Venturing Out. . .

The Bee

2012-04-21T10:14:00.002-04:00

I usually take my own photos for my blogs, but man, I didn't even try to snap a honeybee photo. I just knew I couldn't do it justice. After finishing Sue Hubbell's book, A Book of Bees: and How to Keep Them, I have a new appreciation for these busy little bugs. Bugs rule.

Bees are invertebrates, which far outnumber us vertebrates by--well, here are the numbers: there are 35,000 known species of vertebrates and over 30 million species of invertebrates! You do the math. Moreover, scientists think that what we have identified so far is significantly less than what is actually out there. This will blow you away: "The number of individual insects estimated to be alive in the world at any one time is 10 quintillion" (for non-math majors: that's 10 with 18 zeros behind it). "It is figured that for every human being on the planet there are about 200 million insects." Ew. Creepy. Crawly. Buzz.

But now that I am slightly more enlightened about bees, (I'm into my fourth book, one documentary film, and several jars of honey, so I'm practically an expert) I'm not so creeped out. I'm actually a little in awe. Venturing out into bee territory came as a result of a conversation with a friend who gardens, and who decided to keep bees in order to pollinate her garden. . . and, I imagine, just for the challenge and fun of it. Just putting on the costume and firing up the smoker sounds so exotic, like something out of Africa!

It seems to me that bees pretty much 'keep' themselves--they have their own rhythm, organization, hierarchy, and instincts. But as much as you can 'keep' a wild animal, beekeepers do. Humans and bees have developed a symbiotic relationship, one that benefits both species. Besides producing honey, bees cross-pollinate about 90% of our wild plants and about a third of the world's food supplies, including many fruits, nuts, and vegetables. But, alarmingly, millions of bees have been vanishing in the past few years, and no one knows exactly why.

I hesitate to even go further because very quickly my lack of knowledge will begin to show. With each turn of the page, I realized how much more there was to learn about these gentle, hard-working creatures and how much we really do not understand. And, in fact, I'm not alone in this.

The honeybee may be the most widely-studied insect (of the 10 quintillion) on the planet, and yet scientists are still baffled as to their organization, intelligence, and social hierarchy. Who makes the decisions as to when they will swarm, when and how they decide to raise a new queen, when to dance? (yes--'waggle dance', to be more precise. It sounds like a Muppet movie).

Some have even conjectured that deep down in the dark, unreachable recesses of the hive, there is a mystical 'spirit of the hive' that joins the mind, body, and spirit of each colony of bees. Unless we are somehow able to get inside the mind of a bee, this will forever remain a mystery.

When I think of trying to understand the mind of God, let alone the mind of a bee, I feel overwhelmed and humbled. But instead of scaring us to death with His superior intelligence and awesomeness, God allowed us to get inside His head and heart by sending us Someone who spoke our language, lived in our 'hive', and even allowed us to become a member of His 'colony'.

What might have remained a complete and unattainable mystery has been split wide open, and the sweetest thing imaginable is revealed: The Creator loves His creation. Not only does He know exactly how many insects are crawling on the planet, He knows how many stars He has flung across the sky, and how many hairs He has put on my head. Not only does He know the mystery of the 'spirit of the hive', He knows all about me, right down to the deep, dark recesses of my soul.

Sweet.

I feel like firing up the smoker . . .and doing a waggle dance! God rules!

“I will give you the treasures of darkness and hidden wealth of secret places, so that you may know that it is I, The LORD, the God of Israel, who calls you by your name." Isaiah 45:3

"They are more desirable than gold, yes, than much fine gold; Sweeter also than honey and the drippings of the honeycomb." Psalm 19:10

The Pineapple

2012-03-16T11:30:00.000-04:00

My new baby arrived about a week ago. Actually, I never even saw the actual 'birth'. I'm a laissez-faire gardener. The plants that happen to survive my care (if you can call it that. . . 'lack of care' is more accurate) are those that are self-sufficient. That is, they can survive and thrive without me watering them, fertilizing them, or talking to them. Pineapples fit the bill. I hacked off the top of a pineapple over a year ago, stuck it in a pot, and forgot about it. The resulting astonishingly beautiful flower is more of a testament to the resilient inner life of the plant than it is to the skill of the gardener.

But now that it is here, I'm intrigued. There are so many interesting facts about the pineapple. The juice can be used to tenderize meat, clean machete blades, or swab boat decks. It is also said to help prevent macular degeneration, induce labor, even abortion, and cure venereal disease. The leaves are used to make textiles, rope, and thread to bead pearls, sew shoes, make fishing nets, and roll cigars. They even became a symbol of social prestige among the American colonists. Because of their rarity and cost, they were considered an extravagant luxury. All one had to do to achieve rock star notoriety was to display one on the dining room table.

But the most fascinating thing about the pineapple is the actual botany of the plant. The fruit, the actual pineapple, is a cluster of more than 200 flowers. You can see the first of the flowers beginning to bloom in the photo above. I just went out to check it again, and lo and behold, it is bursting with flowers! How did I never notice that? Here is the updated version:

Now that we are properly impressed with the pineapple's uses, social status and impressive birth and growth progress, here's another fact that will blow you away: the fruit is arranged in two interlocking helices, eight in one direction, thirteen in the other, each being a Fibonacci number. Yes. Pineapples are math! A Fibonacci sequence, which I'm sure math majors must already know, begins with zero and one, and then each subsequent number is the sum of the previous two. Whoa. Now I'm in way over my head, but apparently the pattern of the way the sprouts grow is a mathematical sequence that is also found in the uncurling of a fern, the flowering of an artichoke, the branching of trees, and the arrangement of a pinecone.

How cool is that?? When I consider the pineapple, I am awed at the complexity of the natural world. Exquisite beauty and intense simplicity are just the ruse to draw you deeper into the mystery that begs to be studied and understood by botanists, mathematicians, and laymen alike. Consider the lowly pineapple. Who knew what was hiding deep within its fruit--math!!

God begs us to consider His exquisite beauty and delve deeper into the mystery of who He is. He draws us to Himself and tantalizes us with the creation He has left with us--it speaks to us, one awesome flower at a time. (He may even speak through mathematical equations, but that's a foreign language to me.)

All I know is that the inner life of this creation (moi) is buoyed by the fact that God, in His grace and mercy, has not left me to wither and die on the vine, but allows me to survive and thrive, and sometimes, even bear fruit. That Gardener, unlike me, is not a laissez-faire Gardener: He is ever-present, ever-watchful, and never lets His flowers die.

And that is an extravagant luxury I'd pay any price for.

"Stand and consider the wonders of God." Job 37:14

The Tulips

2012-03-04T14:43:00.002-05:00

One of the most spectacular sights I saw in Europe was not a towering medieval cathedral, a marble statue, or a great masterpiece of art. It was the tulip fields at the Kuekenhof Gardens in Amsterdam. Here is where words fail me trying to describe it.

In addition to the spectacularly sculpted gardens, there were acres and acres of planted tulips, as far as the eye could see. The atmosphere was hushed, almost reverent. I was in college, just venturing out as an adult, and had never seen anything like it, never imagined such stunning beauty. Fast forward a few years. . .

'Two lips. Three lips. Four lips. . ." my two-year-old counted as we were passing some tulips on our morning walk one bright spring day in Delaware. As beautiful as the Kuekenhof Gardens were, seeing tulips from the eyes of a child makes you appreciate the whole world in a different way. Don't kids just say the darndest things?

