Godspotting with Sheila

Beauty from Ashes

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

The Rings I Won't be Wearing

"What would you like to drink?" I asked our new pastor as he and his family arrived for lunch at our home last spring.

"Water," he said.

Later the conversation turned to tea. Pastor Robert and his wife told us about some of the teas they had enjoyed in Russia. "We have quite an assortment," I said. "Would you like some?"

"No thank you," Pastor replied quietly. "I've given up every drink but water for Lent."

Lent begins today, and I'm still struggling over what to give up. So many things that come to mind just aren't practical.

I'm busily running down a list of candidates and seeing something inconvenient in each one.

My husband loves beef and doesn't eat fish. If I give up meat, I'll be preparing separate meals until Easter.
The internet? All our household finances are organized for efficient billing and payment online. I'd ruin our credit rating. And "necessary use only" looks like a mighty slippery slope to me.
Coffee withdrawal makes me mean. Do I want to expose my family and coworkers to meanie-me?
Chocolate? Alcohol? Too easy.
My sharp tongue? I want to be rid of it, not just give it a rest.

In the midst of the list-making, I'm convicted. And now I'm feeling foolish.

No practicality inheres in Christ's life. It wasn't convenient for Him to be accused, flogged, nailed to a cross.

He didn't die for us because it suited His schedule. He died for us because we desperately needed a Savior.

Nothing I could forswear for the next several weeks could compare with His self-denial.

Mark D. Roberts offers some good thinking about Lenten practices. It's part of his series How Lent Can Make a Difference in Your Relationship with God. As I looked through his excellent material, one of the first things I figured out was my ridiculous pride.

Of course my Lenten sacrifice isn't meant to compare with Christ's.

I'm also heartened by Mark's comment that sacrifices, (or disciplines added for Lent) must be "realistic"--what I conceived as "practical."

And then it came to me, what I could set aside as a symbol of my gratitude for His sacrifice: my jewelry.

I'm not much of a clothes horse, see, and I don't do the makeup thing...but I do love my jewelry.

On a typical day I'm wearing my Tag Heuer diamond watch, my wedding rings, a garnet and diamond ring that my husband gave me, diamond studs, and a cross--also diamond-encrusted, also a gift from my husband.

I'll wear my grandmother's plain gold wedding band this Lent, because I will not dishonor my husband. I don't think God expects that from me. And each evening I'll poke earrings through the holes in my earlobes to make sure they remain open. Hmm.

Maintaining my piercings during Lent. That's a little odd.

But all the bling I've collected, that gives me so much pleasure each day? I'll just leave it in the jewelry box, thank you. It's a small denial. I'm hoping that it will help me tune to the bigger denials we're called to embrace.

1 Therefore I urge you, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship. 2 And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect.
Romans 12:1-2 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee over at Getting Down with Jesus for God-Bumps & God-Incidences. I hope you'll drop by Jennifer's place.

You Can't Always get What You Want, Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Feasting at Dorita's House, Fifteen Years Later.

The Nemesis Sandwich: Pain Coco

"Come on!" Dorita said, "we have to get to Tavana's (governor's) house to pick up our pain coco (coconut bread)!" I slipped on my flip-flops and followed my hostess down the path that led to the gravel road circling our island. We'd been waiting all week--ever since the island's bakery had announced that they'd be baking the special rolls for delivery on Friday. Tavana's wife had ordered dozens of pain coco, enough for the entire village to share, as a leader's wife should. And we were on our way to claim ours.

As we walked up the road, I thought about food here on Tahaa. Many of my colleagues from the anthropology department conducted their fieldwork in regions where food was scarce. I had landed in French Polynesia, where most people had plenty to eat. I was glad to be here, rather than a place where people went hungry.

Because to study starving people, you have to let them starve. The rules of inquiry demand that one arrive in the field self-sufficient. They also demand that one not upset the local economy, for better or for worse.

Food was available here. On the main island of Tahiti, one could acquire almost anything available back in California--at a price. Here on the outer islands, where I was studying, food was plentiful, but variety was scarce.

Pain Coco, like any break in the dietary monotony, was a big deal.

Tavana's wife, who was also Dorita's aunt, insisted that we stay and eat lunch with her. Once the other villagers had claimed their rolls and left, Dorita went into the kitchen to gather what we'd need. She returned with tinned butter, Nutella, cherry preserves....and a can of Armour potted meat.

"Taste one," the governor's niece offered, handing me a roll. I bit. The bread reminded me of a King's Hawaiian roll--slightly sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. I didn't taste coconut.

"It's good," I said.

"I'll make you a sandwich," Dorita said. "What would you like on it?"

"Butter and preserves, please," I said, eyeing that can of potted meat with dread.

"That's all?"

"That's all."

I left to wash my hands. When I returned, Dorita had buttered the roll, which looked something like a hamburger bun, and spread jam on one side. As I approached the table, she grabbed the can of potted meat, swirled her knife into the goo, and smeared a gob of it all over the other side of the roll.

I felt my smile freeze.

As I sat she slid the plate toward me. "Eat!" she said, smiling.

Tavana's wife sat with us. "Bon appétit!" she said.

"Bon appétit," I fairly grumbled. I gagged down the sandwich, trying to ignore the fatty, pasty spread on the roll. I would brush my tongue after we ate, attempting to scrub off a layer of grease that seemed to cling there.

The tears came later, when I sat at my makeshift desk in front of a window in Dorita's home. A small boy ran up, left a mango on the windowsill--a gift for me--then ran off, giggling.

These people had welcomed me into their community, despite the inconveniences of having a nosy white girl move in for months and months, always poking about and asking incessant questions.

My attempts at self-sufficiency were doomed, because these people shared everything. So often I received more than I wanted, more than I needed.

And I had become so accustomed to their generosity that I felt annoyance when their gifts were not exactly what I wanted.

Departure, 2004.

I almost packed up and went home in shame, that day.

But I stayed. I didn't go there to learn gratitude, or grace. But I needed the lesson.

31 Do not worry then, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear for clothing?’ 32 For the Gentiles eagerly seek all these things; for your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. 33 But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.
Matthew 6:31-33 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Laura Boggess at The Wellspring for Playdates with God. She is speaking about our appetites, too. I hope you'll stop by.

The Haircut

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Rich and me Before the Haircut.

What the Hairdresser Showed Me

"So," he asked me, running his fingers through my graying curls, gauging the heft of my hair, "How much time a day do you spend on your hair?"

"About thirty seconds," I said, watching him.

He didn't blanch. "And I don't want to color it," I added. "I'm good with the gray." Now I felt defiant.

"That's great," he replied.

"And," I continued, "I don't want to look like my daughter. But I don't want to look like I'm ready for the retirement home, either.

His smile reminded me that I was here for a haircut, not hostage negotiations. "How long do you plan to go?"

"I dunno yet. I've worn it really short for the past seven years, and I'm ready to grow it out. I know I want it longer than this, but I'm not sure where I'll stop. But right now it's so overgrown...I need a trim to keep it in shape while I'm growing it."

"Well," he laughed. "The good thing is we can always shorten hair."

He picked up his scissors and went to work, pruning back wayward strands that wanted, these days, to leap for joy.

Exuberant. That's a word for my hair.

As he worked we made easy conversation. He told me about his work, how he'd begun cutting hair a quarter century earlier, straight out of high school.

"You like it, then," I ventured.

"I do."

"So many women aren't happy with how they look. If I can help a woman gain confidence, feel better about how she presents herself to the world--well, that's good work."

I nodded and waited. "You, though," he said. "You're confident. You don't fret about your gray. You're comfortable with your hair."

My chest contracted as if I'd been plunged into an icy pool. Me? Confident? About my hair? I couldn't believe he had said that.

"I'm over my hair," I told him, hoping he wouldn't notice that I was gasping for air. "When I was a kid I wanted long, straight, blonde hair, parted down the middle. Like Marsha Brady. Or, if you're old enough, Peggy Lipton on Mod Squad. This hair"--I ran a hand through his work--"doesn't do that."

I didn't mention the years spent attempting to tame my hair. I didn't tell him about the very expensive haircuts my mother arranged for my curly-headed sister and me. I didn't mention the long sessions with the comb and barrettes, trying to extract obedience from hair that was created to rebel. I didn't tell him about how hopeless my hair had been.

I didn't mention that by the time I was ten, I knew my hair was irredeemable and wondered what that said about me.

Irredeemable Hair. Christmas, 1970.

"When you came in," he told me, "I could tell you weren't all wound up about your hair."

"I've reached a point," I told him, "when if someone is going to form an enduring opinion of my worth based on what my hair looks like--well....I'm not prepared to worry about that."

He nodded, picked up a comb, judged the length of a lock.

New Hair.

And I realized that he had pulled a truth from me. I want to look nice, yes. But whether my hair or my shoes or my laugh is acceptable to you really doesn't matter that much to me, these days.

I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but it's happened:

I know, not just in my doctrine-absorbing head, but in my Christ-worshiping heart, that I am acceptable, despite all my flaws, to the only One whose opinion really matters.

I laughed outside, feeling, maybe for the first time, what it means to be free. And it was the hairdresser, of all people, who showed me.

