.

I can’tquite make sense of what is happening in my life, in and through the strangereality of blog world, but something is. One of the speakers at Relevant asked,At what time in history can we go andmake disciples around the world while in our pajamas and in our living rooms?I seldom know what is going on in the lives of people on the other side ofthis screen, those who are reading the words I’ve tapped out. I tell mystories, I get to know people; God is doing something. That’s all I know.

As I wasloading up my car to leave, Jodi packaged up some of her fancy homemadegingerbread for me for the drive home. Who does something like that?

A kindredspirit. A real friend. A sister.

(The state of Connecticut is, once again, experiencing widespread power and internet outages. Linking late with Laura and L.L.

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

This is What a Bosom Friend Looks Like

2011-10-31T08:27:00.000-04:00

Yes, I've been on the road forever, and no I haven't written a single sentence in that time. Today I just need to point you over to my friend Jodi @ Curious Acorn. You'll understand.

Heading home to the beloved Swede. Grace and peace to you all.

Well Pleased With the Beloved

2011-10-23T18:00:00.000-04:00

He sat nextto me during worship, the young man who had been born in a remote islandvillage on the other side of the globe. There, he hadn’t escaped the notice ofthe God who sees, the One who brought him into my home where he grew in myheart. In our home he learned to play music, first sitting on the piano benchat age four, and picking out notes from the hymns he’d heard in morning worshipservices.

We visited achurch near Chicago, this young man and I, and the pastor spoke on these words:

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth ofGalilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And when he came up out of thewater, immediately he saw the heavens being torn open and the Spirit descendingon him like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, "You are my beloved Son;with you I am well pleased.” Mark 1:9-11, ESV

The pastorspoke to the longing we have, each of us, to hear those same words. We want toknow we are beloved. We long to hear from those whom we love that, with us,they are well pleased. We want to be affirmed, to know that we are good atsomething; that our lives matter. These are natural desires and good ones.These are words we would expect to hear in a world where God’s shalom reigns,where His image bearers live in harmony.

But we don’tlive in a world of shalom. Relationships, even loving ones, are broken; and webroken people disappoint and hurt one another. Parents and children, husbandsand wives don’t always love well. We are more prone to express our displeasurethan tell our loved ones, “With you I am well pleased.” Our voices soundstrange notes. Dissonant chords echo in our homes.

The words,said the preacher, which God the Father spoke to His beloved Son are the sameones He speaks to all who belong to Him:

You are my beloved. With you I am wellpleased.

Today. Thisminute. Not later, after you’ve cleaned up your act. Right now. You are mybeloved child. I am well pleased with you. And when we are able, said thepastor, to grab ahold of how deeply God loves us, how well pleased He is withus, everything begins to change.

We walkedforward together, the young man and I, and received the bread and the wine; thebroken body and spilled blood of the beloved Son. Musicians played Holy, Holy, Holy in an arrangement whichsounded like it could have been written by Vince Guaraldi; the man who composedthe music for the Charlie Brown specials, the music my young man has beenplaying most of his life.

And, in theeating of the bread and the drinking of the wine, I tasted shalom; and sensed thedissonant chords resolving.

Linking with Michelle:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Fistbump For a Faithful Dude: Review of The Unlikely Missionary, by Dan King

2011-10-19T15:21:00.002-04:00

When I metDan King during the course of a writer’s retreat he was dripping wet, havingjust been flipped out of a boat and into a river by a work colleague. Helaughed, extended his hand, and introduced himself as the Bible Dude, creatorof a website by that name, and author of a soon-to-be-published e-book entitled,The Unlikely Missionary.

During thecourse of the retreat I got to know Dan a little, this unlikely missionary. Hetold me about his work as a corporate training manager in thetelecommunications industry and as social media editor for The High Calling network. He told me about the work he’d done in youth ministry with his church.He talked about how amazing and beautiful his wife is and showed me, on hisphone, a picture of his daughter. I got to know The Bible Dude as a regular guywho does regular things in the real world. Dan King doesn’t fit any stereotypeswhich may come to mind when one hears the word missionary.