Last spring I spent the blustery month of May in Chicago. It made me realize how much I miss the changing of the seasons. (Let me clarify: I do not miss Chicago winters!) It was still too cold for my Florida capris and open-toed sandals that I had packed, but I bravely bundled up my frozen now-tropical toes for morning walks. It was well worth it to smell the damp, rich earth as it pushed up the first signs of spring: tulips, crocuses, daffodils, and hyacinths.

When we bought our first house in Delaware as a young couple, one of our first tasks was to landscape our barren yard. We drove down to the local nursery and bought flowers, bushes, and trees--the house didn't even come with grass! My mom donated some of her prize roses, and we planted flowering gardenias (my husband never liked them--he said their smell reminded him of the graveyard), a Japanese maple tree, azaleas, and a magnolia bush. But by far the most spectacular plants in our yard were the tulips and daffodils.

Tulips are planted in the fall, not the spring, when they immediately begin to root. During the winter, when the landscape is covered with snow, and the earth is hard and frozen, they lay dormant. You almost forget about them--that's what's so surprising about them popping up in the spring. You've been concentrating so much on surviving the winter that you forget, every year, that spring is just around the corner. Soon after the tulips burst through the soil and majestically declare that winter is over, the plant begins to die. However, new growth continues in the deep, dark underground world where roots and bulbs reside. According to tulips.com "the period between blooming and the plant dying is referred to as the 'Grand Period of Growth'. . .the energy flow reverses and starts to go downward to build new bulbs instead of upward to form new flowers." It's not too much of a stretch to see the lesson here.

The tulips (and the three lips and the four lips) remind me that even on the coldest, darkest, gloomiest day, God is working in my life, in the deep recesses of my soul where no one can see. Although it may outwardly appear as if age is taking its toll and is marching towards its logical conclusion, it may actually be that the Grand Period of Growth has just begun! God has planted a seed that only the Master Gardner can sow, and only He can harvest. No one can stop its growth. Someday, (maybe even today!), it will push out into the sunshine and bloom with astonishing beauty. Thankfully, I am confident it will not smell like the graveyard--it will be an 'aroma pleasing to the Lord', not because of anything the flower has done for itself but because it is God's own handiwork.

Incredible? Amazing? Words fail me.

And that's not so surprising.

"Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come." 2 Corinthians 5:17

"But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and manifests through us the sweet aroma of the knowledge of Him in every place." 2 Corinthians 2:14

The Frame

2012-02-24T09:59:00.003-05:00

I love my art. Each of my pieces is meaningful to me--they remind me of places I have lived or visited or of the artist who created it. Each work of art has become like a personal friend, one who graces my home with beauty and interacts with those who visit me. This one, the Blue Nude, painted by my friend Phyllis Jean, speaks to me. Her attitude says, "I'm chillin' in my art studio, surrounded by my Modigliani's. So what?"

'Blue Nude' is a watercolor painted on silk, but others are rich oil paintings of landscapes or people from other lands. There is hand-painted pottery by the Lencan Indians from Honduras and a wood block carved by Italian woodworkers. There are watercolors, pen-and-ink drawings, a colorful origami crane, and two Nicaraguan sketches painted with coffee on pieces of cardboard. Each is as unique as the artist who created them.

When I was in college I tried my hand at various artistic endeavors: pottery, knitting, crocheting, quilting, and weaving, to name a few. After just a few weaving classes, I was a fledgling weaver, turning out pieces of cloth that complied with the basic tenets of the process: it had warp and weft, but that's about it. Years later, as I was going through mounds of accumulated stuff, getting ready for yet another move, my daughter found a small piece of weaving that I had made back then and claimed it for her own. I had it framed for her, and voilá! Art!

The art of tapestry or Oriental rug weaving, on the other hand, is just a bit more complicated and a LOT more magnificent. The weavers tell stories of medieval knights, fierce battles, historical milestones, or they just create incredibly intricate designs. Each story or design is woven into the warp and weft of the fabric, thread by thread, knot by knot. Looking from the back of the tapestry, however, there is no rhyme or reason to it. It just looks like a big mess of knots. You have to go around to the front and step back to get a good vantage point. Only then will it come into focus, and you can clearly see the artist's intent.

I have had the imagery of the tapestry as a metaphor for my life for a while now. The way I have always thought of it was always centered around me: me at the back of the tapestry, knotting the cords one by one, creating my life, one thread at a time. If things didn't make sense or looked like one huge mess, all I had to do was back up and get a good look at the tapestry from a vantage point farther away, so it could all come into focus. Often that happened with the passing of time, as the images unfolded and became clearer in retrospect, and the art emerged as a cohesive, comprehensible whole.

But recently one little phrase in the devotional book Streams in the Desert (February 12th) made me stop and think: "You are the Workman, I the frame." It is the Workman, not me, who is knotting the cords behind the loom. My only job is to display His workmanship in the finished, even the unfinished, product. I am the frame-- the part that just holds up the real art, the part that allows God's artwork to be viewed and appreciated. No one even looks at the frame. They look at the artwork.

So, what does the tapestry of my life reveal? I'm sure I won't know until the Workman finishes His artwork and takes me home where it will be displayed in a different realm. But the legacy of my life will remain on this earth, knots and all. Will it reflect His workmanship? What will the knots proclaim, me or Him?

Only the Artist knows for sure what the finished product will be. But I'm trusting that what the Creator began, He will finish, His intent fully known and wonderfully revealed.

And it will be a work of art, knots and all.

"For You formed my inward parts; You wove me in my mother’s womb.
I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. . ." Psalm 139: 13-14

"For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them." Ephesians 2:10

The Conversation

2012-02-06T18:38:00.000-05:00

You really get to know a person well when you drive around with him every day, all week long. But when I first met Arnaldo, we didn't talk very much at all. I wasn't very confident speaking Spanish yet, and he was naturally on the quiet side.

Arnaldo was first assigned as my husband's driver when he spent a few days in Tegucigalpa, Honduras while he was interviewing for a job. When my husband was eventually elected, and we moved overseas, Arnaldo was assigned to me, and a different driver (see previous post, 'The Bodyguard') was assigned to my husband. Looking back, I think that God specifically chose this gentle, humble man for this particular job for a specific moment in time that was waiting for us five years in the future.

But first, there was a lot to do. I had to figure out my role as the wife of a diplomat, living overseas in a strange country, with no friends, struggling with a language I could barely speak. I remember sitting in my den, asking God to show me what I should do. What a concept! I hardly ever do that. My first instinct is just to go ahead and do whatever I feel like doing and figure God will somehow just show up and bless it. Or not. But, looking back, I suppose I was at the point where there wasn't much of an option. So I asked. And then I took baby steps.

And so it happened that, among all the other good causes I became involved in, one undertaking became my passion and joy. And it came about by talking to the person who was closest in proximity to me, the one arm's length away. The driver. How are you? (I could say that.) Are you married? (Yes.) How old are your children? Baby steps. Conversational Spanish 101.

Venturing out a bit further, I discovered that my driver was a pastor, a Christian. He pastored a small church in his neighborhood, Las Palmas. Baby step by baby step, I learned about the church, neighborhood, and the families who lived there. We did a Christmas outreach there on the first Christmas and purchased 200 toys for the children--about twice that many kids and their families showed up!

And then, over time, I asked him another question that my sister-in-law and I had been thinking about. "What would your church be able to do for your community, if you could do one thing? What is most needed?" (Just thinking about how the subjunctive probably came out in Spanish makes me cringe!)

