obedience

Ellie and I were leaving to go out the other day, running late, as usual, so I was stressed and probably making her feel rushed. Neither of us are morning people, and we were tired and sleepy and probably both wishing for another half hour of Dora the Explorer. She also knew that where we were going would involve my leaving her with a friend. So no shocker that she didn't want to go, and let me know in the tearful, mildly belligerent voice she uses when she knows she's not going to get her way but still needs to register her protest.

But here's the kicker. As my  sweet kid sat on the bottom step, her genuinely tearful voice saying again and again, "But I don't want to go.  No. I'm NOT going," she stuck out one foot, then the other,  so I could put on her shoes. Lifted up one arm, then the other, so I could put on her shirt. Followed me out the door, trudging behind me, momentarily distracted by a butterfly in our garden (LOOK, MOMMY - do you see it?), climbing up into  her car seat and remembering again, "But I don't WANT to go."

And here's the thing - I wasn't angry or upset that she didn't want to go. I got that she was tired and apprehensive about going somewhere without me - I've felt that way a million times before myself. What touched me was that she went anyway. Her words weren't what spoke the loudest to me. Her outstretched feet did. I ached for her tired, apprehensive little self, even though I knew she'd have a great time once she got there. And her honest and grudging obedience simply filled my heart with love and gratitude for her. Don't you guess that's the way the Father feels about us? Cast all your cares on Him, because He cares for you. He really does, you know, even when it just feels like he's pushing you out the door for no good reason. And on those days, I'm pretty sure it's okay to tell him how you feel, all the while He bends over you, putting shoes on your outstretched feet to prepare you for what lies ahead.

Lost & Found

Godric, by Frederich Buechner (one of my favorite all time authors), is a novel told from the point of view of a 12th century Catholic Saint. Which is about all I can tell you about it, since I've yet to actually read it all the way through. Well, that, and I think it's safe to assume it really is a great book, since it was nominated for the Pulitzer. I tried reading it many years back, but it was so rich and real and painfully alive that it made my head hurt and my heart ache in ways that were entirely too uncomfortable to keep on reading.

But every once in awhile, when I find myself grieving big and little losses alike, I usually end up searching out quotes from this little "gem of a novel" and inhaling them like the amazing (SO salty, SO crunchy) tortilla chips "hidden" on the top of my fridge. Here are a few (quotes, not chips, that is:), just to give you an idea...

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"Remember me not for the ill I've done but for the good I've dreamed."

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"When friends speak overmuch of times gone by, often it's because they sense their present time is turning them from friends to strangers. Long before the moment came to say goodbye, I think, we said goodbye in other words and ways and silences. Then when the moment came for it at last, we didn't say it as should be said by friends. So now at last, dear Mouse, with many, many years between: goodbye."
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"He also said we should carve in the year and place where I was born, but I said no. As a man dies many times before he's dead, so does he wend from birth to birth until, by grace, he comes alive at last." 

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"That's five friends, one each for Jesu's wounds, and Godric bears their mark still on what's left of him as in their time they all bore his on them. What's friendship, when all's done, but the giving and taking of wounds?"

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 The secret that we share I cannot tell in full. But this much I will tell. What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup." 

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 That last one is my favorite quote ever - and from a book I've never read. I think it deserves another try, don't you? Kind of like skipping the chips from the top of the fridge and instead taking the time to  cook up and savor a really satisfying  meal, even if parts of it take a long time to chew, even if you have to eat all your vegetables to get to the dessert at the end.

