Blog Archives
Stacks of Unspoken Words
I look around my home and see the stacks and piles. Stacks and piles of things. Mail sits on the end of the black granite countertop. Leaning precariously, as though anticipating that it will slide to the floor, unopened. Stacks of books. Not neatly stacked. Just stacked. Waiting to be finished. Or started. Or just waiting to find a permanent spot on the bookshelf. And then, there’s the dust. The dust colors everything like a winter fog. Dulls those things around me. The dust, piling up, particle by particle, on everything, not left by anyone, but just settling there. I notice it, even if no one else does. But I’m sure they do.
Mom would have. She noticed everything. Everything that wasn’t put away. Every mess. Everything I never finished. Every crumb left on the counter after making toast. Every sock hiding under my bed. She noticed the things.
But somehow, she never noticed me. The scars. The pain. The loneliness. The heartaches of a young girl growing up. Or, maybe she did but she just didn’t know how to catch her daughter’s tears. Maybe she just didn’t have the words. Maybe she couldn’t help me heal because she had never healed herself.
Despite her flaws, I loved her, as little girls love their mothers. And, I miss her, even after all these years. Today, if she were here, I would sit down with her and gently ask her why she couldn’t be there for me when I needed her most. Why I needed to look elsewhere in my life for shelter from the storms. And, I would look into her eyes and seek to know her heart.
And, I would tell her that it was okay–that I had found comfort in the loving arms of my heavenly Father. I would tell her that despite the stacks of unspoken words and unopened hearts and the grey haze that dulled our relationship, that love prevailed.
In my home, the dust on the hearth piles up, the mail sits unopened on the counter, and the books sit patiently for shelves or pages to be turned. And, I try not to notice socks hiding under beds or crumbs gathering around the toaster’s edge. They remind me of the piles and stacks of words unspoken in my childhood home.
And, so, instead of tidying up the house, I look into the eyes of my children, searching for their hearts. I hope they know that I notice them–every aspect of them. Every tear. Every heartbreak. Every moment of loneliness. And, I hope they know that their tears, and heartbreaks, and loneliness are mine, too.
Today, I hope that the piles and stacks for things go unnoticed–at least for one more day.
My Tattered Clothes Remain
The alarm sounds and I reach over to find my husband still sleeping. “Wake up, you leave today. . . I miss you already.” We linger, holding that one last hug before we set the day in motion. I pray, “God, cover him as he travels this week,” and I rest in his arms another minute.
We stumble around in the morning light. Our usual morning routine disrupted by this early morning flight. Two showers. Breakfast. Last minute packing. Snacks. Passport. Hanging clothes. Book. We are ungraceful and the clock says it is time to leave–well past the time to leave. Forgotten items send us scurrying. And the peaceful moments we savored just before we slid out of bed become a distant memory.
We head out the door later than planned. And rain–torrential–slows our pace further. Traffic. Brake lights. A bumper-to-bumper parade going nowhere. I note that we missed every light. Why is it when I’m late that the lights are all red? And why not bring up more negative things to pile on to the morning stress. . .
Why is it that, when things are what they are–things I can’t change–I make them worse? I thrive on the negative and create more stress. Instead of savoring the last hour I get to spend with my loving husband, I squander it with my ugly side. Why don’t I just shrug things off and laugh about them? And then I think:
“All that makes Him precious and dear to the Father has been transferred to me. His excellency and glory are seen as if they were mine; and I receive the love, and the fellowship, and the glory, as if I had earned them all.” –Horatius Bonar, The Everlasting Righteousness.
This morning I haven’t earned them all, that’s for sure. I’m grateful I don’t have to. And, I’m certain the way I’m behaving isn’t what Bonar was talking about with respect to the things that make Christ precious and dear to the Father. I imagine God, in a parental stance, arms folded, saying those things parents say to children when they over react–those things I’ve said to my only children so many times.