It turned out that what they most needed was a childcare center for the children of single moms who often worked late and whose children ended up at Arnaldo and his wife's front door. Or sometimes they were locked into their homes and fed through the bars on the windows by neighbors. Or they were 'taken care of' by their older brothers or sisters of elementary school age. Or they just wandered the neighborhood, alone. Or they were put into service by the local gangs. It broke my heart, as I knew it did his.

And so, what began as a conversation, became a small reality: Fundación Casa de Luz (House of Light Foundation), was born. We are partnering with Old Cutler Presbyterian Church and a non-profit organization here in the States (the result of another conversation) called Institute for Community, which shares our same vision of effecting change in the community through connecting with people and meeting their needs. Three American missionaries and several women from the local church have joined us, and we learned how to create a board of directors . . . More conversations. Now the happy chattering of children has been added to the conversation.

Fast forward five years to another conversation in that same car . . .The conversation most meaningful to me, the one that I most needed in my darkest hour, the one I never saw coming, was a conversation without words. The very moment I knew my husband had been the victim of a plane crash, a hand reached out to the back seat. I grabbed it and held on for dear life. This conversation needed no words, no translation, no subjunctive verb tenses gone awry . . . My driver had become my pastor.

God, Who I sadly seldom take into account, had been a silent partner to those leisurely chats all along. He was, in fact, the 'third party to our conversation' that day as well. He knew years before why this particular person needed to be with me that day. Incredibly, without condemnation for neglecting Him in the past, He descended into that car and, in spite of all the chaos, brought with Him a tremendous peace--a supernatural peace that 'passes all understanding'. It was the 'right word at the right time.'

A new conversation had begun--with a God who, unbelievably, surprisingly, amazingly, cares for the intimate details in our lives. Who knew?

I'm sure I promised never to neglect Him ever again after that day, and I'm equally sure that I've already broken that promise. But it is my heart's desire to get to know Him better as I converse with Him day by day. Baby steps.

You never know where that conversation will lead somewhere down the road.

(And thankfully, I won't be needing that damn Spanish subjunctive!)

"...Those long hours of leisure as we walked arm in arm, God a third party to our conversation."

Psalm 55: 12 (The Message)

"Congenial conversation—what a pleasure! The right word at the right time—beautiful!"

Proverbs 15:23 (The Message)

Visit Casa de Luz on Facebook: Fundación Casa de Luz

Or, at Institute for Community's webpage:

http://instituteforcommunity.webs.com/casadeluz.htm

The Bodyguard

2012-02-01T08:35:00.000-05:00

You'd never know it just by looking at him, but this man is deathly afraid of needles. . . as in, hypodermic needles. His name is Felix, and he was my husband's driver and bodyguard during the five years we lived in Honduras--a highly trained ex-military-turned-security guard with years of warfare under his belt. He was practically blown apart while fighting against the Nicaraguan Sandinistas during the 1980's, and still carries in his body bits and pieces of shrapnel from the grenade that almost took off his hand and blew a hole in his stomach. He walked out of the jungle on his own, holding his gut together with his injured hand, to try to save the lives of his men in his unit. He lived, but some of his men did not.

But point a needle at him, and he goes weak in the knees.

I could describe Felix in so many ways--he is a crusty old curmudgeon on the outside, but there is a heart of gold beating on the inside; he has a wicked sense of humor; he adores his family-- his youngest daughter, especially, has him wrapped around her little finger . . . and, it turns out, he's a poet. He wrote one of the most touching, poignant poems I have ever read as a tribute to my husband when he passed away. But here's the thing that makes him stand tall above everyone else:

He would have taken a bullet for the one he loved. Literally. If he could have saved my husband's life by throwing himself in front of the plane as it skidded off the runway, I know he would have.

When we first arrived in Honduras, I was not looking forward to having people around us at such close quarters 24/7. However, over time he, and a few others, became part of our 'extended family' of people who worked for us and took care of us while we lived there. Having bodyguards and drivers were a necessary precaution for many expats living in this particular country--but no one really believed that anything would ever really happen. You are as vigilant as possible, but then you just go on with your life. What more can you do? In the end, I cannot imagine how I could have endured what I did without him and the others who became such an integral part of our lives.

The thing is, we don't know how many disasters God spares us from daily as we make our way through life. Sometimes we get a glimpse of the near miss as we swerve to avoid the car whizzing by; or when we catch ourselves and avoid a serious fall; or we scoop up the baby just as she goes to grab the knife or the lye or the razor...or when the surgery is successful or the test comes back negative. Our hearts race with the realization what could have been...

God is so near, so real, so palpable sometimes we can taste Him. And at other times we feel so alone, so afraid, so abandoned that we begin to believe that He is far away and removed from what matters in our lives. Nothing could be further from the truth.

And yet, sometimes the worst does happen. Sometimes the plane does crash, the test does come back positive, the surgery is not successful and the baby gets cut. Where was God? Someone challenged me a long time ago that if you feel that God is far away, guess who moved? I still don't understand so much about the how's or why's of the way God works, but I choose to believe one thing:

God has not abandoned me. He is not afraid of the dark or the jungle or the bogeyman lurking in the shadows, or even . . . shudder . . . hypodermic needles.

He, like the bodyguard, is on duty 24/7, watching, guarding, protecting in an often-scary world. He, like the bodyguard, would willingly take the bullet and lay down his life for the one he loves.

In fact, He already has.

"For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways . . ." Psalm 91:11

". . . for the LORD will go before you, the God of Israel will be your rear guard." Isaiah 52:12

The Mermaid

2012-01-18T12:28:00.000-05:00

I know. This doesn't look like a mermaid. In fact, it's a momma manatee and her baby, floating near the building that my daughter-in-law manages in North Miami, where she snapped this photo.

Manatees are gentle, slow-moving aquatic giants. How in the world they were ever mistaken for mermaids is confounding. You'd have to be at sea a long, long time in order to mistake this massive, whiskered-face mammal for the beautiful, seductive Little Mermaid of film and literature. However, there's no accounting for a young sailor in love--or at sea. Legends don't need a whole lot of substance to get started. It just needs to be a good story.

As with all legends, there is a sliver of truth hiding beneath the surface. Manatees bob upright on the surface of the water cradling their babies, much as a human would, face-to-face, as they suckle their young. Their eerily human-like faces, albeit whiskered and wrinkled, resemble a woman's--OK, not a very pretty woman, but remember--if you're an adventurer out at sea for months on end, you might just be a little desperate. If manatees are startled, they can move surprisingly fast, often slapping their fish-like tails on the water as they submerge. At least one old salt had a mammoth imagination, fell in love, and a legend was born.

Once, as a child, when I was in Sunday school, we were making a mosaic art project, gluing beans and seeds on construction paper to form Noah's Ark. As I glued, I asked my teacher a question: "Is the story of Noah true?" The answer I got reverberated in my head for years to come. She said that it was a fable, a legend, much like the bedtime stories my parents read to me at night. That, I believe, was the beginning of my spiritual walk out the door of the church. I didn't return until years later, after much soul-searching in other religions, other cultures and alternate lifestyles.

At the heart of the cultural revolution of the 60's and 70's was a search for 'truth, peace, and love' without the trappings of the social mores of the previous generations. I was one of those seekers, and followed my own path in pursuing truth. Thank God, He spared me the heartache that experimentation with psychedelic drugs and rampant sex left in its wake. Instead, my quest for truth took me through the study the world's great religions, in the awe-inspiring art and architecture of Europe, and in discovering new ways of looking at the world through the eyes of people from other cultures.

