The Artist's Way

A friend recently offered to give me a copy of a book called The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. “Why? Why do you want me to have this?” I asked, since he is hardly a creative or expressive type himself. In fact, he’s more of a giant mountain man who dreams of sitting behind a fishing pole.

“Well, uh, because you’re a writer.”

I laughed with the typical twinge of embarrassment and offered my usual disclaimer. “A would-be writer, you mean.”

As a man of few words unable to say what he knows deep-down, he shook his head. “No would-be about it. You need to read it. That’s all.”

So it arrived today, and I started to read. Some of it clicks with ready plug-in-and-use-it current, and some of it grates as if I’ve just stuck a nail in the outlet – wham! That’s not quite what I believe.

However, here are some quotes from the introduction that make sense, and more than that, serve to set free what I’ve come to know in recent years: I was created to write.

“Outside my window, out over the Hudson, a very large bird is soaring. I have seen this bird for days now, sailing, sailing on the fierce winds that are the slipstream around this island. It is too large to be a hawk. It is not shaped like a gull. The Hudson Valley is full of eagles, higher up. I cannot believe this is one, but it seems to know exactly what it is: eagle. It doesn’t tell its name. It wears it. Maybe, as artists, we are such birds, mistaken by ourselves and others for something else, riding the current of our dreams, hunting in the canyons of commerce for something we have seen from higher up. For artists, a wing and a prayer is routine operating procedure. We must trust our process, look beyond ‘results’.”

“Artists throughout the centuries have spoken of ‘inspiration,’ confiding that God spoke to them, or angels did. In our age, such notions of art as a spiritual experience are seldom mentioned…."

“And yet, the central experience of creativity is mystical. Opening our souls to what must be made, we meet our Maker.”

“In a sense, as we are creative beings, our lives become our work of art…."

Storm and Calm

Wind thrashes, waves crash, and rain hurries down the windows in rivers that branch into endless tributaries. It is dark outside, and the chimney howls with a ghostly, mournful wail that refuses to be stifled.

Inside two candles burn - slowly, calmly, their flames hardly flickering. Piano music beckons me to follow a pied piper to some inner place of calm where the outside storm seems to cease.

Restoration

The lake resembled a big silvery disc yesterday evening, one shimmering under a celestial blanket of clouds illumined by a spotlight-of-sun from behind. Two elegant white swans paddled from east to west, as well as half-a-dozen ducks - their wakes streaming out in gentle, widening v-shapes.

A pianist played eloquently (on a CD) while Jeremiah spoke to me from the book of Lamentations. There is no comfort away from God’s presence, and in fact, He only multiplies disgrace and mourning in the face of rebellion against Him. But there is hope for the idolaters who leave Him in the dust: His loving devotion and salvation will rescue them from destruction.

His compassions, new every morning, call his people to self-examination and humility. Great is His faithfulness. (Lamentations 3:22,23).

Sometimes I’m blessed by a moment of tangible restoration. Renewal defined this moment beside the silvery coin-of-a-lake, with a reminder that deep cleansing (redemption) comes not through water, or the exchange of currency, but the blood of the perfect sacrifice: Jesus.

“For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your forefathers, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect.” I Peter 1:18,19

The Waiting Room

While driving through the countryside to the doctor’s office this morning for my annual physical exam, I passed a tree standing in the middle of an otherwise farmer’s barren field. It was huge, possibly a maple, with beautifully spreading boughs totally devoid of leaves. The symmetry of the branches seemed almost perfect, and beneath them, in a ring-around-the-rosie circle, stood eager saplings – not just first-season ones, but teenagers, all still with bright yellow fall foliage intact. I had to stare – there were just too many lessons there. Old and new. Growth and shelter. Modeling, mentoring, and…looking up.

The sedate image of wisdom stood over the vibrant.

In the office waiting room sat a handsome young man, maybe in his early 20’s, with blue tattoos winding in coiling snakes up both arms. He stared into space from beneath a billed cap, seemingly focusing on the far wall. During my entire wait (around 20 minutes) I never saw him blink, flinch, or move any part of his body even slightly. It was as if he'd been frozen in place, transfixed, staring at some spot beyond the room the rest of us could not see. I felt more than a little anxious for him, and wondered if he was drugged.

Another patient caught my eye, an older woman (maybe 90) with the whitest-white skin I’d ever seen. If her eyes hadn’t been brown, I would have thought her to be an albino. She seemed fragile to the extreme; her eyes met mine a couple of times with a fleeting, imploring look as if to say, “Life is hard and I don’t know what to do.” I almost thought she would break and shatter into a heap on the floor if someone touched her. Hugging her would be out of the question; I’d be afraid she might turn to baby powder right there in my arms.

At one point the door to the patient rooms opened and a couple emerged, probably around the age of 80. They both wore huge smiles, and I thought, “Wow, they must have gotten good news today!” However, as I watched them the smiles seemed to be permanently etched, even as they got their coats independently without talking with each other. Finally, on the way out the door, the woman approached another patient – a fairly pathetic-looking 40-ish woman wearing sweat pants (what happened to you, Eve?) who was seriously overweight, mousy, dull-in-the-eyes. “Say, you don’t know me,” Smiley said while tapping the blank-faced woman on the shoulder from behind, “but I have a walker almost exactly like yours at home.”

“Really?” The mousy woman turned (with some degree of pain since she was so large) and seemed genuinely shocked and pleased by Smiley’s gesture.

“Yes, but mine isn’t RED.” Smiley flashed a gigantic smile and her eyes twinkled.

“Oh? What color is yours?” (Was it my imagination, or did I see a spark of life jump...?)

“Just plain old silver.” (giggle) “Now…you have a nice day.”

All the while Smiley’s husband smiled too, a hunched-over, skinny gentleman with skiffs of stiff, white hair who stood by the door and waited with a genuinely enraptured look on his face, as if the only thing that mattered was this once-in-a-lifetime chance for his wife to talk with the woman who had the red walker. Meanwhile, the young guy with the fixed gaze kept staring into space, and the albino-like woman fidgeted nervously in her chair - her beady, dark eyes darting like a caged hamster’s. The woman with the walker suddenly began chattering amiably with her companion (presumably her mother) as if she'd been waiting for someone to pull the plug and release whatever had been stifled.

