Getting Life Write

When Soap Speaks

2012-04-08T14:40:00.003-07:00

Today, my body wash tried to define me.

Cheerfully minding my own business, I set the body wash, so full of its proud self, on to the damp window ledge when the words on the back of the bottle sereptitiously caught my eye.

She has a cool, breezy way about her, like a breath of fresh air…her spirit is beautifully refreshing.

Wary, I interrogated this lathery, bubble-filled, cleansing surfactant, peppering it with quick, rapid-fire questions.

Nothing. No reply.

Confused as to “Mr. 152 insights into my soul,” I picked up another decanter filled with spring freshness.

She approaches every situation with a quiet sense of calmness. You instantly feel at peace in her presence…her spirit is beautifully serene.

Nice enough, I suppose, but I cannot help but note how off-track the fortune cookie messages are. A third attempt is necessary. I read further.

She is a natural, instinctive caregiver…

Okay. Enough already. Frustrated, I grab my jar of dreamy body cream, hoping, pleading, for honesty there.

I read the label.

Hope in a Jar: where there is hope there can be faith, where there is faith miracles can occur.

This is more up my alley. I don’t need my body wash to define me. I can define myself through the all-knowing-presence of my original formula moisturizer for all skin types!

I tentatively, slowly, turn the lid...peer in, and see…
my Hope is gone.

I pulled my snotty-nosed, swollen-eyed, broken-hearted, half-rinsed body off the floor. With all of the empty promises out there to make my life, my inner-self, and my appearance “like new,” “younger,” and “shiny and bright,” I was sorely tempted to stop bathing altogether.

Instead, I decide to get some sun, pray, read my bible, walk my dog, kiss my husband, laugh with my kids, sing a song, visit a friend, appreciate my mother, and write airily about soap.

That’s real beauty.

Trust and a Balloon

2012-03-11T13:43:00.001-07:00

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks it will be opened. Or which one of you, if his son asks him for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” Mathew 7:7-11

Maybe this week you've had trouble trusting.

I know Chet did.

Two year old Chet is generally very trusting. He trusts that he will eat a pb&j sandwich for his lunch. He trusts that his grandpa will jump on the trampoline with him when asked. He trusts that his mom will be Super Proud of him when he rides all the way to the park on his giant big wheel.

He trusts that in his day, all of his needs will be met.

Three times a week Chet stays at his grandma's house while his mom goes to work. Sometimes he soars to her house in his superhero cape; sometimes he is carried sleepily in his cozy pajamas.

This day, Chet had bigger dreams. He craved carrying his full-blown, blue, balloon in his backpack. Chet held a confident expectation that his mother would accomplish this with no question. He trusted.

His mother knew better. She wisely discerned the balloon would surely pop if forced into the child-sized pack. Ah, what type of tantrum ensues when our way is thwarted?

If you ask me, Chet is a bit short-sighted.

Like me.

I ask, I plead, I bargain, I have tantrums, I get mad, I…I…I.

This week God has once again reminded me about Himself and his character. He reminds me in Mathew 7 and Luke 11 that He has His plan at heart as it relates to me.

Chet’s mother wanted more for him. Her plan was that he should experience joy throughout his day, but all Chet could see was that his momentary desire should be accomplished. If his hands are free the world is full of possibilities. He could fly! He could clap! He could hug! Noble ambitions all.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” Jeremiah 29:11

Children of Israel. Dispersed. Held in captivity. Political, social, religious darkness. Silence.

Chet reminds me that even when my answer to prayer seems to not come, God’s will is realized for my delight and His glory.

Like Chet, with God’s help I pull myself together. I ready my pack, balloon in hand. I may not see the joy ahead, but God does. I trust.

And, I am left with the concrete knowledge that tantrums make me want to eat my pb&j sandwich for a snack.

Healthy Carrier

2012-02-12T12:39:00.000-08:00

“And Elisha sent a messenger to him, saying, ‘Go and wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh shall be restored, and you shall be clean.’ But Naaman was angry and went away…” 2 Kings 5:10, 11

I really just wish she would have washed her hands but, a washing alone was not enough. Her hands needed a thorough scrubbing. And even then, who’s to say? Maybe her attitude had something to do with it.

“’Are not Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? Could I not wash in them and be clean?’ So he turned and went away in a rage.” 2 Kings 5:12

Typhoid Mary. What a doozie of a gal. Living during the turn of the century didn’t help. There was little knowledge of how the bacterial disease was spread, hygiene was less than perfect, and let’s not forget she had to make a living.

She also liked to keep this fact a secret: she was a healthy carrier of typhoid.

