That House

When I was a kid, I lived in that house. You know the one. Mom bakes brownies. Buys chips and Kool-Aid. Kids congregate. Big basement. Ping pong. Sleepovers. Seemed like every kid in the neighborhood is over after school to empty the fridge. Football in the field next door.

That house.

When I had children of my own, I dreamed of being that house. The problem was we lived in the country. Still do. I decided we were too remote to be that house. After all, I grew up in a neighborhood. Isn't that one of the criteria? That, and your mom bakes brownies.

I don't bake brownies.

I made some pathetic attempts at being that house. I trucked kids in. I bought Oreos. I tried. But I found out being that house is something that isn't achieved. It just happens.

I gave up. Was it really that important anyway?

Then, something amazing happened.

My daughter decided to return to a school she transferred from two years ago. Now she's entering her last year of high school.

It took about five minutes for her group of old friends to welcome her back with open arms (and school hasn't even started). They are really great kids. Nice. Polite. Respectful.

The amazing thing that happened is we sort of became that house. Out of thin air. Poof. That house.

Sure, it isn't as extreme as the weekly, sometimes daily, that house events I had as a child, but is that really what I want as a parent? My mother I am not. (Remember the brownies?)

But it is enough of a that house to make me feel somehow gratified. Happy to have so many young people around. Happy to see youth living, laughing, having a good time in my basement. In my yard.

Kids over for play.

For movies.

Hanging out.

Bonfires.

It's fun when something you wanted to happen and gave up on long ago all of a sudden happens. It makes me smile. A gift.

It reminds me of so many gifts I've been given from my loving, Heavenly Father.

Given at the right time.
 
With God, I think He wants me to have all the that houses I long for. As long as they are good for me. And as long as they are not what I am centering my life on. My focus.

It seems some things are never given. Not good for me I suppose.

But some things are just withheld. Until the time is right. Like being that house.

I know now that God wants to give me good gifts, but not because I beg like a spoiled child, as if I won't be happy unless I get it. But because He loves me. And He wants me to love Him too. Love Him more than whatever it is I want.

Love Him more than having that house.

Having that job.

Having that relationship the way I want it.

Having that financial situation.

Having that result.

That bonus.

That relief.

That satisfaction.

That justice.

That happiness.

That thing.

That whatever.

Love Him more than all of the thats in the world.

And when I do, when I look to Him and want to know Him more than I want anything else, a funny thing happens. I forget about a lot of the thats. I forget.

But sometimes, I am reminded because I get a gift. A gift of something that I used to count as vitally important and gave up on. Removed from the center, where only Jesus belongs.

And my house becomes that house.

And the best part is, it was a surprise. Like all the best gifts are.

Things Wear Out

Another early misty morning sunrise over the trees. The dew is thick this a.m. and it's too wet to sit down on deck chairs. But my coffee is hot and the air is cool, so I stand and look. I love it out here. This view, this sunrise. It draws me in. I cannot tire of looking.

And the birds. They share the space of this budding day. Flutter, perching, pecking, sharing today. This thing that captures my attention never wears out for me.

But I look around and notice that there are things that do wear out. Some things wear out with time. This Adirondack chair. It has seen better days. Been repaired many times. And now worn out. Fit for a bonfire.

And this basil plant. It too has worn out. But not from time or use. It has worn out from neglect. I suppose it got tired of trying to live with nobody tending to its needs. Water, a larger pot. Pruning, perhaps. Whatever the needs, they were not met. Now, it also must be discarded. Time for the compost pile.


Things wear out.

It is this world. It is the way.

The way for things. And the way for people.

We wear out, too.

From time.

Aging is an inevitable part of life. Sure, some fight it. Some work pretty hard to retain youth. Others age gracefully, accepting. But it comes no matter how we feel about it. How we deal with it.

But we are not, should not, be like the chair. Cast aside and deemed no longer fit for use. Just because of wearing out from time.

Set aside to wait for death.

Never let it be said of people.

Is there anyone in my life I consider old and no longer useful?

If there is such a one and I have no time for him (or her), then it is the same. The same as with the chair. And all the excuses in the world about why I have cast them aside are empty. And just excuses.

And what of neglect?

Sadly, yes. There are those who are worn our from neglect.

Wilted from years of trying to fit in.

Dried up from neglect of friendships. Relationships that water. That feed. That make space for growth.

