Fresh Start

You see, the thing is
I didn’t ask for this
Fresh start.
I was comfortable.
Really.
I had all I wanted.
I had enough.
But now I’m here.
Way out here.
And I miss everything,
Everyone,
I left behind.
I’ll never have that again.

I know.
You had so much –
Home, friends.
But you needed more:
Me.
You were comfortable
But I needed you to be strong.
And I love you
Enough to move you
Anywhere
So you’ll draw closer to Me.
Depend on me.
Let me be all you need,
And you’ll have more than enough.

Retreat? Not Quite

At the beginning of this year, I was determined to slow down. To enjoy life. To really settle in and make this new city our home. I had plans of lazy Saturdays, hiking on Sundays, more dancing overall, and learning as much as I could at work during the week. I even determined to take a quiet vacation — no noisy amusement parks this year. The word for the year was retreat.  However, that idea did not last long.

In early January, Damon had an accident during youth group. We thought he tore his rotator cuff and began to brace ourselves to be told he needed surgery. The rest of the month, our calendar was peppered with various doctor appointments. It turned out to be a strain, but there was a stack of bills to pay.

In February, Mark and Damon took turns being sick with a respiratory infection. It didn’t leave them much energy for anything other than school and work, and all household tasks quickly fell to me. At work, we had two key employees retire, rather suddenly, so my duties there changed quickly and drastically. By the end of the month, I was working late every evening, rarely leaving the office before dark.

A friend of ours had a death in the family, and I wanted to prepare a meal for her. Every day one week, I had planned to do it but wound up working late and arriving home too tired. The night I finally decided to gather my strength and do it, the stove malfunctioned and started a small fire. I spent the rest of the night cleaning up celery, onion and fire extinguisher dust from the kitchen and beyond.

Damon had another incident in early March. This time he was rear-ended by a little car that was damaged far worse than Damon’s sturdy truck. But there was still a bumper to repair, a few chiropractor appointments to attend and insurance claims to settle.

Three weeks after that, I discovered that my wedding ring, my anniversary ring, and a bracelet were stolen from my jewelry box by a maintenance worker. Interviews with the detective, phone calls with the apartment management, a trip to a pawn shop, and a meeting with the magistrate to swear out a warrant all stole precious time from my busy schedule. And pleading notes from the suspect who still had not been arrested, but who wanted to explain things, began to unnerve me.

Then Mark and I attended a comedy concert that we had eagerly anticipated for weeks. We left encouraged after uplifting words from the comedian, not to mention a much-needed belly laugh! But as we waited to leave the busy church parking lot, we were hit by a truck backing out of a space. We were not hurt, but my car looked like it had been punched by the Incredible Hulk. More insurance claims and a rental car.

And along the way, there have been the daily worries, struggles and stresses that weigh down a working wife and mother.

Retreat? Yeah, right. How could I have been so mistaken?

Boot camp. That’s what this has been.

The Apostle Paul reminded the Corinthians about his suffering (2 Cor. 11). He was whipped, flogged, pursued, betrayed, stoned, starved, imprisoned and shipwrecked. And all this while worrying about his struggling churches all over the region, trying to shepherd them from a distance (without the benefit of e-mail or social media). And what was his response?  “I’ll brag about the humiliations that make me like Jesus.”

Why has God allowed all of these things to happen to us? To me? I am sure His reasons are many, with eternal purposes that I cannot yet comprehend.  And while they are nothing compared to the Apostle Paul’s list, I can I already see some of the benefits of these challenges. I have learned to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. I have learned to trust God more, question His unending love less, and know He has a reason for everything. I have been reminded — repeatedly — that I am not in charge. Ultimately, God’s purpose is to make me more like Jesus.

Maybe we will have a retreat next year. For now, I am content to soldier on.

Ordinary Days

We moms put a lot of effort into holidays. After all, they are supposed to be special days. There is always the danger of falling into that trap of perfectionism. We want everything to be just so. We want the table to look lovely, the house to be immaculate, the meal to be delicious. And all for good reason — the future memories of our children are depending on it.

But while I have wonderful memories from various holidays, I find that it’s memories of the daily things – the ordinary things – that make me smile.

I remember Saturday afternoons with Mom. We’d bake banana bread. OK, she’d bake the bread, while I waited to lick the bowl. While the loaves cooled, the house would be full of the lovely sweet aroma, and we would watch a Cary Grant movie together.

The day I had my wisdom teeth removed is, understandably, a blur. One thing I do remember is waking up in my room, groggy, and seeing mom standing over me. She quietly reached down for my hand and put a lovely new opal ring on my finger. “You were such a good patient,” she said.

When I went to college, my mom went back to work to help pay the tuition. When I came home in the summer, she and I worked in a restaurant together. She taught me how to be a good waitress, how to handle a cranky cook, and how to make even the toughest customer smile. We would joke together while rolling silverware or slicing lemons. After working a long night , we’d head home and unwind in front of the TV, Comedy Central being our channel of choice.

Sure, I remember the holidays and special occasions. Christmas and birthdays. But when I think of my mom, it’s the ordinary moments that flicker through my mind. These are the memories we recount when we chat on the phone. These are the memories that make us smile and laugh at family gatherings.