I felt like a fly on the wall observing the gamut of humanity right there in the waiting room with lessons very similar to those offered by the trees: lessons about life and growth, age and maturity, strength and fragility, wisdom and insecurity, survival and living fully. Also, I wished, just for a moment, that I could get to know all these players of the waiting room scene, if only because visual appearances aren’t always what they seem to be.

A Quiet Heart...in the Moment

I’m trying to practice what it means to live in, and for, the current moment. (The opposite would be enduring the moment while focusing on the past or forecasting the future – both of which come naturally.) Nothing but the present is tangible, and yet vapors of the past and future also exist – and in their wafting way, try to put a big spin on priorities and how to think about NOW.

Mostly I want transcendence to quiet my heart when things seem difficult.

Yesterday we learned Fritz’s medical test of last week showed his heart muscle is extremely weak; his cardiologist says it’s the weakest he’s seen it since the original diagnosis in March of 2002. That’s mind-boggling and confusing news. His heart was completely healed and functioning normally this time last year, AND recent symptomatic evidence doesn’t quite match with the test results. How are we to think? Believe? Expect? Plan? LIVE? What does this news do to this moment, right now?

I want to continue to testify to the One in charge, right now - to not doubt Him or His plan, right now. However, it’s tempting to focus on everything BUT the immediate when that oldie but goodie question keeps nagging: “What should we DO?” The answer is what it always is: trust and obey – right now.

On a personal note, I wrestle these days with what it means to “live in the (noisy) moment” successfully. Auditory stress and/or circumstantial confusion point me toward the funny farm, and I take off (on automatic pilot) in that direction like some mechanical wind-up toy stricken by a soul-stiffening palsy. Still, all I have is NOW. I can intentionally choose to pull out the wind-up key and regroup.

I ended up reading in Zephaniah (chapter 3 verses 16-17) a couple of days ago and have been meditating on it ever since. It refers to the future of restored Jerusalem (something to envision in the midst of global calamities), and yet the redemptive emphasis also seems to speak to the state of my own heart – now. There is no reason to fear: I am not alone in this moment, but am cared for by The Ultimate Resource. He cherishes me more than I can imagine; He quiets my fragile heart with His heart-song of joy.

On that day they will say to Jerusalem,
“Do not fear, O Zion;
Do not let your hands hang limp.
The Lord your God is with you,
He is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
He will quiet you with his love,
He will rejoice over you with singing.” (Zeph. 3:16-17)

Surprise, Surprise, Surprise!

Last night a grandpa-sized, native Michigan crawdad traveled across state lines to Illinois (and the big city of Chicago) with our son and grandson. Today he will become the star of kindergarten show-and-tell – then will be released to the “wild” of the Chicago River to find a new lifestyle.

He was lazily sitting on the frame of our boat hoist on Saturday, minding his own business, no doubt enjoying the swish of fresh water as the waves pushed past him. Then bingo, he was swept out of the water by deft hands, teased into aggression mode, put on display, photographed (his picture was then posted on Facebook), and finally imprisoned in a plastic bucket. Now his adaptation skills will be pushed to the max as he goes several days without food only to be relocated in polluted water with who-knows-what to eat.

This is a good object lesson: sometimes life is full of surprises.

Generations

“If you live long enough, you become your parents’ parents and your childrens’ children.” Someone told me this a long time ago; it continues to play out in my own life. In fact, the generational thing is happening in obvious ways this weekend.

Our boys (ages 30 and 36, bless their hearts) are here accomplishing the rough-n-tough seasonal lakeside jobs: removing boats and pier sections from the water. They also have been researching/discussing recently, and took their dad on a shopping trip last night to buy new cell phones for the two of us. Even more noble and courageous, they’re promising to counsel us through the steep-and-slick senior citizen techno-learning-curve.

Meanwhile, our 5-year-old grandson gags on his mashed butternut squash (which is seasoned with brown sugar and butter, no less) and insists his red bell peppers NOT be cut in thin strips, goodness gracious sakes alive, which is totally unacceptable. I’m not sure how he fits in with the general melee of age-related observations, except it hit me that in a few years he’ll be the one rescuing his dad (the one currently counting one, two, three with the threat of punishment if his son doesn’t choke down that evil squash).

Although a lot of my old college English-major exposure has melted into oblivion, every once in a while a quote will come to mind. Just now I thought of a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins that left its mark way back then, even before I knew the Lord or had any concept about God’s involvement in human life. “Generations have trod, have trod, have trod” and “the Holy Ghost…broods” over those generations.


The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

This Mystery

Last night I woke with a strange image in my mind. I’d become a stiff and faceless, template-drawn person made of circles, ovals, squares, and rectangles living in a deep and wide, sterile, angular trench where noises echoed with raucous clamoring. Above the darkness of the pit, lush, green grasses grew, the sun shone, and birds chirped musically as the mystery (energy) of life unfolded. I needed to get there…and be transformed.

Maybe this was a spin-off of some thoughts I had yesterday after being encouraged to look up song lyrics: “This Mystery” by Nichole Nordeman. I found myself particularly identifying with life’s rat race (the “punched clocks” and “zeros that balance in the end”)…and especially that bigger noise overshadowing the little voice, the one that leads from the lifeless trench to Life.

And life becomes the bigger noise
Drowning out Your little voice
Your little voice, Jesus.

I finally listened to the entire song online, in tandem with reading the words since I don’t hear lyrics so well. I had to wonder…do I miss the mystery? Forget how to breathe? Get stuck checking off to-do lists?


Say goodnight to the light of the setting sun
One more day, one more way
Of keeping track of all I've done.

I run this race, keep this pace
I'm doing fine
And I won't stop until each box
Gets checked a second time.

And life becomes the round and round
Revolving door that won't slow down
It won't slow down.