A healthy carrier. Contagious but no symptoms. Poor Mary Mallon had probably come down with a mild, undetected case of typhoid fever at some point in her past and had retained active germs ever since. Employed as a cook, while preparing food, she shed bacteria from her hands, and it never occurred to her that she was spreading disease. When her condition was explained to her, she refused to believe it. And then, she lied about it.

“I had my first talk with Mary in the kitchen of this house. . . . I was as diplomatic as possible, but I had to say I suspected her of making people sick... It did not take Mary long to react... She seized a carving fork and advanced in my direction. I passed rapidly down the long narrow hall, through the tall iron gate, . . . and so to the sidewalk. I felt rather lucky to escape.” George Soper

Think of the implications: disease transmitted at an inordinate speed based on the number of people affected. In all, three people died, but over 50 were infected and became carriers.

Typhoid Mary, I think I may have a lot in common with you.

I am a healthy carrier of sin. Sin left unchecked spreads like a dreaded disease and while I may only kill a few, I infect many. I keep it a secret too, working, working, working, not pausing to look at sickness in my wake.

And all the while, all I need is a good scrubbing.

I grow angry at the suggestion. In my pride I look to water that won’t cleans. I look to anything, but wash.

“Then his servants came near and spoke to him and said, “My father, had the prophet told you to do some great thing, would you not have done it? How much more then, when he says to you, ‘Wash, and be clean’?” 2 Kings 5:13

Will I now heed these words, rush to the base of the cross, and be healed? "Now why do you delay? Get up and be baptized, and wash away your sins, calling on His name." Acts 22:16

“So he went down and dipped himself seven times in the Jordan, according to the word of the man of God; and his flesh was restored like the flesh of a little child and he was clean.” 2 Kings 5:14

Washed. Clean. Restored.

Amen.

Memory and a Grocery List

2012-02-04T16:15:00.000-08:00

"...take care lest you forget the Lord..." Deut. 6:12

I think most of the Children of Israel wandering in the desert must have been in their 40’s because, like me, they couldn’t remember a darned thing.

I picture a middle-aged Jewish woman sitting at her kitchen table in the desert, unable to read her grocery list (which only reads, “get manna”) because she refuses to wear her glasses. Her inability to see the list (and the reckless, lone, grey hair emerging from her chin) or remember what she wrote overcomes her. Head in hands she knows there is more…but what?

“You shall remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives…”

“You shall remember that you were a slave…”

“You shall remember the whole way that the Lord your God has led you…”

She cannot recollect. In utter frustration, she shakes her fist at the sky and bellows, “if only someone would write it all down!”

God says, “Yes. I can do that.” Inadvertent prayer, answered.

Written in stone and on our hearts, with the Holy Spirit to remind us of all things (John 14:26). Check.

The Bible is replete with the command, “remember.” The book of Deuteronomy alone uses the word 14 times. From the Hebrew, zakhar: to reflect, declare, and record.

But, what if I cannot,

choose not,

will not,

remember the goodness of God?

I wander.

I sit, stuck.

King David the Psalmist harkens back to his own re-writing of the Law, reminding God of the promises He instructed His children to remember.

Remember your mercy, O LORD, and your steadfast love,

for they have been from of old.

Remember not the sins of my youth or my transgressions;

according to your steadfast love remember me,

for the sake of your goodness, O LORD!

(Psalm 25:6-7 ESV)

He remembers. And because of this, it is a joy to make effort to do the same. I can reflect on His mercy by remembering He forgives the sins of my youth and my (current) transgressions; declare His steadfast love; and memorialize His goodness.

He remembers my poor memory. And the little gray hair on my chin.

A True Story

2012-02-04T15:51:00.000-08:00

My husband was pitching a pretty good fit. Let’s be honest: it happens to the best of us.

When you are four years old, the world doesn’t always go the way you think it should. Calmly, and quietly his mother kneels down, looks in his little face and says,

“You need to go into your room and put on a new attitude.”

She kisses the top of his white-blonde, messy hair; turns his tiny body around, and gives him a bit of a nudge on his bum.

Brothers and sister are fed. Some laundry is folded. A cup of coffee sipped. She moves to the boy’s room and puts her ear silently to the door.

She cracks open the child’s heart.

The boy lies on the floor. Face, tear-streaked. Exhausted. Fists clinched.

Every drawer in the room is pulled out of its place. Turned over and dumped on the ground. Clothes everywhere. Chaos reigns.

“What has happened here?” She asks patiently.

“You (lip trembles)told…hic... me… hic hic hic… to put on a new (gasp)… attitude,” he exhales. “But…I…don’t know (sigh) what… an attitude is!” Quiver.