Tired of trying. Waiting. Wanting.

It is sad. Too sad, I think.

Are there those in my life I am neglecting?

Even just a little bit?

Nobody is ever fit for the compost pile.

Not people. Not us.

Things wear out. We deal with that.

But people? No. Never let it be said of us.

Dragonfly's Dance

Glide up, turn around

Drop, lift, spin down.

Float upon a gentle breeze

Dragonflies dance with ease.

No order step, no rhythm time

Fantastically, they don’t collide.

Turn again, about face

Primitive spin in empty space.

They float and drift and on and on

Aerial dance without a song.

 

 

No, World. No.

Once I thought the world was a thief. Robbing my time. My money. My energy.

Taking, taking, taking.

I was wrong.

How can I call it a thief when I willingly give?

The world says, "Do."
Do this.
Do that.
Do more.
I say, "Okay."
I cannot stand up to the pressure. The manipulation. The guild. 
I say yes. I do.

The world says, "Spend."
Buy this.
Buy that.
Buy more.
I say, "Okay."
I cannot resist the ad. The lure. The fact that my neighbor has one.
I say yes. I buy.

The world says, "Work."
Work.
Faster.
More.
I say, "Okay."
Everybody else seems to be busy, productive, busy. Why not me?
I say yes. I work.

But what do I gain?
What do I gain by over-booking? Over-spending? Over-working?

I don't.
I lose.
And my family does, too.

So I learn to say, "No, world."
No.
I stop.
I save.
I rest.
Do less, love more.
Spend less, give more.
Work less, rest more.

No, the world isn't a thief. I am a willing servant, spender, worker.
I have not been robbed.

No, world.
No.

Defining Freedom

Ability to act freely.

The absence of constraint.

Independence.

"All men are created equal..."

Freedom of speech.
  
Rights.


Public expressions of faith.

Worship without fear.

It seems to me the thing all these freedoms I have and take and use and, yes, I want have in common is I haven't done anything to earn any of them. 

Others have done it for me. 

Without knowing me. 

Soldiers. Families. Sacrificed. Fought. Died.  
Without knowing me people worked. People worked and wrote laws and lived up to a belief and gave everything they had for it.

Fathers worked. Mothers wept. Children waited. People lost. 

Lost a lot. For this freedom I celebrate in this place I call America.

And it is amazing to me. And I'm grateful. To all sorts of people I never knew. 

And never will.

And soldiers and the people did it. For America.

In Two Places at Once

I am increasingly aware of a habit I practice. It is the habit of being in two places at once.

While I am in one place physically, I am in an entirely different place mentally.

My awareness has come only by practicing being present (being all there) wherever I am, both physically and mentally. The inspiration comes through Ann Voskamp's book, One Thousand Gifts. Excellent book.

I notice that while my body is at the breakfast table with my family, my mind is on the appointment scheduled two hours ahead.

Or, while my body is sitting on the couch talking with my husband, my mind is mulling over a conflict I had a week ago. Maybe three months ago. Maybe seven years ago.

How to get my mind to be present where I am.

How to.

And it begins with every day.

Every moment.

Constant practice. Isn't that how habits are formed in the first place? Constant practice?

This habit of being fully present isn't completely new to me. I have dabbled in it over the years. One of the quotes in Voskamp's book is from Jim Elliot (Christian missionary who was murdered in 1956). "Wherever you are, be all there." It was a quote I used to recite when my kids were little. I didn't want to miss a thing!

But time and life pulled me back into the bad habit of the insane, busy, impossibility of being in two places at once. Crazy!

So today at the threshold of a long to-do list, I practiced my newly forming habit of being in one place at one time.

On my deck, watching the sun come up over the pond.

As I watched, I saw what I thought were small leaves blowing around over the sumac trees.

I kept practicing. Disciplining my mind to stay with me. On the deck.

No, don't run ahead to the day's tasks.

I watched the leaves. Odd thing for early summer, falling leaves.

But looking more closely, I realized they weren't leaves at all. They were dancing dragonflies. Putting on an amazing aerial show.

I decided to go down to the pond and take a closer look. I met a friend along the way. Sunbathing.

And I met another friend.

And favorite flowers.

Then, I sat on the dock watching the dragonflies up high. Dancing for an audience of one.