Do You wish, do You want us to breathe again?
Say goodbye to the lines that we've coloured in
Brown and grey from day to day
Do You cry, do You hope for all things made new?
Try and try to invoke us to live in You
That we might be the hands and feet of this mystery.

This routine is nice and clean from dawn to dusk
I rise and rest, I do my best
When will it ever be enough?

And life becomes the bigger noise
Drowning out Your little voice
Your little voice, Jesus.

Do You wish, do You want us to breathe again?
Say goodbye to the lines that we've coloured in
Brown and grey from day to day
Do You cry, do You hope for all things made new?
Try and try to invoke us to live in You
That we might be the hands and feet of this mystery.

We take stock, and we punch the clock
And we make sure all those zeros have balanced in the end.

Do You wish, do You want us to breathe again?
Say goodbye to the lines that we've coloured in
Brown and grey from day to day
Do You cry, do You hope for all things made new?
Try and try to invoke us to live in You
That we might be

Fallibility and Grace

I’m fascinated by stories of little Helga, age five, living in the midst of war, eating watery cabbage soup and living in abandoned (primitive, temporary) US barracks in East Germany – learning so early in life the lessons of transformation of the soul and spirit. I’ve decided deprivation and want, as well as unexpected rescue and provision, imprinted her in deep and marvelous ways. Simply put, her atypical, war-torn childhood ended up ultimately fashioning a trusting and obedient heart.

Helga learned as a little child that even adults don’t have all the answers since even they (the icons of mastery in her child-eyes) sometimes disappointed her confidence. She learned to be fallible, to always reach for the Father’s grace, more grace, and to assume human life is not knowable, controllable, or understandable, but rather a journey to continually enlarge the human heart’s capacity to receive more and more of Him.

All these years later she is still growing, still receiving, still becoming the person who was forged in a war-ravaged land that stole her earthly father’s life and challenged her mother with survival. Yet she is anything but unforgiving or bitter – rather, she has built on that early foundation of want, need, and dependence to continually develop His gifts: mercy and faith.

Madeline L’Engle says this:

“To be human is, yes, to be fallible…We are…creatures who know that we don’t know. When I was a child, I used to think that being grown up meant that you would know. Grown-ups had the answers. This is an illusion that a lot of people don’t lose when they grow up. But our very fallibility is one of our human glories. If we are fallible we are free to grow and develop. If we are infallible we are rigid, stuck in one position…”

Helga's Memoirs

I woke this morning with a calm spirit, sandwiched between unruffled, barely-touched blankets - having slept soundly for the first time in ages, just like the proverbial log. Our little unassuming house by the lake seems warm, still, quiet, cozy, and comforting, a haven overlooking the choppy-gray, wind-swept lake with its multi-colored autumn border. I am blessed to be here, with a challenging project on the horizon that fits my aptitudes a little better than the current body-and-soul-altering manual labor jobs in Buck Creek.

I hope, during the next week or so, to help a friend named Helga write her memoirs of growing up in Germany during World War II. It seems to be a multi-layered assignment where facts and chronology must underlie Helga’s remembrances: little-girl impressions, reactions, and feelings. I pray for wisdom and creative expression to do her story justice.

Leaving the Hamster Wheel Behind

I’ve escaped: a nose-twitchy, beady-eyed, scurrying, squeaking hamster-like woman on the loose! No more running around in that stupid mind-altering wheel, spinning with only an illusion of progress. I'm on the loose, for real.

When the kids were young, we had a Siberian hamster named Mousekin. His stature was smaller than the usual hamster – more mouse-like. Once he got out of his cage and roamed the house for a few days, exploring and scritch-scratching behind the walls. Finally one of the kids grabbed him in an unsuspecting moment of daytime disclosure, and returned him to the captivity of his cage to live (un)happily ever after.

Well anyway, I flew the Buck Creek coop this afternoon and drove to the Michigan lakehouse by myself. It was a major jailbreak. The hamster wheel (with its wearisome, repetitious remodel activity that seems to go on forever) is behind me for a few days.

I'll return to the cage and the wheel, sure enough, but not until I’m ready.

Painting and Penitence

Blinding sunshine…toxic, lead-ridden dust…plagues of thousands upon thousands of tiny swarming, stinging insects (crawling in hair and ears, on BOTH sides of glasses, under clothes – then biting at will)…tips of sharp, bothersome nails protruding from splintering, pressed wood…neck-breaking, head-back positions for hours on end…and of course the coup de gras: gooey stuff dripping into face, down arms, and all over hands and even dotting the ground below.

These describe the parameters as I scraped and painted the overhang of the porch this afternoon. It took a good 5 hours to prime just one side of the three-sided porch, even though I worked steadily the whole time. I have a million little welts (the ladybugs were swarming in their autumnal frenzy, and seemed especially ornery when it came to aggressive flying, crawling, and BITING) and my neck is weak from being bent backwards in a “look up” position until it can hardly support my bobbling head.

During the afternoon I decided this was more than a painting project; the work conditions seemed almost like a form of penance. (Laugh if you will, but I was able to keep going only because of a conviction that suffering was in order, even as I received grace to finish the job.) More than once as the hours crept by I found myself in a penitent attitude: admitting my own acts of blatant disobedience to God and evaluating the degree of my repentance (turning from rebellion to obedience).

Who would have thought a paint job could turn into a spiritual exercise? But it did.

A Royal Mess-Up

Ah yes, once again I’m clenched in humility’s badger-like jaw grip.

This time I managed to stick my foot in my mouth by posting the most embarrassing screw-up EVER in my recent FaithWriters weekly submission. At the last minute before entering the story, I combed it one last time and changed the main character’s first name…all EXCEPT for one reference! Oh pleeease – !! (See my eyes roll back?)

So the poor unsuspecting reading audience starts engaging with this atypical but winsome woman named Sue, and then wham…as the story becomes a bit more gripping toward the end, a posthumous letter appears written by some unknown person named Imogene. Really it’s Sue’s letter (her original name was Imogene before I changed it), but who would know that?