Breath empties into the sky.

Sometimes, I am like this 4 year old. In my flesh, I do not know what a New Attitude would look like. I am blind, deaf, and dumb.

The Word tells us “Put on the Lord Jesus Christ… (Romans 13:14).” My natural self does not know what this means.

She stoops down. Kneels. Looks into the poor boys face. Love.

So much love…She touches his mouth. Places her fingertips to his ears. Kisses his eyes.

Healing.

She wants it for him more than he wants it himself.

“Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who, although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. Being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross…” Phil. 2: 5-8.

This week, I may not know the New Attitude I am to put on. I may not have any idea what it means to put on

Love

Surrender

Forgivness…

But I do know who my help is. Thank God.

My dresser drawers are closed. My fists are unclenched. My tears are dried.

The Perfect Meal

2012-01-29T11:35:00.000-08:00

As I write this to you, I am looking at a pot of over-salted Irish stew. I worked all day on it. Prepping the carrots, parsnips, potatoes, beef… The earthy, brown thickness beckons, bubbly hot. The scent transports the promise of warming chilled bones and calming frayed nerves scratched to pieces by the stresses of the day. The masses eat. They are comforted and filled. They speak not of the salty error. The experience is richer, they know, than hunger or hay.

I prepare life-sustaining meals for many a poor individual that pops their head in my home. They know thoughtful fare is always being prepared and eaten here. I offer, and they receive. We are both filled.

How lovely a meal can be!

“Jesus stood up and cried out, ‘If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink.’” John 7:37

“Jesus said to them, ‘I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger.’” John 6:35

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Matt. 11:28

Coming to Jesus means coming to drink. And the water we drink in fellowship with Jesus gives everlasting life. “Whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty forever…” (John 4:14). He will also draw us with promises of life-sustaining bread, as Jesus himself is the bread of heaven—the source and essence of everlasting life. He will draw us with promises of deliverance from perishing (John 3:16). Jesus is a burden-lifter, soul-satisfier, and The Life-Giver.

This week, as we prepare to serve our families, our church body, our clients, and each other, let us remember to come to Jesus for our perfect filling. My over-salted Irish stew doesn’t stand a chance in comparison to what Jesus has to offer. Jesus is the perfect meal.

“He has brought me to his banquet hall, and his banner over me is love.” Song of Solomon 2:4

I Should Have Raised My Kids at PetSmart (And Other Things I Learned Too Late)

2011-08-07T19:36:00.000-07:00

I am a late bloomer. Parenting, in particular, has shown me this in spades.

Strep throat: “You’re fine. Go to school.”

Broken: “Your arm is fine.”

F+: “Your teacher won’t care.”

Revelation beckons, and I pause. Reaching toward it, I grasp air.

This nugget of truth has been no different: Looking back I realize, I should have raised my kids at PetSmart.

I had this epiphany on Saturday when I took my precious Golden Retriever, Reagan, to the Grooming Center. Waiting for his treatment to be completed, I propped my back up against the half glass, half stucco wall and let my eyes wander over the riches of my local PetSmart franchise. Each section, tucked away like precious jewels, began to sparkle with thier own distinct riches. And I wanted them. All of them.

Directly in front of me was a wide variety of clothing. Slim. Husky. Pique Sleeveless Solid Polos, Rhinestud Heart Sleeveless Tees, Rugbys, Henleys and bathrobes (from the Martha Stewart collection, no less).

All I could think of…Back to School shopping made in heaven. Goggles, socks, bandannas. Kill me now.

Flea and Tick prevention?

Yes, please.

Products that keep your “pet” healthy from “teeth to tail.”

Sob.

Beds and toys.

Training pads (if only).

Food. Recipes for healthy meals.

Dog biscuit cookie cutters (I think…”Christmas made easy”).

Crates and Gates.

Choke chains, and (gulp), Electronic Fences.
If, if, if…

If, I could only have gotten advice like this upon bringing my first child home from the hospital:

New Pet Parent responsibilities from the PetSmart Blog:

As a Pet Parent, you are responsible for your pet's health and well-being. Before adopting a new pet, take into consideration some of the responsibilities of a Pet Parent:

Spaying/Neutering: Unplanned breeding is a root cause of pet overpopulation. (Can we do this?!).

Veterinary care: Your new pet will need to receive basic health screening and vaccinations. Need advice? Ask an expert. (Now they tell me. They even have a PetSmart Community. I could weep).

Landlord permission: If you are a renter, find out if you’re permitted to have pets and, if so, what restrictions are placed on them. Follow those rules…(Ohhhhh…get them to Follow Those Rules. Clearly, those who write the PetSmart Blog have neither children, nor pets).

