Geese, Girlfriends and Graceful Gifts

September 7, 2012 by 49 Comments

It was the serendipity of it all. The way I wrote about the geese collecting outside my cottage window after a storm and then she commented about the book she was reading.  “But this reminds me of that book, and of how little in life goes the way we had planned, and how opening yourself up is the best way of all…” Deidra said.

It was like threading a bead on the necklace of moments with His imprint attached. I wore the words around my neck for days.

Life’s dealt a bevy of disappointments over the past year. Dreams swirl down the drain in the turned backs of the faithful, leaving fragments of soapy bubbles clinging the sides of the sink. And I think about her words. How little in life goes the way we plan, but opening yourself up is the best way of all.

I’m practicing this like a daily sacrament at the altar.

I step into the musty smell of floor to ceiling paperbacks, ask the saleslady with the fuschia lips if they have that book, the one that sparked the comment thread. She tells me it shows up on the computer that they have one copy. It’s not on the shelf. We scour the back of the store, the middle, the back room. Nothing.

She puts me on the list, in case someone brings in a used copy.

And as I place my stack on the counter, behind the tourist with the ponytail and Coppertone perfume, the saleslady holds up the book I was looking for, in the tourist’s stack. “Is this the one you were looking for,” she smiles over the top of our heads.

It’s why we couldn’t find it, it was already on the counter waiting to go home with someone else.

The tourist turns to me and says, “Here you can have it.”

No, I tell her shaking my head. You take it, I have plenty to read.

She insists, pushing the book into my hands. And I take it. Tell her its my birthday and I’ll consider her kindness as a gift. Her children sigh in unison, like their getting a gift too.

And that graceful gesture of a stranger, it was like the play of kindness acted out for an audience of strangers, Jesus in the leading role. That saleslady, she remembers it in her eyes, every time I go to the store.

Because little in life goes the way we plan, but opening yourself up is the best way of all. You never know what the kindness of Jesus might look like on you today.

Joining the Five Minute Friday community with the one word prompt: Graceful. Let’s be honest, it was a tad over five minutes for me today.

 

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The Truth About Friendship Poverty

August 10, 2012 by 31 Comments

When you unplug from the world for two weeks to connect with the ones you pushed into the world and the man who vows to do life with you forever, you wonder if everyone else will forget about you.  Will two weeks of silence with the outside world mean your essence will evaporate into a distant memory for all the others?

The sun still sleeps and I’m lying in bed with my eyes open, thinking about this day, my birthday. We’re in a season of friendship poverty.  The kind that laughs tears, knows what you did yesterday, finishes sentences, reads your sadness without needing words and brings you a latte in the middle of the day.

It’s okay, He told me it would be this way for a while. But I’m preparing for the silence on a day when there should be confetti and noise blowers and cake crumbs laying all over the coffee table.

He asks me the same question I’ve written about all week, the one that echoes over dirty dishes, grocery carts and cut flowers. “What do you want me to do for you . .  on your birthday,” Jesus asks.

I want to know your presence, feel you with me today in a tangible way, I tell him. Because is there a better birthday gift than this?

He answers in phone calls from voices I haven’t heard in months, random conversations with strangers in Ann Taylor Loft and the used bookstore. In text messages about taking walks, emails from distant relatives, and over 100 birthday wishes from friends far away.

And when I end my day couched among gift bags, crumpled tissue paper and the ones that own my heart, I close my eyes and thank Him for the way He connected with me.  Because in friendship poverty comes the realization that He’s the best friend you’ll ever have. He finishes all my sentences.

This post is a bit of an uneditted continuation of posts inspired by the Circle Maker by Mark Batterson posted on Monday and Wednesday.

Linking with Lisa-Jo for Five Minute Friday with the one word prompt: Connect and with Michelle for Graceful Summer.

 

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When You Aren’t Ready To Answer

August 6, 2012 by 34 Comments

The earth’s cheeks sink in for lack of water. Dust lies on luxuriant branches waiting to breathe again. It’s a glimpse of the world absent of her wildflowers. Colors of waving joy faded to sepia while He withholds water and we wait in shallow breathe. Perhaps it’s a living mural of how a soul turns cracked and dried up without living water.

I’m walking along this cottage road in Ontario, Canada I’ve travelled consecutive years of summers. Her gravel chest knows the shape of my feet, tall branches blink leafy eyelash at the crown of my head.  I’m missing her color-strewn side arms. The way spikes of lavender and gold wave above tall grass and blooming weeds.

The family table misses the vase holding the bouquet from her arms this year.

Docks sit idle empty in water to ankles of steel while boats anchor far from shore. Corn chews tasteless on the cob and beans string skinny.  And when a chipmunk scurries across the road, stopping suddenly for a portrait, I hear Him ask the same question he asks the blind men sitting on the roadside when he passes by, “What do you want me to do for you.” Matthew 29:32

I read this question from the Circle Maker by Mark Batterson earlier in the week. It echoes now among the stillness of familiar path. He’s asking me the question directly and I’m feeling like an unprepared contestant on Jeopardy, not ready to respond.