I consider this oversight radically inexcusable. One lone reader posted a gracious critique, but ended with, “Who’s Imogene?” Obviously you just don’t expect a person with a name like Imogene to show up unannounced. Goodness. Stupidity + insulting/confusing the reader = idiocy. Sizzling hot, siren-blaring, fire engine red (blushing) idiocy.

I’m trying to slither under the radar at FaithWriters this week, but the fact of the matter is I have to live with the embarrassment. And to make matters worse, the creative well has suddenly gone dry; I can’t seem to come up with a redemptive idea for an entry for this week’s topic: “black.” The closest thing that has come to mind so far is to compose something about two tiny round peep-holes…two windows-of-the-soul…two jet-black pupils of a human’s eyes. But whose eyes? And what’s the story? I have no idea.

Heart-to-Heart

Sometimes I’m tempted to curl up inside like a wounded, very young child, one secure and totally dependent on trustworthy adult care. In such moments, I long to know someone else is devoted enough to stop the clock, stop the activity, stop the madness of pushing through pain and take care of me when I can no longer take care of myself; when the infection (emotional, physical, intellectual, or spiritual) has lasted too long and the puss (literal or figurative) refuses to stop oozing.

In my opinion, loneliness is a plague that threatens in subtle but killing ways, depending on the personality it attacks. Some people build higher walls of self-preservation (convincing themselves of their own fortitude) where they then live with their chosen companion: solitude. Others become volcanoes that periodically belch internal smoke and ash (emotional purges of anger, fear, rejection, inadequacy) to relieve the pressure of intrinsic aloneness. Still others wilt in some deep and foundational spot, and then spend the rest of their lives building and painting a canvas on top of it, one that looks just right to those (like visitors in an art gallery) who view human relationship at arms length. I’m sure there are other options as well, for personalities are as varied as the fingerprints of the people who own them. But in my experience, I’ve never known a person to embrace loneliness as a lifestyle and also remain vibrant and optimally ALIVE. We are not created to be desert islands.

I personally appreciate initiation and transparency - those times when someone cares enough to be interested in the state of my deep heart and invite me into that same plane of interaction in their own lives. I realize not everyone “goes there” – in fact, some may well have a different perception of heart-level living that isn’t quite so….vulnerable.

In reality, as I get older I realize my longings are actually for Paradise and a secure relationship with the Father – a relationship that need not wait, but can and should be fostered here and now. And yet while living on earth, I will also continue to keep an eye out for opportunities to know and be known by other human earthlings who seek similar heart-to-heart relationship with each other and their Lord.

The Hayride

Open camp fire…roasted hot dogs…straw-bale benches…home pressed apple cider…happy kids and grandkids…the original tootsie-roll pops…bright stars…dusty straw…old army blankets…crisp air…first-of-the-season gloves and sock caps…mega-huge tractor…tottery old hay wagons.

Tonight marked our twenty-eighth consecutive (annual) hayride, sponsored by our good friend Dick Kennedy. This event has become a not-to-be-missed tradition – one of those that binds together generations of family and friends who believe the simple things are the best.

Carpentry

I tackled what felt like an almost-impossible job this morning: I patched a gouged spot (possibly construction damage?) in our brand spankin’ new oak floor.

Last night I discovered this little 1”x1/4” hollow spot while we were caulking the LAST (finally) window in the dining room. After hearing my little groan of surprise and disappointment over the hole, Fritz simply said, “Well, we’ve got lots of scrap pieces – you can patch it if you want.”

Yeah. Sure. We’re talking hardwood. What do GIRLS know about carpentry? All I know about patching, from my bakery days, is how to repair holes in CAKES with big globs of frosting.

But this morning I took a 2” square block of leftover finished wood to the basement and chopped away at it with a hatchet. No kidding; I’m talking real pioneer, little-house-on-the-prairie stuff. Then I proceeded to whittle it with a kitchen knife, cut it with kitchen scissors, and then sand it smooth (and I sanded the tips of my fingers as well). The thing looked like a skinny sliver by the time I was done, but it fit pretty well. A little Gorilla glue and a brick to weight it for a while, and presto, the hole was filled.

The reason I tell this story is because at any stage of the process the wood could have easily splintered. It was so TINY and fragile. But as I began, I sensed the Holy Spirit encouraging me from within in a more tangible way than usual. I said out loud, “Lord, please help all my efforts to pay off! Make this work!” As the piece of wood got smaller and smaller, and the chance of breaking it became greater and greater, I felt certain it WOULD work, but only because of faith in Him. And it was reasonably successful; you can see the picture here yourself! Just call me The Carpenter Woman who belongs to the Carpenter from Nazareth.

By the way, while I’m on the subject of carpentry, here’s an excerpt from a 1955 Sunday School Manual (Christ’s Ideals for Living) by George Blair entitled “The Carpenter of Nazareth.” I’m currently identifying with this after finishing the floor project, and believe I’m just a little more mended and repaired myself as a result of trusting Him while fixing the floor.

In Nazareth, the narrow road,
That tires the feet and steals the breath,
Passes the place where once abode
The Carpenter of Nazareth.
And up and down the dusty way
The village folk would often wend;
And on the bench, beside Him, lay
Their broken things for Him to mend.
The maiden with the doll she broke,
The woman with the broken chair,
The man with broken plough, or yoke,
Said, "Can you mend it, Carpenter?"
And each received the thing he sought,
In yoke, or plough, or chair, or doll;
The broken thing which each had brought
Returned again a perfect whole.
So, up the hill the long years through,
With heavy step and wistful eye,
The burdened souls their way pursue,
Uttering each the plaintive cry:
"O Carpenter of Nazareth,
This heart, that's broken past repair,
This life, that's shattered nigh to death,
Oh, can You mend them, Carpenter?"
And by His kind and ready hand,
His own sweet life is woven through
Our broken lives, until they stand
A New Creation—"all things new."
"The shattered [substance] of [the] heart,
Desire, ambition, hope, and faith,
Mould Thou into the perfect part,
O, Carpenter of Nazareth!"