Exercise and elimination accommodations:Some dogs may require a fenced yard. Talk to your Counselor about the needs of your dog. (If I had a nickel for every time a neighbor called to tell me my kids were peeing in the front yard…Thank you neighborhood “counselors”).

Etc.

Finally, as the clouds were parting, I noticed, like heavenly light descending on the very heart of the PetSmart temple, the Training Center. A Training Center?!

I heard the angels sing and just as it began, it was cut short.

I learned too late. I learned all the lessons too late and from the wrong places. PetSmart had it all for me and made responsible parenting easy. If only I had known.

The saying, “you can’t train an old dog new tricks” will now come into play, as my” life-long companions” are back home now. Do you think I could trick them into the car with a treat?

Yes, is the answer.

The Candle Bearer

2011-06-15T18:22:00.000-07:00

This story must begin, “Once upon a time” (for all important stories do). Though the story began many years ago, it is still alive today.

Imagine a small home in the center of a town. Many men and women come--all whose hearts are willing bring to the King their offerings of gold for the preservation of the home. Dancers, artists, craftsmen, singers, those who spin the goats hair into yarn and they that sew, musicians, engravers, designers, embroiderers, builders… all who are eager to help in the work of the home bring their gifts and give them freely.

This humble home is rich in laughter for in it dwell sisters, virgins all—sisters pure in spirit, because their King has made them so. Beautiful sisters:

The sister who leads with wisdom and sincerity

The sister who listens and laughs

The sister who is pregnant with life

The sister who sits with the women and mourns and rejoices

The sister whose hands feed a number of great knights

The sister who oversees and dances

The sister who manages the treasure

The gentle sisters who live on the hill

The sisters whose hands see and words heal

The sisters who speak for those who cannot

Warrior sisters who live afar yet take precious messages to the great King.

The city itself is dark. No ground is stirred. No seeds are planted. There is no water for the thirsty; no light for the bud.

The home, in contrast, is lit from within by the King. Each sister carries with her a measure of light—the portion allotted to her for her specific task. She takes part in making the home a reflection of the King and his Comfort to all who enter its gates.

For some of the injured who travel there, the light throws a shadow. For others, the light burns the eyes. And for still others, the light gives clarity and warmth.

And in this simple home, dwells a humble sister who carries the candle from room to room, and patiently waits for her Groom. This sister is of great repute, and a merry heart.

She who carries the candle has no easy task, for many people come to the home poor in spirit, lacking in hope, and weary of mind. Each burdened soul is welcomed, ushered into the heart of the home and, further, into an inner chamber. The candle bearer greets each wanderer with peace on her face and in her mouth. As the weary soul speaks, the candle bearer lifts the flickering light gently to their war-torn heart, and warms it.

Sometimes, the King gives a measure of light that may seem too much to bear in this tiny home. Sometimes, He gives many lights—points of light like stars. Bright, bright, brilliant lights.

The one who carries the candle holds this great burden. So much light! Bursting! Bursting like the night sky! She must place her starry lights in her pockets. Too bright are they! When she walks, they jingle and tling heavenly songs that make the sisters sing.

Yet…her pockets

grow

heavy

from

the weight.

Light is not truly heavy unless it is withheld. To whom much is given much is required and this bearer of light sits quiet in her room and in the quiet feels the tug of darkness from beyond in need of her light. With each tug she hears the Prince in His own voice saying “come.”

Go.

Come.

Go.

And the sisters know. They know.

So she went. She skipped. She danced.

She felt

Light.

And the sisters mourn. And they rejoice.

Not
the
end.

If Blogs Could Talk

2010-06-26T16:16:00.000-07:00

A couple of things right off the bat: a Blog would say, “you need an editor,” and “never write after two glasses of wine.” In fact, you Facebook fans out there, never POST after drinking, either, (a shout-out to my sweet friend who, through tears, sent many of us lyrics to Beatles songs because she was “thinking of us”).

I enjoy clicking on Next Blog. It’s fun and different every time. Today’s Blogs: “A Handful of Life,” “Baby Bennington,” “Camera’s: What to Do,” “Moore Chaos” (about a family by the name of Moore, and the hi-jinx in which they engage—accompanied by a sentimental pop, country-western song), and “A Look into the Life of a Stay at Home Mom.”

Hmmmm…central themes. I’m beginning to remember that I clicked the Home/Craft/Family box upon Blog set up.

Today, I also happened upon, "Brain Gas: This is where my brain farts out whatever. Sometimes it’s good stuff; sometimes its random stupid crap. Either way, enjoy.”