Because this is about more than the need for rain to satiate thirst, it’s about vague prayers and squelched expectancy when it comes to dreams for the future.  My dreams and desires; the result of the perimeters of my own capabilities. He’s asking me to be specific, to trade my impotence for his omnipotence.

How will you respond when He asks, “What do you want me to do for you?”

Like the two blind men calling out to Jesus on the roadside, I’m asking Him to help me see. Open blind places of the heart to dream. Glorify Him beyond the rooms I’ve created in the house of circumstance.

Batterson describes it this way: “Most of us don’t get what we want simply because we don’t know what we want. We’ve never circled any of God’s promises . . . our dreams are as nebulous as cumulus clouds.”

Do you know what you want?

Lone voices echo from inside cottages, like pine cones crashing to the ground on an icy winter day. The wail of a child’s cry bounces off tall pines. And those of us enjoying the stillness of morning, we’re unprepared for the fury of what comes hours later.

He answers pleading prayers on the shore of floating clouds in a way unexpected, illustrating truth I hope never to forget.

Please join me for the continuation of this story on Wednesday.

Counting gifts with Ann today:  

  • For Ontario peaches and cream for breakfast.
  • The way Harrison’s heart soars when he gets on the kneeboard behind the boat.
  • The call of the loon outside our bedroom window to welcome us back on our first day of vacation.
  • A flock of geese, larger than I’ve ever seen, floating by at first morning glance out the window.
  • How everyone wants to go for our first grocery shopping trip in Killaloe, even the kids.
  • Because eating food you don’t get at home is such a treat.
  • Sitting outside in the gazebo for dinner, watching the sun set over the lake.
  • Red Rose tea, cheese curds and milk in a bag.
  • The way I made everyone laugh trying to act out the word skateboard during a family game of Cranium.

Linking with these friends too: Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday, Playdates with God, Soli Deo Gloria, Just Write.

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What Cannot Be Explained

August 2, 2012 by 16 Comments

We’re taking grains of sand into our palms and turning them into pearls of remembrance.

The way a bluejay flies from branch to branch beside the road where I take morning walks. As if he is the tour guide leading the way, whistling about the sights.

The way a rabbit hops from hidden brush, turns around to look at me, and skips along as if he picks up the nature tour where the bird leaves off.

The way a flock of Canadian geese fly perfectly spaced over the surface of the lake, as if someone held up a ruler.

The way my son leaves air between the wake and kneeboard while smiling joy, when he used to fall asleep in my arms as a toddler fearful of the boats rumble.

The way a chipmunk scuttles up to our shoes when we stop to look closer at a crowd of lily pads.

The way clams create a spiral sand masterpiece on the bottom of a glassy lake of still water.

The way blueberry pancakes taste better in Canada than they do at home.

When we accept what we cannot explain or understand, we’ve entered the way of faith, each moment  a brushstroke of miracle in the mural of life.

And in the very same way the Spirit long ago became manifest in the Body of Christ, the first cabbage rose began to materialize on my (cross stitched) tablecloth. From there I could envision the whole garden. ~The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver

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Why It’s Crickets Around Here

July 20, 2012 by 30 Comments

A lake is the landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is Earth’s eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.  The fluviatile trees next the shore are the slender eyelashes which fringe it, and the wooded hills and cliffs around are its overhanging brows.

~Henry David Thoreau, Walden

“We’re out of bread,” the store manager says with raised eyebrows. “It’s an anomaly. By 10:00am we were sold out of bread and that never happens.” It’s the third place I’ve been to looking for bread for our sandwiches for the road trip. I settle on Sara Lee instead of the bakery.

Today, I’ll spread wheat with egg salad and white with salmon and slather a few slices of doughy with peanut butter and Nutella for the boy who turns up his nose to the others.  Ginger snaps stack inside the Tupperware at the ready.

It’s a tradition, the food we eat on the 22 hours pushing pavement headed north. H’s mom loaded coolers with the same thing for him, when they drove from Phoenix to the family cottage in Ontario, Canada.

I’ve cleaned out the refrigerator, done the laundry, sorted through the mail pile, trimmed and mulched the garden, watered the plants, and asked the neighbor to collect the mail. We got hair cuts, collected dry cleaning, scooped ice for the cooler, made doctor’s appointments and drove a third time to the grocery store.  Deleted photos off my camera and stacked InStyle and Real Simple next to Walking on Water in the passenger seat.  And I think we’re ready.  Right after I fill those little bottles and place them in the overnight bag that we’ll push through the Capital Hilton in Washington, DC about ten o’clock this evening.

The van loads with golf clubs, kneeboards, and suitcases full of swimsuits and suntan lotion and I’m noticing what we’re not taking this year.

