Happy New Year!

Here’s a new year’s quote a friend shared with me today:

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself." 

-- Neil Gaiman

Looking Inside a Family

Our beloved old pastor (old as in a previous pastor, not an ancient pastor), his wife and their teenaged son, are moving back to the area tomorrow.  Our church congregation is thrilled and full of anticipation – it is a happy reunion for all! Today I helped clean the 3-bedroom, 1-bathroom house they will rent initially while looking for a permanent home, and also stocked the refrigerator with a few staples.

I met the owners of the rental today as well, a seemingly vibrant, optimistic couple with thirteen children who are in the process of moving into a larger home.  Yes.  THIRTEEN.  CHILDREN.  Some of the kids are adopted, and in the midst of casual conversation I learned two of them with special needs had alcohol-addicted birth-mothers.  Observation tells me these parents have chosen to live their everyday lives as a form of ministry.

Most of my cleaning efforts today were spent in the kitchen.  Among a variety of miscellaneous “treasures” beneath the stove and refrigerator, dry macaroni, crayons, and the inevitable legos came to light.  I noticed names printed on the edge of a shelf inside a cabinet, presumably marking child-specific slots for something – maybe lunchbox snacks, or drinking cups, or rewards for chores when accomplished? On the back of one cabinet door was an impressive collection of blue Chiquita banana stickers.

This evening as I sit in my quiet living room with a sparkly Christmas tree for company, soft music (a new Christmas CD) plays in the background.  I keep reviewing the day, and can’t help but wonder about this family’s everyday lifestyle in that house.  How many peanut butter sandwiches were made on that kitchen counter?  How many tears were spilled on an average day, and how many hugs shared?  What lessons about sacrificial love, commitment, and sharing did the children learn within those rooms? What delightful and creative play erupted in the midst of such a troupe – especially with a back yard full of forts and swings, and an enticing forest behind them? How was laundry handled, not to mention bath time?

A larger question also presses.  Why did the parents seem so upbeat and unruffled today? Why didn’t they cave in to at least a sigh here or there, or a weary look?  Shouldn’t they be exhausted, both physically and emotionally? They’re living on the husband’s ample but not remarkable salary, so frivolities are most likely scarce.    However, they seem to not only tolerate the ongoing work before them, but are genuinely at peace with themselves and their life. 

I’ve only barely met these two people while we worked together briefly today, and yet I feel I know a lot about them just from a few casual comments.  I sense they’ve discovered, and cultivated, peace with God.  And that inner peace is what launches everything else.

Dream

Last night I had an unusual dream – one of those you wake to over and over, and revisit over and over, throughout the night.

The main focus of the dream was a very long, rectangular canvas. Each end of this canvas was supported by a large easel. 

On the left, a young girl (maybe 6 years old) stood before her easel and painted dainty images from nature with pastel paints – clovers, tiny flowers, and the like.  Sunshine predominated in the background. On the right, an older girl (maybe 12 years old) stood before the other easel and painted grand towering trees of various description with darker, bolder paints.  Shadows wrapped around the trees until a few spots of coal black settled low against the ground in a striking, rather than ominous, way.

As the girls worked, oblivious to each other, they moved from the outside edges of the canvas toward the center.  The small girl’s small, delicate work moved toward the right, and the bigger girl’s big, bold work moved toward the left. 

Each time I woke I wondered about the significance of this dream, and what it might mean if and when their two styles merged?  Would the girls stop painting in the center, or would each continue working to the other end of the canvas (literally over each others’ work) to produce a more “complete” picture?

The interpretation is still pending.

Family Picture Take Two

Last night as the sun set over a freshly snow-covered landscape, I watched frigid waves rhythmically slosh across the lake.  Knowing more family would pile in today, I mulled over (and over and over with the ongoing leagues of white caps) our expanding family unit with its cumulative dynamics.  I ended up thinking about years rolling upon years.  Generations upon generations. Waves upon waves.