Umm. No. And not only No, but this guy has two more followers than I do.

There are quite a few pastors who blog (ie, “Turtles on Wheels: an occasional record of musings, questions, and commentary of an Episcopal priest who loves her church!” “Pastor Ryan’s Deep Thoughts and Shallow Entries,” and “Deacon Tom’s Thoughts on Sunday Scriptures.”

I must have also clicked the Christian button.

There are a lot of blogs about Cupcakes, too.

Most people, “can’t deny the itch to pen,” as one Blogger puts it. That’s why we write: because we can. Because we have the freedom to write anything we want and we feel blessed to do so.

Cupcakes Schmuck-cakes! It doesn’t matter the topic, it’s that we get to share a part of ourselves with anyone who will listen.

Are you reading this?

Cool.

Perfectly Punctuated

2010-06-20T18:33:00.000-07:00

I am an exclamation mark. I woke up with a jolt two days ago and knew (or thought I knew) the truth, finally, about who I am.

I arose from slumber that terrifically beautiful morning with this thought: people’s personalities could be broken down by punctuation marks. Does the punctuation mark you choose show your public personality? Your inner-self? What you want to be, but haven’t quite achieved yet? I took it that far and decided:

I am an Exclamation Mark. I came to this conclusion when re-reading an e-mail sent to a friend.

“Karen! It was SO good to hear from you!! Let’s definitely have coffee on Friday!!!!”

I was happy with this thought. Suddenly, people’s personalities started defining themselves before my eyes. My son, Adam, who is a period, shakes his head at me as I am excitedly telling him of my theory.

Two examples…a person might be a Quotation mark, or a Question mark. Together they might sound like this in regards to just about any subject:

Quoter: “Well, Blake says that ‘you throw the sand against the wind and the wind blows it back again.’”
Questioner: “What does that even mean?” (Usually, the Questioner’s comments are accompanied by Italics or Underlines. Heavy with sarcasm).

My other son, Nate, I believe is a Comma because he has very long, run-on sentences. He might even suggest in the middle of a sentence that “you can go ahead and do something else you need to do when I tell you this.”

Nate’s girlfriend thinks she is an Asterisk. Crown-like and sparkly. Although not dumb. She is a side-note that packs a big punch.

I also think that while I am an Exclamation mark, I am not ALL CAPS. Usually, I am punctuated with Parenthesis. This gives you context. I might say: “I like that (although we can change it at any time).” Some people think this might be in Forward Slash territory, as if to say…I have two thoughts, am debating between two things, feeling two things, wanting a hybrid of both. But Parenthesis is only employed when the sentence needs additional information. For instance, I might like it, but my boss may not. Therefore, unless I have a “strong recommendation,” I can make it work for her. If I really believe in my idea: Exclamation Mark.

I had no idea when formulating my Punctuation Hypothesis how many other people had opinions on the matter. One “blogger” states:

“One question mark is enough, adding more does not make it a stronger inquiry, and don’t even get me started on multiple exclamation marks!!!! Extra punctuation smacks of infomercial and that is never the vibe that should be pursued, unless of course, you are writing an infomercial.”

Another blogger writes; “Remember, overly frequent use of the exclamation mark is generally considered poor writing, for it distracts the reader and reduces the mark’s meaning. Are there exceptions? Yes. Comic books.”

Ouch. So judgmental.
All I know is…I would NOT want to be an Ellipsis!

(Tell me: what are you?)

Spring Concerts and a Boy

2010-04-28T17:53:00.000-07:00

Spring concerts come once a year, and aren't we just a little bit glad (or is it just me)?

The night was stormy and cold. I left my house late, hoping that someone, somewhere, would call it off. It was yet another school concert and as much as I would like to say that I support my kid, and I want to enjoy all the hard work he puts into his endeavors, um…

I am not the good parent. I don’t want to go out at night. I want to slip into my pj’s right when I get home and go to bed at 8:30 p.m. (don’t judge me: this kept me out of most trouble in high school).

I happened to find the parking space left in the front of the school by a parent who ditched the joint right after his kid performed. My kid, like his, sings. He sings all of the time and he has both a good voice, and a good attitude. Who can rebel singing Frank Sinatra?

He sings in concert choir at his high school and I am proud of him, despite my unenthusiastic attitude of venturing out at night. But it’s about him, right?

I spot some familiar faces. Other parents. Good parents, who are excited to be there and got there early to prove the point to me. I sit and wait. It is a district wide concert: many grades and over 400 kids. This didn’t look good.

My eyes wander.

Pedal pushers, school tee’s , tennis shoes, scrunchies.

