All That Is Within Me

Bless the LORD, O my soul,
   and all that is within me,
   bless his holy name!

Psalm 103:1, ESV

All? Bless the Lord with all that is within me?

My time, my talents, and all my little quirks: with these you ask me to declare that you are, and that you are good.

You ask me to love you with heart, soul, mind, and strength.

With my body, with all the senses you gave me, you call me to bear witness to your presence in this world.

Let my words be pleasing to you and healing to others. Allow my laughter to reflect your joy. Call songs of joy and lament from my mouth, even if they’re not always on key. Make me glad for the gift of joining my voice with those of others in worship, in affirmation, in questioning, and in confession.

Awake my ears to hear the heavens pouring forth speech. Allow me to recognize the song of the night cricket and of the child crying for comfort. When I hear fingers coaxing music from piano keys, remind me of your voice singing stars into creation.

Open my eyes to see beauty everywhere, in your word and in the world you formed by it; in the bright blue autumn sky and in the sun filtering through yellow leaves, in the geese flying in formation and in the red fox slinking through the yard. Allow me to see the vast, intricate, and varied beauty you have woven throughout all of creation. May I recognize your image in those who create and offer their gifts to the world. And when I see ugliness, remind me that you are making all things new.

Make my heart glad when I step out my front door and breathe in the scent of autumn leaves and of wood smoke ascending. When I catch a whiff of baby powder or the scent of Jergen’s, allow me to revel in the landscape of memory and the gift of those who come to mind.

Allow me to taste your goodness in the bread and the wine, and in the steaming delight of warm apple pie and the comfort of my morning coffee.

Use my hands as instruments of healing, reaching for the shoulder of one who is weary. Allow me to tap out words on a keyboard and text messages that encourage. Whether gripping a steering wheel or immersed in dishwater, use my hands to build your kingdom.

But all, Lord? How can I offer all that is within me when dark and ugly still linger deep, down inside? Fears. Doubts. Insecurity. Anger. Resentment. The baggage of life. How can I bless you with these things?

Give them to me.

Give them to me, because they are of no use to you. You can’t fix them; you can’t heal yourself of them. They will keep you from me, from coming to me and knowing of my deep delight in you.

Give them to me, all of them. Believe that I am the one who crowns your life with compassion, who redeems your life from the pit and heals all your diseases.

Give them to me.

Bless the LORD, O my soul,
   and all that is within me,
   bless his holy name!

Reflection on a scripture reading from The Relevant Conference. Linking with Michelle:

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

This is What a Bosom Friend Looks Like

Yes, I've been on the road forever, and no I haven't written a single sentence in that time. Today I just need to point you over to my friend Jodi @ Curious Acorn. You'll understand.

Heading home to the beloved Swede. Grace and peace to you all.

Precipice Trail

There are reasons visitors flock to New England in the fall.

When my children were young, Acadia National Park in Maine was the annual fall leaf-peeping destination for our family each Columbus Day weekend. As the only national park in New England, Acadia is consistently ranked as one of the top ten most visited national parks in the country. Acadia offers gorgeous views of rocky Maine coastline set against a stunning mix of evergreen and deciduous trees. The foliage in Acadia is usually at its peak of autumn color near Columbus Day, and the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows in the trees contrasting against the cool blues and grays of the shoreline entice visitors from all over the world.

My kids and me, circa 2000. Notice how our fleece jackets match the reds, greens, and yellows in the trees?

The park contains an extensive carriage road system which passes through stone-faced bridges, near waterfalls, streams, and hiking trails. My family and I are well-acquainted with many of the trails, having kicked over familiar granite surfaces multiple times throughout the years. The Beehive trail, a short climb up a granite cliff via ladders and iron rungs, became a family favorite. I remember the year my daughter pouted because I would only allow my husband to take her halfway up the trail, fearing it was too dangerous for her. By the time my kids were in high school, they scrambled up the Beehive as though they were mountain goats.

One year, the beloved Swede decided that the kids were ready to conquer Acadia’s Precipice Trail. Described as a strenuous hike climbing 1,000 feet up the face of Champlain Mountain, the trail requires the use of many iron rungs and ladders. Warning signs posted at the trailhead indicate that the route should be attempted only by hikers who are physically fit and have no fear of heights. The warnings state that, in order to reach some of the iron rungs, hikers should be at least five feet tall or else they will slip, fall and bounce their way down the granite cliff, becoming food for the endangered peregrine falcons which nest on Mount Champlain. Or something to that effect.

