1

I hung up the rain coats, straightened the gum boots on the rug. The 100th time today…but this time I wept. How is it that the smallest size listed on those coats is a 5? How did these years fly so fast? Today I have huffed and puffed as I picked up her markers ‘again’, the 700 strings he cut in zip line maintenance, the socks in the middle of the floor from the rush to the hot tub. I missed out on the trip outside. Cleaning up the things that will be back on the ground in ten minutes. I lectured, I stormed, I ranted. I crashed the symbols in their little ears, drowned the sound of all the whispered “I love yous”.

2

Once upon a time I saw a family at church. The husband and wife were desperate to praise. We don’t offer a kids program yet at this service and so the little girl was beside them with a Barbie doll. The two grown ups would throw their hands in the air reaching for heaven with all their strength, their faces desperate in the act of worship. Or perhaps they were trying to get God down? Kingdom come, NOW. But then. The little girl would make too much noise, kick the seat, jump around and their eyes would fly open they would aggressively tell her to tone it down, march her out of the sanctuary.

The passion of the worship was eclipsed and I thought about that little girl and the symbols going off in her head right now. God is a God of what?

3

Once upon a time I had a friend. I was envious of her dynamic relationship with God. She was always deep into scripture, going through SOMETHING. God was always teaching her. It was beautiful. Sometimes though, she was so deep in the ‘furnace’ that she could not see out, could not even see those of us in the room with her. Sometimes Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego we were, together in the blazing coals, but she could not see me. She had the capacity to look through me, around me, not even notice I was there.

We watched the figure of God in the furnace there with us but we could not hear the clanging on the metal furnace door, the people left on the outside, asking to join us, despite the risk of burns.

~

The other night my son crept up the stairs to the pulpit as my husband prayed for someone on stage. He crept up in sweat pants 4 inches too short and my husband wrapped his arm around him as the boy arrived at his leg. There are times in my life when I would have panicked, run, grabbed him. But we’ve made the conscious choice to invite our children into ministry with us. It will not ever be something that takes daddy away from them, it will be what our family does together. We will enjoy it, together. It will be messy. But it will be real.

Our God, He hasn’t called us to a cloistered life, hold up in that cabin all alone. He hasn’t called us to worship Him ONLY when the music is playing. He has not called us to worship at the expense of others. Your life of worship and devotion needs to exist even when the days are busy…more so. Your life of Loving God and man needs to be active ESPECIALLY when we are overwhelmed .

Are there times when you will need to carve out spaces for intimacy with Him alone…YES. But.

Often there are others here too. These kids. This man. These are my primary ministries and the circles of influence as they expand around us. And I cannot honour HIM if I do not honour THEM.

I am a bit of a mystic if I may be so bold. I expect relationship with God, a back and forth. I am prone to the passions, the highest heights the deepest depths…I feel them. And I love to worship too, eyes closed, furnace blazing. But. The clanging symbols in my life can completely eclipse my devotion.

Oh God. Don’t let me add to the noise.

13 If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don’t love, I’m nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.

² If I speak God’s Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, “Jump,” and it jumps, but I don’t love, I’m nothing.

^3-7 If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don’t love, I’ve gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I’m bankrupt without love.

I see you.

I see how you struggle to fit, the way you shrink or expand depending on the audience.

I see you tying that legalism noose of religion tight on your neck, hanging yourself on the belief that nothing that looks like passion can be part of Gods plan.

I see you there. You with your cup full, wondering why you don’t get to see God making water into wine. Funny how that happens when our malt is overflowing.

I see you, the way you want to please. I see the way you care more about what people think than what is right.

I know because I’ve been you. In the space of one day I’ve been called an oppressive conservative and a raging liberal. I’ve had grown women hide their cigarettes from me, grown men question my intent.

I’ve seen you pulled along these ragged rocks too, the expectation of man. The here and now that shifts like tide, changes like a runway.

And it isn’t just the church you know.

I’ve been called an academic fraud and an intellectual in the same day.

An athlete and a sluggard.

A feminist and a submissive.

A good mom or that my kids ‘run-amuck’.

An environmentalist and a ‘ozone hole producer’.

The atheist might preach the loudest you know? They seem to have a lot to prove to themselves and the world. That says something. All those who preach with themes are struggling. This I know.

Sometimes the most virulent voices are the weakest of faith. I know. I’ve been that.

Those of us that like to live out the question…relish the exploration…we are most prone to grace-less religion when a question demands black and white. Trust me. This is an answer I can give with authority.