Angel Man

I suppose I’ve paid a ga-zillion visits to various grocery store parking lots in my lifetime, and many times, like today, I exited the store with an overflowing cart FULL of groceries. (I hate to think of all the money I’ve spent on food over the years.) But this afternoon was different. I had a FIRST TIME EVER experience.

Oblivious to all the other shoppers (just as oblivious as they were to me - I mean who ever notices people in the parking lot?), I’d stashed all but the last two sacks of my mega-haul in the back of the mini-van. Suddenly I was aware of a rather homely-looking, elderly man who approached and stood near me.

I did a little internal double take as he continued to just STAND THERE. What did he want? Was he selling something, handing out advertisement flyers, or giving speeches one-on-one about the atrocities of war, abortion, the state of the economy, or world politics? Was he planning to grab a bag of my groceries and run? I tried to ignore him.

Eventually I could no longer pretend. So I spoke, just to be the first one to make a move, while intentionally seeming preoccupied with adjusting my bags: “Would you like my grocery cart?” I hoped he had just gotten out of his car and was planning to take mine with him – a way to relieve the cart-retrievers of having to push it back into the store.

“I can help you out,” he said.

That sounded pretty nebulous, so I still refused eye contact. After putting the last two bags in the car, I slammed the hatch rather quickly and started to walk to the driver’s door – still avoiding eye contact. “Thank you,” I said, out of politeness but not real thanks.

“I’ve already done my shopping – but I’m not in any hurry,” he replied. Out of the corner of my eye I could see he held a single shopping bag holding perhaps one small single item.

Then IT happened. He took my cart and pushed it over to the storage rack probably 4 or 5 cars away, back in the direction of the store, then turned and walked back the other way, past my car, to his car. He’d taken care of my cart purely as an act of kindness.

Of course I felt an instant pang of guilt. I didn’t even give this guy the pleasure of a smile of gratitude. And yet he was the first and only stranger in the mass of humanity swarming around – the first caring person EVER in a grocery parking lot – to notice I had a big load of stuff to handle and decided to make a kind overture just because it was a nice thing to do.

Even late this evening I keep thinking about him – who he was, why he did this, if it is something he does often or if it was a fluke one-time thing. He sure didn’t look like an angel to me, but in my mind that’s his name: Angel Man.

Blue Paint Tape

This week’s FaithWriters topic is “blue.” I’ve procrastinated (what’s new), but wrote up a first draft last night about this fictional woman named Imogene Wilson - such a sweet soul who lives in a blue bungalow in the Great Smoky Mountains, grows blue monkshood in her flower garden, hangs antique blue plates on the knotty pine interior of her home, knits blue afghan squares in her prayer closet (a literal place), and is known as “True Blue” by the volunteer organizations in her community. A bit contrived, but then again, WHAT A GAL. I actually sorta like her.

We’re back at the Buck Creek house this morning, and another entirely different idea for a story showed up. Blue paint tape is still stuck here and there, framing windows and both the front and back porches (pillars/ceiling/fascia boards/etc.) that still await fresh paint before the weather turns cold (better hurry, huh).

In fact, I will soon be out on the porch roofs (shudder, I HATE heights) to peel off blue tape from the window trim. (Does it come off clean in damp, cold weather, or do I need to take the goo-gone with me?)

What I DO know is that the peeled tape WILL, as usual, stick to itself in the process, and then will glom up in giant basketball-sized-balls that stick to my fingers until I’m totally disabled. This has happened many times in the past (just never while simultaneously perched on a rooftop) and will be especially true today since I’ll be hanging on for dear life with my free hand.

Maybe I should think about re-writing Imogene’s story; maybe she needs to be remodeling and doing tons of painting with blue tape, and she ends up wrapped like a true-blue mummy…and….blue paint tape TAAAAKES OVEEEER THE WOOOORLD…….

It’s evil, you know - that blue paint tape. Imogene said so. And believe me, she knows what she’s talking about. Yep. She does.

Today's Headline

Fritz came inside from the deck just a minute ago and made a bee-line toward the kitchen to warm up leftovers for lunch: last night’s fresh-caught fish that he’d had for dinner. I was already chowing my lunch: a spinach salad with pineapple, grapes, raisins and pecans. Mmmmmmm.

He pronounced one of his famous headlines on his way by, as if it had been sitting on his shoulder like ripe fruit, ready to drop off. “The battle between light and dark is the battle for the mind.”

The next thing I know, his head is in the refrigerator and he’s looking for leftover tartar sauce. No preface to the headline, no details, just the conclusion.

All I could say in response was to muffle a quote from Paul in Romans 12:2 through a mouth full of spinach:

“Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

End of conversation

Wild Love (and Obedience)

Maybe I was ready and the timing was just right; maybe the Holy Spirit was extra-busy convicting me. Maybe Pastor Tom was super-passionate about the topic; maybe his extemporaneous, personal, deep-felt delivery drove arrows deep into my heart. Maybe all of the above were true.

In any case, yesterday’s sermon (at our Michigan church this time) broadsided me in a way I can hardly describe. I came away re-committed; submitted and surrendered to God (with surrender that paradoxically defines victory); motivated to embrace all souls in order to offer them a glimpse of the Kingdom that gives me hope and purpose; encouraged to love in outrageous, adventurous, life-altering ways. Why? Jesus came to free captives with His unreserved love – love we receive from Him and then share extravagantly as His representatives. Any other reason to live pales in comparison.

For me, the word Pastor Tom chose - extravagance - paints a picture of Victorian elegance and opulence: unrestrained and fantastic lavishness. This is how God loves me and blesses me. This is how I am to love and bless others - extravagantly.

Pastor Tom spoke in counter-cultural terms: “The Christian life is not about self-fulfillment; it’s about self-denial.” This doesn’t infer that we live in poverty, but it does necessitate overt humility.