Jr. Higher’s who can’t sit still.

A large man with a plaid shirt, breathing heavy. Carrying the weight of the world.

A choir director who isn’t leading any choir yet “talking” to his group with his hands.

An enormous woman wearing a vertical-striped zebra print sweater.

An eleven year old girl who looks like a woman standing next to an eleven year old boy. Her skirt is hoochie-mamma short and her shoes are unmanageably high.

A boy with a cast on one leg, staring into the distance.

A sweet friend two seats down.

War-torn teachers trying to quiet their students.

Babies crying.

Noise.

When will this end? The night is dragging on. I want parents, grandparents, to sit down and stop taking pictures…

Wait!

Everyone be quiet!

MY kid is walking up to the stage now.

Please!

Everyone!

Pay attenition!

This kid is great! Is anyone listening?!

My shrill scream resonates through the auditorium. I am a mother. And this kid rocks.

Bones or Seeds

2010-04-25T17:10:00.000-07:00

"Dogs are very industrious and fond of gardening...always planting bones, but they never grow up." The Treasure Seekers, E. Nesbit

I waste. I am not proud of it. My husband is constantly chastising me for throwing food down the garbage disposal before its "old" (a definition we cannot agree on). I take the back roads when I drive despite the cost of gas because it's "pretty", and I buy too many audio books.

I squander. I throw around my bad attitudes and my prejudices. I judge freely. Sometimes, my words kill. I am not greedy with the things that come all too naturally.

I bury bones. I bury in the sweet earth things that will never sprout, and I do it all the time.

I do not want to bury bones. I do not want to labor in vain.

God plants gardens, and I want to be like God. I want to bury seeds. I want to bury something that will thrive and bless others that come behind me. I want to be aware. I want to give more than I get. I want to celebrate Life.

I want to give my time, my money, and my energy to things that are eternal. I bury bones because I think the seeds are mine and if I hold on to them they will keep staying mine. If I put them in a box they will stay safe. I won't hurt or be vulnerable. I won't get embarrassed by my attempts. I will be protected by what others think. But seeds don't grow in a box.

God wants me to be like Him. He wants me to be a gardener. He wants me to cultivate Life and he wants you to, as well.

And, he wants me to put things into tupperware, alphabatize the spices and make the bed. Oh wait...that's my husband.

First Breath

2010-02-25T18:44:00.000-08:00

Today I breathed in, and then I breathed out. It felt so good, I did it again. In fact, I did it so many times—and it felt SO good—that I actually got dizzy and I had to stop. But I liked it and I really plan on doing it on a regular basis.

I have always loved breathing--that slow, concentrated, relaxing breath that does a wonder throughout your entire body. It relieves stress, slows us down, and stops our busy-ness. I can never do it right without thinking about it. When I am walking my dog through the park or exercising at the gym I am always reminding myself “to breathe.”

But today was different. I breathed. I “inspired” and “expired.” I caught myself NOT doing it, and so I began again.

I even smelled things. I smelled burnt rubber while driving by street pavers, I smelled beer a couple was making in their garage, I smelled my muddy dog, and spring flowers. I smelled my boy’s sweaty, warm hair. It was wonderful.

One of my favorite Christian classics is Practicing the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence. Brother Lawrence was an obscure French monk who worked in a monastery kitchen peeling potatoes. He longed to experience an intimate friendship with Christ and strove to do so by concentrating on God in each and every practicality of his day…gardening, washing potatoes, sitting, etc.

Brother Lawrence remembered Christ, and then forgot. And then remembered again. This is what my day of breathing was like.

So I made sign:

Breathe.

Join me?

Chicks with Cameras

2010-02-13T16:51:00.000-08:00

Chicks with cameras rock. Case in point: My new friend Amy. I introduce her as my "new friend" because i'm a bit of a stalker, and I think she's so cool that I really want her to be my friend. I hope that if I keep saying it in front of her, she will take the hint.

But, I digress. This cool chick recently took family photos for us. I found her quite by accident as I trolled through the internet trying to find a local photographer. Warning her in advance of what my father calls our, "unrestrained" behavior, she agreed to the shoot. Her quiet manner and artistic eye was just what we needed.

As we walked around downtown Sacramento I learned that she is a pastor's kid, a missionary's wife, and a mom. Later, I read her blog and I knew I had met a kindred spirit.

Pictures completed, she delivered them to my workplace and we got an opportunity to chat. She's a girl who has traveled, has had independence, and has a passion to live for Christ. Coming home from her last trip, she had camera moments. Changed her perspective. Had a flash of insight. Gotten focused. She walked in the door of her home and knew where her mission field really was.