So here, now. I want you to know I measure my heart to the standards that don’t change.

Today. I ask for insight from those that lead me.

In this moment, I want feedback from those who I love fiercest.

The rest? With voices that chorus around us? I will hear you.

And my heart will take in the messages that are truth. Those that bring me to my knees and remind me that perhaps, my actions look different from my intent. That… my values are not seen clearly. The things that ring clear with the Truth teller…those I will hear.

But.
Otherwise? Your voice will not paralyze me. I will not cower at your vitriol.

Here now. I hang my coat with the One who sees me rightly. The One I can trust.

Linking with friends this week.

Emily, Ann, Jen, Laura, Lisa-Jo & Jennifer

Photo cred…Phil Collins

I am into the bird calls returning, the woodpecker back. I’m into the stellar jays and the robins fighting and the swallows nesting in my bird house. I’m into the mallard pair who nest in the pond each spring and the way earth smells when it thaws.

 I am into her blond curls blowing in the spring winds and her dusty rose dress. I am into his construction projects, her endless art. I’m into the dams they build in the creek, the mud they sling, the trail they leave across my floor (well, ok I’m not exactly ‘into’ that, but it is what I am doing). 

I am into the sun finally creeping in through filthy windows and the motivation to get stuff done. I’m into cleaning out shelves, turning round furniture.

I’m into this book. There will be more to come on it (and I’ll even give away a copy) but it is feeding into my leanings and I am excited about it. I am back into Game of Thrones though I put it down for a time. I am into reading about marriage again and what it means and how to do it better. I’m into figuring this motherhood thing out, finding a rhythm wherein I still feel like myself. I’m into the poets, finding my attention span short. I think Mary Oliver and I would make fine friends. 

I am into feet gathered under my table, spring sun heating our backs. I’m into any excuse I can find to use fresh basil, tomatoes and reduced balsamic vinegar. I’m into risotto, salmon lettuce wraps, black bean salad, chicken fajita soup.

What about you? What is on your ‘best of’ list for March??? On the prowl for some new music…suggestions????

There I am,

Throwing palm fronds like a ticker tape parade.

I like the party Jesus, when the going is easy, when the church celebrates.

I will throw down my cloak with the best of them. Let me plan the event, invite the guests.

There I am,

Kissing your cheek, though the swords are drawn and I know it.

Still though, I exchange all your promises for a bag of gold, treasure in this day.

I like the excesses Jesus. Seems there is a lot I will do to satisfy this flesh.

There I am,

Among the religious elite.

Staking claims, calling out the weak, neglecting mercy.

Tell me then who struck you down Christ? Who spit in Your face?

There I am,

Listening to the rooster squawking in the distance.

It sings a song I recognize, for all my words, still I can turn my back on You.

I’m all yours when the road is smooth, just don’t ask me to suffer, to join in your sacrifice.

There I am,

My damp hair on Your feet.

This unfaithful heart, so prone to wander,

To forget and neglect all Your most reckless blessings.

There I am,

The doubter demanding proof.

Give me the three-month recidivism rates on your miracles,

Watch me jab my filthy fingers into the gaping holes in Your hands. 

There I am,

Standing with the mockers,

Those who claim the empire and protect her against all odds.

I let their voice ring loudest, above your pained cry, I wash my hands of it.

There YOU are.

The garden is growing up around You,

The cup heavy in Your hand,  You drink it to the last drop.

You watch me the whole time. I have to look away.

Despite my magnificent failures.

Despite my betrayals and weakness.

Despite all of the ways I try to claim both kingdom come and empire now.

Still.

There

You 

Are.

Linking with friends this Holy Week.

Emily, Ann, Jen, Laura & Jennifer

The lights are low and I sling my four-year old around my hip like an infant. It might be the last time you know, that she nestles that softest cheek into mine, that I can rock her to the drum beat. She closes her eyes when I do, peeks about when she gets bored.

~

They watch the sun turn pink on the horizon. My four-year old calls me, she knows when the sun is slipping, when we lose it completely. We all come. There is a space between heaven and earth just there on the horizon. It is the shape of an eye. We see God in it.

~

I pop my head back, all I see are pine trees high, star streaked sky.

I breathe deep. Could it be that it is the first time I breathed all day? Of course not. You couldn’t live like that and yet….

~

I smell the gasoline, feel the speed, the tress whip past, I trust you more than I trust myself, and I hold on.

We set a fire, the dog attacks the flame, the flying spark. We sit.