When I had exhausted those avenues and came away with more questions than answers, I turned back to my roots. I figured that someone had believed all those stories in the Bible, enough to produce some of the greatest art that the world has ever known (. . .a far cry from my bean mosaic of Noah's Ark). I decided to give it a second shot. I was given a Bible and began to read the stories of men and women who were much like me--flawed and broken, but with a kernel of faith.

The stories were thrilling and inspiring--Abraham, Moses, Noah, Jonah, David, Paul, Esther, to name a few. They fought, swore, killed, lied, cheated, you name it. Nothing was sugar-coated. Some of them fell away, some grew like solid oaks. But they were real and believable. At some point, I began to believe in the truth of what I was reading, and it rocked my world.

Unlike the fables and legends of my childhood, the deeper I dug into the Bible, the more truth I found, and the closer I got to the real treasure: the Author of the Book, the Captain of the Ship--the Way, the Truth, the Life.

My search was over, my question answered. I had come home to port.
But the adventure had just begun.

"Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” John 8:32

The City

2012-01-10T07:39:00.001-05:00

I did not take this photo. My son's friend, Ryan Holloway (PictureHousePhotos), took it of our Miami skyline. Through his professional eye and from this vantage point, Miami looks stunning.

I have called many cities around the world 'home' for a time so far in my life: Chicago, Manchester (England), Managua (Nicaragua), Newark, (Delaware), Boston, Miami (twice), San Francisco, and Tegucigalpa (Honduras). Every time I move, I have accumulated added 'baggage'--more suitcases or furniture or boxes or . . . kids! Even after a hurricane destroyed our house and almost everything in it, we managed to fill a container of stuff for our next move. (I am convinced of spontaneous generation--stuff begets stuff and just multiplies behind closet doors).

When we moved to Miami in the early 90's, we came kicking and screaming. We had already lived in Miami once during the 80's, and we all know what Miami was like during those years: drug raids right in our neighborhood, FBI shoot-outs just down the street--we lived the episodes of Miami Vice! When my husband was offered a position in San Francisco, we shook the dust from our feet and gleefully boarded the plane for the 'City by the Bay'. Four years (and one earthquake) later, we were back.

Miami has become home in a way that no other city I've ever lived in has. At first, it was hard, as it always is--making new friends, finding a church home, adjusting to new schools and jobs. But as the years wore on, we put down roots and embraced the diversity and blended cultures of this tropical, cosmopolitan, very Latin 'City-by-(Biscayne)-Bay'. As a family, we have marked countless birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and sadly, funerals and sorrows here. Amazingly, a few of the same children who were the most devastated by the original move here, have decided it's THE place to live and wouldn't dream of leaving, at least for now. And as long as they are here, I wouldn't either.

An old (and maybe a little tired) cliché says "Home is where the heart is." And it's true. Home is not a mortar-and-brick building in City X-Y-Z, filled with possessions that you've accumulated along the journey, but a place where you and the most-loved people in your life reside. And yet, neither Miami, nor any other city on this earth, is actually my true home. I am here on earth temporarily, just passing through, a traveler in space and time. And one day it will be time to move on.

I'm not ready for that move yet, but I hope I don't go kicking and screaming. There is a part of me that looks forward to the day when I will be reunited with loved ones that have gone on before me to a Holy City filled with the glory of God, abundant peace, and stunning beauty beyond what I can possibly imagine. I'm sure the only thing that I will struggle leaving behind will not be my ever-expanding mound of accumulated possessions, but my precious loved ones here on Earth.

When God calls me to my true home, whenever that may be, I won't have to pack, thank God.

But if I can, I'll send a photo.

And it will be stunning.

"For there is no permanent city for us here on earth; we are looking for the city which is to come." Hebrews 13:14

The Rainbow

2012-01-04T09:31:00.000-05:00

Spotting any rainbow usually stops me in my tracks, but this one took my breath away. It was very early one morning when I stepped out onto my balcony, saw the rainbow descending on El Cristo del Picacho, and quickly snapped this before it faded away. Everyone in my house was still asleep, and I'm pretty sure I was the only one who saw it.

One of the most popular tourist attractions in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, is the statue of Christ at the top of the barren, deforested mountain, El Picacho, that overlooks the twin cities of 'Tegus' and Comayagüela. The statue is enormous, although it looks like just a speck in this photo. Christ's arms are outstretched, beckoning the inhabitants of 'Tegus' to look up and get a different perspective-- a calmer, gentler, more loving perspective, perhaps. Unfortunately,Tegus happens to be one of the most congested, poverty-stricken, and crime-ridden cities anywhere in the world.

However, at night, the darkness hides the slums and the blight, and the lights of the city twinkle on the mountainside. The Christ is lit up and can be seen for miles. We would often lean over that same balcony at nighttime and marvel at how peaceful it all looked, defying the harsh realities of the daytime chaos.

What surprised me up to the very end of my time living in Honduras was the contrast between so much violence and so great faith. Many of the citizens of Honduras live 'close to the edge' of life and death--they die of diseases that are uncommon in the 'first world'--dengue, cholera, dysentery, typhoid; or, they get run over by a bus as they walk along the sides of congested thoroughfares; or they get kidnapped or killed by a gang of thugs over a petty theft of a cellphone.

Yet their faith in God is not just refreshingly honest and sincere, it is downright inspiring. No separation of church and state here--people openly pray, even at public meetings, and take it for granted that you believe in God. Even their speech reflects their basic belief--most people when planning a future event, finish it off with, "Si Dios quiere"--God willing. Even "Adios!" means "Go with God". When my husband tragically passed away in a terrible plane crash just under the Christ's gaze several years ago, I was comforted and calmed amidst the chaos by countless mourners who whispered Bible verses into my ear, one after another.

El Cristo del Picacho represents hope for this life here on earth and for the life beyond. The rainbow confirms it. God has not left us alone, but has reached down and touches our lives in ways we cannot even dream possible. Even in the midst of the chaos, violence, and poverty of our souls, God promises a peace that will calm us and comfort us and give a new perspective.

All we need to do is look up and see it. And, when we do, it will take our breath away.

"Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth.” Genesis 9:16

Letting Go

2011-12-29T06:37:00.011-05:00

One of my favorite TV ads from years ago is the Nestea Iced Tea Plunge commercial. In case you are one of the few people on the planet who has not seen it, it takes place in the backyard of Everybody's Neighbor on a hot day. The way I remember it is like this: a cool glass of iced tea is offered to the protagonist, who, upon taking a sip, looks likes she's just been transported to another world. She is so refreshed and euphoric that she falls backwards into a swimming pool directly behind her. She has taken 'The Plunge'.

I can't be sure if that's exactly how the ad went because when I tried to check it on the Internet, I discovered that all the videos have been removed. It is sometimes referred to now as the "Infamous Nestea Ad." I can only assume that someone tried it in his own backyard, got hurt, and sued the company.

Letting go is risky and sometimes dangerous. One piece of advice my husband gave our kids when they were looking for new jobs involved the 'law of the jungle": not letting go of one vine until you have hold of another. A trapeze artist, on the other hand, lets go at the last possible moment, hurls herself through the air, and grabs her partner's hands midair, seemingly to defy gravity, as well as all sense of reason, wisdom, and sanity. She has to trust those hands are going to be there when she lets go.

This is precisely what God asks us to do-- to let go and trust Him completely. It's hard to fathom why or how the original followers of Jesus were able to do this. Jesus walked by, called to them, one by one, and asked each one to follow Him. They dropped what they were doing, left everything behind--jobs, family, homes-- and followed Him . . . 'at once'. It was incredibly risky and possibly dangerous, like falling backwards into the unknown. It defied all reason, wisdom, and sanity. Why on earth did they 'take the plunge'?