My son, who was nine years old at the time, may have measured all of four feet-ten the year the beloved Swede decided to conquer The Precipice Trail. He assured me our son would be fine; he was an experienced hiker. Besides, he told me, a friend of his had hiked the trail not long before and said it wasn’t that bad. The language on the warning signs, he told my husband, was just there on the advice of the park’s lawyers as protection against claims of liability.

Did I happen to mention my husband’s friend was a lawyer?

Not long into the hike, I began yelling at my husband, “I hate this trail! I hate your friend!” It had rained all night long before the morning of our hike, and do you know what is more slippery than wet granite? Not much. Each time I heard the slip of a foot or the crunch of gravel being kicked loose, I had visions of my children tumbling down the slick, granite rock face, plunging to certain death; all while under my supervision and with my consent.

We reached the summit of Mount Champlain where the wind, I was certain, was about to carry my four-foot, ten inch son off the mountain and away.

My husband wanted a picture of the kids and me enjoying the view from the top. Do I look like I’m enjoying the view?

Without a word, I turned and started making my way down the back side of Champlain. I wanted nothing more than to get off that summit. That blur of yellow behind the trail head sign is me heading for the car, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and the Precipice Trail.

During dinner that evening, my son asked, “Mom? Do you still love Daddy?”

I may have answered him something to the effect of, “I will always love your father. Now shut up and eat your buttered noodles.”

Despite the unpleasantness of the Precipice Trail hike and dinner that evening, we enjoyed a memorable weekend together. Thunder Hole--a rocky inlet which, when tide conditions are right, allows air and water to collide in an explosive crash--put on a spectacular show for us.

Just as the kids had decided they were done viewing Thunder Hole, my husband climbed up on some granite and asked us to pose for pictures. From his vantage point, he could see out what was out in the ocean and headed our way:

Believe me; the waters of the waters of the Atlantic along the coast of Maine can get pretty darned cold by Columbus Day weekend.

My kids are now grown, and my husband and I are together at home this Columbus Day. But I have photo albums filled with pictures and a heart full of memories of the fall weekends shared, through the years, with our children along the coast of Maine.

I will always love my children's daddy. And them.

(Click here for a video of Thunder Hole doing it's thing)

Sharing a Columbus Day playdate memory with Laura:

 

And with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Monday:

What Happens In Texas

Is it what you expected?

I was never quite sure how to answer the question. Throughout the weekend, several people asked whether or not the writing retreat was turning out to be what I had expected. Truth was, I hadn’t known what to expect.

I knew what I feared. I feared I would have to sit down in front of a blank piece of paper and try to write something that wouldn’t sound awful. I feared being surrounded by a circle of talented writers who would whip out their pens and bleed red all over my amateur efforts. I feared that the generous gift my husband had given me, investing in me as a writer wannabe, would turn out to be an unwise decision on his part.

So much of what happened at Laity Lodge, however, was neither what I feared nor expected. I didn’t expect that meeting so many for the first time would feel like a reunion of old friends. I was surprised to learn that a lovely, talented photographer from South Africa would, with a glimmer in her eye, dare to flip a colleague into the Frio River. I had no idea that a grown man with a frog puppet could move so many to tears.

Unlike many of the talented photographers present, I hadn’t packed a camera. The snapshots I took, I carried home with me in my head and my heart. With a fistbump, I was given honorary dude status. I was introduced to the best cookies one could make using four simple ingredients. During a workshop, I used the phrase “merry band of crazy.” (and am right here and now, on the internet, forevermore claiming intellectual property rights to those words) I was assigned a roommate who couldn’t promise she wouldn’t try to kill me in the middle of the night. I found people who get me.

We talked together, my writer friends and me, of our lives at home; and we wept and prayed together. I worshiped alongside a woman for whom I had prayed online. I had a meltdown in an art studio. Throughout the weekend, I received small affirmations. Before heading home, I was invited to consider pain as something to steward well.

Not real writer-ly stuff. Or maybe it was.

I’ve been reading all week, posts from others who participated in the retreat, and I keep thinking about how alike and different our experiences were. We shared in many of the same activities and broke bread together, but we’ve each come home with different stories in our back pockets. My kids’ high school youth group leader used to say that each kid who went on a mission trip had the exact trip God intended for him or for her to have. I think something like that happened at Laity Lodge last weekend.

I need to pause here and say, “Thank you,” to the beloved Swede for sending me to Texas last week, for believing enough in me to invest in me as a writer.  Truly, you are the lingonberries to my Swedish pancakes. As for return on investment, I’m not sure I come home to you a better writer. But I believe I’ve come home a better person.

And while what happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, the lessons of Laity Lodge, I believe, will continue to echo far beyond the walls of the Rio canyon. Even in the airport, as many of us were queuing in security lines, the conversation and the friendship continued. In an airport restaurant I shared a table with David before we went separate ways, he home to steward pain of his own.