“It’s not what you believe that counts, it’s what you believe enough to DO.” Belief (heart/soul transformation rather than intellectual/rational acknowledgment) is lifeless without works to back it up. Such belief inspires lavish mercy as we humbly bow before the Lord (where we become as strong as we’ll ever get).

He said the gospel requires Jesus’ disciples to do hard things, but only as empowered by the Holy Spirit. Jesus’ love enables us to love (give and give and give) with our very lives; to love with reckless abandon; to love wild.

_____________________________

Then this morning breaks, and I see myself realistically. I not only deceive others with pretentious claims and appearances, but also myself with self-defeating, self-serving stubbornness. Yesterday’s extravagant service mind-set cannot take hold without first obeying Him with an unfettered, yielded heart. When I listen for God’s voice via the indwelling Holy Spirit, His Word and His people, my response is not just to hear - but obey.

Waiting in the Wind

I sat by the picture window of the Michigan house yesterday evening, watching the wind tramp across the lake as if to scuff ripples that fled before millions of sightless toes.

The sun sank lower in the sky and finally dipped beneath the trees leaving a soft afterglow. A few trembling maple leaves lay on the deck in shades of blushing red and amber-gold, awaiting their final transformation into dust.

Mystery cried out to me, but I could barely hear its voice. Deafened by the still watchfulness that comes with being similarly redefined in essential ways, I retreated to a soulful place within to wait and hope.

Part of me affirmed that I prefer the lake to be glassy; the leaves to be healthy green, and shaping a full canopy overhead. But another part relishes the wind in my face; the seasonal shift of focus.

The truth is that all created earthly things must, by definition, transform…even the earth itself. Everything ultimately submits to orchestrations by an indisputable God, whom I trust implicitly. My job is to wait on Him in the midst of the scuffing and aging – and embrace the process of sanctification leading to full redemption. There’s no point in resisting autumn or winter, both of which are coming to the 2009 calendar and to my own broader season of life.

The gospel of John says the wind blows wherever it wants; we can hear it but can’t tell where it’s been or where it’s going. Similarly, that’s the way it is with everyone born of the Spirit. He is changing us, moving us, as we wait on Him…in the wind. (John 3:8)

Ship on the High Seas

Loss – that sinking-fast-without-a-life-jacket feeling, that sense of being without health or resources or relationship - can be crippling OR humbling in a positive way, depending on the point of view. If I only let it, loss (in the form of pain and/or suffering) can bring me to a less-than-self-exalted state where I am finally transformed: free and whole.

Where would I be if not subjected to those teachers of meekness (both chronic and momentary physical/emotional challenges, even the balloon-finger-full-of-infection yesterday) that direct me, over and over, to my preferred place at His feet? I would become a money-changer in the temple with little regard for the sanctity of His holiness; a Pharisee upholding the prescribed right answers from behind a mask while hypocritically pretending to manufacture peace.

There's a way to describe this opposite of humility: pride that translates into an awful and shallow loneliness.

Humility is a paradox since it is the avenue to glory: an emphasized Christian grace; a state of mind that pleases God and manifests in tranquility and patience even under trials. Jesus set the example of humility. Significant promises are made to the humble (Ps. 147:6; Isa. 57:15; 66:2; I Pe. 5:5).

In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis says God only wants us to stop our silly posing and posturing – and simply come to know Him. When that happens we are, “delightedly humble, feeling the infinite relief of having for once got rid of all the silly nonsense about our own dignity which has made us restless and unhappy all our lives.”
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The barque (sailing ship) of my life sails along
Amid darkness and shadows of night,
And I see no shore;
I am sailing the high seas.

The slightest storm would drown me,
Engulfing my boat in the swirling depths,
If You Yourself did not watch over me, O God,
At each instant and moment of my life.

Amid the roaring waves
I sail peacefully, trustingly,
And gaze like a child into the distance without fear,
Because You, O Jesus, are my Light.

Dread and terror is all about me,
But within my soul is peace more profound than the depths of the sea,
For he who is with You, O Lord, will not perish;
Of this Your love assures me, O God.

Though a host of dangers surround me,
None of them do I fear, for I fix my gaze on the starry sky,
And I said along bravely and merrily,
As becomes a pure heart.

And if the ship of my life sails so peacefully,
This is due to but one thing above all:
You are my helmsman, O God.
This I confess with utmost humility.

Written by St. Maria Faustina Kowalska, patron saint of mercy, notebook V, October 20, 1937

Another Finger Owie

I (sniffle) have an owie (sniffle) – another finger owie (sniffle) from working my hands to the bone (sniffle).

This time a foreign object, possibly a chip of dry paint, has gotten behind my cuticle and caused a raging infection. The tip of my middle finger on my right hand looks like a red balloon about to burst, and is swollen to nearly twice its normal size! I’m heading to urgent care this morning as I can hardly type at my computer any longer (and you know what THAT means….sheer desperation). And sleeping has been the pits the last two nights, so its time to get some help.

POP! Ha - you thought the balloon finally popped, didn't ya? No such luck…I wish it WOULD pop and relieve some of the pressure. We'll see what the doc has to say.

Zebra Zeals (and Zebrula Whatevers)

I’m aware of the collective names used to describe specific groups of animals, such as:

Herd of antelope/deer/horses/buffalo/pigs
School of fish
Bed of clams
Pod of whales
Colony of rats
Army of frogs
Gaggle of geese
Litter of cats/kittens
Swarm of ants
Brood of chicks/hens
Swarm of bees/butterflies
Pack of dogs/hounds
Flock of sheep
Congregation of eagles/birds
Flock of ducks/birds
Nest of mice

BUT…I’ve never heard of this one:

Zeal of zebras

The word zeal in this case means the same thing as herd (compare to the first item, herd, in the long line-up). It does not mean zealous zebras. (Are zebras even capable of being passionately intense?) Nor does it mean zealot zebras. (Could a zebra have befriended Simon Peter?!)

But anyway, now I want to write a story about a zeal of zebras - or a poem, or a limerick. Oh yeah, that’s it, some sort of tongue-twister for a speed-reading, tongue-tripping contest. Something about those zany, zelophobic (c’mon, look it up if you really care to know) zeals of zebras.