The sun was coming up over the pines. And my mind stayed with my body. And it was thoroughly enjoyable.

Eventually, the sun stopped hiding behind the trees.

So I told myself it was time.

Time to go and practice being in one place at one time somewhere else.

The Meaning of Al.

This week my family is saying goodbye to a friend. Al. He was our next door neighbor. Our only next door neighbor these six years. At 89, he passed away. Left this world.

But he remains with us in some tangible, some intangible ways.

His home is still visible from my living room window. The deck that holds chairs we stained. He liked things painted, trim, neat, done.

Al must mean orderly.

His four-wheeler that transported him from his home to ours is there. He didn't walk well.

Hello. Dinner. Just visit. Watch us do... whatever.

His big window where he watched our kids boating on the pond. Skating on the pond. Swimming in the pond. Hiking around the pond. He loved to watch the kids. They were active. He wasn't so much the past few years.

Al must mean friendly.

Our homes are separated by a gift. A cabin that he built. It was in his woods and he gave it to me.

Gave it to me.
 
By far the most unique gift I have ever received.

Al must mean generous.

We moved it in between our homes. He loved to see us use it.

It has a red door. Some say a red door means "welcome." We were always invited in at Al's home.

Al must mean welcome.

He loved to play cribbage. My son played with him. And loved him.

He was like a grandfather to my son.

Al must mean grand.

He was a WWII Veteran. Stories about his days as a gunner. So many missions. Oh, the stories.

He loved his country. Served. Remembered. Silently honored America every day by flying a flag. It's still there even though he isn't.

Al must mean honor.

Al must mean so many admirable things.

Because he was. Admired.

And now, missed.

Missed terribly.

Yesterday's Birthdays

Tomorrow is my son's birthday. He will be 15. June 19, 2014.

Imagine. My son. 15. He's not even home now. At a friend's house overnight. I won't be the first one to see him in the morning. On his birthday.

It really is odd how time goes by. Time. Goes. Bye.

I wrote in his journal many times on or around his birthday. I think I'll wait this time. I know he likes when I write in his journal. The journal he didn't invent, but now seem to take ownership of at times. But today, I'll write about his journal, not in it. I'll write about birthdays of yesterday...

Monday, June 28, 1999
Dear John, 
Guess what? You are a boy! Your dad and I are so happy to have you here. You were born on Saturday, June 19, 1999 at 9:41 p.m... welcome home!

6-19-01
John-John turns two years old. We had a little party at home... just the family. It was fun. You kept hitting your head on the chair on purpose. I asked, "Are you a clown?" You said, "No clown ma, I Johnny."

June 18, 2002
Dear John, 
Tomorrow you will be three! We are having supper... You said grace tonight. I love to hear you pray... "Heavenly Father, thank you for the food, the door, the milk, and the American flag. Thank you for my sandwich, Mommy, Daddy, me and Hannah, my milk (again). In Jesus name, Amen."

Summer 2006
John Swanson is 7 years old. You have a very busy mouth right now. Two new front teeth are coming in. [I asked you] "What is your favorite food?"
"Um... Pizza, meat, and mustard. Let me think. Watermelon, cantaloupe, honeydew, cherries, and, hmm... peanuts."

John - You are 9! For your birthday I took you and buddy Austin to Lego Land at the Mall of America!

June 20, 2012
Dear John, 
Now that you are 11 years old, I guess I will have to get you a new journal. Not only is the cover of this book a little babyish... but I am running out of pages. You sure have come a long way since the beginning of this journal...

Sunday, June 19, 2011
Happy birthday, John! You officially turned 12 at 9:41 p.m. Today we had a really good time... For supper we had crispy chicken tacos and cherry pie with whipped cream.

June 19
Dear John,
You are officially a teenager - 13 years old today. Happy birthday, Son!

Wednesday, June 19
John at 14 years old. Can you really be 14 today? Where do the years go! It seems like you are growing up too fast...

Nobody really grow up too fast. That is only something parents invented to say when they are missing their kids. Tonight I miss my son on his last day of 14.

Not that I want him to be missing the fun with friends. Home. Like yesterday's birthdays. It's okay he is gone.

Having fun.

Growing up.

I can wait until tomorrow.

Tomorrow when he is 15. 

Happy birthday, John.

Making Home

I sat and watched this little bird the other day. She stopped by this bird house on my deck railing. Shopping.