No Lego’s, blocks, matchbox cars, polly pockets, fishing poles with plastic fish hanging off the end or Saddle Club DVD’s in the van.  Just American History text books, IPods, To Kill a Mockingbird and gum in the back seat.

And the biggest thing we’re not taking? Our faithful Golden Retriever we lost to cancer in January. Winston’s furry tail wagged in unbridled expecatation of chasing tennis balls, long swims, and quiet walks with us for eight summers. He even pranced through hotel lobbies and rode the elevator.

And while time spins her cyclone around us, we’re clicking our heels like Dorothy and returning to the Kansas of our soul. The place where the trees blink their eyelashes and we remember who we are in the reflection of still waters. The ”earth’s eye” will remember us, even if we have grown up a bit.

We’re going to dirt roads leading to ice cream under sun’s canopy and fire pits by starlight. The place where the arm of the internet isn’t quite long enough to grab onto our thoughts and the phone service is spotty. So, I’m officially unplugging here for two weeks.  And I’ll miss you.

I’m returning to sit in the lawn chair where I wrote my first blog post and had no idea how smitten I would be with the friendship of all of you. So, if I get out of my wet swimsuit long enough to make a run to the library where internet is a lazy resident, there might be a post here and there but I’ll be back on August 6 with regular posting. And while I’m away, I’ll be remembering you in my prayers. I hope you’ll do the same for me.

 If you’re new here, I’m so glad you stopped by and if you want to read more, below is a list of my top five most popular posts:

Surprised by Redemption

Because What You Don’t Know, Can Save Your Life

When Fear Take Over, Take Courage

When My Perception Isn’t Your Reality

Don’t Tell Me, Show Me

The winner of a copy of Grace for the Good Girl from yesterday’s post is Laura Hogelin, a first time commenter. Congratulations Laura!

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Because Imperfect is the Best Kind of Summer Vacation

June 4, 2012 by 66 Comments

“Do you like it here, would you ever want to come back,” H asks me laying on the bed while I look for my swimming suit in the suitcase. A breeze blows cool through the screen in the window moving the hem of my maternity dress. I look up at him and smile, “Yes, I want to come back.”

We’ve been married seven years and it’s my first trip to the family cottage in Ontario, Canada.  A blue shuttered sprawl with her back to the Bonnechere Provincial Park. She faces lavender sky of golden sunsets on a lake of glass, tucked under pines. Her left arm paddles river of sunbathing turtles on limbs of drowned trees. Boats, oars, and life vests lay strewn across her sandy lap.

H embraces summer’s freedom with his grandparents here as a child, where they still call him Sandy, though his hair mottles gray now. The dark paneled walls, mismatched furniture and silverware collect family stories for sixty years.

When mice scurry between our feet, hide under furniture, I scream.  His ninety-year old grandmother traps them on the kitchen counter looking for pie.

It’s twenty minutes to the nearest grocery store. They don’t stock natural peanut butter. However, they do sell warm sticky buns.

There is not cable television, internet access, or cell service.

These things, it’s why he asks me.

Every summer since becoming parents sixteen years ago, the cottage calls us back to join two generations. Two weeks of walks down a shady gravel road for an ice cream cone at the corner store.  To forget what a mirror looks like and wonder why we bother packing more than swimsuits.

Because sometimes you have to let go of the clock and all her to-do lists of expectation, to remember who you are – in God’s time.

Madeline L’Engle says, “In kairos (God’s time) we are completely unselfconscious, and yet paradoxically far more real than we can ever be when we are constantly checking our watches for chronological time.”

We shake off should and have-to and weary shoulders transform Cinderella.

Harrison learns how to walk, paddle a canoe, chop wood with an axe, catch frogs and ride a bike during those weeks. While Murielle stands up on ski’s, pulls fish from a pond, gets her ears pierced and finds out a frozen juice box is better than a popsicle.

Two years ago, Murielle’s namesake, her Great Grandmother Muriel, teaches me how to make a pie. Because we follow directions for years but her pies always, taste better.  Murielle decides to film it so we don’t miss a secret step.

We savor every succulent, blueberry spoonful of crusted sweetness washed down with decaf. Then watch stars fall in midnight sky by fire embers glowing like fireflies on still shores.

When grandmother goes to bed, we don’t realize it’s the last time we’ll break bread together, eat from the sweetness of her wise hands. She meets Jesus face to face during a sound sleep in her favorite place, after the satisfaction a good meal, seated around a table with the seed of her womb.

Her prayers linger now in the antique dishes in the china cabinet, on the plastic tablecloth around the picnic table in the gazebo, in the indented seat of the needlpoint chair next to the lamp.

And yes, I will go back again this summer. Because that place, its more than a vacation spot, it reminds me of who I am.

Do you have a special vacation spot or summer memory?

I’m joining the High Calling’s Community Writing Project on Summer Vacations hosted by Charity Singleton and Deidra Riggs.

Linking with Multitudes on Mondays, Playdates with God, Soli Deo Gloria, On Your Heart Tuesday, Just Write.

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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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