We tuck the kids in. I think about what parts of this will feel like home for them. The stellar jays? The woodpecker? The way camp fires smell a day later?

~

They are fighting again.

It is snowing today. You heard me. Spring break, the man is away and it is snowing… again. The kids have gone rabid and are about one more house day away from someone loosing a hand. And yet, there is beauty here too, when I ignore them long enough, once in a while they compromise, practice empathy, create fantastic adventures. It sounds like Love is growing in their hearts. I see the silhouettes of heroes peeking over their horizons, even when they act more like villans.

~

The kitchen tap drips into the unwashed pot. I scrub the toilets. Match the socks. Revel in these ordinaries.

~

The man is on a service trip with 137 young people this week. My niece is among them, she is gentle and quiet and so sensitive. I am so proud of her bravery, stepping beyond her usual fences, trying new things. When I see her, love glints in her eyes. Courage is rising. I see it, I get it. We are the same in some ways, I want to shout “There are worse things than failing, trust me, and you are making progress in all the right directions. Keep stepping out…that is where LIFE is. Perfectionism is a vice that keeps you from it”.

~

I have been writing. A lot. Not here but elsewhere and I feel flesh on dry bones. I am making sense of senseless things. It might never do anything but fill up a journal with understanding. That is enough.

~

I have a new nephew, born yesterday. Pearl Jam ‘Free’ played on the radio the moment scalpel finished, child emerged. There are some things you just cannot plan.

~

There is no new thing we are living my friends. Just the old with a new bow on it. Just us, swiftly spinning, holding onto life, to faith, hearing birds sing like it is for the first time. Just life, all its mundane and profound wound tightly into one package, longing to be lived to the FULL.

Tell me then, what ordinary moment turned Holy on you today?

Linking with Emily and friends…

Lent always comes at a good time of year for me, a time when it is EASY to recognize the ways I am broken and to look them square in the face. The Februaries will do that to me. Make me terribly introspective, a little bit oppressed. But lent always leaves me hopeful too. I see the resurrection rising, the way the broken in me meets the fullness of Easter, it is the only true way to WHOLE.

Today all I saw were the signs of hope on the horizon.

It started with my girl. We had a tea party and lemon cookies for breakfast. Sometimes you have to do that. We used the good china, she taught me that they are not cookies when ‘tea party-ing’…they are biscuits then. It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Next I had some extra quiet time, E is colouring like a mad woman these days. All day, every day. My Lenten devotional is GOLD so it worked out well for both of us.

We had a short walk in the woods. The wind whispered what sounded like a song. The icicles were dripping, promising me a far off spring.

We picked up the boy from school and he picked up his trophy again. Note to all parents: A trophy instead of a goody bag at a party? THE BEST IDEA EVER. He tells everyone he got it ‘from hockey’. He refused to make a wish the other day on account of the fact that he didn’t need to wish, because “I already have this (the trophy)”. The kid hasn’t put it down yet.

So often the secret to hope is just about lifting up our eyes. Taking your eyes off yourself, your broken ways, the way you missed the mark today. The secret of hope is to focus on the fullness coming, the way you are getting closer each day.

Today, was the sort of day I want to capture and keep somewhere. Somewhere I can open it again when the fog rolls back in, when I look down too long and stumble over my own feet. For when, the miracles of each moment, sink into the dominion of the ordinary.

She keeps those hands busy this mamma of mine. She loves in action and says more with yeast and flour than others can, even with all of their flowery words. Her love smells like gingerbread, tastes like huckleberry pie.

She clothed me in jumpers, the worlds most extraordinary Halloween costumes and hand stitched quilts.

It was the sick beds and the home remedies and the makeshift oxygen tents.

It was murals on our walls and wooden mouldings carved.

It was every shirt ironed, every field trip attended, every sports event observed.

It was intricately decorated birthday cakes and handmade cards.

The garden was grown, the dough was made, the Christmas bread always baked. It was family meals twice a day at least.

It was the way we watched her love her daddy in his last days, not with poetry and sappy cards but with daily lunch fed, walls decorated, toenails trimmed. I think it was then I understood for the first time, the depths of this expression of love.

It is the language she speaks the dialect we all understand.

It isn’t really a surprise then is it? That if I like working with you I will buy your coffee, bring you baked goods. If you show up at my house and say “I just ate” I really have no idea how to show concern for you. If you have recently birthed a 15 pound baby, I don’t know how to help but to show up with a casserole. It is possible that I only understand your acts of service, your reckless hospitality.