She must have decided this house was for her because she went to work cleaning it out and bringing in her own stuff. She was a really hard worker and some of the twigs she was moving in seemed too big to fit through the door.

But she persevered. She kept trying. And trying. Until...

Victory!

She made this little house her home.

I admired her, working all afternoon. Creating a space for... her eggs? We'll see.

At any rate she was fun to watch and inspiring in her own little way.

Sometimes I bring home things that don't quite fit through the door. And they are things I really, really need to bring into my house. Things that need to be inside if I want my house to be a home.

The other day I brought home a good attitude. But before I got into the house I saw a pile of shoes on the front deck. Can't anyone put their shoes away?

My good attitude got caught on the door frame as I tried to walk past the shoes. I tried to fit it in, but the shoes! I left it outside amid the mess and brought irritation into the house with me instead. It turns out irritation fits through the door without much effort at all.

Funny how the things we don't need in our house are sometimes the easiest to carry inside.

Disappointment.

Frustration.

Resentment.

Tired.

Sigh.

But that little bird. She knew what was needed in her nest. And even though it didn't want to fit through the door of that little house, she kept on trying until it did. She was making home.

Isn't it the things we bring inside a house that make it home, after all?

I have to go out again today. I think I'll bring home some happiness.

Maybe a bunch of hugs for my family.

Perhaps a whole lot of grace. And smiles. And peace.

Maybe by the time I get home and see that the lawn isn't mowed or the dogs haven't been walked or the shoes are all over again, it will be hard to bring my things inside. Maybe.

But never mind that. A little bird taught me a lesson. She taught me that if the things I need to make my house a home don't want to fit through the door, try again. Twist. Turn. Bend. Don't give up. Try.

Is Anything Better Than Happy?

We live in a world that constantly yells: "Happiness at all cost!"

Well, I won't say happiness is necessarily overrated. Who doesn't want to be happy? Who doesn't want their children to be happy? Who doesn't want people around them to be happy? I sure do.

But there is something that trumps happy.

There is something the world doesn't tell us.

Something... really big. Really important.

It's being blessed by God.

Let me see if I can do this concept justice. Shed some light, unravel this ball of yarn, piece together this puzzle. Blessed or happy? Happy or blessed? Isn't it a blessing to be happy?

Yes.

However, I submit that deeper emotions than happiness are at stake here. Much better, more lasting, more satisfying. And they are not products of circumstantial happiness. They are products of being blessed by God. Specifically, being blessed regardless of our circumstances.

Happiness is dependent upon circumstances. These other emotions (I'll get to them) are not dependent upon our circumstances, but rather, our relationship with God the Father through Jesus Christ. Stay with me here.

The problem: The world has happy up on a pedestal and makes it look like the highest form of feeling, something to be sought, something to be obtained and held and kept.

It's a lie.

How so? If happiness is dependent upon our circumstance (and it is) then how do we keep it? Well, most often the only answer is to change unpleasant circumstances. A.k.a. run away from things that make us unhappy. Goodbye trials. Goodbye unhappiness. Goodbye person. Goodbye job. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.

Historically, I am more of a runner than a stayer. I used to seek happiness (listen to the world). I'd run away because, in the moment, the inward scream "I'M NOT HAPPY!" was the voice I most often listened to. The funny thing is, I'd run from an unpleasant situation smack dab into another problem. Oh, the other problem didn't always show itself right away, but it was there in the shadows, calculating. Watching. Waiting for me.

And I've had some doozies. They just never seem to stay away. Those problems.

So, what is the solution? How do we bypass this "temporary" happy for the bigger and better emotions?

Let's begin with the book of James, chapter one. "Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance" (verses 2-3).

It's no secret that trials do not produce happiness. What do they produce?

Perseverance. Stick-to-itiveness. Hmmm. We're onto something here.

"Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him" (verse 12).

So persevering in the trials produces blessing from God. Why? Because God's will is always chased by blessing. God doesn't tell us to run. He tells us to persevere. Work through it. Wait. We are blessed to the extent that we are DOING THINGS GOD'S WAY!

So, what does it take to do things God's way? One word: Trust.

Trust that God, today, tomorrow, in the end, knows more than we do. He knows trials are hard (some almost unbearable). But he also knows that they are a temporary and most often unavoidable part of this world. Trust. Trust. Trust. And, obey.