I don't know. I can only tell you why I did. I didn't have hold of a vine, so I couldn't grab the next one. I was adrift and alone and so desperate that I began to cling to the only Vine that made sense--the God who sailed across time and space, called me by name, grabbed my hands and held onto me.

I can't say my life has been like a 30- second commercial or a 30- minute sitcom that neatly resolves all problems by the time the director yells "Cut!" But I will say that I've never regretted a single day since the day I took 'The Plunge' and set off following Him.

It's a jungle out there. But I'm clinging to my Vine and He's clinging to me. And even if I can't hang on anymore, I know one thing:

He's not letting go.

"As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. 'Come, follow me,' Jesus said. . . At once they left their nets and followed him." Matthew 4:18-20

The Light

2011-12-20T07:10:00.000-05:00

You gotta love Florida in the winter. After our sweltering, humid summers that stretch well into October and November, the balmy winter nights are welcome relief. But the first year our family celebrated Christmas here in the tropics, it just didn't seem like Christmas.

Braving blizzards, wearing snowboots and mufflers, sipping steaming hot chocolate after ice skating, seeing my breath on a crisp-cold morning, scraping ice off my windshield-- these are only memories now for this transplanted Chicagoan. And yet they were the backdrop for every Christmas of my life until I moved away from home.

But no matter what region of the country we've lived in, or what the weather channel said the temperature was outside, some Christmas traditions have been delightfully similar everywhere. One of my favorites is the way the world lights up at night during December. As the nights get shorter and colder, one by one, houses and stores and neighborhoods light their entryways and yards and doorways. I especially love the way the stately royal palms are dramatically outlined against the inky-black night skies here in Florida.

I understand why the tradition of the lights came about--as the darkness creeps in earlier and earlier in December, it gets a little depressing. Cold AND dark in the North is hard to take. The twinkling lights, on the other hand, are cheery and uplifting, and warm you to the soul. I miss the lights as they are extinguished, one by one, in January.

At Christmas, the lights remind me that Light has come into the world and has pierced the darkness. It guides Wise Men toward it. It is uplifting and welcome relief in a cold, dark world. But most important and glorious of all, this living, loving Light will never be extinguished.

And that warms my soul, right down to my flip-flops.

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." John 1:5

"You, LORD, are my lamp; the LORD turns my darkness into light." 2 Samuel 22:29

The Cactus

2011-12-14T21:40:00.017-05:00

Florida is known for its lush, green, tropical landscapes, trees and flowers of every sort: royal palms, blazing hibiscus, sublime orchids, Honeybell oranges, and water lilies, to name a few. But a cactus in Florida just seems out of place. Cacti conjure up parched deserts and arid wilderness, not luxuriant tropical vegetation. But this one down the street seems to be thriving.

I don't know much about cacti, except they hurt like the dickens if you get too close and get yourself pricked. I kept my distance from this one. Cacti are succulents and retain water for long periods of time, thereby ensuring their survival in desolate landscapes. Their thorns are actually leaves, but by the time the thorns reach maturity, all the cells in them are dead, even when the spine is still growing. The only living cells in a thorn is at its base.

Now that has me intrigued. At maturity, you can actually look alive, but remain dead inside. Sometimes my spiritual life feels like that.

I ran head-first into the living God when I was in my early 20's. At that time, I did not know one verse in the Bible--I could not tell you if Noah or David or Goliath lived before or after the time of Christ. About all I knew about Jesus was that He was born in a manger and that three Wise Men went to visit Him....But I think I sort of got Jesus mixed up with Santa Claus.

Since that time, I have studied the Bible, listened to countless sermons, memorized Scripture, taught Sunday School and women's Bible studies, and even written a children's book on the attributes of God. I have gone on retreats, journaled, prayed, and now blogged about my faith journey...all in the pursuit of deepening my faith with that living God who heard my cry years ago.

I must be a mature faith-walker by now. . .right? But sometimes I feel dead inside. I may look the same on the outside, but I'm going through the motions on the inside. And I'm not thriving at all.

A fresh encounter with God is not something you can conjure up any time you want one. At least that's not the way it is for me. The most tangible times I've had with God are when I'm caught by surprise, or when I'm not trying so hard to do the right thing, or when I am devastated by my own shortcomings.... God has met me where I'm at in the quiet moments when the TV is turned off or just after I close my eyes at night and try to turn off the noise in my head. That's when I hear God speaking to me, soul-to-soul.

It's Christmas, and for me, it's easy to get caught up in the hustle and bustle and miss the real message--that Christ came into our world to speak to us, soul-to-soul. This Christmas, I don't want to keep my distance from the Christ-child. I want to crawl up close to the manger and hear Him speak. Just to me. I want Him to breathe new life into my soul and make my heart beat..for Him. I want Him to enter the desolate landscape of my life and make me bloom and thrive and grow.

The most wonderful news is that He delights in doing all that, for anyone who seeks Him, just like those Wise Men...and I bet that means Santa Claus, too.

"The seed that fell among thorns stands for those who hear, but as they go on their way they are choked by life’s worries, riches and pleasures, and they do not mature." Luke 8:13-15

The Poinsettia

2011-12-07T20:36:00.025-05:00

Poinsettias just shout "Christmas!" to me. They are everywhere at Christmas, including this one in my neighborhood. I can't resist buying at least one or two during the season, but the day after Christmas I haul them out to the trash, as they lose their luster and are not so showy the rest of the year. But at Christmas, they shine.

How they came to be a part of our Christmas traditions is steeped in legend and history. There are many versions to the legend, which by most sources, start with two poor Mexican children who were on their way to the town's nativity play. They had nothing to bring to the Christ child, also a tradition (wait, do we have this backward?? Gifts for Jesus...?... I may have to come back to that thought), so they grabbed some weeds by the side of the road and placed them by His manger. At some point, the 'weeds' miraculously became a fiery red color, dramatically highlighting the focal point, baby Jesus.

You can believe that or not, but history does record the fact that Joel Poinsett, a physician, botanist, and statesman from South Carolina, first introduced them to the United States in 1825. Under President James Monroe, he became the first U.S. Minister to Mexico, where the plants are indigenous. In Mexico the plant is called: "La Flor de Noche Buena", "The Flower of Christmas Eve." And the rest is history...

The idea that even the hills and the plants worship God in their own way is a thought I had not pondered very deeply. When I want to worship God, I put on my best clothes, drive to a church, and sing and pray with the rest of the congregants. In the plant world, I suppose you gussy yourself up with blossoms and aromas and fiery red flowers. A hill or a meadow would cover itself in wildflowers and shimmer with dew at dawn. And rocks?? I have no idea. Maybe they speak a language we don't understand, but God does.

God longs for us to worship Him this season in any way we want to communicate with Him. And the funny thing is, He delights in gifts we bring to the altar--for others. A clink of a coin in a Salvation Army bucket. A toy for a child whose parent is in prison. A homemade cake for the elderly neighbor in a nursing home. A smile. A hug. Even a kiss under the mistletoe.

He speaks the language of love. And that can be translated into any language, is understood in every culture, and never loses its luster.