And it is DanKing’s regular-ness which makes his book, TheUnlikely Missionary: From Pew-Warmer to Poverty Fighter, a compelling readfor regular, ordinary followers of Jesus.

In awinsome, conversational style, using excerpts from his travel journals, Dantells his story of coming to faith in Jesus, digging deeply into Bible study,and learning to care about those things which Christ cares about. In the courseof raising a family, doing his job, and taking seminary classes, Dan started ablog which he used to write about and process the things he was learning. Hewrote about an organization called Five Talents, a group dedicated to fightingpoverty through sustainable job creation. One thing led to another, and Danfound himself working with Five Talents, and putting his corporate trainingskills to use in remote villages in Kenya and Uganda.

I’m not qualified for this, was hisprevailing thought.

After all, I was just some punk blogger whowas excited to have access to some really cool stories that would help inspireothers to make a difference in the world around them. I believed that thechurch should be more involved with this kind of stuff, but never imagined thatit would take me on a mission trip to Africa.

The story Dantells is descriptive, not prescriptive; his intent is not to tell anyone how tobecome a missionary. Rather, The UnlikelyMissionary unfolds the tale of how a regular guy, going about his business,attempting to pursue faithfulness at home, at work, and in the church, foundhimself being used by God in ways he never could have imagined.

An importantelement in Dan’s story, I think, is the care he took in preparing his familyfor the time he would be away from them in Africa. He wanted to make sure thathis passion for ministering to others didn’t supplant his responsibility tocare well for his family. By making sure his family had a support system inplace during his absence, and in recording bedtime story videos for his son, Dandemonstrated his belief that kingdom work is not a choice between overseas missionsor caring for one’s family; it is both.

Preparing for my family in this way helpedthem see that the mission was not more important than they were.

Each chapterends with a praxis section, opportunities to step out and take action toward alife of world-changing mission. These are not intended as mandates toward aparticular action or as an effort to produce a guilt trip in anyone. Instead,they are suggestions for opening doors and considering possibilities in thecontext of everyday faithful living. A consistent invitation echoes throughoutthe pages of Dan’s story, and the invitation is this: pursue faithfulness inevery area of your life, and then watch and see what God can and will dothrough you. He says,

I am asking you to start a journey ofdiscovery that will transform your life if you let it.

The Unlikely Missionary: From Pew-Warmer toPoverty-Fighter is available for download on Kindle.

Pink Glove Dance

2011-10-17T06:00:00.000-04:00

Originally published January 14, 2011. Re-posting in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month and Rock Star-Diva Girlfriend:

When rock star-diva friend started treatment for breast cancer, a friend sent her a link to this video:

It made her laugh. And when your friend is going through the horrors of cancer treatment, you become profoundly grateful for anything that brings to her laughter and joy. So, bride-to-be baby girl and I decided to honor our friend and celebrate the completion of her treatment by doing the pink glove dance at the wedding reception. (It was really hard keeping that secret.)

This is my baby girl introducing the bridal party who got things started:

The wait staff at the reception facility placed bags of pink gloves at each table. Attached to each bag was a note which read:

The Pink Glove Dance was made popular on YouTube by employees of the Providence St. Vincent Medical Center in Oregon, dancing in support of breast cancer awareness.

Today we celebrate in honor of our friend, breast cancer survivor, and rock-star diva, raising hands in thanksgiving to the Lord Jesus Christ, the Great Physician, for His healing power in her life.

And this is what happened on the dance floor:

Young. Old. People who knew her, people who didn't know her; people who knew others battling this evil disease, all joined in.

And my friend felt loved. And it was a beautiful thing.

Old Friends Who've Just Met

2011-10-14T06:00:00.000-04:00

Just a little something extra for my friends who attended The High Calling writing retreat. I think others might enjoy it too.

I know. I swore I was done writing about the retreat. Technically I'm not writing about it today; I'm posting a video. Not that I'm a legalist or anything.