6 For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.
Philippians 1:6 (NASB)

Special Thanks:

My friend Deidra Riggs wrote an amazing hair piece (no pun intended) that posted on The High Calling the day of my haircut. I'm sure her work inspired me...though what I came up with cannot be blamed on her. I hope you'll her story.

Dave Mazza at Champions Hair Salon provided me with a trauma-free, even pleasant, haircutting experience that resulted in a haircut I love. His interest was clearly in serving my needs, rather than convincing me to become hair-obsessed. I recommend him.

The Image is from Inside

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Frosty Winter Morning. Photo by Bob Coller.

My friend Bob graciously granted me permission to share this amazing photograph with you.

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part Four

My friend's photo made me shiver, though I sat snug, this February, in my Southern California home. The bare trees pleading, the empty tables honed with frost, the morning light creeping upon the earth: I felt the Michigan cold as I studed Bob's work. "How did you do that?" I asked him.

He said what photographers always say.

It was all about the light.

But then he went on. He told me how the long morning's walk had drawn him into cold mode, where he could "easily focus on a surrounding image that communicated the inner sense." Then he added another thought:

We see in the world and communicate to others the state of our inner being.

I read his words three times, slipping the idea on for size like a new coat. I remember a Saturday afternoon spent being, wrapping myself in a blanket of rest, and the simple beauty I found all around me that day.

And I remember that busy day when I stormed the grocery store, grimly searching for fresh mushrooms, late and frenzied and determined to complete my mission and move on to the Next. Important. Thing. on my list.

No one smiled at me in the store that frantic day.

I study my friend's wise words again. Inner being.

Bob had to let the cold inside to really see the cold.

And me? I had to let Jesus inside before I could really see Him.

Wait a minute.

Christ dwells in me. I bear His image.

What Bob taught me about cold, I'm applying to Jesus.

Today, I'm remembering that He dwells in me. My job is to be, to let that indwelling Spirit move me. We'll see what we'll see.

9 However, you are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if indeed the Spirit of God dwells in you. But if anyone does not have the Spirit of Christ, he does not belong to Him. 10 If Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, yet the spirit is alive because of righteousness. 11 But if the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit who dwells in you.

Romans 8:9-11 (NASB)

A Cherry Pie Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Cherry Pie.

A Sister Celebration

One week ago my sister Elaine celebrated her birthday; it comes exactly one week after mine. When we were children, our parents made it a point to mark each occasion separately (except for the year we each chose one special friend and went to Knott's Berry Farm). As adults, though, when our schedules permit it, we gather and share our days.

Some years, schedules don't permit it.

This year I got lucky. We carved out the evening of the Saturday between our birthdays and planned a casual meal at her house. She's my big sister, but her boys are younger than my girl, so her day was basketball-busy.

I made Mom's potato salad and brought wine. She provided tri-tip, beans, chips and dip, and dessert.

Dessert. I knew what she wanted when I first saw her text message:

What shall we serve for "cake"?

As girls, we asked for cherry pie for our birthdays, preferring it to cake. Mom always accommodated our requests, right along with preparing favorite meals to mark our days: teriyaki for me, chicken and dumplings for my sister. But Mom's been gone for three years, so we plan our own menus now.

We are ready for cherry pie again.

She phoned me the day of the party. "Costco doesn't have cherry pie! They told me they only carried it once, two years ago!"

"Wait. You're at Costco? Can you grab something for me while you're there?" Just like that, I switch our agenda to my needs. And my big sister goes along with the detour. I need a big bottle of antihistamine. She promises to get it.

I report the pie emergency to my husband. And here, I should mention that though Rich is a major fan of most things sweet, cherry pie is not his favorite.

The drive to my sister's place, fifteen miles away as the clouds float, is an hour long, following freeways around a nuisance of a mountain that lengthens our trip. Rich searches out Marie Callendar's locations, identifies one along our circummountainous route, calls to confirm. Yes, they have plenty of cherry pies.

And so we leave a few minutes early to drive around the mountain to my sister's house. Because we need to stop and buy a cherry pie.

For certainty, she has cheesecake and carrot cake. I text her: "Pie mission success!"

We drive on, deliver our pie. My sister remembered my antihistamine. Big sisters are good at remembering things for their little sisters.

I'm standing in her warm kitchen as she stirs beans and I put pickles on a platter and my dad and his dog watch us, our husbands chat, my nephews return home from neighborhood hoops.

Watching her I remember why I named my daughter for her, this only sister of mine. I remember shared bunk beds and cereal squabbles. I remember tears and secrets and how she chauffeured me through adolescence in her orange Volkswagen bug. I'm trying to figure out how we landed in our fifties in two blinks. Now we're singing, silly, shouting over each other as we reach the line, "Happy Birthday Dear..." as the rest sing "Elaine and Sheila." I want it to be about her.

And she wants it to be about me.

She's slicing pie and I aim my camera and she says no, so I photograph the cherry pie. You will have to trust me when I report to you that my sister is an exceptionally beautiful woman.

I'm wondering how it could be that we've allowed schedules to preempt this celebration. I make a vow.

I'll make sure we have cherry pie. She will remember the antihistamine.

For through wisdom your days will be many,
and years will be added to your life.
Proberbs 9:11 (NIV)

On Figuring out Where to Look for Stuff

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Old and Chipped.

A Brand New Mug

I am a maladroit shopper. I don't experience the thrill of the hunt; cunning store displays don't woo me. So I wasn't surprised when I had trouble finding a suitable replacement for my big blue-and-white sailboat coffee mug, the one I use at work.

I looked and looked, but I couldn't find a mug to suit my specifications:

Big.
Not too tall (no latte mugs near the computer for this clumsy woman!).
Microwave-safe.

After browsing the mug selection in several stores, I grew frustrated. It seemed that we'd found our home with less effort.

Could it really be this hard to find a new coffee mug?

One morning I watched as Rich refilled his favorite mug, the brown one his son Ryan gave him.

It's big.
It's not too tall.
It's microwave safe.

It's from Starbucks.

In one of those "A-ha! Water is wet!" moments, it occurred to me that a coffee house might be good place to shop for a new coffee mug.

The next day I rolled into Starbucks, brimming with confidence. Within a few minutes I'd made my choice, paid the price, and was practically skipping out the door, delighted to have crossed the coffee-mug-replacement task off my mental to-do list.

New Mug, with Vespa.

How many times in my life have I made my choice and then paid the price? The outcome isn't always as satisfactory as my mug hunt proved to be.

Sometimes I don't like my selection, once I've lived with it for a while.
Sometimes my choice hurts other people.
Sometimes the price is higher than I had dreamed.

And so this morning, I'm wondering how to apply the mug-shopping lesson to other choices before me.
I'm looking for life-analogies to this:

When you need a new mug, shop at the coffee house.

How about you? Do you have an analogy to share?

10 “They will not hunger or thirst,
Nor will the scorching heat or sun strike them down;
For He who has compassion on them will lead them
And will guide them to springs of water.
Isaiah 49:10 (NASB)

I Do: The Project

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Mudding over the Drywall Tape.

Imagining Something Better

It's early on Saturday, the morning just stirring under its blanket of darkness. I'm writing at my desk, upstairs, when I hear it:

The whining buzz of a power tool slices through the stillness.

I leave my keyboard and coffee, race downstairs, into the garage. "Rich! It's six o'clock!"

He understands, sets down the belt sander. "I didn't think it would be that loud with the doors closed," he mumbles.

"I could hear it upstairs," I say.

He sighs, sets down the tool, follows me inside. "I'll make breakfast," I promise.

I'm cracking eggs while he sips coffee and I think about this work he's doing, building himself a shop space inside our garage. I'm remembering his enthusiasm as we roamed the lumber department, ticking off the items on his bill of materials, sighting down the two-by-tens to ensure they're true. I'm patient as he chooses.

Good materials draw the work smoothly from his hands, I know.

He had shown me his plan, explained the benefits of the workbench design he'd selected, the value of the sturdy shelves he'd build. "I'll mount the grinder here," he said. And "I've never hung drywall before."

I hear his eagerness to tackle a dream, to shape it with wood and gypsum and screws into something he sees.

After we've shared eggs and toast, after the sun has risen and hopefully the neighbors too, after the informal overnight noise-curfew lifts, I hear that buzz-whine again, and I smile. When Rich decides to create something, he devotes himself to its making. Pleasure glows from his sawdusted skin as he builds the thing seen-but-not-yet-being.

He's good at making stuff because he can imagine something better than now.

Isn't that why I married him? Because I cherished his conviction that something better can made? We walked into this marriage in mid-life, each with prior failures stacked behind us. A few heads shook, a few fingers wagged. But he knew. And I knew.

The Master Builder always imagines something better. All we have to do is submit to His sander, knocking off the burrs of selfishness, His planer that trues the warped places in our hearts. Our marriage is a dream we pursue every day. It's a patient project. Some days we misread the plans, drive a nail where none belongs.

But the One who dovetailed our hearts, He yanks the miscreant nail, putties the hole, sands smooth the small wounds.

And all the while, He's building something better between us. Of us.

37 But in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him who loved us. 38 For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, 39 nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:37-39 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee over at Getting Down with Jesus for The High Calling's series on marriage. I hope you'll stop by.

I'm Coming Out Today

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 12:14:00 +0000

Grandpa's Desk. Bookcase by Dad. Both Renewed by Rich.