Here are a couple of other zebra facts I found out…not that anyone but me (except other word-freaks) would ever care to know. A zebroid/zebrine/zebrass is a young zebra. But a zebrula is the offspring of a female horse and a male zebra! Now I must ask…did you even know this was a possibility? I wonder if there’s such a thing as a zeal of zebrulas? Or if zebrulas prefer to be herds? Hmmmm. Such a deep subject for contemplation.

Paradise Lost?

Last night I dreamed I was walking from a campsite toward a public transportation station of some sort. My luggage and gear had been carefully packed and scheduled for pick-up and delivery to my same eventual destination. So I walked with no encumbrances, not even a purse.

I ended up wandering unknowingly from the beaten path (busy, trafficked city streets) to more and more remote roads. I felt magnetically drawn away, enticed in a subliminal way I suppose, by the increasingly quieter options. Eventually I ended up on a dirt road surrounded by aging trees and broken fences overgrown with tangled vines and realized, “I’m lost – really, really lost.”

Just about then I happened onto a beautiful clearing where a log cabin sat right next to a sprawling crystal-clear lake (with water clarity sort of like the bottomless gravel pit Fritz and I used to visit at the lake). A young family with four children lived there. They took me in quite willingly and graciously, with a serene hospitality that might be expected at a bed and breakfast. They seemed unable to comprehend my need to get back on track with MY life. What? Go where? And why?

They couple told me their story. Years before they had staked their claim as hikers who frequented the spot to tent-camp – then later married, built their dream homestead, and started a family. They seemed to not need or want the rest of the world. I had no idea how they paid their bills. But wait – what bills? There were there by virtue of squatter’s rights alone, and used no public services. When asked about getting groceries and sending the kids to school, they gave incomplete answers or conversation faded into some other topic. I felt a sense of panic rise inwardly simply because their lives seemed so real, and yet also such a blur when seen through my own focus. I couldn’t engage – not really.

I became more and more agitated when I realized there was no coverage for my cell phone (which was clipped to my belt), so I couldn’t call for help. Not only that, but my cell phone and hearing aid chargers were back in my luggage! Not that there would have been an electrical outlet anyway. However, that seemed odd since the home was beautifully furnished and not primitive at all. There must have been an energy source coming from somewhere?

The interesting part to this whole dream was the tension between accepting their lifestyle of relative Paradise and feeling pulled out of duty or practice to return to my own. I didn’t want to leave the refreshing reality of the place, and yet I obviously didn’t belong there. At one point I looked outside the front door to watch one of the kids swimming in the lake (which was right there, not five feet away), doing side-to-side somersaults in a sort of aquatic ballet. I realized with a pang that I longed for the same kind of expressive freedom but was unable to jump in and join the choreography.

Then I woke up.

Tyler Flashback

Yesterday I had a flashback while spending the day painting the pillars and screen dividers on the front porch. Tyler – at least in spirit - was HERE.

For 18 years Tyler was our loyal Australian shepherd. A muscular, handsome outdoor dog, he claimed our 25 acres as his turf the minute he set foot on it as a tiny puppy. He was probably the most intuitively intelligent, relational, consistently optimistic, and forgiving animal I’ve ever known.

He was a fixture on our property, and although he’s been gone for two years, his memory still lingers. I can easily fool myself and think he’s still here. Sometimes I imagine I catch glimpses of him strolling around the corner of the house; trotting up the driveway; rolling in the yard; wandering through the tall grass to get down to the creek. And when I drive up the driveway, I still expect him to come bounding off the porch to greet the car. For just a split second yesterday I thought I heard his bark…but no, when I was honest it was obviously some other dog. Tyler’s bark will never be duplicated.

The last time I was with him in July of 2007 I gently cupped his muzzle with both hands and stroked his nose with my thumbs while gazing into his cataract-glazed brown eyes. He had a way of resting his head in my grip and looking back at me with an expression that said everything you might want a human to say: I love you; I respect you; I want to be with you; I give myself totally and unreservedly to you.

Tyler disappeared one day when we were gone, and never returned. We assume he passed away since he’d been diagnosed a couple of months before with an early stage of heart valve disease, or else was hit by a car he couldn’t see. Unfortunately we never discovered his body or any signs of when or how he died. It has been hard to not have closure; to not know the details of his passing and whether it was swift or laborious.

His legacy remains, and as long as I’m here at this property, I expect that to continue. Something of his jaunty outlook and unquestioning fidelity rubbed off on me, and an intangible Tyler-ness lingers here in his favorite haunts. I’m grateful for these moments of flashback, and even for the longing that sweeps over me; the desire to feel his gentle nose on my hand as I walk, and then to reach over and ruffle his shaggy neck one more time.

Santa Came!

I GOT A NEW SAFARI UPGRADE LAST NIGHT!

We crawled into bed around 10:30 like a couple of rag dolls well-buffeted by remodel work, with heads and limbs sagging from fatigue. Fritz groaned, no doubt from sheer exhaustion, and said, “What is that noise?” Of course I thought to myself, what noise you goofus, all I hear is the stuff in my head. “Your laptop (which was in the same room) sure is chewing on something.”

My tinnitus masks lots of outside sounds, so of course I couldn’t hear what he was talking about. Nor did I really care. “Well, it IS chewing on something – yum yum – my new Safari upgrade!”

“Ohhhhhhhh, okay.”

“Go in the other room to sleep if it’s bugging you.” I sort of snapped this at him – like c’mon, you should have to deal with the noise in my head every night when you try to go to sleep!

“Ahhhgggggg.” (silence) “Mug…whumf. Um.”

The next thing I heard was his old-man-version of schna-shup-snoring, the jumpy grinding sleep-apnea kind that is becoming the hallmark of this phase of our life. Unfortunately I DO hear that. Schlump-wheeez. Klah-snop.