It seems there’s a much broader spectrum of possibility within families than most of us realize.  Family loyalty can express as dutiful responsibility on one hand or sheer delight on the other – or any number of hybrid combinations of these two.  Family disloyalty can pose as overt or covert neglect - anything from abusive mistreatment to more subtle rejection (being overlooked and ignored), or again, some hybrid mix.

As the waves tumbled on and on, I wondered how many people sense familial abandonment on some level – emotional if not physical? And on the other end of the spectrum, how many individuals feel deeply valued by their family members? Appreciated and favored? Upheld and supported? Cherished?

CHERISHED.  That’s such a strong word.  We cringe if merely tolerated, and long to be cherished – not in a presumed way, but a tangible way.

Our family continues to expand with a forthcoming new in-law and a new baby: more waves, more unity, more emerging genealogy. I feel truly blessed this Christmas season. Blessed over and over.  And over.  The waves of gratitude are ongoing.  Waves upon waves that keep coming, just like our growing family.

Creative Artistry

For Christmas, I asked Santa to re-set my engagement diamond (the old setting had 2 of 6 prongs broken), and enlarge the band of another favorite ring showcasing a family diamond.  The first was a matter of necessity; the second a matter of comfort since that ring had become too small for the ever-enlarging knuckles of my aging right hand. 

Santa was agreeable, but urged me to do the preliminary decision-making.  This involved a visit to Ralph Privoznik’s studio, which I think I mentioned in a blog back in November.

As a refresher, I’ll just say here that Ralph is an artist who makes his living in a tiny downtown second-floor studio in our old hometown of Lafayette, Indiana.  At my recent visit, he had dyed his hair (what there is of it) a shocking bright blue.  His friendly eyes spoke beyond his quiet words, as usual. 

Ralph is not your typical businessman.  His records (scribbled 3x5 cards) are filed in shoeboxes; at the time of my visit, he looked up his previous work in 1992 on the ring needing enlargement in such a box.  He loves and studies turtles.  In fact, he has a beloved 20-year-old specimen as a pet that evidently needs cataract surgery. 

“What?  Cataract surgery on a TURTLE?  With such tiny eyes?” I gasped.

Ralph smiled.  “Yes, I talked to a vet who said it is possible.”

At the time I thought yeah, right, this starving artist who is creating jewelry to eek out his daily bread can afford cataract surgery for his geriatric turtle.  But then I thought, how inspiring for him to see priorities so differently.

But that was weeks ago, and now I’m sitting here admiring the shiny artistry donning my stubby, work-worn fingers.  If I had a high-tech camera (which I don’t), I’d post pictures. But alas, I guess I’ll just have to rely on WORDS.

The engagement band is made of four strands of gold woven together, and is thus wider than before – just slightly narrower than the stone’s diameter.  The thin little gold ropes are almost-but-not-quite woven in a pattern, allowing for a touch of creative license.  I love it!

I’ve had many compliments on the other ring over the years.  The filigree setting (Ralph’s design) is striking in a one-of-a-kind sort of way that commands a second look. 

I have to wonder about the similar-but-different creative genius lurking within all of us, and what catalyst might set it free in each unique case.  Maybe a simple lifestyle devoid of consumerism, and a willingness to bestow mercy on the lowest of the low (as in Ralph’s turtle) - even, or especially, when personal sacrifice is involved.  Maybe THEN we might come closer to realizing our full potentials.

Old Windows

Yesterday our daughter received a special Christmas gift from her husband – a set of three old double-hung windows belonging to the Indiana farmhouse where we lived for 30 years.  These not-so-tight windows were original to the house in 1908, and used to shudder with a certain wood-on-wood rattling sound in a strong wind.  The kids thought it cool when interior curtains billowed in response to wintry gusts that trickled in around their edges. 