I wonder if it will be that way for my son. I hope he remembers my delicious holiday feasts. But more than that, I hope he remembers Saturday morning pancakes, sledding down our street after a good snow, watching favorite TV shows together, trying to embarrass each other in public, and him making me laugh like only he can.

Holidays are special. But I’m learning that, really, ordinary days are what I treasure most.

Listen on 88.5 fm WFDD.

 

Listening

I’m listening,
But did I hear You correctly?

Quietly I sit
Alone on the front pew
Waiting
For the word of instruction
That I am to obey.
Or I lay
Eyes open in the darkness
Of my room
Listening
To hear Your voice calling me.

Tell me my next step.
(This way . . .)
Give me my orders.
(Do this . . .)
How do I obey?
(Watch Me . . .)
I hear,
And I obey.
My willing heart will follow
Orders,
Instruction,
Direction.

But there comes a time
When I wonder
If I heard You correctly.
I know
None of us hears God perfectly,
But was I even close?

In my zeal
To do the right thing,
Any right thing,
Did I rush headlong into a plan
Born in my own mind
Rather than
Whispered into my heart?

Help me
To know when I have heard
Your voice.
When I obey,
Follow,
Execute a plan,
Help me
To know that I have heard
And understood
So I won’t hesitate
To move at the sound of Your voice.

Be a Rose

I enjoy visiting estate homes such as Reynolda House or Biltmore Estate. I am always intrigued by the creativity of the décor. It is fun to imagine the grand parties of years ago. And I especially enjoy seeing the kitchen and the servants’ quarters. It makes me thankful for the conveniences we have.

Of course, many such tours include a visit to the gardens, always the least interesting part of a home tour to me. I’m not much of a botanist, so hearing about the myriad varieties of lily or iris cultivated on the estate rarely holds my attention.

But I do remember one garden tour that made quite an impression on me, where I was introduced to a rare variety of violet. As we stood in that muggy greenhouse, the man in the official-looking cargo shorts told us about the plant, its usual habitat, and other facts. All the while, he touched the tender leaves, almost absent-mindedly, while he continued to look at each of us. But as he touched the violets, a most unusual thing happened: the blooms closed. It was as if they were hiding, ducking for cover. After a moment, each would reopen, until the gardener touched them again. He invited each of us to do the same, which we eagerly did. After a while, the blooms would close not only at our touch, but upon our approach. It looked like they were wincing. It turns out that this is the plant’s only defense mechanism as it grows quietly on the jungle floor.

Most of us know how that feels. We have been bumped or bruised, on the job, by friends or family, at church. People have hurt us without even meaning to, without realizing it. But that doesn’t make it hurt less. And after a while, we learn not to trust many people, and we forget how to stand up for ourselves. We don’t let anyone get too close. It’s just easier that way.

I probably don’t strike many people as shy, but I can tell you that at one time I hid. It was my only defense. I became a violet. Maybe you have, too.

But I have learned recently that I was not made to be a violet. What I was meant to be is a rose. A rose is beautiful, strong, and able to protect itself. A rose stands tall and proud in the sunlight. It has thorns to protect itself from injury – and the fact that everyone knows that roses have thorns is in itself a wonderful defense. People automatically handle roses with care. Yet a rose will draw people to it with its beauty and the promise of sweetness. The first thing most people do when they see a rose is stick their nose in the middle and inhale deeply. Hey, I’ll even stop to smell the plain commercial roses at the grocery store in hopes that they will smell like something other than a freezer case. And each rose is unique, even if they grow on the same bush.

That’s the way we should be. So sure in our beauty, proud of who we are, confident in what we have to offer. Think of the gifts you have been given, the talent or skill. Stand tall, open up, invite people in, and know that you deserve to be handled with care. You have a lot to share with those around you. Don’t save it for yourself. Don’t be a shrinking violet. Be a rose.

Communion

Morning rays
Through stained glass
Make rainbows
On brass plates and white linen.
A prayer of blessing
“In remembrance of Me.”
I have come to this altar
Empty
Bitter
Hungry for more.
Then
In remembrance of You
And all You have done
For me.
Dry cracker
Filling my spirit.
Sweet wine
Washing the bitterness away.
God’s love
Feeding my heart.
Grateful tears
Offering praise to the Son.
Life, health and healing
At this table of gratitude
And remembrance.

Refreshing

Words
Once so heavy on my heart
Had burst forth from my pen.
I filled pages
With new ideas
Clever rhymes
Touching stories
And my truest feelings.
Now
Nothing.
No inspiration.
Not a drop of creativity.
Have I gone dry?
Or have I built a dam
Out of the mundane stuff of years?
Grading papers selling books pouring
Coffee searching records typing
Letters washing clothes—
All stones for the wall
That holds my feelings back,
Protects my words, my ideas.
My very heart.
Lord,
Break down the wall
So that words may flow again.
Let them pour out
And fill great stories,
Gentle sonnets
And the compact haiku.
And let them refresh hearts
That have, like my own,
Dried over time.