Before leaving the restaurant, I happened upon Kathy, the artist-in-residence whose studio I’d fled in tears. She’d been wondering, she told me, what had happened as I sat surrounded by water colors and ink. We shared a table, and I was given the opportunity to fill her in on the rest of the story. I’d had a painful experience, I told her, but one I needed to have.

As it turns out, few things about the retreat were what I expected. And perhaps that’s the greatest lesson I brought home from Texas.

How to Grow Old, If You Really Must--Unbirthday Playdate

Linking with Laura, sharing a Playdate with God:



The plan for my birthday had been to spend the day giving things away. I've lived long and well, and there are few things I really need to make me happy. Besides, I figured handing gifts out to strangers would provide me with some good stories to tell.

Handing out presents was fun, and I had some laughs, but I found the real stories were elsewhere.

Ethel and Rock Star Diva arrived at my house early to begin our day at the beach. Along the way we stopped at Rock Star's childhood home, and the first gift of the day was getting to see the house that built her.

Our next stop was The Art Cafe.

There was coffee, and there was art.

We chose to skip the coffee and start the day with champagne instead. Then we looked around in the gallery and enjoyed the gift of watching little ones learning to make art, clipping their masterpieces to a clothesline to dry in the summer breeze.

The big project for the day was using making prints using real fish:

So grateful for the beauty of this place and all I had witnessed there, I left a favorite quote by Evelyn Underhill on the outdoor chalkboard:

Our next stop was the trailer owned by Rock Star Diva's sister. She calls it her tin can on the beach. For the joy of listening to the waves wash ashore each night, and in order to wake each morning to a view like this:

I would gladly spend my summer in a tin can, a shoebox--heck, even a port-a-john. The view was just that lovely, reaching all the way to Martha's Vineyard. On the beach, Ethel and I were introduced to many lovely people, one of whom had given the gift of a kidney to the sister who sat next to her on the sand.

I thought about how my friend had been blessed last summer, soaking up salt air, summer sun, love and prayer as she sat on her sister's deck overlooking the ocean while recovering from cancer treatment. This year I received the gift of sitting with her on that same deck, breathing in gratitude for God's healing work in her life.

The day ended at a local Rhode Island vineyard where we listened to a Beatles cover band named Abbey Rhode. Get it? Beatles cover band? Rhode Island? Their music was every bit as good as that joke.

But we raised our glasses and toasted our friendship, celebrating a day none of us wanted to see reach its end.

The celebration ended, or so I thought. As it turned out, my friends had taken me to the beach and to a Rhode Island vineyard merely as a ruse to distract me from finding out what they were really planning:

The next evening, at a local Connecticut vineyard, there was food, there was music; there were balloons, bubbles, and laughter. There were friends ranging in age from two to sixty:

There were friends I've watched grow from children into young adults, and I realized that one of the gifts of getting older is the joy of seeing God's faithfulness throughout the years in the lives of those whom I love:

Ethel made cupcakes and made magic, because that's just what she does. I encouraged all the little ones to be sure to eat at least three cupcakes. It was definitely a three-cupcake kind of night.

At the end of the evening, I gave away my last unbirthday gift to Lauri, who blogs at Living to Die Well.:

Lauri had left me a comment on my blog, telling me a story about an unbirthday gift she had given. And, as I've always said, tell me a story and I'll love your forever. (Okay, I've never actually said that but, to steal a line from Harrison Ford in Sabrina, it sounds like something I would say)

Lauri is a huge fan of the noble giraffe, and since I'd found this giraffe dress in a thrift store the day before I decided to declare her the first runner-up in my unbirthday give-away. I figured it was my contest so I could do whatever I wanted.

At the end of another perfect summer evening, (How many perfect summer evenings is one old, gray-haired woman entitled to enjoy?) I received a final gift from the hand of my loving Father:

Praise the LORD, my soul;
   all my inmost being, praise his holy name.
Praise the LORD, my soul,
   and forget not all his benefits—
who forgives all your sins
   and heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the pit
   and crowns you with love and compassion,
who satisfies your desires with good things
   so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.

 Psalm 103:1-5, NIV

Frolicking With the Leviathan--Playdate: Sea World

Killer whales make me cry.

Killer whales make me cry, not because they splash water all over me when they jump up or smack their tails. In one hundred and three-degree Texas heat, I welcomed the splashing.

Nor do I cry out of fear of the killer whale though, as their name suggests, they can be deadly.

I have seen the Shamu show at Sea World multiple times, and each time I see these creatures up close, I am moved to tears and applause. Each time, I am amazed that I am privileged to witness something so beautiful, powerful, and playful. Each time I wonder, “What was in the mind of God when he decided to make these?”