Yet, I am loved by the Father, even when I am clothed in the ugly. In my tattered “clothes,” I feel ashamed. Deep sadness for this foolishness. Deeper sadness that I haven’t poured out Christ’s love on my husband.
I breathe in God’s grace and forgiveness. The words spill out, “I’m so sorry. I wanted to take you to the airport so that I could spend this last hour with you. . . . And now, look what I’ve done. . . . Please forgive me.“ I see a glimmer of God’s grace and mercy and love trickle down on us. We travel in silence the rest of the way to the airport.
We remain wounded by the morning, but I know we will heal like we have so many times before. We say our good-byes and I-love-yous, and I slowly pull away from the curb, reminding myself that “All that makes Him precious and dear to the Father has been transferred to me [and my husband].”
My tattered clothes remain, but the gift of the Father’s love and the promise of the cross, is transforming me one tiny thread at a time.
The Arrival of Hope
I wake in the darkness. The house is still. Only the sound of the furnace kicking on and the light tap of rain on the roof. I find comfort, as I reach my right arm over the covers and find my husband resting peacefully beside me. I find comfort, knowing that my two young adult children are home for the holidays.
Quietly, I slip out of bed, fumbling for my glasses. It’s cold, but I tiptoe out to the family room for my morning quiet time.
This time of year, we wake in the darkness and go to bed in the darkness. The days are short. I think, I’m not fond of winter. I don’t like the darkness. In the darkness I am alone, even when others are near. In the darkness I know only fear. Isolation. Lack of clarity. My mind races, listening, but not for the voice of hope. But overwhelmed by the sound of fear. And, I struggle to keep from drowning in the murky waters of the depths of darkness.
But then, the light creeps in. Light brings hope, like a hand, stretching out to me, lifting me from the depths. And I begin to see in creation the image and voice of the Creator. Small pink buds on the tree branches that sat naked and exposed all winter. The song of birds out my window singing His praises. And life is restored. My fear melts away like the snow and I am free from the clenches of darkness.
At least for now.
Living Authentic Lives.
I sat quietly on the blue couch with my word for the year, “live.” 5:30 am, January 1, 2011. A new day. A new year. A word that seemed to have great significance especially on the first day of the year.
I ask myself, how will I live for Christ today? I had no sooner breathed those words when my cell phone rang. 5:37 am and my 21 year-old son was calling. My heart felt as though it had stopped. That feeling of dread. A son who had been out all night. Who had driven to a new year’s party with a friend. Why was he calling me? At this hour? The “what ifs,” the thoughts of terrible things began to run through my head.
As I answered, I heard, “Mom, everything’s okay, but I need you to come get me.” –Funny how even my son knew that a call at this hour would worry me. He knew those were the words I needed to hear first.
“Are you okay? Where are you? And, where’s your car?” I asked. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just cold. And my car,well, I can’t find it. That’s why I need you to come and get me.”
And so, the story unfolded. He went with a friend to a small party in an area of town where she grew up–and area that my son didn’t know. They parked the car and went into the house. A few hours later, the group walked to the house of another friend–several blocks away. Here, they saw the new year in and some of these young adults–most who lived in the neighborhood–drank a little too much.
As the party began to break up around 3:30 am, my son realized that a few of these folks shouldn’t leave on their own, even though they were walking. So, sober and willing to help, my son pulled on his coat and hat, and walked a few of his friends safely home.
However, when he dropped of the last person and was ready to head home, he realized he had not paid attention when they had left the first house and walked to the second house. He only knew he had walked up a long hill to get to the second house and that he had walked several blocks.
So, for over an hour, in subfreezing weather, he walked the streets of NE Portland, looking for his car. He called his friend–who was asleep at the second house–for direction. No answer. He walked back to the second house and knocked. No answer. And, I’m sure he called a few more friends before he called me.
“I’m at the corner of Stuart and Alameda. How soon can you get here?” I turned on my GPS to see where I was headed, “20-25 minutes. Stay safe and warm. I’ll be there soon.”