Anyway. As I was standing around in the parking lot, waiting for my shuttle to the airport, I had a brief conversation with speaker Jeff Overstreet about his (and Kermit's) rendition of The Rainbow Connection. It was a moving performance about which the delightful Kelly Sauer wrote a thoughtful piece over at her place. During the conversation, Jeff mentioned an even more powerful song from The Muppet Movie. I'm just glad he didn't sing this one at the end of the retreat:

(On the road for a few days, leaving the beloved Swede to guard the castle. Digging into the archives and scheduling some posts my husband refers to as "filler." But you enjoy them anyway, right?)

Serving a Risen Savior

2011-10-11T15:30:00.000-04:00

On Sunday mornings, when my sisterand I had spent the night at my cousin’s house, we would often awake to thesound of my uncle cranking out the morning’s church bulletins on his mimeographmachine. My sister, my cousin, and I folded the pages, and I thought my unclemust have been a very important man in his church to have had his own mimeographmachine. He was.

My uncle was killed in a caraccident on a Sunday afternoon just four days prior to marking his sixtiethwedding anniversary. A quiet man, this uncle had been present at the family farmmost Sunday afternoons among all the aunts, uncles, and cousins. These wereGod-fearing people whose Bible was King James and whose theology wasblack-and-white. They stood on the promises and served a living Savior. At myuncle’s funeral, the sermon he had lived required the combined efforts of fourpastors to preach.

We gathered at a funeral home in Fryburg, PA, a tiny, rural community on theoutskirts of places like Sawtown, Fertigs, Coal Hill, and Venus. Built to holdroughly fifty mourners, the building was quickly filled to overflowing. Overtwo hundred crowded inside as others waited out in the January cold. These wereworking men and farmers, some dressed in camouflage or their coveralls and workboots the way my uncle would have known them. Some dug out suits which hadrarely seen the outside of a closet. Poorly fitting suit jackets stuck outbeyond the sleeves of red NASCAR coats.

These mourners knew my uncle fromchurch and from his machine shop. One of the pastors mentioned that, if myuncle couldn’t find a part to fix something, he made one. Many of those crowdedinto the funeral home had spent hours in his well-ordered shop watchinga master craftsman at work. He fixed broken things with his hands and welcomedbroken people into his shop. Sometimes he employed some of these local folk, peoplewho were out of work because of bad economic times or because of bad choicesthey’d made in life.

My uncle was a pastor’s friend. Servingoften as the peacemaker and voice of reason at church meetings, my uncle made apoint of visiting his pastors to encourage them in their work. He prayed forthem, and they knew it. They sought solace with him in his shop. One pastorspoke of the number of times he’d been on his way into the hospital to visit anailing church member, only to cross paths with my uncle already on his way out.Another had had the opportunity to attend graduate school because my uncle hadpaid his tuition.

One of the pastors said that whenthere was work to be done at church my uncle was there, even in advancingyears, declining health, and debilitating pain. He showed up even when young,healthy, able-bodied members didn’t. When asked why he continued to work sohard, he responded, “God gives me grace to endure.” He said it in a way thatdidn’t sound trite. It didn’t sound like a platitude. It sounded true and madethings like grace and endurance and service seem like things that really aretrue and really are gifts from God. He said it in a way that made me want todesire them more and want to complain less.

News of my uncle’s death reached one of his former pastors just as he was aboutto step into the pulpit for the Sunday evening service. Members of hiscongregation had never met my uncle but, after hearing testimony of his life,felt as though they had. One woman said, “I didn’t know men like that stillexisted.” I will never craft a machine part with my hands, but I pray for grace to serve my risenSavior as he did.

Writing in community with Jennifer @ Getting Down With Jesus and The High Calling. This post is a revised version of an earlier piece I had written and then removed because it contained details which weren't my story to tell. I'm grateful for this opportunity to retell my memories of the life of a godly man.

Precipice Trail

2011-10-10T11:53:00.001-04:00

There arereasons visitors flock to New England in the fall.

