Six weeks have passed since I last posted here. My open-ended sabbatical stretched into six weeks, but today it was time to come back! I'll post three entries written in the last couple of weeks, all sharing similar themes although from quite different circumstantial points of view.
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Journey into Honor - 11-6-14
honor – n. – 1.) high
respect, esteem, respect ; 2.) privilege, pleasure, joy
I’ve been absent for four weeks. A rite of passage into honor coincided with a
long, cross-country trek (1200 miles one-way) to witness the birth of our 11th
grandchild.
I’m finally back home, and familiar turf seems somewhat
altered because I am different. Something happened as hours and minutes dripped
day-by-day, building a stalactite of divine mercy feeding a stalagmite of earthly
gratitude.
The dribble began when we spent our first night on the road with
an inspiring friend who supports and encourages families with special needs
kids: a practical, palpable example of honoring mercy and compassion.
Upon arrival at our destination, our daughter and three granddaughters
(ages six and under) met us with authentic honor and raw joy – the kind that
leaks fresh and clear with artesian constancy. I felt special. Respected and appreciated by their
patient, kind, consistent attention.
Soon after we arrived, the new grandbaby’s birth magnified
the continuing torrent: life is a divine gift, each second a blessing. I was honored to witness the joy of new life,
the promise of ongoing legacy.
While age-related limitations sometimes tested my tolerance
levels and exaggerated vulnerability during our visit, repeated reassuring
outpourings reminded me that this young family’s home could become a welcoming haven
if ever I found myself living alone. I
felt grounded as the parent of a child willing to parent me in old age. “If you
live long enough, you become your parent’s parent and your child’s child,” the
saying goes.
Our return trip held delights that could not have been
anticipated, including a rendezvous with complete strangers while walking a
bridge over the Arkansas River: Boilermaker alums who happened to notice our
Purdue sweatshirts. Coupled with posh
hotel rooms, good food, clear roads and interesting sites along the way, we
traveled well, as if on a red carpet.
Mercy from above.
Gratitude growing, rising to meet it. Honor everywhere. Special.
Make Ready - 11-14-14
Peril…! I had a
split second to clutch an armrest as our car fishtailed on the icy hill. Snowy clumps of slush exploded like wet
grenades on the windshield, the wipers dutifully sloshing them to the side as
our car with usually-trustworthy-four-wheel-drive lost control. My husband gripped the steering wheel with
knobby, white knuckles.
“Oh no….”
Thankfully, the parade of bumper-to-bumper cars in front of
us continued moving. We swerved slightly
into the center turn lane, avoiding a collision. Four long seconds later, shaking with
adrenaline, we were mercifully safe. Protected. No crash.
No relational vehicle pile-up.
Today begins the 40-day Nativity Fast leading up to
Christmas. This is a time of preparation
for the coming of the Lord, of shifting focus from ourselves to others and seeking
control over whatever controls us. It is
an opportunity to turn off the automatic pilot of assumptions and entitlements,
to quiet inner turbulence. It is a time to
carefully choose and decide. It is a
time to prepare for more in the
context of less.
During the extended fast, a long-standing tradition in the East, participants refrain from certain foods while also turning from destructive
relational diets (sneaky tid-bits like gossip, jealousy, and anger). The intent is to prepare deeply for the celebration
of our Lord’s birth.
There are plenty of slippery slopes in life. There is one time each year to prepare the deep places where we live most authentically for the Lord of life.
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A deeply layered, wispy veil advances across the lake. It sweeps the tops of waves
with lacy white, brushing them with a hint of the ice they will become. Hoarfrost covers waving
grasses; sculpted snowdrifts lay bowed down like the Snow Queen’s
courtiers.
Biting wind tears through space, singing through
a torrent of frozen white teeth. The Snow Queen has
come early. It is only mid-November.
“What is mercy? Where is is found?” The Snow Queen drills the question with gusts that carve and shape monstrous drifts at will.
I imagine myself telling her, "Our English word, mercy, lacks fullness. At its deepest root, mercy is not only shelter from impending doom, but also compassion, kindness, tenderness, sweetness, and endearment. In fact, the Hebrew word for mercy means steadfast
love."
A blue jay seeks shelter near our window in a feeding
station protected from the Queen’s blustery breath. I rest in the cradle of His hand as the Snow Queen waves her cape, spilling bone-chilling beauty and a question worthy of answer.
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