The computer continued to chew, and Fritz continued to snore, and I fell into a comatose post-new-floor-and-post-cooking-for-the-helpers-and-post-outdoor-paint-scraping fog. This morning the new oak floor looks beautiful, the painting of the porch columns seems doable, AND I have a new version of Safari….it’s like Christmas!!

Full-Time Discipleship

Thoughts from Pastor Dan Teefey (preaching at Riverside Covenant Church in Lafayette this morning):

Following spiritual germination (initial belief in the Son of God), scriptures encourage us to sprout and mature (become faithful, obedient servants of Christ). In Philippians 3:12-21 the apostle Paul suggests we stop looking back but keep our focus forward-looking and heavenward as we chase after the heart of Jesus – press on and strain toward taking hold of Him. In this way we are transformed, and realize our full earthly potential and purpose.

As maturing disciples, we are to be people God can count on, people who take seriously the vision of St. Francis of Assisi:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Achieving this perfectly is beyond us. However, as we seek His balance - walk humbly with God (pray and converse with Him), love mercy and act justly (invest in the lives of fellow believers and operate as God’s voice in the world) - He increasingly equips and enables us to become full-time disciples. (Luke 6, Micah 6:8)

In summary, God asks for nothing less that OUR LIVES.

Floor and Heart Transformation

Today rolls of faded and dirty 30-year-old used carpet (and carpet pad) sit stacked on the back porch. Inside, 100-year-old patched-and-worn poplar planks in our living and dining room are being topped with new, already-stained-and-finished oak flooring.

There’s a (loose but still applicable) parallel between the current floor renovation and the ongoing remodel of my own heart. In both cases, old is becoming new. As carpet is pulled up, so continues the rolling back of 40-year-old adult attitudes. As antiquated wood floors are laid bare, they also represent the exposure of my 60-year-old scuffed-and-patched assumptions. As a new oak floor is applied, I’m reminded that His Spirit dwells within me, making all things new!

The rooms are a mess during the construction process, of course. Likewise, a large part of my own ongoing transformation involves living in dusty, desert-like conditions (where burning bushes show up?) and listening for His voice there (prevailing Pentecost?). It involves agreeing with Him when He exposes, discards, changes, directs, protects, empowers…all as part of the sanctification process.

I won’t take time here to detail recent times I’ve sensed He was speaking to me (Kairos moments?), but they prove my life is orchestrated by grace, through grace, and for grace in a state of continuing transformation. My own recent burning bush incidents become life- altering when I actually let them be about Him instead of looking for some other explanation of my own making.

For the sake of illustration, the old floor seems exemplary as it is stripped bare, drilled/stapled/nailed, given a different identity entirely, and ultimately transformed and enabled with new potential. That’s my desire as well.

“Old things pass away; behold all things become new.” (II Corinthians 5:17, paraphrased)

Trendy-Teeter-Totterer

After 7 1/2 months of listening to Sound Therapy (a filtered music therapy for my tinnitus) for 2-3 hours each and every day, I stopped in mid-July when I didn’t notice any significant or obvious change. However, since then I’ve found my auditory agitation levels rising – and in retrospect I think perhaps Sound Therapy actually WAS providing tolerance (if not removing) the inner noise.

So, I’m back to wearing my trusty, very trendy lime green headset, only without the militant attitude. The self-imposed guard no longer holds a gun to my head demanding so-many-timed-minutes-a-day-recorded-just-so in my log. In fact, I listen only when sitting at the computer and don’t record the lengths of sessions. The filtered music seems more soothing this time around, perhaps because I’m perceiving it casually and recreationally, as an opportunity rather than a program mandated by the clock.

Which leads me to another thought: compartmentalization. In my opinion, it’s so easy to live out of tight, jewelry-box-like, self-dictated disciplines that squeeze the breath out of life (as I was doing with my earlier Sound Therapy experience). In reality, this kind of regulating and strangling, mandated legal approach leads to the one thing: burn-out.

There’s a teeter-totter balancing act involved between the performance parameters of goals/responsibilities on one hand, and childlikeness laced with grace on the other. I’m striving to strike that balance point this time with Sound Therapy: totter a little higher than before in the playful and confident (childlike) realm and a little lower in the responsible and dutiful (performance) realm. Maybe things will level out this time…right at that smoooooth(er) sailing, horizontal place where I maintain realistic hope.

Another Detour

Thirteen years ago my thyroid gland was surgically removed because of a malignant tumor in its right lobe. If I knew then what I know now, I would have considered a wider scope of possible treatments/follow-ups, and most likely would have chosen a far different protocol. But that’s water over the dam – or, as the saying goes, there’s no use crying over spilled milk, even when waterfall-torrents of it go sour.

At the time I was a dubbed a square peg (odd case), but still ended up in a round hole (conventional treatment and thyroid replacement) for the first seven years after surgery. The good news is that eventually I switched doctors AND pills to find a replacement plan that worked more effectively. Now, six years after going out on that “alternative” and risky limb (according to mainstream medicine) and taking the path less traveled, one of the two products I’ve been using - which happens to have been the thyroid option of choice before the 1970’s, by the way - is phasing out. A couple of weeks ago I found out from the drug store it may soon no longer be available.

The reasons for this seem dictated, in my (skeptical) opinion, by pharmaceutical-big-business that’s in bed with governmental-regulation - co-suspects motivated by greed rather than the Hippocratic oath. And I’m definitely not alone with this opinion. But that’s another dizzying soapbox lecture topic.

As I head back to the drawing board again to figure out what to do NEXT to replace the function of this missing body part (I have an appointment in 2 weeks to start the ball rolling), several things seem clear.

1. I have strong regrets about the way my case was handled originally and for that first seven years, and yet decisions were based on available information at the time. I’m more personally educated now.

2. Replacement products that yield close to normal thyroid function FOR ME can be moving targets and difficult/expensive to obtain. I’m at the mercy of practitioners and suppliers.

3. Life offers plenty of seeming dead ends, but God is the Master of Detours - the Ultimate Detour Engineer, Builder, and Guide. He knows my future, will provide what I need, and lead me accordingly. My job is to follow. I pray for faithful eyes to see the way.