"The grasslands of the wilderness overflow; the hills are clothed with gladness. The meadows are covered with flocks and the valleys are mantled with grain; they shout for joy and sing." Psalm 65:12-13

The Gift

2011-12-05T21:00:00.054-05:00

Once, years ago, when we were living in California, our home was burglarized. It was bad enough to come home to the shock of knowing someone had been inside your house and that the electronics and jewelry were gone, but the worst was-- all the presents under the Christmas tree were stolen!! My children were traumatized for months afterwards. Truth be told, one or two of them still haven't quite gotten over it.

This photo is of a gift I received from one of my students last year. It was the one-and-only gift I received from a student that semester, but it was enough. Even one small gesture of appreciation lifted my spirits and made me feel like I had perhaps made a difference in at least one person's life.

I've received many gifts in my life so far, hundreds probably: diamond bracelets, gold earrings, new cars (ok, back off--my dad was a car dealer), Caribbean vacations, not to mention cold, hard cash. But nothing says "I love you" like a wet, sloppy kiss from a chubby-cheeked toddler or a fistful of half-crushed daisies picked from your own garden offered by a smiling mud-encased 10-year-old boy.

Those burglars who made off with our Christmas gifts ended up with some gifts they could not use and had no meaning at all to them--the small handprints of a preschooler pressed carefully into clay, crayoned artwork of stick-legged mommies and daddies, and boxes of See's chocolates meant for my kids' classroom teachers.

I love Christmas, who doesn't? The season brings out the best--but also the worst, and sometimes the pressure of gift-giving gets to me. In the midst of our well-meaning, frenzied, often over-the-top buying sprees, there is a reason why we started it all in the first place, and here it is:

God Himself gave the greatest gift of all time to the human race: His one-and-only, Jesus Christ. "Christ-mas". It makes sense.

This week I'm in the middle of the fray and will put the finishing touches on the gifts I'm giving to my most treasured 'possessions': my precious family and dear friends. But in the back of my mind I will try to remember that the most meaningful gifts are ones that have no earthly price tag and cannot be stolen away.

And that spells I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

"Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift!" 2 Corinthians 9:15

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal." Matthew 6:19-20

The Statue

2011-12-05T07:47:00.050-05:00

This guy seriously creeps me out. He is only one of a large column of statues that are propping up a hotel on Brickell Avenue in downtown Miami. They form an army of silent sentinels that stare out at passersby. I have passed them often by car, but I usually look the other way. This time, however, I was on foot, and curiosity got the better of me. I took a closer look.

Standing right under their noses, I touched their metal skins and peered into their unseeing eyes, confirming to myself that they were inanimate and harmless. But as I walked among the rows of mute sculptures, I couldn't shake the feeling of uneasiness. The whole atmosphere was dark and gloomy-- creepy. Just beyond the darkened driveway, the Florida sun was shining, beckoning me to come out from the gloom and do what people are meant to do in Miami--Drink in the sunshine! Frolic on the beaches!

The artist who created these may not have had the term 'idols' in mind when he sculpted them, but that is what they reminded me of. The fact that people all over the world worship idols, unseeing and inanimate, saddens me. Can something a human being has created with his own hands see into a human heart, know her thoughts, feel her pain, heal her wounds--love her, understand her, comfort her?

One day when I was in my 20's, God stopped me, literally, in my tracks. He revealed to me in one abrupt moment that He was real and alive--a Being who knew my thoughts and saw my heart. If I had really understood then exactly who I was dealing with, it might have been a terrifying moment, but it wasn't. I felt oddly comforted and loved. Later on, He revealed some of His many names, (Lord of Lords, King of Kings, Redeemer, Counselor); His nature, (compassionate, forgiving); His heart, (loving, eternal). Nothing about Him is creepy or gloomy. Mysterious, yes. Creepy, no.

God longs for us to walk out from the gloom and bask in the warmth of His presence. But He is not willing to share us with idols that we have created with our own hands or hearts, whatever shape they may take. He is Light and Hope and Life--the Creator of all things in this world and in the world we cannot see. What created thing can possibly trump that?

I thank God that He reached down that night and pulled me out of the gloom and walked me into the light--where I am still basking in His love and frolicking in His tenderness.

So long, creepy statues. I won't be visiting you again.

"This is what the LORD says—
Israel’s King and Redeemer, the LORD Almighty:
I am the first and I am the last;
apart from me there is no God." Isaiah 44:6

The Promise

2011-12-02T11:37:00.033-05:00

When I was a kid I had a 'blood sister'. Not the one I lived with, but one who became my 'sister' after a special ceremony. You know the drill: You get a needle from your mom's sewing kit, prick each other's fingers, press them together, and promise to be BFFs (Best Friends Forever). Forever.

That promise has remained unbroken to this day. She is still my best friend--when we pick up the phone to chat, we don't have to start over. We just start wherever we left off two days ago or two months ago. She knows all the 'dirt', good and bad. And she still loves me. Imagine that. But it makes sense--she's family. She has my blood running through her veins.

There are many promises that we make that don't last that long. Even as the words are tumbling out of our mouths, we have no intention of keeping them... "This won't hurt."-- "I'll be right back."-- "I'll do it later.", or my favorite: "We promise to feed the new puppy, walk him, clean up after him..." (haha, they got me with that one).

But blood promises? When I first began my faithwalk with God, the blood thing really baffled me. The Israelites were instructed by God to offer animal sacrifices in the wilderness. The wine at the Last Supper, according to Jesus, represented His blood that was shed on the cross, a human/divine sacrifice.

From a human perspective, losing blood means losing life. But with God, paradoxes are the norm. Surrender means freedom. The last become first. The meek shall inherit. And sacrificing blood means gaining life.

When we allow God to 'prick our finger' and mingle His blood with ours, we become family. His blood runs through our veins and gives us new life. He becomes our BFF-- "a friend who sticks closer than a brother" (Proverbs 18:24). Or sister, I would add. He knows all the 'dirt' and loves me anyway. Just imagine.

Even years down the road, there is still so much I don't understand about God, but this much I do know: When God makes a promise, He seals it with His blood and keeps it forever.

"Do not be afraid or terrified . . . for the LORD your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you.” Deuteronomy 31:6

And that's a promise I'm going to claim as my own.

The Birth

2011-11-30T00:00:00.000-05:00

It's not easy giving birth. Actually it's downright terrifying the first time around. Thankfully, I was born in the 20th century, and even in the developing country where I gave birth to my first child, modern medicine was available and an epidural was an option. I availed myself of all options.

To be fair, it's not easy for the one being born either. My firstborn had a hard time. He was posterior, facing the wrong way, and got stuck. Poor thing. I could have felt sorry for him, if I wasn't concentrating so hard myself.

(Disclaimer: Shut your eyes if you're the squeamish type.) The nurses actually had to climb up on the table, grab my stomach, and turn him over. I'm sure that technique hasn't been practiced in U.S. hospitals for a while, but it worked. He had a few dents and bumps and a cute little conehead for a few weeks, but none the worse for wear. It's amazing how resilient babies are.

Yet it was almost as if he didn't want to be born. He might have been thinking, "Why can't you just leave me alone?? I'm FINE in here! It's warm and cozy, I have all I need--a place to call my own, food-- I'm fine, really!" When I put myself in his shoes, so to speak, I get it. He couldn't possibly have imagined that there were people on the other side, literally a few inches away, who loved him and couldn't wait to meet him and take him out of that hospital to his real home where his life would really begin.

But he couldn't fathom anything outside the womb...which would have become a tomb if he hadn't gotten out of there! He had to leave that world to experience all that this world had to offer. His first breath was a scream because it was terrifying to step out into the unknown.