Blessing.

Okay, so what are these bigger and better than happy emotions we get? You probably already know.

Joy and peace.

The best part is they are not hinged on circumstances. They are hinged on your trust in God. My trust in God. Our trust in God.

Hang in there.

Don't look to the world.

Look to God.

Trust.

Don't listen to the world's cheer-leading section (and it is very, very loud and very, very large). It yells: "Give me an R! Give me a U! Give me an N! What's that spell? RUN!"

Don't listen.

Persevere.

Trust.

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit" (Romans 15:13).

Hannah on the Piano

A few days after her fifth birthday, my daughter, Hannah, started taking piano lessons.
 

 A few months later, in the spring of 2003, she played in her first recital. I wrote in her journal:

"You had your first piano recital. You did so well! You played a part from Beethoven's 'Ode to Joy.' Your daddy had Army all weekend but made it to hear you play in time. You were surprised and so proud! I am very proud of you, Hannah. xo Mom."

Since then I have watched her in countless recitals, orchestra performances, events. I can't even begin to count.

I never tire of listening. Watching.

Maybe what I love the most is my daughter has spent years developing something she didn't get from me or her dad. This is all her. This is Hannah.

Hannah on the piano.



Last night was her spring recital, marking the end of another school year.

She's going to be a high school senior in the fall. One spring recital left.

I wrote in her journal:

"Dear, sweet Hannah: You played beautifully last night. 'Liebestraume' by Franz Liszt. Dad and I were so very proud of you. I can remember recitals in earlier years, like the one when you played 'The Entertainer.' You were so small and the tune was so jazzy, the audience loved it! Now, your playing is so mature, accomplished. What a gift you have. What a gift you are. xo Mom."

My Mask First

A friend gave me a great analogy the other day.

We were talking about getting too busy to take care of ourselves and I made the comment that I can take better care of my family if I take care of myself. I didn't mean neglect my family to take care of myself (wants), I meant take care of myself so I can better serve my family.

She said, "Like putting on your oxygen mask first so you can help others."

Exactly.

Nail on the head.

I have this bad habit of getting too busy. And I mean too busy to take care of myself or anyone else. Bad, bad habit.

Nevertheless, the Good Lord has a way of bringing me around to the truth and redirecting my steps. Unfortunately it often comes in the form of illness or some other trial that makes me stop and say, "Oops. Too busy with the wrong things again."

Today I worked a long day at school. It was busy.

Emotional (my 8th graders are graduating on to high school).

Tiring.

So when I got home and looked at my much-in-need-of-attention kitchen, I contemplated what to tackle first. Then, I found out my husband was going fishing. Needing a sandwich to take with fishing. And, my kids and daughter's friend were going to youth group. Needing something to eat before we leave youth group.

I made BLTs.

Then, as they got ready to leave, I put on my oxygen mask (a.k.a. went for a four mile walk).

It was lovely. Refreshing. Quiet. Rejuvenating. I walked away today and breathed in the clean, fresh air.

When I came back home to an empty house, I organized my thoughts and decided to tackle the kitchen. No stress here. My oxygen mask was working just fine. Breathe. Clean. Breathe. Ahhh.

I made a sandwich for my hubby's lunch tomorrow. He will breathe easier.

I chopped some veggies and fruit to leave on the counter for three coming home hungry teens to shove into their mouths instead of just potato chips. I imagine myself putting on their oxygen masks, mine flowing free with fresh air.

I clean up the kitchen. Shine the sink. Stuff the bills in a cupboard. Who can do it all in one day?

I feel calm.

Fresh.

Air.

Who can help others when they themselves are suffocating?

Struggling for air.

Weak.

Tired.

Before I began my kitchen work, I took off my oxygen mask. No crisis. No need.

Tomorrow I'm certain I'll need it again. Maybe I'll walk off another day. Maybe I'll watch a movie. Maybe I'll just sit and be quite. Maybe.

Don't Miss It

Springtime at my country home is always a game of hit or miss. There is so much life bursting forth! I have to be diligent to get outside and walk around so I don’t miss some of the main events that come with spring.

The problem is, so many things aren't on the calendar. Yes, there are plenty of dates marked down. We can count on them. First day of spring, Easter, Mother’s Day. Sure enough, they were all on time.