Long, skinny weights hid behind the molding and clunkety-clunked whenever we opened or shut the windows – a unique, melodic, haunting sound I somehow miss.  But despite their antique charm, the windows often stuck, and the storms and screens fought anyone who tried to remove them for any reason, spring cleaning included.  These historic windows with distinct personality were replaced when we renovated the house in 2010 to lure a buyer. 

But back to the windows as they appeared yesterday.  These weren’t just paint-peeled old panes, as nostalgic and memory-laden as that might seem, but rather they’d become picture frames!  Our ingenious son-in-law who helped us with the installation of the new windows during the remodel had saved these with a vision to surprise his wife who had grown up in the old farmhouse.  Now he'd used them to display photos of their wedding and three gorgeous little girls!

The three windows are still temporarily being stored at our house today. At one point, unexpected emotion surfaced when I inadvertently nudged them as they leaned against the wall and heard a strangely reminiscent wood-on-wood rattle.  Memories.  Really sweet, sweet memories.

Perfect Adventure

This was my 62^nd Christmas here on planet earth, one with special highlights like none other!  In the midst of melding old and new holiday traditions, three beautiful grandchildren gave the day a childlike twinkle as we shared their contagious delight.  Perfect!

A new daughter-in-law-to-be also added her steady, bright countenance to the festivities. This morning when our son announced their engagement, I was overcome with emotion. We admired the beautiful custom ring with expected oohs and aahs, and he  said, “Yup, we’re off on a grand new adventure!”  Perfect!

As the day progressed through mountainous gifts and yet another gluttonous feast, I thought about the ever-new adventures of my own 62 years.  So much “water over the dam,” as my mother used to say.  I’ve experienced a huge scope of life and love, of struggle and pain, of faith and trust in God  – the greatest adventure of all.  In fact, every day is “a grand new adventure” when orchestrated by the God of mercy who came to earth on the first Christmas.  He draws me to Himself and transforms my heart, minute-by-minute in the midst of everyday life, and promises never to forsake me on this side of the grave or the other.  PERFECT.

A Mouse!

‘Twas the night before Christmas when all though the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…”

Wrong!  We DID have a little-girl mouse at our house tonight!  She wore a beautiful white dress with a red sash, and sang a duet in a Christmas Even program at church!

Agapao

The Greeks’ active verb agapao means to give ourselves over to the object of our love; to be totally consumed with and/or totally committed to it.  Whatever we agapao is a big deal.  It is what we put first in our lives and bind to ourselves, what we submit our wills to as the ultimate commitment, and what shapes our identity.

An individual might agapao temporal earthly things.  Position.  A spouse. Career.  An obsession.  Pleasure.  A house.  Family. Money.  A dream. Self. Comfort.  An activity.  Sex. Autonomy.  Food. Friends. Privacy. Stimulating substances. Agendas.

God loves (agapao) us, and calls us to love (agapao) Him by totally turning to Him, surrendering, relinquishing, abandoning self and setting aside what we clutch so feverishly (as mentioned above) so His larger life can manifest and transform us, and then flow forth to affect others.  This is how we discover our truest selves, sample inner peace, and make a difference in our small sectors of the world – even, or perhaps especially, in the midst of turmoil.

I’m thinking about agapao as Christmas approaches.  The Incarnation is a reminder that He took what was ours (self-absorbed preoccupation that distanced us from God) to give us what was His (redemption and adoption as His children). 

Human beings who deny the ultimate gift of Christmas - the person of Jesus Christ, Emmanuel, God with us – are adrift on the high seas of self-limitation without an anchor.  Those who agapao Him are held firm and renewed, strengthened, and empowered, day by day and hour by hour, with their eyes set firmly on a promised new earth and a future eternal mansion.

Grant me greater faith this Christmas, Lord.  I want to agapao you more.