 

So here's to Godric, my hero I have yet to meet, and to Frederich Buechner, a remarkable story-teller. And to good stories, that come in and reach into our hearts through the side door and teach us about what's true, all the while keeping us company and reminding us that we're never entirely alone. Jesus told stories, after all. All the time, to anyone willing to listen. He tells them still. And like Frederich Buechner did in the character of Godric, so does Jesus in us. He keeps telling us our story, unfolding it page by page. Sometimes it's just like Godric, way too painful and awkward and real to want to keep on reading. We try to put it down and head for the bag of chips, instead. But God, in his merciful, mind boggling sovereignty keeps reminding us that it's there - a story He's committed to finishing, for our good and His glory. And it's a good one. One, that on it's final page, will be able to somehow say with a sincere heart, "What's lost is nothing to what's found. And the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup."

fuzzy pink jacket

Of all the awful and heartbreaking images out there right now, it was this one that stopped my heart cold just now. My sweet Ellie has this same fuzzy pink jacket, or one very much like it. She loves wearing it, rubbing the soft warmth of it against her cheek again and again. And so I realized, for a moment, that this child is not just an image for me to gawk at, but a very real little girl who probably loves her pink jacket, too, and who may not know where her mommy is right now. My little girl is faking a nap down the hall, cuddled up with her bunny and  reading her books loud enough for me to hear through closed doors. Where is this little girl right now, I wonder? Who is holding her, and what will her life hold? People are so much realer than we realize most of the time, so much more like us than not, even a world away. May God have mercy on this little girl in particular, and on all who seek to care for and protect her.

Stairs and the Hand of God

I have fear issues with stairs. And if you know some of my family history, you'll know why. Over a decade ago, my mom took a really, really bad fall down a flight of stairs, breaking both feet and crushing the bones in her right heel. My sister and I were in the house when it happened. And while, by the grace of God, she is fine today, and while we are even able to see the ways God used that accident for good, the sheer awfulness of that moment will probably never leave any of us entirely, this side of heaven. Fast forward some eight years later, to the time when I forgot to latch the baby gate in our 3rd floor attic/playroom and, preoccupied with e-mail, heard my precious 9-month old Ellie tumble down some dozen wooden stairs. She, by the grace of God, was absolutely fine, too (I'll save the details of that story for another day). Even Paul's mom, Judy, has her own story of a bad fall down the stairs many years ago, and foot problems that linger to this day as a result. So I have a healthy (okay, maybe even a bit neurotic) fear of stairs.

God, in his strange mercy, has our family in an old, beautiful Richmond row house. Which I love, very much. But which is pretty much made up entirely of stairs. Which my three year old and I traipse up and down a dozen times every day, easy. And much of the time, I hold her hand, FIRMLY. What can I say? She's my first, and so far only, child, and I don't like stairs so much.  Plus, she's three, and at least once a week I catch her and keep her from tumbling down. I'm not really even that defensive about it. I figure I give her plenty of freedom to stretch her wings in other ways. It is what it is; I am who I am (and her dad has started tossing her the ball as she sits on them to give her confidence - thank God for dads, is all I can say:-).

Yesterday morning, my women's Bible Study looked at Psalm 73, of Asaph. At the end of his psalm, after pouring out all his bitterness and fear and hatred before God (you know, the part that always makes us a little nervous to read out loud), after finally coming to the point where he was ready to go in and confess and pour out his heart among God's people, he moves into that part of the Psalm we like to quote,

²³Yet I am always with you;
   you hold me by my right hand.
²⁴ You guide me with your counsel,
   and afterward you will take me into glory.
²⁵ Whom have I in heaven but you?
   And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
²⁶ My flesh and my heart may fail,
   but God is the strength of my heart
   and my portion forever.

So this whole blog entry, all this meandering about row houses and tumbling down stairs, is pretty much just to say that I really like that part in verse 23. "Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand." Because today, when I felt Ellie's warm, sweet hand in mine a million little times, I kept thinking about how God holds my hand. My right hand, even. My "strong" one. When I hold Ellie's, it's often my right to her left, since my right hand is stronger and more able to keep her from falling. But even God's left hand (sorry lefties, it's just an analogy:), is SO much stronger than my right hand and able to keep me from falling.

And also, it's about the sweetest thing in the world, isn't it? Don't your remember the first time a boy held your hand? Or when your baby's tiny fist caught a death grip on your finger? Isn't it one of the most tender, intimate things anyone can do?  I mean, it's one thing to sing "He's got the whole world in His hands" - reassuring and true as that is, how much sweeter still that I can hold onto the promise that He holds my hand? And as much love and concern as I feel for my sweet, beautiful Ellie when she clings tightly to me (or pushes me away:), how much more does my God love and long to care for me?