But what about the first daffodils? Buds on the trees? Ducklings in the pond?

Pretty little wildflowers sprouting up in and around the woods.

If I'm not careful, they are easily missed.

I don’t know what these are (below). But I do know the last time I walked around the north side of my house they weren't there. But last night...

 And the trilliums! A favorite.

Suddenly.

That’s when some of the best spring stuff happens. Suddenly.

I think life is kind of like that. The best stuff happens suddenly. Unexpectedly.

A letter in the mail.

A hug from a child.

A smile.

An opportunity to tell someone you love them.

A trillium.

Spring.

Here now. Then, gone.

Spring.

Life.

Don’t miss the details. The suddenly stuff.

Life Out of Death

Here on planet Earth, death is an inescapable pursuer.

A relentless foe.

Nemesis.

Ultimately, the victor. Here on planet Earth.

Last fall my dad planted strawberries in one of my gardens. I love strawberries. I dutifully watered the transplants and covered them with straw before winter set in. They were under there for many, many cold months.

When my husband uncovered them this spring, it appeared we had waited too long. Everything was dead. No sign of life. Mold. Rot. Decomposing death.

Defeated, we turned our attention to things still living. After all, what do you do with death besides bury it?

Mourn.

Move on.

The other day I walked down to the strawberry garden. Or rather, what I had hoped would be a strawberry garden. Perhaps I was going to pay my respects? As one visiting a grave?

While my grief did not come close to rivaling that of most other deaths, I still felt remorse. After all, my dad had taken a lot of trouble to dig up plants for me, driving many miles to plant them in my garden. That, and I love strawberries.

When I walked throught the garden gate, contemplating what to do with that garden spot, I was met with a surprise.

Life.

Tiny, green, sprouts of life. And they were coming right up out of the death that I thought had won.

Life up out of death. Here on planet Earth.

Imagine.

This has happened before. Life suddenly springing up out of death.

I think about so many, many things in my past that I took for dead.

Once we had a dozen tomato plants that looked very, very dead. But by the end of summer, miracle of miracles, a bountiful harvest of tomatoes. Unexplainable.

And other things, too.

Oh, hello, I thought you were dead. But, no, here you are. Resurrected.

Plants.

Dreams.

Hope.

Relationships.

Resurrected.

Sometimes it seems so impossible. So very, very impossible. But then, I think of the cross.

Man.

Dead.

Buried.

God.

Resurrected.

Life.

Hope.

Time for Nothing

Everybody needs a quiet place. This is mine.

I can't say how long it has been since my last visit. Very long. Too long.

It's funny how busy life can get. I don't know about anyone else, but I tend to get too busy for... this. For quiet. For rest.

I'd like to say my overly-busy tendencies are a result of extreme productiveness. Extreme achievement. Extreme importance. They're not.

The only thing they are is a result of is the delusion that I am above quiet. Above rest. That there simply isn't time.

Then, something happens.

Fatigue.

Not just "I'm tired today" fatigue. Everyday fatigue. I slept 10 hours and still fatigue, fatigue.

Then, I come here. And I watch for nothing to happen.

And nothing happens. Quiet. Peaceful. Nothing.

And somehow I know there is not a soul suffering for my lack of doing. Not a soul.

But there is a soul with benefits of rest. Of stop, just stop and wait for nothing to happen.

It is mine. My soul. My weary, conflicted soul. And I remember how good it is to sit and wait until the busy drains away and the quiet settles in.

Perfect Calling

Perfect is not like a butterfly,
That can be caught in a net
Pinned to a wall
Gazed upon.

It is not like sand on a beach,
Waiting to be stepped on
Piled up
Brushed off.

Perfect is not like a puzzle
With many complicated pieces,
Sort out
Fit together
Done.
Only to be taken apart and remade.

It is not a door to open.
A lid to put on.
A made bed.
Clean house.
Mowed lawn.
Balanced checkbook.
Finished work.

Perfect is none of these things.

Perfect is a breeze.
My hand cannot hold it
My arms not embrace
My eyes shall never see
Never see perfect.
Not here, anyway.

Why do I look here?

Funny thing is,
I already have perfect.
All I will ever need
All I should ever want
Complete.
Done for me.
For me.

And not the perfect I seek.
The elusive thief who steals my time
And slips away
Uncaught.