The C-Word

Three female friends are currently navigating unique cancer journeys. Remembering my own cancer era (1996), and the fact that family and good friends seemed inadequate before the C-Word (it was almost as if a big red “C” was plastered on my forehead), I’ve longed to be sensitive to others facing cancer and encourage them in the deep interior places where others fear to tread. 

It is tricky business.  I know that feeling of inadequacy when looking from the outside-in.  Encouragement isn’t easy or automatic - just imperative.

From a medical standpoint, helpers are urged to provide physical props and assistance (a bedside commode, trips to the doctor’s office), but receive few cues regarding the emotional and spiritual needs of people struggling with cancer.

In my opinion, it comes down to being present.  Available.  “I don’t know what to say, but just want to be here during this hard time.  Would it be alright if I periodically visit (or call, or email, or whatever is most convenient)?”  Then listening, and listening well, becomes critical.

I’m inspired by the many testimonies of those who have used effective non-invasive methods typically shunned by Western medical protocol, and also want to share their hope with those currently in the trenches. It has been particularly interesting to observe mainstream AMA physicians who battle their own cancer with alternative approaches, many of which support the body’s immune function and thus enable it to destroy cancer.  Dr. Lorraine Day, a world-renowned AIDS researcher as well as an orthopedic surgeon and trauma physician at San Francisco’s General Hospital, is one such medical professional who has provided significant inspiration for me in the past. 

Another outspoken cancer victor from outside the AMA camp, Dr. Loretta Lanphier, ND, CN, HHP, CH, Doctor of Naturopath, Clinical Nutritionist, Holistic Health Practitioner, and Clinical Herbalist, says the following:

Cancer patients need encouragement, HOPE and more often than not, a BIG dose of "You CAN do this!" They do not need endless sympathy or coddling…We are fooling ourselves if we don't take the time needed to heal. I don't mean sitting on the couch all day and crying---although I had a couple of those days. I mean changing a lifestyle that brought your body into dis-ease to embrace a lifestyle that brings health and healing… It is necessary to take a year off to just focus on health-----not cancer----but health. It's all in how you look at things-----being positive and what you CAN do rather than being negative and continually thinking about all the things that you "can't" do.


Foggy Quiet

A thick blanket of fog lies over our small inland lake today, effectively blocking the view of the opposite shoreline.  The smoky whiteness hangs so heavy it seems I might as well be overlooking an expansive ocean, one with no horizon in sight. 

I like the effect as the subdued outdoors oozes inside the house, and into myself, to translate into an inner hush.  The feeding swans seem tranquil and at peace.  Christmas-related food prep waits in the form of a to-do checklist, and yet I’m compelled to savor this moment of relative serenity – one sandwiched between a noisy, busy morning story hour with the grand-girls at the library and several hours of kitchen work.

Mini-vacations like this – momentary breaks when stillness invades my soul - seem more needful, and more helpful, as I grow older.  Perhaps there’s a way of inviting or inducing fog-induced stillness into my heart even on the busiest and sunniest of days.  That’s something to ponder.

.  

How Cheesy!

Our family turns into a pack of cheese hounds on Christmas Eve and New Years Eve.  Meals those evenings are typically hors-d’oeuvres-exclusive, with cheesy things being the mainstay (mini-quiches with feta, cheeseballs, sliced cheeses and sausage, spinach balls with parmesan, etc.) – you know, things that go well with a lovely, aromatic glass of wine.

In anticipation of the hounds’ inevitable sniffing around for exotic cheeses, today I stocked up on the following: havarti with dill; soft, unripened goat cheese with herbs, a European aged cheddar, marinaged-and-braided fresh mozzarella, gouda smoked with apple and hardwood, double Gloucester layered with stilton, and TWO BLOCKS of the MOST ADDICTIVE BLEU CHEESE on the face of the planet!

I could write a sonnet about this particular bleu cheese, perhaps one to rival Shakespeare.  It would be flattering and yet cynical, for alas, I can be too easily seduced by the bleu’s saliva-inducing wiles. 