And so, as I drove to get my son, I thought of my word — live — and I thought about my son. I thought about how his fun evening–catching up with friends home from college for the holiday, bringing in the new year–had turned into a morning of fatigue, and a feeling of helplessness and, perhaps, foolishness. I thought about how he must feel standing alone on a dark street in freezing weather, surrounded by homes, yet all alone.
And, I thought about how desperately I just wanted to be there to help him.
This moment reflected what it means to live in relationship with others. How necessary it is that we spend time in relationship with others. That we look out for those God has placed before us. And, that we learn to lean on others, even when we are ashamed or embarrassed.
As I pulled up to the corner of Stuart and Alameda, I saw my son’s dark figure standing in the fog. He jogged over to the car and slid into the seat next to me. “Thank you, mom,” he said, with eyes of gratitude. “You’re welcome. Let’s find your car so you can go home and get some sleep.”
That afternoon we laughed about how he had lost his car in the middle of a city neighborhood. But, it made me think about how lost and lonely we can all feel even when we are surrounded by others.
Being surrounded by others is not enough. To live in relationship we need to be purposeful and authentic. We need to engage others, let down our guard, listen, lean, love. We need to live authentic lives loving others.
Christ showed us that model. He showed us that authentic love gives hope.
“Clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts. . . And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.” — Colossians 3:12-15, 17.
Nourishing My Soul with God’s Word
I headed out for my morning run. Beautiful, cool, October day. Sun at my back and a light breeze on my face. I felt inspired to find myself running again this past month. Until last month, I had let my running shoes lay idle for too many months, for too many years. I had forgotten how it renewed me. Helped me reflect on my day. To find time to talk to God. And, to enjoy the beauty of creation.
But, as I rounded the corner to the next street I felt a sudden pain in my left ankle. Pain enough to have to stop. No twisting or turning of my ankle. Just pain. I walked home the half mile or so, admonishing myself for not stretching enough, praying it was only a minor strain and that I would be back on the road again soon.
It’s been a few months now and I haven’t been back on the road again. And, I don’t know yet when I will. But I smile and think that, somehow, God had His hand in this. Somehow, my desire to run again, to work towards running a half marathon — even a full marathon–was not part of God’s plan. At least for now.
The road He has taken me down instead, has been transforming. A stress fracture in my left leg just above the ankle, has led to the discovery of a variety of health issues, and, in turn, lots of reading and research. To learn. To understand the underlying causes — not just the treatment. And, ultimately, the decision to eat a plant-based and whole-grain-only diet.
My disappointment about not being able to run has subsided. In its place, I find peace. Peace that this is a life change — a direction — that has bigger implications than I know. That this is what I need to be doing now so that I can live a full life, as God intended.
Eating only fruits, vegetables, legumes, and whole grains–and eliminating all meat, seafood, dairy products, processed foods, and refined sugar and grains–has been easier than I ever imagined. While I would never advocate a particular diet for everyone else, I feel blessed on this diet. For the first time, I see food as nourishment and healing for my body–not as a quest to satisfy a craving or to give my senses momentary pleasure.
I pray that I will continue to see food as nourishment and healing. Not just of my body, but in my relationship with Christ. In spending less time on earthly things — on satisfying my cravings and momentary pleasure–and instead, “setting my heart on things above.” Colossians 3:1.
So, as I begin my journey into the new year, I journey towards Christ — to learn what life Christ wants me to live. My running shoes still lay idle in my closet. And, my soul is not nourished by being out running on the road. Instead, I find nourishment and healing in food. And, I find nourishment and healing seeking God in other places and reading His word. And, I am reminded “not [to] worry about [my] life, what [I] will eat or drink.” Because “life [is] more important than food, and the body more important than clothes.” Matthew 6:25.
I am blessed. I have peace. I have hope. God nourishes my soul.
Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you. . . Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. — Matthew 6:33.