When mychildren were young, Acadia National Park in Maine was the annual fall leaf-peepingdestination for our family each Columbus Day weekend. As the only national parkin New England, Acadia is consistently ranked as one of the top ten mostvisited national parks in the country. Acadia offers gorgeous views of rockyMaine coastline set against a stunning mix of evergreen and deciduous trees.The foliage in Acadia is usually at its peak of autumn color near Columbus Day,and the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows in the trees contrasting against thecool blues and grays of the shoreline entice visitors from all over the world.

My kids andme, circa 2000. Notice how our fleece jackets match the reds, greens, andyellows in the trees?

The parkcontains an extensive carriage road system which passes through stone-facedbridges, near waterfalls, streams, and hiking trails. My family and I arewell-acquainted with many of the trails, having kicked over familiar granitesurfaces multiple times throughout the years. The Beehive trail, a short climbup a granite cliff via ladders and iron rungs, became a family favorite. Iremember the year my daughter pouted because I would only allow my husband totake her halfway up the trail, fearing it was too dangerous for her. By thetime my kids were in high school, they scrambled up the Beehive as though theywere mountain goats.

One year,the beloved Swede decided that the kids were ready to conquer Acadia’sPrecipice Trail. Described as a strenuous hike climbing 1,000 feet up the faceof Champlain Mountain, the trail requires the use of many iron rungs andladders. Warning signs posted at the trailhead indicate that the route shouldbe attempted only by hikers who are physically fit and have no fear of heights.The warnings state that, in order to reach some of the iron rungs, hikersshould be at least five feet tall or else they will slip, fall and bounce theirway down the granite cliff, becoming food for the endangered peregrine falconswhich nest on Mount Champlain. Or something to that effect.

My son, whowas nine years old at the time, may have measured all of four feet-ten the yearthe beloved Swede decided to conquer The Precipice Trail. He assured me our sonwould be fine; he was an experienced hiker. Besides, he told me, a friend ofhis had hiked the trail not long before and said it wasn’t that bad. Thelanguage on the warning signs, he told my husband, was just there on the adviceof the park’s lawyers as protection against claims of liability.

Did I happento mention my husband’s friend was a lawyer?

Not longinto the hike, I began yelling at my husband, “I hate this trail! I hate yourfriend!” It had rained all night long before the morning of our hike, and doyou know what is more slippery than wet granite? Not much. Each time I heardthe slip of a foot or the crunch of gravel being kicked loose, I had visions ofmy children tumbling down the slick, granite rock face, plunging to certaindeath; all while under my supervision and with my consent.

We reachedthe summit of Mount Champlain where the wind, I was certain, was about to carrymy four-foot, ten inch son off the mountain and away.

My husbandwanted a picture of the kids and me enjoying the view from the top. DoI look like I’m enjoying the view?

Without aword, I turned and started making my way down the back side of Champlain. Iwanted nothing more than to get off that summit. That blur of yellow behind thetrail head sign is me heading for the car, trying to put as much distance aspossible between me and the Precipice Trail.

During dinnerthat evening, my son asked, “Mom? Do you still love Daddy?”

I may haveanswered him something to the effect of, “I will always love your father. Now shutup and eat your buttered noodles.”

Despite theunpleasantness of the Precipice Trail hike and dinner that evening, we enjoyeda memorable weekend together. Thunder Hole--a rocky inlet which, when tide conditions are right, allows air andwater to collide in an explosive crash--put on a spectacular show for us.

Just as thekids had decided they were done viewing Thunder Hole, my husband climbed up onsome granite and asked us to pose for pictures. From his vantage point, hecould see out what was out in the ocean and headed our way:

Believe me;the waters of the waters of the Atlantic along the coast of Maine can getpretty darned cold by Columbus Day weekend.

My kids are now grown, and my husband and I are together at home this Columbus Day. But I have photo albums filled with pictures and a heart full of memories of the fall weekends shared, through the years, with our children along the coast of Maine.

I will always love my children's daddy. And them.

(Click here for a video of Thunder Hole doing it's thing)

Sharing a Columbus Day playdate memory with Laura:

And with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Monday: