Surrendering to Sabbath – Week 11

March 22, 2013 by 14 Comments

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I’m starting to believe that the walls and interruptions of life are where Jesus anchors us, where He hides the surprise.  And I’m leaning on a few, catching my breath, and waiting.

Because I don’t want to hide the eggs first, plan for new birth and miss the wonder of resurrection.

Every moment is a gift, even when it’s disguised as an interruption.

As I walk these last days of Lent, I’m scaling the wall at a slant, stepping away from my normal schedule of posting. Praying I’ll see the world a bit larger when I come back. Because right now, it feels like a wool sweater that accidentally got mixed in with the pile of whites.

May your Palm Sunday mark a season of expectancy that fits just right. And enjoy your Sabbath.

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Some favorites I read this week:

Delays, Disruptions, and History by Mark Buchanan

The Morning After by Kelli Woodford

What to Do When Your Story Scares You by Jeremy Statton at Prodigal Magazine

After Steubenville: 25 Things Our Sons Need to Know About Manhood by Ann Voskamp

Naked And . . . Well . . . Naked by Deidra Riggs

Elizabeth Gilbert: Your Elusive Creative Genius

And from a Sabbath sister Cheryl Smith:  It’s Time to Do Something About My Social Media Addiction 

If you would like to join me in studying Wonderstruck by Margaret Feinberg, I’m co-hosting a book club  with Duane Scott beginning April 3. We’re taking two chapters at a time, engaging in discussion on my Redemptions Beauty Book Club page and offering an opportunity for bloggers to link their posts on discovering the wonder of God.

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Letting Go of Measuring Up

October 11, 2012 by 23 Comments

I furiously flit from room to room; collect hair ties, dirty socks, armfuls of shoes, pens and papers lying on the coffee table.  Frustration finds space up to my eyebrows over the time it takes to clear messes before the cleaning crew arrives. That’s when I know things are out of whack.

“What is wrong with you,” I say out loud to myself. “You should be thankful you have people to clean.”

And every time I enter another room, I see the sign visible only to my eyes that reads FAILURE.

Every closet fills with piles of I’ll get to that later and maybe we’ll just donate that now that the receipt dates three months ago. I’m wondering why I can’t seem to stay on top of things.

I answer the door of broom handles and buckets and she laughs at my bare face and wet hair. “Did you get your shower before we came,” she grins.  I tell her there aren’t any clean sheets for the beds. They are still in the laundry basket on the dryer, from when I stripped their beds two weeks ago.

Later, a man in a plaid flannel shirt and faded ball cap knocks on the screen door over the whir of vacuums.  He asks me about the dead tree in my front yard. Says he can cut it down, trim all my hedges and clean out my gutters too.  For a fee.

I peer around him to get a look at the washed out pickup idling on the curb with two others seated in the cab. I’m grateful he stopped by; I was planning to call someone. However, I’m seeing that sign nailed to the tree – FAILURE – over what I’ve let go, so wild and spindly in my front yard.

I want to tell him I’ve divorced gardening to marry writing, but instead, I tell him I do all the trimming myself, I’m just a bit behind. But the gutters grow tree sprigs and that skyscraper pine that sways in a light breeze, gnarly dead at the top, its waiting for a strong storm to do some damage. Like my emotions brewing inside.

The whole list of failures goes outside to my back porch, perched on a wicker chair, feet stretched out on another. I close my eyes and tell him, “Lord I don’t want my writing to be about productivity, my prayers to be about asking. I want to let go of all the ways I think I’m not measuring up. Of all the ways I find identity outside of you.”

 

My shoulders droop, legs melt into the chair and I hear the scratch of the squirrel on bark, woodpecker nailing into the tree, ducks squawking in the distance and the chirp of a cricket humming background melody.

And I realize, I never noticed the sound of crickets in the daylight hours before.

Do you measure your worth by what you do, instead of who you are like I do sometimes? Perhaps we can let go of measuring up together?