Letting a Book Happen

We're doing things a little differently around our house these days. Over the holidays, Rich repainted our bedroom to obliterate the color that I'd selected a few years ago. I believe its name was "Wrong Green."

Don't paint your bedroom Wrong Green. You'll be sorry.

We've relocated my writing space from the desk in our kitchen, the pulsing heart of our home, into a corner of our bedroom, a sanctuary. I spend at least an hour each day alone behind the closed door, and I write.

Writing is an act of obedience. And I've been stalling.

It's been just about three years now since God sat me down and reminded me that this thing I have for words is a gift from Him, provided for His glory. A year ago, in a premature burst of confidence, I sketched out a proposal for a hokey, gimmicky book. I took it with me to my favorite writers conference where it was received, with, um, restraint. This response was a gift, though I didn't see it at the time.

No. Then it just led to paralysis. I chatted with God: "You told me to write this book, didn't You?"

"Yes, but have you heard Me say anything about publishing it, yet?"

He had me there. I stewed, simmering up a more authentic outline for the work. I joined an online critique group, where I received advice so conflicting I retreated into paralysis.

Finally, I felt the nudging again, understood this new course. It was time.

So during the first week of January, after my husband had lovingly renewed a quiet space for me to write, I took vacation. Along with enjoying my family and relaxing after the holidays, I had a secret agenda, shared only with God and Rich: I would establish the habit of a writing hour. I would return to the book.

I began by reweaving the words I'd written before.

Midway through that week, I noticed this post by a friend on Facebook.

JoAnn V.

Are you waiting for earthquakes or....

listening for a still small voice? I was waiting for earthquakes instead of listening for the still small voice. I didn't learn to listen until I was starving. Tuning my ear is a work in progress. Yet as I learn to listen, He speaks. The earthquakes—the banquets—are few and far between. Each...

These words came from my website. They're from my book.

The same day, I found this post from my friend Sandra.

Once I turned to obedience, the encouragement flowed from every direction.

JoAnn's post was a gift. Sandra's post was a gift. My husband created a beautiful, quiet place, then let me exclude him from it for a time, every day. One day I asked him to watch this amazing video that my friend Laura created.

Afterwards, I said, "I wanted you to watch it because that could have been me, talking."

He gave me a "you think I didn't get that?" look.

And I realized, right then, that he understands the writing the way a husband understands the monthly call of the moon on a woman's body.

Writing happens to me because of who I am.

Other writers, people who are farther up this trail than I am, have left cairns along the way to mark the turns. Laura's video? It's a signpost for me--and a waystation.

Today, the direction of my story isn't the one I expected, outlined, planned on, so I'm waiting to see what's next.

But while I wait, I let the writing happen.

Will you help me, Friend? Will you pray for me?

Will you pray that I will listen faithfully, and follow the steps where they lead?

And would you also consider liking my Facebook page? It encourages me to see your face there. I've added a button in the sidebar here to make it easy for you to find, if you're so moved.

Thank you.

7 So the craftsman encourages the smelter,
And he who smooths metal with the hammer encourages him who beats the anvil,
Saying of the soldering, “It is good”;
And he fastens it with nails,
So that it will not totter.
8 “But you, Israel, My servant,
Jacob whom I have chosen,
Descendant of Abraham My friend,
9 You whom I have taken from the ends of the earth,
And called from its remotest parts
And said to you, ‘You are My servant,
I have chosen you and not rejected you.
10 ‘Do not fear, for I am with you;
Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you, surely I will help you,
Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’
Isaiah 41:7-10 (NASB)

Patience, Grasshopper

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Green Grasshopper

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part Three

I'm up and away from my desk, waiting as my husband installs a bookcase that he's renewed with care for my use. Wandering onto the front deck. I breathe deeply of the winter air, not-too-chilly in California. I glance at the spent tomato plants, their cages empty cells, as if the prisoners have been sprung.

I see the green grasshopper. I'm startled, as he rests just a few feet from me, clinging to the tomato cage, and I took no notice.

I turn my eyes to the garden. I ask them to become noticing eyes.

Right away I see him, sitting on the silvery finger-long leaf of the Echium candicans.

The Patriarch.

He is the patriarch of all grasshoppers, with his walrus face. I imagine that if he begins to scrape those legs, one against the other, his song will fill the canyon. It's worth interrupting my husband. it's worth getting the camera. He rests still, regal, unperturbed by my going, my calling out, my returning, my flashy camera.

Then I notice a twig stuck in the silvery fingerlong foliage, a souvenir of recent wind.

One Twig.

I remove it and find the spent pods of seeds, left behind as their charges burst forth, or maybe drifted, down to earth that only seems indifferent.

Seed Pod.

I wonder what will grow from these seeds, and where.

A speck of color caught my eye as I unwove the twig from silvery fingerlong foliage. I return to investigate.

Ladybug and New Growth.

Returning with my noticing eyes I see a ladybug, tucked deeply into the shrub's rosette. I see, too, the fresh green tips sprouting on the Echium. Soon she'll unfurl her purple flowers again, renew her promise that winter will end.

Echium Bloom.

But today, I wait still on that promise. The time is not yet come. Beneath the growing tips hang the entitled beards of last year's growth, orthodox.

Beards.

Now Rich is calling me to come admire my renewed bookcase. I hurry upstairs to exclaim over his labor on my behalf.

I notice that I feel as if I've napped. I'm restored, ready to return to my own labor.

And I remember: We were given eyes to see.

The next day, as we tuck in another Sabbath, I return, late in the day, to see again.

Still Present.

The patriarch remains. He's moved to another place amid the silvery fingerlong foliage.

18 On that day the deaf will hear words of a book,
And out of their gloom and darkness the eyes of the blind will see.
19 The afflicted also will increase their gladness in the LORD,
And the needy of mankind will rejoice in the Holy One of Israel.
Isaiah 29:18-19 (NASB)

Really Slow Bread

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

A Boule.

Bread in the Plan

Searching for uses for my new enamel-on-cast-iron dutch oven, I came across a bread recipe that requires about twenty hours of rising time. I was intrigued. The recipe calls for just a tiny bit of yeast. The dough isn't kneaded; you just mix it up, cover it, and then wait.

For eighteen hours.

Then you shape it into a loaf and wait some more.

I began this recipe on a Saturday afternoon and we enjoyed the loaf for dinner on Sunday. That's a whole lot of waiting. But you know, waiting isn't hard when you expect to wait. I didn't need to be thinking about the bread; I didn't need to tend to it.

All I had to do was wait.

After I'd mixed the dough I went to the grocery store. I photographed insects. I napped. I wrote for a while. I prepared and served dinner. Rich and I watched a movie together. We slept. We rose on Sunday morning and went to church.

Meanwhile, the yeast shouldered its burden and the bread prepared itself for the fire.

Most of those intervening hours, I didn't think of the bread. I might lift the towel swaddling the dough for a quick peek if I happened to be in the kitchen, but for the most part, I didn't bother with it.

Waiting on the bread meant simply doing other things while the bread made itself ready.

Sometimes life is like that. I'm waiting for something and I really, really want it. Maybe I really, really dread it. But nothing I can do will hasten the time of its occurrence. It's beyond my control. The yeast will do what yeast will do, in the time it takes yeast to do it. Life will happen as life will happen, in the time it takes to happen.

My preferred timeline for life carries no causative impact.

But the waiting's not so bad when I can set the desire aside, in that little "pending" corner of my heart, and get on with other things. Christmas will come this December, and I'll need to prepare my home, prepare gifts, prepare my heart. But in February, I needn't fret. It will come at its appointed time.

I could miss a lot of living if I sideline myself in the waiting.

When I pulled the bread from the oven, I could see that the loaf was worth the wait. Its crust was complex and crispy, riddled with cracks. Inside the bread had the substance and texture of something wrought in an old, old oven, pulled forth by a sweating man.

This bread taught me: waiting well is a gift.

31 Yet those who wait for the LORD
Will gain new strength;
They will mount up with wings like eagles,
They will run and not get tired,
They will walk and not become weary.
Isaiah 40:31 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays. I hope you'll stop by her place. It's always a treat!

Under That Red Velvet Dress

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

My Daughter Elaine and Me. 1990.

No Place to Hide

"Let me zip your dress," I said to my daughter as we wriggled into our velvet dresses in the photographer's dressing room. As I ran the zipper up its tracks I marveled at the soft, perfect texture of her seven-year-old skin. Such a beautiful child...

We slipped out of the dressing room and into the studio. The photographer adjusted stools, showed us where to sit. The flash attachment lit the room like lightning in the night.

Contentment overflowed, escaping my lips in a sigh. I'd just completed my master's degree; these portraits were a gift from my parents to commemorate the occasion. My cheerful, cooperative daughter stood beside me, hugged me, leaned against my knee, obediently taking direction from the photographer. She smiled, placid under the volley of exploding lights.

"Up on your mom's lap--that's a good girl," the photographer instructed.

"I don't want to! It's HOT in here!" Tears suddenly welled in her eyes and a deep scowl carved itself a home on her forehead.

"Elaine!" I cried, startled and embarrassed by her outburst.

"I don't want to!" she wailed. I turned to the photographer, apologetic, as my child sobbed into my shoulder.