Perfect isn't caught,
It's a gift.

I already have perfect.
Better said, perfect has me.

And it is not in the things I can do
Accomplish
Build
Write.

Rather, perfect is a Someone.
He is Jesus.
Perfect.
He alone, perfect.
For me.

The question is,
Why do I look for perfect here?
Here, where it will not be found.

It is hard work.
Such hard and aching painful work.
Heart aching.
Never can have aching.

I sit and wait for my mind to catch up to truth.
Perfect is calling.
He is calling me.

In Between Yesterday and Tomorrow

I celebrate the Easter season. More accurately, I celebrate Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday.

And while Easter bunnies and chocolate eggs are fun. And treasures hidden for children to find are delightful, I think mainly about Jesus this weekend.

Yesterday I observed Good Friday. The day Jesus was nailed to a cross to suffer and die. The day Jesus took on the sins of the whole world. The day he paved a way for forgiveness. For peace between God and man. He suffered for me (and, by the way, for you).

Suffering for me.

Imagine.

I didn't ask him to. But he did it anyway. And it took me almost 30 years to come to understand how desperately I needed Good Friday. Desperately.

It has occurred to me that Good Friday wasn't just yesterday. It is every single yesterday. It is every single thing I have ever done or said or thought wrong… forgiven. Freely forgiven.

Tomorrow I observe Resurrection Sunday. The day Jesus rose from the grave. The day he took the victory over death that was promised for such a long time. But the waiting for the promise doesn't hold a candle to the future of that victory. The tomorrows.

He rose for me. The hope for tomorrow is the truth for today that Jesus is Risen!

Victory for me.

Imagine.

I don’t know how it happened. I only know it did. The day I believed the truth about Jesus… about the forgiveness and the victory… he put his Spirit into me and I knew. Without a doubt. It happens that way when we believe.

It has also occurred to me that Resurrection Sunday isn't just tomorrow. It is every single tomorrow. It is every single hope and dream and victory that belongs to me because I am a child of the King. Not a king, mind you. The King.

So today, in between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday, I stand, as I will each and every day for the rest of my life on this earth, in the middle. I stand in the middle of forgiveness and victory. And I thank Jesus for the free gift he gave me, so long ago, before I was even born. Before I even know I needed it. Long before. 

Thank you, Jesus. 

Thank you.

Just a Handshake

I grew up in a big family.

Well, I suppose calling it a big family is not quite accurate. It's a huge family. I have seven siblings, scads of aunts and uncles, and an army of cousins. Today I met another cousin. It was at my uncle's funeral. Uncle Warren. I said goodbye to a favorite uncle and hello to a cousin I'm not sure I've met before.

My dad introduced me to this cousin today. He is actually my dad's first cousin, my second, and is a bit younger than me. That happens in huge families. People who, by relation, you would think would be closer to your parents' ages turn out to be younger than you.

My dad introduced me and I put my hand out. Just a handshake. But the cousin pulled me in for a hug. It's okay to hug strangers when you're related to them, I reminded myself. After we chatted a bit, I went to sit inside the sanctuary and waited for my uncle's funeral to begin.

As I watched my cousins, Warren's children, get up one at a time and eulogize their father, I was struck by how many things I'd forgotten that I loved about this man. I hadn't considered his character for years. Yet, there I sat in a strange place being flooded with familiar thoughts. It seemed strange, as I though about my Uncle Warren, that he was not really there. Just his body. I tried not to think about it and focused on the man I remembered.

His permanent smile. His laugh. His appetite as huge as my family. His love of life and the way he loved to dance.

I remembered as a child being intimidated by some of my uncles. But not Uncle Warren. Not him. The way he danced the Polka at family weddings was a delight for a little girl. It was fun. It felt safe. I felt happy, dancing with this favorite uncle. He was a friend. A friend to me. A friend to everyone.

My cousin, Lisa, talked about her dad's friendly disposition. It didn't matter how old you were, or how young, he was a friend.

Lisa said that my uncle used to say, "The difference between a friend and a stranger is just a handshake."

Just a handshake.

Such a simple gesture. A simple, connecting, bridging, friendly gesture. That was him. My Uncle Warren. I wish I had the chance to extend my hand to him just one more time. Just a handshake. I know if I did, he'd grin and pull me in for one of his Uncle Warren hugs.