Just something to think about the next time you walk down the stairs:-)...

January 27, 1970

     So this year's birthday isn't nearly as freaky as the last one, but I will say that looking at these old magazine covers makes me feel older than I thought I was.  I mean, really, Burt Reynolds, Barbara Streisand, Steve McQueen, the Monkees??? Still, all in all, not a bad year to be born. The bummer is that my teenage years landed smack dab in the mid-EIGHTIES - not such a great time for fashion. But I'll save those covers for another day...

my heart is like a zoo

Two of the most amazing things about this country we live in - cold, clean drinking fountains, and PUBLIC LIBRARIES. I've been back from Africa some 13 years now, and I still can't quite get over how remarkable this is.

Anyway, Ellie & I were at the Richmond Public Library today when we came across this little gem - My Heart is Like a Zoo by Michael Hall. It's not quite as good without his simple, beautiful illustrations, but here's the text in its entirety.

My heart is like a zoo - 
eager as a beaver,
steady as a yak,
hopeful as a hungry heron fishing for a snack...
silly as a seal,
rugged as a moose,
happy as a herd of hippos drinking apple juice.
Snappy as a crab,
angry as a bear,
bothered as a bull with a hornet in its hair.
Cool as a penguin,
crafty as a fox,
quiet as a caterpillar wearing knitted socks.
Frightened as a rabbit,
jumpy as a frog,
gloomy as a lone coyote walking in the fog.
Brave as a lion,
thoughtful as an owl,
peaceful as portly walrus lounging on a towel.
Cozy as a clam,
chatty as a jay,
tired as a zookeeper who's had a busy day.

I resonated more than just a bit with this, all but that last line. For that, I'm just grateful that there's Another who keeps my zooey heart in His hands. Of, for grace to remember that at the end of every day!

So thanks be to God for public libraries and sweet children's books that remind me of what's true...

Go here for a preview, or go to your own amazing public library and check out the whole thing...

http://myheartislikeazoo.com/

What I love about Best Westerns

Our family was scheduled to fly to Florida tonight to visit Paul's 98 year old grandmother for a few days. But then the RUMOR of snow came, and our flight was cancelled. And since Paul's grandmother isn't getting any younger, and since we were already packed and geared up to go, we got in the car and DROVE instead. So here we are, at a Best Western in Walterboro, SC. Ellie is in the bed next to me, snoring her sweet head off and Paul is at the desk, reading online weather maps. And I am in the middle, in my Best Western bed with loads of pillows behind me, finally writing in this darn blog, content and happy. I love staying in hotels. I really do. And other than a mild concern that the bedspread is a dark brown (I saw one of those creepy shows about how little they wash hotel bedspreads and have loved Hampton Inns, with their WHITE bedspreads, ever since), I'm at peace. I'm one of those funny people who gets excited about putting my clothes away in the little drawers underneath the t.v., who relishes the tiny fridge and coffee maker (scary rumors about those, too - but I won't dwell on that). When I stay in a hotel, I am much more likely to floss my teeth, gargle for the full two minutes, wake up in the morning and have a proper quiet time, hang up my clothes instead of throwing them on the floor, sit down and actually write in my BLOG. It's a glorious feeling to have so little, to have constraints on time and space and STUFF. I kind of love hotels like I love airplanes and long road trips, too. Because they provide a kind of buffer between me (or in this case, us) and the rest of life. For a little while, I'm suspended from wherever I'm coming from and wherever I'm going to, leaving me feeling a little bit freer, a little more able to just enjoy the moment and the people around me. This may sound cheesy, but it makes me think of Tolkein's Rivendale - that beautiful place off the beaten path where Frodo and his friends went to heal and gain strength for the rest of the journey. I know - Best Western is NO Rivendale (which I'm pretty sure used white bedspreads and cleaned the coffee pot out after EVERY use) - but still - these in-between times are a gift. And this sometimes addled and heavy ladened A.D.D.  girl is grateful for moments of rest & simplicity, even when found within the walls of a Best Western in Walterboro, SC:-)...