This is the eleventh post in the series 31 Days of Letting Go. You can read the collective here. If you are a writer, I invite you to link up any post you’ve written on the theme of letting go in the comments here on Friday. Subscribe to receive the series in your inbox or feed by adding your address in the side bar under Follow Redemptions Beauty.

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When You Forget Who You Are

April 30, 2012 by 77 Comments

The rhythmic lap of water on sandy shore outside my window calls to me. I close my blurry eyes, hear the sqauwk of duck flying overhead and pretend I lay in bed drenched in early morning glow peeking shy underneath the window shade swinging back and forth in the breeze.

My mind travels there when life feels uncertain and answers hide. It’s a mental escape to the family cottage on a lake of glass, where generations of laughter wallpapers rooms and musty reminds me of joy.

It’s been weeks of sitting in medicinal waiting rooms next to my son like a boat adrift on glassy water reflecting incandescent sunrise.  We’re waiting to knock into shore, awaken with answers.

Sometimes life forces a rest, an interruption from busyness, in order to resurrect perspective, remember who we are.  Because who we are, it isn’t what we do.

I sit on white vinyl bench beside the potted tree in the pharmacy of locals, chat with the woman who asks me if I am cold, as she wraps sweater around her shoulders and compliments my hat, the one I bought for my trip to England.

The pharmacist and I, we talk about how my grandfather used to fill prescriptions behind a high counter like his; right after the man they know by name says he celebrates fifty-four years of marriage and it’s been a good ride.

Oddly, these minute conversations remind me of who I am like wiping off a mirror in a steamy bathroom to see myself.

While we wait for answers to why my son breathes shallow and arms dangle limp, I collect words from others like postcards to remember truth, in books, on blogs, on my own sites.

But in the collecting, my mind muddles in the eloquence of others and the numbers in the box labeled Feedburner. I compare my refrigerator of leftovers and lactose free milk with their rich desserts and party trays.

Shame waves her bony finger index finger of accusation over the list of things I must do. While rest, it whispers truth loud.

That Jesus doesn’t love me less if my stomach is flabby, or my hair turns gray. His love isn’t dependent on the amount of friends, followers, views and comments I get, or don’t.  He doesn’t love me more if my house is tidy and I make banana bread for my kids. He doesn’t love me more if I volunteer at the school and church; love me less if I don’t. His love is steady and sure even when that of my own parents is not.

I trade those post cards to walk with Jesus. My arm looped through his, under a canopy of trees on a clear day, and beside the vast expanse of seawater, where the breeze whispers peace.

I know His voice because I walked with him when my fingers wrapped around his thumb and my doll drug the floor in the other hand. We walked arm and arm through the prayers gardens of college by day, sat cross-legged on a grassy hill above city lights at night.

And like the Ethiopian eunuch intersecting with Philip on the dusty road of busyness, Jesus shows up at just the right time to remind me of who I am in the slowing down of forced stillness. Baptizes me in the truth and puts me back on the road pointing toward home. (Acts 8:26-40)

Have you lost your way in busyness? It’s time to stop and remember who you are.

It’s time to count the Multitudes on Monday, this way in which we give thank and see differently. I give thanks for:

  •  a husband who tells me the truth, continually
  • the lavender roses he brought home from work
  • a shopping trip in preparation to celebrate our 22nd anniversary in Europe this week
  • a mother in law, the nurse, who makes her way here on Tuesday, to spend May with us
  • dinner with girlfriends at a new restaurant where the food made us say yum over and over again
  •  my son who makes me laugh every day, even when he is not feeling the best
  • for the prayers of friends and family all over the world for him as we wait to understand what makes him feel so tired.
  • the way we all thought about Winston around the dinner table last night, how much we still miss him.

Linking with Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday, Playdates with God, Miscellany Monday, Just Write, On Your Heart Tuesday, Soli Deo Gloria.

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