Children can do that to us. Living for Christ gives us an eternal focus, but parenting with an eternal view is much different. It becomes our mission field.

This means her mission trips are to the jungles of the laundry room where small children try to climb into the dryer, or the wetlands of a plastic pool on a muddy spot of lawn. It means singing hyms to a congregation of three before bedtime, and eating with the natives. It means being the physican to a patient with a skinned knee, and uttering words of comfort into the ear of the broken-hearted. It means living with warriors and princesses.

Asking her the key to her life, she replies with a slight smile and without a moments hesitation: "Abandon all. Live a life of faith and prayer." Now, that's a clear picture.

check it: www.amyschuffphotography.com

I Am Hot

2010-02-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

I am hot. I am an amazingly beautiful woman. My hair shines. My body is tight. The wrinkles I do have are in all the right places. My skin is clear and my breath is sweet.

If you see me swinging my hips as I walk down the street, I will look confident, secure and in charge. I am not afraid to speak in front of a group of people (in fact, the larger the better!). But, I can also look in the eyes of one person and speak comfort into their ears. I am a sweet person. And, a naughty one.

I am protected. I can do what I want without fear. I don't have to take down the garbage. It's not my job. But I can if I want. I am that kind of girl.

My husband's sweet words have filled my ears to overflowing. I am all he says I am.

Slowly, I roll out of bed. I rub the crust out of my eyes. I stretch, and re-injure my bad knee. I untangle my bulky sweats from the covers. I wander into the bathroom and look in the mirror.

Something is very wrong.

I am shocked by what I see. Faultlines abound near the corner of my eyes. Things are, well, not so tight. I can smell my breath from here and I do not feel naughty. I am shaken by how plain I look in light of the sonnets spilled from my lovers lips. Every morning, before I am even awake, his words of poetry fill my senses.

The mirror lies. I turn away.

Dear Uncle Brad,

2010-01-27T20:33:00.000-08:00

Dear Uncle Brad (Chaplian Major Brad P. Lewis currently serving in Afghanastan),

Today I felt like I wanted to lay down on the 19.7” modular carpet tiles in my office. Tiles that are easily arranged in styles and colors I can mix and match. I wanted to lay there in the snow-angel-making position, look up to the sky and do nothing more than concentrate on the 19.7” ceiling tiles that do not opportune the same creative colors, styles, or creativity.

Today I met with a 24 year old young woman who has a complicated life. She has a six-week old child in her body, and a boyfriend and mother—both of whom beat her. Tomorrow she could feasibly walk 1.5 miles up the street from my office and (excuse me, folks) remove the “cancerous mass” from her womb.

I didn’t really want my blog to be about this. But what, Brad, do you discuss when this is your work, your heart? When you have to daily memorialize a life? What do you do when you are awake when you sleep and it’s all you can think about?

In most ways, your work is more visual. You see the dead. You hold services for them. It is not a make-believe battle.

We don’t have that same experience here. It seems make-believe. The pre-born either ARE born, or go away, like a cloud. I look up from my carpeted floor and can only imagine their faces.

Through the ultrasound, I saw that young woman’s six week old baby, perfectly made with eyelids and finger prints. I heard its heart beat. Today I weep. I grieve. I am shaken.

Uncle Brad, today I am thinking of you and your struggle. Burying the innocent, fighting for ideals that few people share. I think of you now, when you are in a memorial service for a fallen soldier, or an innocent woman, or child. I will lay on the modular carpet tiles, and look up to the ceiling for both of us.

A Not-So-Love-Letter

2010-01-22T13:25:00.001-08:00

Valentines Day is fast approaching and I think I am going to buy my new washing machine a Valentine’s Card. I’m not fickle—I’m in Love.

My old machine dropped dead after six short years and, while it was new and shiny I, okay…I’ll say it. I worshipped it. I’m embarrassed to admit that I once penned these lines in praise of my old machine:

“…while I know it is not a god, I daily bathe and feed it. I look to it to provide, in exchange for this care, a day full of rich blessings. Logically, I know I am its master. However, to say that I am deeply attached to, in partnership with, and bound by a deep affection for my washing machine, is not an understatement.

“My last machine, may it rest in peace, lasted seventeen years and I almost cried when they wheeled away my bruised, but not beaten, almond-colored faithful friend. On a good day its tub could handle only three pairs of jeans. The agitator was broken and barely dipped the tough, blue denim into the anemic suds below. In contrast, the Maytag Neptune TL washes an entire load of—take your pick--“color/jeans,” “delicates,” “bulky items,” or even “Enviro Plus” items. This machine yells “bring it on!” and I do. Oh, I do.