However, I just discovered that evidently C.K. Chesterton beat me to the punch in his eloquent  “Sonnet to a Stilton Cheese” written as a parody of William Wordsworth’s sonnet “London, 1802.”  Oh well.  I missed my chance.

With my writer’s inspiration temporarily blocked in the wake of this rather odd discovery, I did some more looking around in order to whet my appetite (pun intended) for pursuing the authorship of further poetic descriptions of bleu cheese.  I particularly enjoyed this contemporary Ode to Roquefort, which almost-but-not-quite ranks right up there with Shakespeare:

Ode to Roquefort:

O’ Roquefort, how I loathe thee for thy haunting beauty.

Thy taste maketh every ounce of my bod yearn for thy colored specs to be near.

Thou art salty, yet my pallet doeth not long to be cleansed from thy intense yet delicately lingering taste.

O’ Roquefort, thy pungent odor intoxicates both mind and nostrils.

Much like thy coloring, fleeting traces of your crumbles leave my heart blue.

Why must thy leave?

Tis not just.

-anonymous

Partridge in a Pear Tree

Please feel free to sing along….! 

On this sixth-day-before-Christmas, my true love watched me make: five gooey cheesecakes, four almond stollens, three dozen puffy-yeast-rolls, two dozen sticky-nut buns, a dozen swirled-and-glazed cinnamon rolls, and a big pot of cheese-potato soup!

This tired old partridge (squawk!) is heading off at 9:15 p.m. to roost in the pear tree for the night while one granddaughter sleeps peacefully in the pack-n-play, and the other sits mesmerized in front of the TV screen (Bambi).

Numbsters and Biters

My tinnitus (chronic ear-ringing) and its associated hearing issues (severe hearing loss) can sometimes become potentially destructive twins, especially in the midst of extended periods of time when I’m surrounded by crazy-loud, screechy-chirpy-yippy grandkid voices. While the main problem (of course) is NOT being able to hear and communicate with the kids, which is a separate topic in itself, there’s a subliminal other-effect as well.

It’s called temporary insanity. Allow me to briefly introduce the primary insanity-inducing players, and then offer commentary about their management.

In the midst of a long siege of noise, the Numbsters are the first antagonists to show up in my head.  These are blackish ear-muffler-underworld-types that act like hearing hit men.  They’re out to double-muffle everything that’s already muffled – to effectively shove my head inside an air vacuumed auditory ball and hold me at gunpoint there.

The Numbsters don’t just threaten or play games, though.  They have other ploys, namely pounding the auditory juglar-nerve until it’s numb! It’s sort of like an auditory crazybone – youch, a direct hit to jangle hearing nerves.  That deadens things even more until conversation sounds like Woodstock’s classic muffle-jargon.  “Bwah-wah-wa-waaah?”  Um, sure.

Although they’re fairly long-lived, after a while (like many hours) the Numbsters often run out of energy (poor things, they work so hard at their job of muffling) and pass the baton to the second round of antagonists. While holding the line, they lie down and play dead which is a signal to usher in…the Biters.

Now.  The Biters.  These are little sharp-toothed, fluorescent orange-and-pink pac-men that live in my brain somewhere.  They come out to play after the Numbsters have set the stage – when I’m good and tired, when I’m stressed from listening and straining to listen and craning every bit of my body and soul to LISTEN.  They snap here and there like hungry little piranhas.  Chomp, chomp.  Seriously.  I can feel the pinch.  It stings.

The good news is that both the Numbsters and Biters go home when the party’s over.  After a night of sleep I’m usually unaware that they’ve even paid a visit, although it helps to have a full day of quiet to recoup afterwards. The other good news is that I am given grace sufficient for days like this, and even welcome the adorable grand-kiddos back again and again.  And again.