I gathered my crying girl to me. She did feel warm. Those lights must have been too much for her. "Well. I think we have enough shots now. Thank you." He dismissed us.

We returned to the dressing room to change into our everyday clothes. By now her sobs had subsided to sniffles. I wiped her face with a tissue, then unzipped her dress.

That beautiful, tender skin had erupted in lesions! I couldn't believe what I saw. We'd been in the studio no more than fifteen minutes, and during that time, chicken pox had popped to the surface of her skin like tiny buoys bobbing on the waters of a still bay.

I took her home and took her temperature. Then I ministered to her with a warm bath, calamine lotion, chicken soup, her favorite blanket. Ensconced on the sofa with her favorite gingham quilt, a few books, and her stuffed panda, she relaxed.

When the proofs arrived, she and I studied them together. "You look so pretty," I told her. "Nobody would guess you were coming down with the chicken pox right there in the studio!"

"I didn't feel good that morning, Mommy. But I knew you really wanted to go make the pictures," she said.

I bit my lip, hugged her hard. "You didn't have to do that," I told her. "We could have gone another day."

"I wanted to make you happy," she said.

YYY

Today is my fifty-third birthday, but when it comes to sharing my real self, I might as well be seven. I want you to see the red velvet dress, not the lesions marring my soul underneath. I want you to think I'm fine, not in need of your ministry.

I still long for you to assure me that I'm a pretty girl. I cling to this childish notion, you see.

I think I'm only acceptable when I'm smooth, unblemished, pretty.

Today, I give thanks to my mighty God, who knows every flaw concealed beneath the party gown, and loves me anyway.

1 O LORD, You have searched me and known me.
2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
You understand my thought from afar.
3 You scrutinize my path and my lying down,
And are intimately acquainted with all my ways.
4 Even before there is a word on my tongue,
Behold, O LORD, You know it all.
5 You have enclosed me behind and before,
And laid Your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
It is too high, I cannot attain to it.
7 Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Or where can I flee from Your presence?
8 If I ascend to heaven, You are there;
If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, You are there.
9 If I take the wings of the dawn,
If I dwell in the remotest part of the sea,
10 Even there Your hand will lead me,
And Your right hand will lay hold of me.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness will overwhelm me,
And the light around me will be night,”
12 Even the darkness is not dark to You,
And the night is as bright as the day.
Darkness and light are alike to You.
13 For You formed my inward parts;
You wove me in my mother’s womb.
14 I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works,
And my soul knows it very well.
15 My frame was not hidden from You,
When I was made in secret,
And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth;
16 Your eyes have seen my unformed substance;
And in Your book were all written
The days that were ordained for me,
When as yet there was not one of them.
17 How precious also are Your thoughts to me, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
18 If I should count them, they would outnumber the sand.
When I awake, I am still with You.
19 O that You would slay the wicked, O God;
Depart from me, therefore, men of bloodshed.
20 For they speak against You wickedly,
And Your enemies take Your name in vain.
21 Do I not hate those who hate You, O LORD?
And do I not loathe those who rise up against You?
22 I hate them with the utmost hatred;
They have become my enemies.
23 Search me, O God, and know my heart;
Try me and know my anxious thoughts;
24 And see if there be any hurtful way in me,
And lead me in the everlasting way.
Psalm 139 (NASB)

Restoring the Lamps, Part Three

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Steady. Steady.

New Finish

I'm nervous as I sit down to paint my grandparents' lamps. I'm not crafty. My hand isn't always steady. I can't always stay in the lines. But the gold leaf has worn from the lamps and I promised my husband I'd touch them up.

I know I can't make them perfect, but I hope I can make them better.

It would be easier if they had but two dimensions: Round, I could see the whole of the task at once. But they're spheres, roughly. I can't see all the surfaces of a sphere at once. So I turn the lamp slowly as I paint, and as one area comes clearly into view, another area slips away, beyond my sight.

And I'm thinking love would be easier if it were round. Round, we could take it all in with a sweep, know all its features with a look.

But love isn't round. It's a ball. It rolls and bounces and just as we get one bit firmly in focus, another surface rotates sweetly away, out of our view.

Renewing the Gold

I turn the lamp and paint, carefully, carefully, filling in the bare spots in the gold. I remember this spot as I rotate the lamp.

My paint pen has passed by here once before.

But I missed a spot. With all this turning, it's easy to miss something. If I stood the lamp up and walked around it, would I see the gaps better?

No. Its shape is meant for turning. I'm not privileged to see it all at once.

The Best I Could Do.

So I roll the lamp through two rotations as I paint. Because I couldn't see it all at once. I know I'm done when the cord is wrapped twice around the lamp's base.

I might have missed a spot the first time.

I'm taking love up now, turning it slowly, examining every arc. It doesn't come with a cord to mark the revolutions. And by the time I return to the beginning point, the contours are new.

God made love a sphere. If we could see the whole of it at once, we'd weep at its magnificence and rail at the pain it brings. We see two dimensions of love at any moment; but there's always more, just beyond the curve.

Maybe this is a secret to love, then:

Keep rolling it gently. Never stop looking.

In Place.

11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.
Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NIV)

Restoring the Lamps, Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Lamps Under Renovation.

Protection

It's Saturday morning and the day overflows with what-could-be. I clear the remnants of yesterday's living from the kitchen island, make space for a project. My project.

I'm going to return these old lamps to usefulness. Rich will supervise, of course, because I've never rewired a lamp before. He assures me it's simple, but I don't want to burn our house down in the flames of my own pride.

So I cough up humility ask him to show me. He smiles, and he shows me how the pieces fit together to give light. A few of the old fittings are settled so tightly onto their threads, after decades coupled, that my weak hands cannot part them.

He helps me, this strong husband of mine. Then he leaves me space to work, to learn, as I disassemble the lamps. He understands that I need to do this thing, to return these relics of my grandparents' home to life.

I realize that in my head, I can't separate their home from their marriage. I scoop that thought up, hold it wriggling in my mind for a moment, then release it to swim on downstream.

I'm thinking about these old lamps who stood watch in my grandparents' living room for so many decades. They witnessed my grandmother's abrupt death, right there in her easy chair, working the crossword puzzle on a Friday morning. I imagine that on that last overflowing Saturday of her life, she didn't guess that there would be no more. And I see the blessing in her innocence.

It feels like a gift to our union, bringing these lamps to our bedroom. These lamps illuminated love long before we knew one another. Their resurrection says, "your marriage is sound. It deserves these lamps." These old lamps, they know a thing or two about lighting the way of hearts.

As I disembowel the lamp, I make a dazzling discovery.

Old Cord, Brittle. Old Cord, Supple.

The visible length of cord, as anyone can see, is brittle, discolored, untrustworthy.

But the cord the lamp has sheltered within for all these years remains fresh and flexible. The years have not managed to wear it, to rob it of its resiliency.

Now it's time to to tighten on the new fittings, and my hands are weak. So again I call for my husband, and again he comes and he helps me. As he reaches for the screwdriver, I rest in the certainty of his response to my need.

We fix a bulb in the socket, plug in the lamp, flip the switch, and in this light I see:

Faith is our bastion. It shelters our marriage as surely as the lamp shielded the cord from the ravages of the world.

8 But since we are of the day, let us be sober, having put on the breastplate of faith and love, and as a helmet, the hope of salvation. 9 For God has not destined us for wrath, but for obtaining salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ, 10 who died for us, so that whether we are awake or asleep, we will live together with Him. 11 Therefore encourage one another and build up one another, just as you also are doing.
I Thessalonians 5:8-11 (NASB)

Restoring the Lamps, Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Lamp Shades as Pompoms. A Reenactment.

I Couldn't Renew Them Alone

"How about these?" I asked my husband, as we examined the selection of lampshades at our local Lowe's. "Those look good," Rich responded. So I selected a pair, spinning them slowly to make sure they were free of dents or stains.

Satisfied, we trooped down the aisle towards hardware. I carried a lampshade in each hand. Then I balanced one by its finial on the ball of each index finger, palms-up. These were large objects, and I could carry one on a fingertip.

I felt strong, balancing those lampshades on my fingertips.

I had a project in mind. My dad had given me these lamps, you see. They'd belonged to my grandparents. Mom had saved them for years, packed away in a moving carton in their garage. We'd toted them home from Dad's house at least a year earlier, and they'd sat in their carton in our garage since then. But now I was on vacation. A week stretched before me with few obligations and not-too-many plans. Fixed up, the lamps would be perfect in our bedroom.

They just needed a little attention to renew them.

I'm not sure where the burst of exuberance came from. Maybe the prospect of a week of rest provoked it. Maybe it was excitement over tackling, finally, the lamps.

But it came. Did you know that lampshades make a decent substitute for a pair of cheerleader's pompoms?

I didn't either, until I found myself grasping each one, extending one straight up and the other out to my left.

"Gimme an L!" I yelled, right there in the big wide center aisle at Lowe's.

My husband turned to look at me. I smiled. I'm not sure who else might have turned to look. I didn't care. I was having fun.

I was playing.

I enjoyed it so much that I demonstrated this off-label use of lampshades to the young man who handled our transaction. He smiled, too.

All this playing and smiling made me happy. I felt relaxed, contented.

So I was really surprised when, as we drove home, tears came.