“I do not praise this James Dean of a machine as a deity. Its shiny, white porcelain surface and its gleaming, stainless steel tub do not move me to uncontrolled emotion. The Maytag Neptune TL insignia on the lid, does not remind me of luxury and performance redefined. The flashing lights do not beckon me to act like a high roller, where, bright lights and wild nights are King…”

On, and on, it went. But now…the Bosch Vision 300…that’s a machine to admire. I Love it.

Miss Kesiah

2010-01-14T17:43:00.000-08:00

What a splendid day!" said Anne, drawing a long breath. "Isn't it good just to be alive on a day like this? I pity the people who aren't born yet for missing it. They may have good days, of course, but they can never have this one."

We may have gone a little far. I’m not sure anyone was really prepared. Maybe no one explained quite how it worked. We talk about it enough alright. But talking and, (uh-hem), doing, are very different.

My workplace is unusual. We, well, inspire life. And maybe, about nine months ago, she drank some of the water because today we delivered a beautiful 7 pound, 19 inch baby boy. Okay, Kesiah and Jeremy had a thing or two to do with it. But I am certain that working where we work may have played its voo-doo magic on her.

Kesiah is one of the beautiful women I know. She is just…lovely. Really lovely. She makes life lovely. And God gave her the gift of a life today.

Walking in the park, I looked up at the blue and white patch-worked sky. Birds and squirrels and deer danced by. “What a splendid day!” said I.

Fancy-ful

2010-01-13T18:48:00.000-08:00

I fancy myself a writer. I’m not a writer, but I fancy myself to be one. Thus, I decided to post a blog with all of my amazing words linked together in one lyrical, inspiring way.
My oldest child warned me about this blog, writing,

“Hello mother,
Before visiting your blog, I expected a page loaded with mindless drivel about... [my work—it’s pretty intense]. I imagined myself reading one, perhaps even two lines then leaving the blog and either praising your thoughts (insisting, of course, that I had read the entire thing) or mocking your juvenile attempt to unload your thoughts onto the world's shoulders.

“This e-mail is an apology for those thoughts, and the unspoken lambasting you could have received. I enjoyed your post on Table Topics very much. You wrote with proper grammar, exciting vocabulary, and clearly got your point across without sounding like so many of your peers that did not escape the 80's unscathed…

“P.S. If you are inclined to ask, let me inform you now so as to save time: the reason I am writing in the voice of someone from the 50's, is because Hunter S. Thompson is my new Aladdin (sans drugs). I plan on growing up, and being just like him (sans drugs). I will not, however, be joining the USAF because I do not want to go to Florida.”

As you can see, he is an actual writer, not a fanciful one. And in case you are wondering, he’s being satirical. I taught him everything he knows.

Table Topics

2010-01-09T16:58:00.000-08:00

I drive my kids nuts with my love of Table Topics. Maybe you have seen the sparkly, lucite box full of questions waiting to be answered with lofty and noble thoughts? Maybe not. I never needed the box before. I have always asked questions at the table to get my family chatting. Questions like, "If you were a kitchen utensil, what kind would you be and why?" Oh the fun...But one day, I saw Table Topics at my local Pottery Barn and my world shook. I came unhinged at the possibilities. People would pour out their very soul in my dining room. There would be laughter, crying, goal setting, revelation!

And then reality struck. Every question I picked was "dumb," "easy," or "mom, again?!". If you are ever at the table with me, my favorite question is, "What's your favorite hormone" (it's oxytocin, but that's a whole other blog). The funniest answer came from my six year old niece. When asked "what kind of tatoo would you get and where?" she was the first to answer, "A shark. Right here on my back." And with a loud slap, she announced to her parents her plan. This question was a winner.

The question that has not left my mind, however, was "Would you rather meet your great-grandparents or your great-grandchildren?". First impression of the question: Ha! Would I rather meet the people that messed me up, or the people I am messing up?

But in reality, the question left me thinking. To me, the question presupposes (and let's note, I am an optomist) a validity of the value of life. That people before us put something good into us. And we, in turn, leave it for future generations. I know we get the trash, too, but the potential for God to work in us and through us is a gift only He could give.

On New Years Day here in Sacramento a baby girl was born at 12:02 a.m. I think her mother said it all. "Now, New Years Day will be very special," said her mother, "The whole world will celebrate with her." Every New Year fireworks will go off all over the world and this little girl's mother will tell her it is just for her. If it is true, which it is, that we repeat what our parents teach us, New Year's Girl will say something equally as beautiful to her daughter.

This is why my kids don't like to play this game with me.