This is true because it’s worth it.  Because God makes sure that His grace is made perfect in my weakness so I can choose to live beyond my auditory limitations. Grace puts the Numbsters and Biters in their places, way down at the bottom of a very dark barrel of self-absorption where they have very little lingering ability to discourage my heart, and keeps the kids where they belong: at the top of the heap.

The Wreath

Yesterday when redirecting my travel on a remote country road, I happened to turn around in the dirt driveway of a droopy-looking little homestead.

A few abandoned, well-rusted truck bodies sat in the yard as well as a presumably operative, if antiquated, automobile.  A gray mobile home, patched with panels of corrugated metal, resembled a wrinkly, vagrant elephant that had finally collapsed by the edge of the nearby forest, too weary to go any further.

There was no sign of life anywhere.  No light in a window.  No footprints in the mud.

As I pulled in and prepared to back around, I stepped on the brake momentarily, struck by a touch of Christmas. In the midst of obvious drabness, a cheap red metallic wreath stood on the door as a holiday icon. 

It looked strangely out-of-place: a sentinel of hope standing watch over an outpost of despair.  I had to wonder at the heart and hands responsible for its placement there, a glimmer in the drabness.  Did the owner know how similarly the incarnate Christ shone in a desperate world on the first Christmas, and how He still shines in the hearts of those who have allowed Him in?

Golden Introspection

In history, a golden age is defined as any flourishing era characterized by outstanding peaks in skill, activity, peace, prosperity, or other cultural growth.  I can see the parallel as my own individual life enters what we typically call the “golden years” and peaks in so many ways – including the experience of faith, hope, and love, which point beyond the grave.  These are more real to me now than ever before.

Actually, everything seems heightened here in senior-ville.  The earthly clock is running down and the body is wearing out, while the to-do list only keeps growing.  And yet wholeness, fulfillment, and truth have become everyday words – as have suffering, repentance, forgiveness, and grace. 

This is a time for the spirit to be at peace.  I’m learning that the golden years are not so much about temporal comfort as fulfilled identity.

My Best Friend

Sometime in the early 1970’s, WD40 came into my world.

At that time I was waging war with the squawky hinges on my kitchen cupboard doors.  They were evidently on strike, and creaked and groaned each time I opened a door. 

Eventually one stubborn hinge broke altogether in a moment of ultimate protest, which was the last straw.  Something must be done!  In a flash of inspiration, I remembered a certain blue and yellow can hiding in my husband’s man-cave in the basement: WD40.  A lubricant.  Yes.  I would try it, and save myself from further frustration, and the other hinges from a similar fate. I would end the war.

A squirt here and a squirt there, and those noisy, grinding hinge-voices were hushed. Forever.

Soon after this life-altering discovery, I applied WD 40 to the track of our grumpy-grindy sliding glass door.  Sweet success! The door instantly glided across its track like the blade of Olympic skating champion Dorothy Hamill (oops, that dates me – 1976). 

Since then I’ve found various ways to unstick stubborn things, and sometimes even defy male mechanical genius.  Here’s a story of a recent WD40 bale-out.

The door to our storage area has been chronically hard to open. In fact, grimaced every time I placed my hand on the knob, and often grunted and groaned to make sure those within hearing distance knew of my distress.  Sometimes it took a full minute for me to wiggle the knob back and forth, and push and pull enough, to open that door!  With each attempt, my weakening old-lady grip seemed to fail me, even though I twisted, turned, and verbally chastised the annoying knob. This happened regularly.  Like many times a day.  For months. 

The good news is this.  After such a long struggle, and being convinced the problem was a mechanical one that couldn’t be remedied except with a tool-intensive application of a replacement knob (which is manly work and therefore a topic to be avoided), I finally tried three little squirts of WD40.

One, two, three.  Problem solved.  NO sticking whatsoever.  AH! 

Thank you, WD40, for saving me once again.  You ARE my best friend.