These lamps are dear to me. They're family antiques. I remember them from a household that was a constant in my life as a child, a girl. My family moved several times, but Grandma and 'Pa's house always stayed the same.

I didn't find much of that earlier in adulthood, as I stumbled from one false start to the next.

It took a long, long time for me to locate my forever home.

I needed to resurrect these lamps. I wanted to do right by them, returning them to a place in the household where they'd be valued for their light and beauty. Now we had the new lampshades, replacement cords and sockets, and brand new shiny harps.

I wanted to make them new. But I needed help.

Rich would show me how to replace the lamp's insides. He's a skilled handyman and a patient teacher. The gold leaf on the lamp bases needs touching up, too. That part will be up to me. And I'm not the crafty type. I'm hopeful that I can do right by the lamps.

In any event, when I'm done, they'll have their forever home.

Or they'll be ruined.

I'm crying because I love these lamps. Or rather I love the memories they rekindle in me. And we're at a crossroads. Either my skilled husband and not-too-crafty me restore them, or they're ready for the dump. I know the rewiring is doable, so really, their fates lie in my not-so-steady hands.

I'm excited at the prospect of renewing them. And I'm afraid I'll do it wrong, destroy them.

Worn Gold Leaf.

I'm so grateful that my own renewal, securing my forever home, didn't depend on me. It doesn't depend on my husband's skill or the knowledge of the clerk in the craft store who guided me to choose the right gold leaf paint.

My fate lies in the steadiest Hand of all. He never errs. No matter how much touchup it takes to renew me, He won't tire of the task. Whatever light I give, it comes from Him.

He's saved a spot for me.

And I'll be welcomed there, even if I play pompom with lampshades in the home improvement store.

10 After you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, will Himself perfect, confirm, strengthen and establish you.
1 Peter 5:10 (NASB)

I'm linking with Laura Boggess today for Playdates with God. Won't you come and play?

I'm Shining You On

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Irrepressible Shining at Sunset.

Will You Shine Me On, Too?

My friend Mick Silva writes an encouraging meditation for writers every Monday. Recently, his reflection began with an anecdote:

Charlotte runs down to the piano. "Hey, Dad, listen to this!" she yells up. She plinks out her "song"--three keys down, 3 up, down, up--the one Mommy's just taught her. I come down and when she's done, I clap and praise her musical genius. Stunning. Transcendent! And I wonder, does she know I'm shining her on with all this?

I read his meditation and thought for a minute. It had been a while since I'd come across the idiom "shine [someone] on." As I considered his words, an idea lit in my still-caffeinating mind. My fingers flew as I tapped out a response:

Oh, Mick, you popped off a flashbulb! Right in my brain!

You're shining your daughter on, all right. (I'm trusting you mean that in the sense I learned it when I was young and hip enough for slang: pulling her leg, sorta.) But what about this:

You're shining a father's encouragement, to illuminate her growing and becoming on the piano. On the earth. In your family.

I hope every father shines his little girl (or boy) on. Every mom, too.

I'd typed and sent the message before I realized exactly what I said. The words arrived, unbidden and welcome, a gift. They visited me like a brave hummingbird, inspecting the prism my eyeglass lenses cast in the sunshine. I sent them on their way without hesitation.

The exchange stuck with me through the day. Two thoughts emerged:

First, among the other gifts he shares with writers, my friend Mick Silva writes good meditations. This one, for example, kept me reflecting all through the day. He brings a unique perspective and awesome encouragement to this business of lining up words. If you're a writer, you should know him.

Second, it's time to reappropriate the expression, "Shine you on." From now on, if I'm shining you on, doesn't mean I'm ignoring you. It doesn't mean I'm misleading you. It doesn't mean I'm pulling your leg or feeding you a line, hoping it will benefit me.

Nope.

It means I'm doing my best to illuminate your best self--to light up some beautiful aspect of gorgeous you and invite you and others to see it, to value it.

I'm hoping to shine you on often. And I'm hoping you'll shine me on, too. Because we were made by an awesome Creator. It's so easy to focus on my flaws (and yours too, I'm ashamed to admit), to think about how I could do better. Be better. Love better.

But when we acknowledge His brilliance, refracted through us, we glorify Him.

23 Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful; 24 and let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds, 25 not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another; and all the more as you see the day drawing near.
Hebrews 10:23-25 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee over at Getting Down with Jesus for God-Bumps and God-Incidences. Please join us!

My Eavesdropping Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Uncorked. Successfully.

She's Not a Drunk!

Listen to the tale a certain fifteen-year-old boy may have told his family after he ran into my mother-in-law.

"So I was walking down the street this morning, heading to Rudy's house. All of a sudden this old lady comes running out of her house with a wine bottle in her hand. She had one of those cork-puller thingies in her other hand, the kind that has a blade on each side that you slide in between the cork and the glass.

"She says, 'Excuse me, can you help me open this? We really need to get this bottle opened.' I take it from her and I see that the cork is all chewed and nicked up--she must have been trying really, really hard to get that cork out.

"So anyway, I take it from her and I work the cork out of the bottle. She says, 'Oh, thank you! You have no idea how much we needed this! We couldn't find the regular corkscrew and we just couldn't work the cork out with this thing. Thanks!' Can you imagine? It was only ten o'clock!"

Maybe his sisters snicker. Maybe his parents shake their heads. Maybe the family offers up a prayer for the neighbor lady who must have a terrible alcohol problem if she is so desperate at ten a.m.

It would be very kind of these people to pray for my mother-in-law's alcohol problem, if she had an alcohol problem.

But she doesn't. What the boy didn't know, couldn't know, is that inside, she and I had been looking, without success, for a waiter's corkscrew. On her kitchen counter all the ingredients for a luscious bœuf bourguignon awaited our culinary attentions: the beef, mushrooms, onion, bay, and thyme all sat, waiting for the key ingredient, the wine. Our husbands were off pursuing some manly activity for the day and I'd promised to prepare a hearty meal for us to share once they returned.

I should have asked Rich to open the bottle before they left. Or asked Dad where he keeps his corkscrew. But I didn't.

Without red wine, bœuf bourguignon is simply stew. And we couldn't open the bottle. Mom was hurrying across the street to ask a neighbor for help when she spotted the young man walking down the street, so she sought his aid.

Hours later, after our menfolk returned home for their excursion, we sat around the table enjoying our bœuf bourguignon over noodles, a crisp spinach salad serving as a foil to to its richness. I shared the story of Mom's expedition in search of able hands to open the bottle and we laughed, long and easy. Then it occurred to me that the boy would have a story to tell about his encounter with my mother-in-law.

It would be compelling. And it would be wrong.

I'm going to remember the wine-bottle escapade next time I think the little trailer of behavior I've glimpsed accurately provides me the plot to the whole two-reel film.

I hope.

We're sense-making creatures, after all: We couldn't function if we didn't interpret what we see around us and make decisions based on that information, all day long. Those little snippets of life we observe offer us value.

But when I'm trying to discern something more significant than, say, when the stoplight will turn green, when I'm trying to understand another person's heart, then I need to watch the whole film first. It's so tempting to think I understand more than I do.

Right now, I've watched a trailer and I need to load up the whole film before I respond. If I've interpreted the trailer properly, I need to do something about a significant wrong. But maybe, just maybe, that film I've glimpsed is a comedy, not a dark drama. It's hard, sometimes, to be patient, to wait for understanding before I act.

It challenges me because I think I know.

My friend Glynn Young wrote just last week about how our eyes can deceive us--or rather, how our hearts can mislead us when we rush to conclusions. His patience stands as a model for me as I watch to see how this plot unfolds.

Please pass the popcorn.

24 Do not judge according to appearance, but judge with righteous judgment.

John 7:24 (NASB)

I'm linking with Ann Kroeker at Food on Fridays. Please stop by to see what's cooking!

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Cadence Spots a Ladybug

The Ladybug Lounge

"Lala," my grandson Cadence says. "I see a beetle in the window."

I'm sitting on the loveseat, sipping water and sorting grocery coupons. Movement at the window has drawn his eye away from the colossal battle he's staging between army men, Lego guys, a T. Rex and a few Transformers.

"Is it inside or outside?"

I'm thinking I'll finish sorting my coupons--I'm almost done--then I remember.

My word for 2012 is be.

One of my goals for this vacation week is to be with my grandsons. Papa Rich has left to drive Ayden home; we're keeping Cadence longer because he'll return to his home in Hawaii in just a few days. He and I are alone in the house. This beetle in my window? It's another chance to be with the child before his parents arrive to take him away, later today.

I set aside my stack of coupons. "Where is it?"

"Right there! Look, Lala!"

I rummage in the pantry, return with an empty jar. A minute later we've gently swept two ladybugs from the window. We crimp a piece of foil over the mouth of the jar. I jab holes with a toothpick. "When Papa Rich comes home, he'll help you poke holes in the jar's lid."

"What do they eat?"

We step outside to examine my roses. Haphazard gardener that I am, odds are good we can find a few aphids lurking somewhere. We find them on the only bud this January has brought to my rosebushes.

"See those little green bugs on the rosebud? That's what they eat. If we cut the bud off to feed the ladybugs, we'll have to give up that flower," I tell him.

Cadence considers. "It'll grow more, won't it?"

"Yes," I say.