And so. Though I can’t always (read as never) proclaim my love from the roof tops? Thankful that my man understands the sentiment behind a well marinated steak, a breathing bottle of red.

And mamma of mine? I love you so much and I understood every word you ever baked.

Linking with Emily and

What was it your mamma did that made you know you were loved? Something other than the words? Share in the comments?

Putting it all in the ‘be a better mamma vault!

Just for today lets talk more like saints than saved cynics. Tell me how YOU hope?

Tell me then what lights your dark? What makes you keep walking when you really want to lay down? Tell me of that moment of beauty that reminded you of God?

Tell me about your FAITH, the unsullied theology of your children, how the sun glints in their hair. Lets talk about where you watched the sunset last night and the colour of Sky Writer. Lets talk about the kingdom coming, how you feel it in your bones. Today I don’t want to hear the rocks crying out, I need you to say it too.

Tell me about your BRAVERY, how you do the difficult things, love the hard people, draw the firm lines. Lets talk about the steadfast ones, the everyday heroes, the women breathing justice, the men standing up for the underdog. These are things I need to learn.

Tell me about your LOVE so pure, it keeps your heart in check. Lets talk about the marriages standing strong or being restored, the parents sacrificing greatly, the churches living as one. These are the tales we need to tell.

Tell me about your MIRACLES, the prophesy fulfilled, the promise kept. Give me news of the sick healed, the broken bound, the depraved purified. I want no more of the scar tissue and torment, I’ve had my share of that.

Tell me about the STEADFAST ones, standing up to all the quitters. Lets talk more about the everyday heroes who keep getting back up, keep living their call, keep seeing the forest despite all the broken trees. I want a vision like that.

Tell me about your PEACE, your hope beyond the grave. Lets talk about the angels in human skin that help you believe it still. Lets talk about your deep drawn breath the way you aren’t afraid. Teach me how to breathe like that and to turn from fear that binds.

Tell me of the friends so good, the hearts so pure, a love so genuine. Lets tell of hope together today.

No really…TELL ME! Leave a comment, write a blog and link it back! I even made my first little linky-thingy! 

Lets tell each other truth today shall we? A little bit of extra hope never hurt anyone.

Linking this post with the Wellspring, The Beauty In His Grip, Finding Heaven, Mercy Ink

A meteor fell from the sky yesterday.

Flamed up and burned out with all the power of an atomic bomb.

Crashed into the earth, left destruction in her path.

We had watched you for a long time.

Watched you over and over,

terrifyingly close to plunging into deep waters.

You stayed in the sky while under our watch, despite your best attempts.

Instead you fell, now, a decade later, in the middle of a city.

All the cloud of witnesses are wondering what sort of force field we could have built to protect you from this atmosphere that broke you into fire the moment oxygen struck.

We called the experts when we should have, looked for ways to extinguish the burn.

We did everything the text books say.
But still you burnt.

We prayed until we both shook on your behalf.

And yet still…

The cities are burning. You’ve left a natural disaster in your wake.

Rest In Peace TB. 

Today? THE BOX…

When they stretch me out someday, on that cold metal table, unfurl my curled up toes and measure the length of me for that big wooden box; one last test to see if I FIT. I wonder if then we will finally measure rightly…

You see, I’ve been trying to fit into boxes for most of my life. To strip away any of my excesses, to fill in my lack with tissue…light, fluffy stuff that makes you feel good but makes it awful hard to breathe in there. I think you will like me better if I do that, take the edges off the corners, soften myself up a little.

When my children stand next to that gaping hole in the earth, will they crack jokes about my fad diets and Pinterest boards of weird exercise regimes? Or will they, in unison with you, talk about the way I spread myself thin on their behalf? Will it be that I wasted my moments on the temporary or that I counted my days, measured my moments, lived the entire circumference of my life?

When they throw that fist full of gravel, that first red rose (and if someone loves me well, a purple lupin), I wonder what they will remember me throwing? Will it be the shame I tossed their way or the grace I near overwhelmed them with?

When they kick the release on those levers, and start to return that wood back to its roots will they say ‘she already did that’? Will they say I lowered myself, that I sought the last place or that I lifted myself, fought for only the highest honors?

Will I be free of all the other boxes then? All the other ways we measure to see if we fit in?

Will we still compare with one another; the diameter of our thighs? The passion of our love affairs? The density of our curriculum vitae, the dust on our coffee tables?

Or will we then, when the box lid closes firm for that last time, measure each other -ourselves-

for the breadth of our love,

the depth of our grace?

the radius of our mercy?

Will we measure correctly only then?