A Child's-Eye View

Recently our 3-year-old granddaughter came to our house for a nap before her dance and tumbling class.  When she balked at naptime, I called her mom on the phone for suggestions – a wise, experienced mom who suggested to her little cherub that she wind down for her nap by telling herself a story.  Instead of THINKING a story, which could have been introspective and calming, her story ended up being loudly vocalized as if with a microphone!  I made note of the content at the time, in order to remember.  It went something like this:

"Once upon a time....once upon a time (twirling the legs of her stuffed kitty cat)....God....and Jesus....were up in heaven, and then God said to Jesus, why don't you go to earth and save the people from their sins? (pause) Only first, Jesus had to die on the cross.  So Jesus went to earth and was borned there like a baby, and then he died on the cross to save the people from their sins.  And then, THREE DAYS LATER He…(three verbal noises here, like "bop, bop, bop") He came to life again!  And He went back up to heaven with God, and that's when He was a great high preeee.....what's the word?.....priest!  Forever!  And ever and ever!  And that's the end of that story."

She did fall asleep.  Eventually. 

After her nap, she selected corn flakes and milk as a snack.  While slurping away, Khumili - our sponsored child from India of the Dalit/Untouchable class - entered the conversation.  We’d talked about her before, so I wasn’t too surprised. 

Josie: “Mmmmm….this is good cereal.”  Looking at the picture on the refrigerator: “What does Ka-mee-lee have for a snack?”

Me: “Probably nothing. She probably doesn’t have snacks. But I’m pretty sure Khumili never has had corn flakes and milk, EVER.”

Josie: “Then we should send her some.” (nodding vigorously)

Me: “That might be hard to do – she lives on the other side of the world.”

Josie: (stares into space, processing this fact) “But….but we could use a….a airplane.” (appears both thoughtful and hopeful while licking milk from her spoon)

Me: “True, very true, good thinking!  But it’s not that easy.  We’d need help getting it to her because she lives really far away from any airports.”

Josie: “Oh.”  (pauses for more processing)  “Does she have very many toys?”

Me: “I doubt if she has any toys at all.”

Josie:  “Then we should send her some toys, too.”

Me: (not wanting to squelch her enthusiasm, but feeling the need to be realistic) “That’s a really great idea, but I’m not sure it’s possible right now.”

Josie: (with a shout and extended arms, like a cheerleader) “God!”

Me: “What?”

Josie: “It’s something for GOD to do!”

Me: “He could make it happen, you’re right.” (somehow she’d internalized Matthew 19:26 – “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”)

Josie: “GOD!” (repeats her declaration with certainty, shakes head affirmatively, and finishes her cereal with great relish, flinging her spoon as if in emphasis)

Me: “The really great news is that Khumili and her family are learning more and more about God - they feel He is drawing them close to Him.  In her letters to me she says she prays to Him often.”

Josie: (without hesitation and matter-of-factly) “Then He will hear her.  I know He will.” 

At that, she hopped down from her chair and dashed into the living room to get ready for dance class.  With very little help (she’s quite independent) she changed into her new lavender leotard and white tights, and I stuck a tiny pair of new white ballet slippers into her bag. 

The class went as usual, soliciting bright-eyed smiles amidst the thrill brought about by emerging skills.  She loved being expressive in a full-bodied way, and her face reflected a quality of unfettered alive-ness most of us would covet.

Through her eyes, all was well. All would continue to be well.  She had no reason to doubt, fear, or question.  And she was right.  Despite what seems wrong, despite all our adult clutching and groaning, despite our sophisticated but ineffective ways of trying to tame ourselves, each other, and our surroundings and circumstances, God is ultimately in control of planet earth and all that is happening here – in her life, and mine, and yours.

As I watched Josie prancing around with the others in the class, I couldn’t help but cherish my earlier conversation with her and cherish the evidence of an ever-developing body, soul, and spirit.  Exemplary growth.  Inspiring growth when seen from more static-and-stuck-in-place adult perspective.