And so we sacrifice the rosebud for the ladybugs' sake.

"Lala, don't poke your finger," he cautions me, pointing to thorns. Cadence's concern for my finger melts me a little. He removes the foil from the jar.

Minding my grandson's warning, I drop the buggy rosebud into the jar.

With our small captives fed in their makeshift lounge, I propose that it's time for our lunch.

And because I'm being with my grandson, I serve both our portions of macaroni and cheese on the special cow plates.

My grandson hands me his tangerine, asks me to unwrap it. Papa Rich phones to report he's at the grocery store, just minutes from home.

"Hurry home!" I urge. "We've made a ladybug house and Cadence needs you to help him poke air holes in the lid."

Papa Rich is better at being than I am. Poking holes is his first priority when he returns.

I slip away while the menfolk punch holes, leaving them to their manly work.

They install the lid, and our ladybug lounge is complete.

Later, I finish sorting my coupons.

Cadence never returns to the desperate battle between the Lego guys and the T. Rex. The army men lost their allure when he found the ladybugs; he's moved on to other explorations. This afternoon, every afternoon, overflows with possibilities.

My grandson is an expert at being.

Maybe that's why Jesus tells us, in three of the Gospels, that His kingdom belongs to those who become like children.

13 Then some children were brought to Him so that He might lay His hands on them and pray; and the disciples rebuked them. 14 But Jesus said, “Let the children alone, and do not hinder them from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
Matthew 19:13-14 (NASB)

13 And they were bringing children to Him so that He might touch them; but the disciples rebuked them. 14 But when Jesus saw this, He was indignant and said to them, “Permit the children to come to Me; do not hinder them; for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 15 Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all.”
Mark 10:13-15 (NASB)

15 And they were bringing even their babies to Him so that He would touch them, but when the disciples saw it, they began rebuking them. 16 But Jesus called for them, saying, “Permit the children to come to Me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 17 Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all.”
Luke 18:15-17 (NASB)

I'm sharing with Laura Boggess today at The Wellspring for Playdates with God. Please come and play!

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Cuties and Bananas.

A Taste of Tangerines

It's the first "real" day of my vacation. It's Monday. And I'm not going to work.

I've scheduled this break from my routine to come after the holiday season, right at the beginning of the new year.

I have two goals for this vacation.

My grandsons are coming to visit for a few days in the middle of the week. One goal is to be truly in that time with them, to fully dwell in our visit.

My other goal is to get comfortable with be. I spend too much time in do mode. Be is something for me to learn.

My one word for 2012 is be.

But today is Monday. Tomorrow I pick up Cadence; Wednesday I pick up Ayden. I have clothes to launder and groceries to buy so that when the boys get here, I'm free of the to-do list and can be with them.

I spend the day abustle, tidying, washing, hanging, folding. It's two in the afternoon before I leave for the grocery store. I'm feeling behind schedule as I take command of a cart and make my way for the produce aisle. I consult my list: lettuce, bananas, potatoes, an onion, tomatoes, carrots.

I rush past the greengrocer and make my way to the banana display. As I'm examining my choices, I hear a voice at my side: "Would you like a sample?"

Turning, I see the grocer standing beside me in his green apron, tall and smiling. He holds out a tangerine. Before I can decline, because I'm in a hurry, you see, he cuts it into quarters, extends the offering to me. "Somebody asked me if they were good," he tells me. "So let's find out."

I smile and reach for the fruit. Its skin slips off easily as a sweatshirt; the flesh is cold, tangy, and sweet. "Mmmm," I say to the kind grocer. "This is delicious! Thank you."

I turn to continue the banana selection process and a little voice inside says Stop.

Just stand here, the voice says. Enjoy the tangerine. Be.

And so I stop. Juice runs over my fingers as I bite into another section of the fruit. Because I'm going to eat it slowly, one section at a time. It's velvety in my mouth. How had I never noticed the texture of tangerine fruit before?

Seeing that I'm standing, not walking away, the grocer shares a tip. "Take that tangerine peel, saute it in some olive oil, stir in a little brown sugar and some ginger if you have it. Add some chicken, then eat it with rice. Tangerine peel gets really tender when you cook it. It's way better than orange peel for making orange chicken."

"Really? I'll have to try that." Then, "I cooked pork chops in an orange juice and brown sugar sauce the other night. With onions. It was good."

He agrees. "That would be good. You can do shrimp that way too. Shrimp, chicken, pork--it's all good. Would you like a sample?" He's turned to the man in khaki shorts and an Angels ball cap who is stopped in front of the oranges.

"Thanks," the orange-buying man says. "The Caras have been really good this year."
"So are these," a voice says.

It's me. I'm standing here, still, enjoying this gift of a fresh, cold, sweet, juicy, velvety tangerine, chatting with the grocer and the orange-buying man.

I'm being.

"You can toss the peel in that empty box on the bottom shelf of my cart," the grocer says. "I have paper towels hanging right up there."

"Thanks!" I select a bunch of bananas. Then point my cart towards the potatoes, stop, do a u-turn. I add a bag of tangerines to my basket. I smile at the grocer, nod to the orange-buying man, and go on my way.

I'm choosing an onion when I notice something odd.

I'm still smiling.

10 Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth. 11 The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah.
Psalm 46:10-11 (KJV)

I'm linking up with Ann Kroeker today for Food on Fridays. Please stop in!

The Christmas that Won't Go Away

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Ornament Boxes. January 2, 2012

Christmas Won't Fit in the Box

A photo essay in honor of my friend Nancy Owen Franson, who loves Christmas more than anyone I know.

The day after New Year's Day is a good day to undress the tree, box up Christmas, hide it away until next year. But this year, Christmas won't fit in the box. Here's one reason:

Sawyer and Elaine Investigate His Stocking. Christmas Day, 2011.

For the first time ever, a grandchild awoke under our roof on Christmas morning. I bought unbreakable ornaments and hung them on our tree's lower limbs, just to be safe. He never went near the tree.

My Nifty Silicone-Tipped Kitchen Tongs Don't Interest Sawyer.

Those extra ornaments meant we needed more storage for our Christmas stuff. My husband proposed buying red-and-green storage bins to pack Christmas into, so he could easily identify the boxes in the basement next year.

The unbreakables weren't the only addition to my Christmas collection this year. After Thanksgiving, my dad asked my siblings and me to choose some of my mother's treasures for ourselves. Mom loved Christmas more than anyone I know--except Nancy--and she loved angels, too. I brought home several of Mom's angels for our Christmas tree.

Mom's Raffia Angels and Porcelain Cherubs, Alongside Unbreakable Stars and Snowflakes that Don't Fit in Their Box.

One raffia angel and one porcelain cherub played fugitive as I hunted among the tree's boughs, removing ornaments, wrapping them in paper.

The Mostly-Undressed Tree, Harboring Fugitive Angels.

Mom needed order less than I do. Maybe that's because she raised three children to my one. In any event, I could imagine her giggling over my need to have all the raffia angels in their long gold box, and all the porcelain cherubs together in their red package.

Raffia Angels Rounded Up. Mismatched Cherubs.

I finally found the last of the raffia angels. To my consternation, I had five porcelain cherubs and the box had space for only four. It troubled me until I looked closely, saw that three cherubs matched, and two cherubs matched, but there were not four of a kind. I imagine one of us three kids, the ones who freed my mother from her need for strict order, broke the fourth one, some long-ago Christmastime.

Grandma Seiler's Cardboard Box.

We did buy new storage bins, but I kept a few of the old pieces. I had to save this box. That writing? It's my grandmother's hand. I wept a bit as I wound the twine around the tabs. Those tabs are over thirty years old now. Grandma, she loved Christmas too. But not quite as much as my friend Nancy does.

Ornaments, Ready for Storage Bins.

Once I'd removed the ornaments, Rich unwound the lights.

Rich Tangling with Strings of Lights.

Then he hauled the tree outside, onto our back deck. It was to meet a gruesome fate the next day.

Doomed Tree.

The spot where the tree had stood, gracing our home with the smell of Christmas, reminding our hearts to give thanks for the Savior, looked particularly empty.

Where the Tree Stood, After.

Once I'd removed, wrapped, and tucked the ornaments into boxes, It was time to pack them away. The new bins will hold our room decor, things like stocking hangers and the trees Rich's children made, many Christmases ago. The ornaments, tree skirt, angel-on-top and tree lights will go into my tin tea chest.

Because that's where they belong.

Tree Trimmings Tucked into Tin Tea Chest.

We enjoy one bit of Christmas year-round in our home. Rich spent hours stringing these lights back in 2007, so they stay up all year. But the neighbors don't complain.

Our 365-Day Christmas Lights.

Christmas of 2011 won't fit in its box. Rich has toted the bins down to the basement, stacked the decorations away until December. But the holiday refuses to leave my heart. It's stuck there like the residue from an overzealous price tag clinging to a gift.

As I told my five-year-old grandson, Cadence, "It's Jesus' birthday! So the whole world throws a party, and that's Christmas!"

How do you fit that in a box?

Three years after my mother's death, I thought I had completed all the steps of truly understanding that she's absent from this earth. Hanging my mother's beloved Christmas angels on our tree was yet another reality check.

How do you fit that in a box?