When I think of what it will be like to die, I think of what it's like to be born. Scary. . . terrifying really. . . Unless you know that there is Someone waiting for you, only inches away, Who has loved you from the beginning of time and can't wait to welcome you home--so you can start living.

And that's not a scary thought at all.

“Do not let your heart be troubled. You have put your trust in God, put your trust in Me also. There are many rooms in My Father’s house. If it were not so, I would have told you. I am going away to make a place for you. After I go and make a place for you, I will come back and take you with Me. Then you may be where I am." John 14: 1-3

The Dandelion

2011-11-27T08:22:00.000-05:00

Time travel has always fascinated me. I think it all started when I read Half Magic by Edward Eager when I was a kid. Since then, H.G. Wells, Ray Bradbury, C.S. Lewis and more recently, Diana Gabaldon and Audrey Niffenegger, are authors that have kept me mesmerized with the tantalizing notion of bending the dimension of time and walking (or falling) into a different century, culture, and country.

When we were little, my sister and I used to pick almost-dead dandelions--to us they were delicate little clouds that begged to be blown apart. We would close our eyes, make a wish, take a breath, and blow. My wish usually involved flying away with the seeds, floating high above the trees. Much of my life has, in fact, been filled with traveling and experiencing other 'worlds'--cultures and languages and people.

Just idea of time travel, alternative universes (and 'The Matrix') grab my attention and make me wonder: Is what we see all there is? Physicists have long suspected that there are more than four space-time dimensions. Some believe there are at least ten dimensions. Others say eleven, even twelve are possible. When you start talking about 'string theory' and 'supergravity', it gets way over my head.

But there is something deep in the heart of man that says there is more to life than what we are able to experience from our five senses. Why else would we crave to know about what we cannot see? Why would we peer into the outer realms of the universe to try to understand it, know it, even manipulate it?

Wait. It's almost as if Someone out there is trying to contact us, not the other way around. Could it be that Someone outside of time (and all the other 11 or 12+ dimensions) desires to contact the human race? In order to do that, would He would have to travel to our world, learn our customs, speak our language, dress like us, and generally not scare us to death with what He knows that we don't know?

Or would He come to earth as a baby, small and helpless, as fragile and innocuous as a dandelion? Would He grow up to heal the sick, preach the good news to the poor, cast out demons, speak the truth in love--even die for us, in order to get our attention?

Would He? Is it possible that the Alternate Universe has bent space and time and has already been here?

Close your eyes, take a breath, and imagine that.

"LORD, what are human beings that you care for them, mere mortals that you think of them? They are like a breath; their days are like a fleeting shadow." Psalm 144: 3-4

"Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know." Jeremiah 33:3

The Obvious

2011-11-26T07:00:00.001-05:00

Obvious: easily perceived or understood.

Apparently, a stroller is not self-explanatory. One might suppose that the part in the front with the holes for little legs and the seatbelt might be the most logical place for a child, but according to the posted sign at the back of the stroller, (DO NOT PUT CHILD IN BAG), this is not obvious. Hence, the sign. Obviously.

I was chuckling to myself as I passed this scene at the mall, yet I wonder how often God looks down on His creation (say, like. . . me) and just shakes His head and thinks, "It's so obvious! How can I possibly make it any more easily understandable?"

We study the origins of the universe and declare that somehow a 'cosmic soup' formed, and according to the TV program, Nova, "after cooking for billions of years, the cosmic soup is rich enough and concentrated enough to form planets and people." Really.

People? I'm not a scientist, but just the anatomy of one organ, the eye, boggles my mind. How could it have evolved over billions of years, if every nerve, cell, and blood vessel had to have been to be in place at the same nano-second in order for it to 'see'? And what about the intricate balance of the animal and plant kingdom--so delicate that if we kill off even one species of pesky insect, the whole system is off-kilter? How does 'interdependency' fit into a 'survival of the fittest' evolutionary model? It's not so obvious to me.

No one would believe that the bits and pieces of a watch that had been lying on a table for hundreds or even thousands of years could arrange themselves in such a way as to just start ticking on their own and become a Rolex. It would take an intelligent being that had a plan and design in mind and knew about watchmaking in order to make it tick. Obviously.

But when it comes to believing that an intelligent Being created an orderly (and therefore, able-to-be-studied) universe, it's not so obvious. We look everywhere else, try anything else, believe anything else rather than see the obvious:

"In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth." Genesis 1:1

Isn't it obvious?

The Feast

2011-11-24T07:16:00.010-05:00

One of these turkeys is gonna get cooked. As Thanksgiving morning dawns, the stuffing is ready to stuff, the table is set, the guests are on their way, and the feast is about to begin.

Our family has a tradition of putting a bean (instead of a kernel of corn--our nod to the Latin side of the family) in a small basket that is passed around as we express our thankfulness for something, anything...one thing.

This year will be a little harder. The table keeps shrinking as we have lost those dearest to us. This year we lost my daddy, and it is hard to be thankful when there is a big gaping hole at the head of our table.

But if I close my eyes and concentrate, I can think of a thousand things to be thankful for as it relates to my dad: his calm presence in my life, his unconditional love and support for me throughout the years, his wit and humor, even to the very last day of his life, his faithfulness to his sweetheart of 64 years, my mom... I could go on. I am incredibly thankful.

And according to the latest research, it's good to be thankful! In one study, even writing down one or two things in a journal once a week produced positive results: the participants felt happier, slept better, weren't bothered by criticism, and were more optimistic overall.

So I choose to be thankful. And I look forward to the day when I will see my loved ones again, at an even bigger and better feast, the feast of the Lamb. And what a feast that will be!

(I hope He serves turkey.)

"People will come from east and west and north and south, and will take their places at the feast in the kingdom of God." Luke 13:29

Trust

2011-11-23T18:00:00.001-05:00

The trouble with kids is, they trust everybody. Unfortunately, in this day and age, you have to teach them not to trust anyone. And I mean anyone.

That works counter to our basic instinct. Trust is built into the human framework. Our parents, of course, are the first people we learn to trust; then our extended family, one by one; our neighbors; as we move off to school, our teachers; and the circle rapidly expands to pets, pediatricians, policemen, postmen, pastors....

But there are a few other "p" words that come to mind that are not so friendly, like 'peeper', 'predator' and 'pedophile'. Sadly, we need to teach our children not to talk to strangers, what 'good touch' and 'bad touch' is, and even to be aware of how close coaches, teachers, scout or youth leaders, even other family members come. We see the shattered lives of these young victims in the news every day.

One of our neighbors came from a home like that. She was a young mom who had been sexually abused as a child by her father. Her FATHER. At the time I knew her, she was trying to be a good mom and wife, but she had no basis for what a 'normal' family should look like. At around the age of 30, it all started unraveling. It broke my heart to see how pervasive and far-reaching the effects of her abusive childhood were in her life.

Who CAN you trust these days? Well, maybe from God's perspective, even such despicable evil can be redeemed. It's almost as if He's saying: "When everyone else disappoints you, trust Me. . ."

. . ."Trust Me with your hopes, your dreams, your hurts, your failings,. Trust me with your future, your past, the next step in your relationship. Trust me with your addictions, your gifts, your deep longings. Trust me to take your brokenness and make it into a new creation. Trust Me. Trust Me."

If you can't trust your father or your coach or your teacher, who can you trust? Only the Everlasting Father, the Creator of the Universe, the Good Shepherd, the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords. He never fails. He never disappoints. He is trustworthy.