A month ago I would have told you that baking cinnamon rolls with my daughter is the best part of Christmas. Now I'd have to say that watching my grandchild open gifts in our living room on Christmas morning tops even the cinnamon roll event.

How do you fit that in a box?

Like Mary, I have gathered many treasures to ponder. And we don't store those in the basement.

16 So they came in a hurry and found their way to Mary and Joseph, and the baby as He lay in the manger. 17 When they had seen this, they made known the statement which had been told them about this Child. 18 And all who heard it wondered at the things which were told them by the shepherds. 19 But Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart.
Luke 2:16-19 (NASB)

New Year, New Me?

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Psalm 25

Square One

As I drive to church on New Year's Day I reflect on the previous year, asking myself, "Am I closer to God today than I was a year ago?" I consider our new church home and the meaty teaching our pastor offers. I think of my deepening friendships with fellow Christians. I muse over more time spent in the Word.

Finally I conclude that 2011 was a faithfully productive year. I allow myself a little pat on the spiritual back as I wind up the road that leads to our hilltop church.

Now the service begins and we sing How Firm a Foundation. We reach the third verse:

Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,
For I am thy God and will still give thee aid;
I'll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,
Upheld by My righteous, omnipotent hand.

Suddenly I'm overcome with joy. I'm talking to myself:

I am upheld by by the righteous, omnipotent hand of God, Creator of the universe! I will go forth with confidence in 2012, proclaiming my King. I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to fear.

Three minutes later the pastor announces we're doing communion differently on this day. Typically the elders and deacons pass the elements, pew-by-pew. Today, we'll each approach the chancel, take our morsel of bread and cup of wine, and return to our seats, where we'll partake together.

Anxiety gnaws at my gut. Do something I've never done before? Here, in church, in front of all my friends? What if I do it wrong?

Almost instantly, I begin to rebuke myself. Nobody came here to watch me take communion. No team with scorecards waits on the sidelines of the chancel to gauge my performance.

Now an argument breaks out in my head.

Performance? Ack. Communion isn't performance, you dimwit. Just get in line and follow. It'll be fine.

And while we're at it, weren't you just A.Few.Minutes.Ago rejoicing over God's righteous, omnipotent hand? And not long before that, weren't you thinking you'd actually grown in faith this year?

You poser.

Just a minute. Hold on. You're in church. Preparing to take communion. Give yourself a break!

Now I'm at the chancel and Pastor Robert is standing behind the trays holding the bread--the figurative flesh of Christ--and the wine, symbolizing His blood. "The body of Christ was broken for you, Sheila," my pastor says, as I reach for the bread. "The blood of Christ was spilled for you," he says, as I take the cup.

The bickering in my head ceases as I return to my seat and share in the wonder of communion. I look around as together, we eat the bread, sip from our cups.

I'm not the only one in tears, as we repeat this ritual--the only repetitive ritual prescribed in the New Testament--on New Year's Day.

Driving home, I'm thinking. Yes, you did grow in 2011. And you have a lot more growing to look forward to in 2012.

And I rejoice all over again.

It's going to be a great year.

20 They brought the boy to Him. When he saw Him, immediately the spirit threw him into a convulsion, and falling to the ground, he began rolling around and foaming at the mouth. 21 And He asked his father, “How long has this been happening to him?” And he said, “From childhood. 22 It has often thrown him both into the fire and into the water to destroy him. But if You can do anything, take pity on us and help us!” 23 And Jesus said to him, “ ‘If You can?’ All things are possible to him who believes.” 24 Immediately the boy’s father cried out and said, “I do believe; help my unbelief.”
Mark 9:20-24 (NASB)

I'm linking with my friend Michelle DeRusha at Graceful for Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday. I hope you'll stop by.

The Half-Baked Corn Pudding Caper

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Grandma's Casserole

Finding Grace in the Church Kitchen

"Our next potluck is November 20. Use it as your lab to try out the dishes you plan to serve on Thanksgiving."

The invitation in our church bulletin a few months ago enticed me to finally try to reproduce my grandmother's corn pudding. She'd often served it at family gatherings. Those meals were always special--while she'd lived, I'd figured it was the food that made them so memorable.

Her corn pudding was smooth and full of the flavor of sweet corn, with both a substance and lightness about it. Tucked away in my kitchen sat the blue Pyrex casserole dish she'd always served it in. I've never used it, because I don't have her recipe. I'd asked around.

Nobody has her recipe.

I'd have to trust my imagination and my tastebuds' collective memory to recreate the dish. That task had always intimidated me. The pastor's invitation to use our monthly potluck as a proving ground spurred me to finally act. I pulled out my vintage cookbooks. I cruised various recipe sites on the internet. Finally I settled on a recipe that sounded like it might recreate the flavor and texture I remembered.

My co-grandma Judi was driving from San Diego that Sunday morning to join us for worship and the potluck. Before I began cooking the corn pudding, I baked a batch of blueberry muffins for us to enjoy before church.

Then I turned to the recipe. I doubled it so I'd be sure to have enough to feed many mouths at the church potluck. Almost immediately I realized I had a problem: That blue Pyrex casserole, which had sat waiting in my kitchen cabinet for so long, would not contain the quantity of pudding that was accumulating as I prepared the ingredients.

I sighed and pulled out a bigger casserole dish.

I popped my creation into the oven. Judi arrived. We sat and munched on the muffins. Periodically I checked my pudding.

It wasn't setting up. I cranked up the heat another 25 degrees and waited. I checked it again. Still soupy.

And now it was time to go to church. "Well, hopefully it'll taste good," I mumbled, as I pulled the too-thin pudding from the oven and strapped my casserole dish into its insulated carrier.

We hurried to church, as I'd waited until the last minute, hoping for a miracle right there in my GE oven that morning. My husband Rich carried the casserole dish to the church kitchen while Judi and I took our seats in the sanctuary.

I blotted my failed pudding attempt from my mind as I tried to refocus, preparing my heart for worship. Rich joined us and the music began. My embarrassment over the failed pudding experiment receded from my mind as we sang praises to God.

Halfway through the second song Judi began to cough. A tickle had lodged itself in her throat, refusing to move on. "Would you like a glass of water?" I whispered. She nodded. I slipped out of the pew and made my way to the church kitchen.

I found a handful of ladies from the church gathered there, making ready for the feast we'd share after the service. As I entered, Margie held my casserole carrier. "I wonder what's in here?"

"It's corn pudding," I said. "I don't think it's very good. I've never made it before and it didn't bake long enough. It's still runny."

"Oh! Well, we'll just put it in the oven for awhile," Margie said. Gara nodded. "Yup."

"That would be awesome," I said. "Thank you!"

I fetched a glass of water for Judi and returned to the sanctuary.

After worship, we made our way to the fellowship hall. With considerable trepidation, I scanned the buffet. There sat the corn pudding casserole. Several people had already helped themselves.

And I could see that the texture was just right. The top was delicately browned, the inside looked light. And it wasn't soupy.

It hadn't occurred to me to ask for help with the half-baked casserole. But my sisters in Christ redeemed my mess. They turned it into something marvelous.

9 Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. 10 For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up. 11 Furthermore, if two lie down together they keep warm, but how can one be warm alone? 12 And if one can overpower him who is alone, two can resist him. A cord of three strands is not quickly torn apart.
Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12 (NASB)

Corn Pudding

Recipe notes: This quantity feeds 14. Halve it for a smaller gathering. Some recipes I reviewed called for a lot of added sugar. What I remembered about Grandma's corn pudding was the corn's sweetness shining through.

4 15-ounce cans creamed corn

1/2 cup butter, melted

2/3 cup flour

scant 1/4 cup sugar

2 teaspoons salt

1/4 teaspoon pepper

6 eggs, separated

2 cups milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease a big, deep casserole dish. Set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, mix the corn and butter. Add the flour, sugar, salt and pepper. Stir.

Heat milk to just steaming. Beat the egg yolks. Remove milk from the heat and stir in the egg yolks. Add to the corn mixture.

Beat the egg whites until stiff. Stir 1/4 of the stiff whites into the corn mixture. Fold the remaining whites into the mixture. Pour into prepared casserole dish.

Bake for 1 hour and 30 minutes (more or less. If you halve the recipe, 1 hour should be about right.) After 20 minutes, stir the crust forming on top into the pudding. Stir it down again after 40 minutes.

The pudding is done when it's set and golden on top.

I'm linking up today with Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays. Won't you hop over and have a look?

Are You Asking For It?

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Skillet and Stockpot

Speak up!

I am not, by nature, acquisitive. So I was startled to realize that I was lusting after a new set of cookware. It just wasn't me.

But sure enough, each day I'd pull up the images of the pots and pans on the Macy's website. I'd check the price. I'd admire the graceful shape of the stockpot and curve of the skillets. The shimmer of their bronze color entranced me. I longed for their heatproof handles.

I had it bad. I wanted those pots and pans.

But here's the thing: How do you wear out a pan? I've never cooked in a skillet until it sprouted a hole like a used-up shoe. Pots don't disappear, magically vaporizing from the cupboard like a favorite pen goes missing from my handbag.

My pots and pans weren't perfect. Chicken breasts were always more golden when cooked on the side nearer the big skillet's handle. Their exteriors had faded to a chalky black color. The small saucepan wobbled just a bit under its lid. But they were still serviceable.

I don't generally replace things that are serviceable.

So I spent some time contemplating why, exactly, I so wanted new cookware. And once I figured it out, I bought them. I lugged the big box home and tenderly unpacked all the perfect new pieces, washing them in soapy water and wiping them dry.

Then I set to packing up the old, unloved pots and pans. I hadn't figured out what I'd do with them, yet, but they were still useful.

The next morning I found a note from a friend in my email: "I hope I'm not being too bold or forward, but do you have plans for your old pots and pans?"

I chuckled. With one simple message, my problem was solved. I could pass my pots and pans on to my friend. I tapped back: "Yup. I'm giving them to you. I'll bring them when I see you on Wednesday."

Later, I got to thinking about her message, about the "bold" and "forward" parts. She'd done me a service, letting me know she could use the objects that I no longer wanted. I gave thanks for her candor, grateful that she didn't trip over her pride on her way to requesting them, grateful that my pots could bless her kitchen.

Considering it further, I realized that her asking had pleased me. I had something she could use, and she'd let me know.

My friend's simple request was remarkable for its rarity. We all hesitate to ask for what we need, don't we? It implies a state of lacking. It tells the world, "I can't take care of everything all by myself." It demonstrates that we're not independent.

I don't know about you, but I'm troubled by the things I lack. I lack faith sometimes, and grace. And when I'm on deadline at work and the phone calls are all for me and the administrative assistant is reporting that the copier just died, well, I can't take care of everything all by myself. When I'm sitting in the parking lot at the grocery store with a dead battery, I'm reminded that I'm not independent. Unless someone comes to my aid, I'm either walking home while my groceries rot or sitting there a long, long time.

I have this Friend who knows even better than I about my state of lacking, my inability to handle everything, my dependence. And nothing pleases Him more than when I come to Him and ask for His help with my struggles.

This year, I'm asking for it.

I'm asking for Him.

14 This is the confidence which we have before Him, that, if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us. 15 And if we know that He hears us in whatever we ask, we know that we have the requests which we have asked from Him.
1 John 5:14-15 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee at Getting Down With Jesus for God-Bumps & God-Incidences. Please stop by!

Stalking the Elusive Bass Line

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Donny, Sue, and Craig

How Listening Opened my Eyes

"So Donny," I said one Sunday in the fellowship hall, as he stood beside me contemplating the plates of cookies and banana bread set out for our post-worship refreshment, "I heard this song on The Fish yesterday that had this really awesome bass line in the bridge."

"Really?"

"Yup. Problem is, I can't for the life of me remember its name. But when I hear it again, I'll make a note and tell you."

"Cool!"

Donny is the kind of young man we all want to know. He's smart, he's talented, he's funny. He comes from a close-knit, godly family. He's courteous from deep inside, helpful, and kind.

And he plays a wicked bass guitar.

Back in the day, I played standup bass. So I know that sometimes--okay, almost always--the bass line is not the flashy part of the song. It adds needed foundation and rhythm, yes. But the truth is, bass lines can be boring. This song featured an awesome bass line. It had an Andy Rourke-esque lilt. You could even describe it as a riff.

I really wanted to hear the song again, so I could tell Donny its name. Every time I got into my truck, which doubles as an FM radio listening booth, I tuned to The Fish and waited to hear The Song.

I listened for weeks. And weeks.

I never heard it.

While I was listening for it, though, I noticed something. When I really devoted myself to listening only to the bass line, it's all I heard. While I listened to Chris August and Jeremy Camp and MercyMe, I wasn't hearing the vocals. I wasn't hearing the horns, or the Gospel choir on backup, or that beautiful little cello solo.

It was challenging, at times, to tune my ear for those deep notes. Sometimes I found myself distracted, wondering why that woman in the car next to me looked sad. Sometimes my mind drifted back to a conversation I'd had in the office, or forward to what I'd cook for our dinner once I arrived home. Sometimes I sang along with the song. I can't listen and sing at the same time.

I can't listen and think at the same time. Oh, but how I try! My husband is talking to me and I'm thinking about what to do next, instead of hearing the fatigue in his voice. In a meeting, I'm jotting notes, considering what I need to convey the next time I speak--and I miss the nuance of my coworker's comment.

When I focus on seeking just one thing, everything else fades in the background. I want to listen to my husband, our kids, my coworkers like I listened for the bass line.

I want to listen for God like I listened for the bass line. I want to devote myself to seeking His voice until all the worldly noise grows mute.

6 Whether it is pleasant or unpleasant, we will listen to the voice of the LORD our God to whom we are sending you, so that it may go well with us when we listen to the voice of the LORD our God.”
Jeremiah 42:6 (NASB)

Tugs We Cannot Name

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 13:00:00 +0000

Cadence in Lala's Rocker. 2008.

An Overwhelmed Heart

"Do you know what tomorrow is, Cadence?" I asked as I tucked the tiny toddler, not yet two, into the vast queen-size bed in our guest room. He blinked.

"Tomorrow is Mother's Day! And your mommy will be back tomorrow. She's going to meet us after church and we'll all spend Mother's Day together. Can you say, 'Happy Mother's Day'?"

"Appy Mudders Day," Cadence repeated, smiling.

"Can you say, 'I love you, Mommy'?"

I watched as his happy little face collapsed into anguish, deflating my heart as it went. Tears flooded his eyes and raced down his cheeks. I gathered my grandson to me. "You miss your mommy, don't you? It's okay. You're just spending one night with Papa Rich and me, then Mommy will take you home tomorrow. Shhh, shhh," I murmured, holding him close, rubbing his heaving back and rocking the tears away.

After sleep claimed him I tiptoed down the stairs and told my husband what had happened. "Poor little Cadence," I said.

"He didn't have the words to tell me he misses his mommy, but when I asked him to say 'I love you, Mommy,' that missing just overwhelmed his little heart. He cried and cried."

We all feel tugs at our hearts that we can't name, don't we? My toddler grandson wisely attended to the unknown pulling, living it as it came to him, letting it draw tears from him.

This is childhood's gift, thriving because we expect to not-yet-know things, growing because we accept the mysteries that present themselves every day.

And here, being a grown-up hurts me. I have forgotten how to not-yet-know. So when I feel that insistent tugging, I search my mind for its name. And when I cannot name it, I ignore it.

Or worse, I decide it isn't real.

In this new year, I'm going to stop ignoring and dismissing the unknown pulls. In this new year, I will remember how to not-yet-know.

18 I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, so that you will know what is the hope of His calling, what are the riches of the glory of His inheritance in the saints, 19 and what is the surpassing greatness of His power toward us who believe. These are in accordance with the working of the strength of His might 20 which He brought about in Christ, when He raised Him from the dead and seated Him at His right hand in the heavenly places, 21 far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the one to come.
Ephesians 1:18-21 (NASB)

The Right Wrong Number

noreply@blogger.com (Sheila) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 13:00:00 +0000

Answer the Phone!

A Case of Not-Mistaken Identity

The email from my boss flashed on my screen while I was on the phone with a vendor, working out terms of a new contract. "Does the name Susan Swift [a pseudonym] mean anything to you?"

As I listened to our vendor's justification for her "enhanced pricing program" I clicked on our contact management program and searched for the name. Nothing. I Googled "Susan Swift Orange County" and scanned the results while the vendor explained the new "fuel surcharges."

Hitting reply, I tapped back to my boss: "There's a local woman by that name who entertains at children's birthday parties...that's all I found."

A bit later, my boss stepped into my office. "You know," she said, "Today is the sixteenth anniversary of my mother's passing."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"That woman, Susan--she kept ringing my cell phone. And I was thinking about The Scott Incident."

I laughed. Poor Scott had contacted us years earlier about our services. When he called back three years later, I mistook him for a solicitor. Scott had called three times before I finally put him through to Tracy. Now he's our client.

My boss Tracy and I, we remember The Scott Incident.

Never Again. That's our Scott Incident motto. In our line of work, a lot of relationship-building goes into signing a new client. It's not at all odd that a prospective client might call on her cell phone. If this Susan Swift was a prospect, Tracy would want to answer her call.

"Finally," Tracy continued, "She texted me: 'Are you the Tracy who does my mom's hair?' I sent her a reply: 'No. I'm the Tracy who hired you to entertain at my daughter's birthday party.'"

Tracy sat down at my desk and looked me in the eye. "Susan texted back that was trying to reach her mom's hairdresser because her mom had passed away and she wanted to let her know."

"Ooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

"I texted her back," she went on, "She and I sent a few messages back and forth. I think she was encouraged."

We were in the midst of annual meetings with our clients. My boss was busy, busy, busy. But she took time to offer hope to a near-stranger who had reached out to her by mistake.

Or maybe, not. I've been on the receiving end of Tracy's encouragement before. She has a gift for helping you to remember that hurts fade, pain recedes, and a new day waits; undoubtedly her messages blessed Susan. Another blessing was wrapped in the opportunity for Tracy to honor her mother's memory by offering hope to another grieving daughter whose loss was raw and fresh.

She may not have been the Tracy that Susan was seeking, but she was the right Tracy.

14 We urge you, brethren, admonish the unruly, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with everyone.
1 Thessalonians 5:14 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee at Getting Down With Jesus for God-Bumps & God-Incidences. Please stop by!