And that's Trust with a capital T.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in Me." John 14:1

"In you, LORD my God, I put my trust." Psalm 25:1

Dawn

2011-11-22T07:07:00.000-05:00

I wish I could take credit for this photo, but I can't. My brother took it when we were in Tuscany this fall. I wasn't even up yet.

But as I was sleeping, God was not. Every morning He paints the sky with His incredible handiwork. And every morning I miss it. But when I look at this photo, it reminds of all that a day may hold--a new beginning, a fresh start, a great adventure.

Of course, we were on a happy adventure, but more often than not, a new day dawns on less-than-perfect circumstances--the car won't start, the baby is sick, the alarm never went off, you fight with your spouse over some triviality (and instantly regret it), or any of a hundred other things that put you in a bad mood or test your patience or completely devastate you. The beautiful dawn, if by some miracle you (and by that, I mean 'I') even saw it, is the last thing on your mind.

How often we lose our perspective on the really important things of life. When our kids were little, we used to make the long road trips back to Illinois and Iowa for summer vacations with their cousins. Once, on a beautiful summer afternoon in Iowa City, my sister, Karen, was on the floor playing with the three little girls and their Barbie dolls. Tiny shoes, miniature ballgowns, and dozens of Barbies were sprawled all over the living room floor. I was bustling around the house, trying to get them all to clean up so we could go outside and go to the park. I have this frozen snapshot in my mind of my sister looking up at me and saying, "But why? It will all be here when we get back."

It was my 'aha!' moment. How I wish I could wake up in a time warp and have it all back: not only children slamming doors, yelling for popsicles, and scraping knees--but also my sister. She was a person who truly lived in the moment and savored each one of them, and taught me more about myself than I cared to admit at the time. I miss her every day.

I know that I cannot turn back time, but I also know that if I choose to look out the window and really savor the moment, I will see not only a breathtaking dawn, but also a different perspective: a new beginning, a fresh start, a great adventure.

Dawn reminds me in the midst of my not-so-perfect circumstances that God still reigns. And that is a moment I want to savor.

"Your love, O Lord, reaches to the heavens, your faithfulness to the skies." Psalm 36:5

The Race

2011-11-17T09:48:00.003-05:00

My daughter ran the New York City ING Marathon a few weeks ago. And finished.

When I think of what it took to do that, I am awed. It seems like a overwhelmingly colossal undertaking--almost impossible. It takes an enormous amount of training and hard work just to get yourself ready to run a race like that, mentally and physically; but then the day comes, and you're prepared. You've got the shoes, the outfit, your number on the bib--hey, you may even feel like it might be a teeny-weeny bit easier than you had expected!

And then in the middle of the race, you hit your 'wall'--when your body has basically burned up its available stores of carbohydrates, and you go into super-fatigue. According to my daughter, just about everyone hits their wall, some a little sooner, some a little later.

She hit her wall, but she still finished the race. It's as much mental as it is physical, and everyone has their own way of breaking through that wall to make it to the finish line.

Forget a marathon. For me, sometimes it's just hard to get out of bed in the morning. I would rather snuggle down farther into the covers and delay facing all that needs to be done...especially with the holidays coming up. I know that it is sacrilegious to even admit, but I move into holiday season with a little bit of dread mixed in with the jolly ho-ho-ho's. It seems so overwhelmingly impossible to get it all done in a few short weeks. I have hit my wall early this year.

Breaking through the walls of life demands more than we can possibly give. It's at that point, when we are super-fatigued and running on empty, that God steps in and does it for us. When we are not able to take one more step, God carries us to the finish line.

I may not be able to run a marathon like my daughter (or, who knows? maybe I can!), but I know I can depend on a God who loves me enough to carry me to Himself, if I allow Him to refresh me and remind me that I'm not in this race alone.

"I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing." 2 Timothy 4:7-8

Gastropods

2011-11-08T07:14:00.000-05:00

My only real serious contact with a gastropod has been in a restaurant. My parents used to dress us up occasionally and take us to a gourmet supper club in Chicago called "The Whitehall". Mental snapshots come to mind of crisp linen tablecloths, waiters with white towels draped over their forearms, and me, a 10-year-old, confidently ordering Escargots a la Bourguignonne. Outside of snails floating in butter and garlic, I never have given them much thought.

In fact, before I read The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating, by Elisabeth Tova Bailey, I might have stepped on this little slug, making its way s-l-o-w-l-y down my driveway on a carpet of slime. But after devouring this little book about the lowly gastropod, I was thoroughly enchanted.

Some little-known facts:

They have 2,640 teeth, 80 rows of 33 teeth per row, which regenerate every 6-8 weeks!
Their tentacles are equipped with eyes that retract. (so sci-fi!)
They live in silence. They have no ears. They 'hear' with their eyes.
Their slime is their 'soul' and the medium for all things gastropod--locomotion, courting, mating, protection.

And, it goes without saying, they are s...l...o...w... In fact, the reason the author became such an expert on snails is that her own life slowed down almost to a complete halt when she was diagnosed in her early 30's with a rare disease that left her bedridden for years. Her main source of distraction was observing a small snail that one of her visitors had planted on some violets that she brought for her.

When I think what I was doing in my 20's and 30's, the mental snapshots come back a little blurry. My pace was the speed of light--rushing from one thing to the next, priding myself on multitasking-to-the-max. The thought of being bedridden, content with watching snails slime their way up a leaf just doesn't compute.

Slowness is so contrary to my nature--if anything is worth doing, it's worth doing FAST. And yet, from God's point of view, slowness is not a negative attribute. In fact, we 'hear' God best when we slow ourselves down and listen for that almost undetectable sound of Him moving through our thoughts, our memories, and our dreams.

I regard snails, even slugs, with a little more respect now. (But that falls short of promising never to eat Escargots a la Bourguignonne again.)

"The Lord is not slow in keeping His promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance." 2 Peter 3:7

Morning Mist

2011-10-26T07:53:00.002-04:00

Tuscany, Italy. If you have ever had the good fortune to visit it, you probably fell in love with it, like I did. The miles and miles of rolling hills, covered with vineyards, olive groves, and iconic Italian cypress trees are punctuated with ancient walled cities that poke out of the rolling landscape.

Colors burst from every nook and cranny, and I tried to document and freeze each dazzling moment. The morning mist that hung over the mountains softened and hushed the vistas, captivating me with its beauty. The sunlight on the pastures and buildings and flowers spoke to me in ways that didn't attract my attention when I backpacked through Europe in my early 20's.

There's been a lot of water under the bridge since then. It seems a lifetime ago, almost like my trip to Tuscany, which was only a few days ago. It's over, and all I have to prove I was there are my memories and my photos. As I ponder crossing the 'midline' of my life, I try to fast forward myself and imagine what I will feel like when it is ALL behind me--no more possibilities for travel or adventure or love looming in the distance.

Life at times moves so swiftly you barely have time to take a breath. Life at times moves so slowly you cry out in anguish for someone to put you out of your misery. God, however, lives outside of time and memory. From His perspective, all is now: the present, the past and the future. And that includes my present. my past. my future.

Thankfully, only God knows what the future holds for me and leads me into it step by step. But more than that, He doesn't hold the sins of my past against me. Those memories have a paralyzing effect on me and prevent me from enjoying all that God has for me today. God, however, in His grace and mercy, promises to sweep them away like the morning mist and leave the dazzling sunshine in its wake.

And that's a place I can't wait to visit.

"I have swept away your offenses like a cloud, your sins like the morning mist. Return to me, for I have redeemed you." Isaiah 44:22