Recently I read again through the book of Job. After thirty-seven chapters about death, grief, sorrow, and open festering wounds scraped with pottery shards for relief, I came to the section in which God responds to Job’s questions. Demonstrating His power, might, and goodness, the Lord recounts the multitude of wonders He created. In The Message part of this account reads:

Can you find your way to where lightning is launched,
   or to the place from which the wind blows?
Who do you suppose carves canyons
   for the downpours of rain, and charts
   the route of thunderstorms
That bring water to unvisited fields,
   deserts no one ever lays eyes on,
Drenching the useless wastelands
   so they're carpeted with wildflowers and grass?
And who do you think is the father of rain and dew,
   the mother of ice and frost?
You don't for a minute imagine
   these marvels of weather just happen, do you? (Job 38:24-30)

As I was reading these words, I started seeing a great artist at work, playing creation into existence. I imagined God launching lightning and carving canyons. I thought, “This sounds like the story of creation as a poem.” Then I read Eugene Peterson’s comment on this passage. He said, “. . . this is a poetic account of the Creation of the world in contrast to Genesis 1, which is a narrative account.”

It’s a good day when I find myself thinking like Eugene Peterson—makes me feel like I’ve got some pretty sound theological chops.

A few chapters later, the Lord describes the mighty leviathan. No one knows for sure what creature is being described, but I like to think that Leviathan was Shamu’s name before it was changed when he came to the States. The Lord asked Job:

Or can you pull in the sea beast, Leviathan, with a fly rod and stuff him in your creel?
Can you lasso him with a rope,
   or snag him with an anchor?
Will he beg you over and over for mercy,
   or flatter you with flowery speech?
Will he apply for a job with you
   to run errands and serve you the rest of your life?
Will you play with him as if he were a pet goldfish?
   Will you make him the mascot of the neighborhood children?
Will you put him on display in the market
   and have shoppers haggle over the price?
Could you shoot him full of arrows like a pin cushion,
   or drive harpoons into his huge head?
If you so much as lay a hand on him,
   you won't live to tell the story.
What hope would you have with such a creature?
   Why, one look at him would do you in!
If you can't hold your own against his glowering visage,
   how, then, do you expect to stand up to me?
Who could confront me and get by with it?
   I'm in charge of all this—I run this universe! (Job 41:1-11)

I watch the playfulness of the mighty killer whale, and I am struck by the combination of both beauty and strength. I imagine God’s delight in creating him. When I see the leviathan leap and clap my hands for joy, shedding tears at his sheer beauty, I imagine my heavenly Father’s pleasure. I can almost hear Him asking, “Did you like that? I made him for you. I was happy to do it.”

The One who runs the universe, the One who sang the stars into existence, gave me a glimpse of both the beauty and power of His creation. At present, that creation is in rebellion and dangerous. But watching Shamu was a fun reminder that one day, the lion will lie down with the lamb and all God’s creatures will play together.

And the mighty leviathan will be my friend.

Joining Laura:

And the sisterhood:

Taking Time to Smell the Lilacs

Not long ago, my sister asked me, “Didn’t it seem like when we were kids, lilacs bloomed all summer long?” I knew immediately what she meant and agreed wholeheartedly with her. When I was a child, summers were long and rich and good, and lilacs were always present in them. I never stopped to notice them; I never made a point of drinking in their fragrance. Their scent simply hung in the air, perfumed the sky, and took up residence somewhere in my treasure chest of sweet childhood memories. As a child, I had no sense of the comings and goings of the lilacs in my neighborhood; they were just there.

I remember, the summer after I graduated from college, walking past a bank of flowering lilac bushes growing near the parking lot of my apartment building. I think I smelled them before I ever even saw them. One whiff and I was again a knobby-kneed, freckle-faced girl standing barefooted in her mother’s backyard.  I buried my face in those blossoms and inhaled the sweet smell of childhood summer. Not knowing to whom those bushes belonged I clipped a few fragrant blossoms, took them to my apartment, and placed them in a mason jar filled with water. Some days later, after the first flowers had faded, I went back to help myself to some fresh blooms. Where once lavender blossoms had flourished, I found only rusted and shriveled remains. It was the first time in my life I realized that lilacs didn’t last all summer long.

Childhood goes by much too quickly, both our own and those of our children. One day is filled with the scent of lilacs and the carefree joy of running barefooted through a backyard sprinkler, stopping only to eat watermelon and allowing its juicy sweetness to drip down one’s arms. The next day, it seems graduation caps and gowns are packed away and there are student loans to be paid off, car repairs to be taken care of, and dear ones moving in and out of each others' lives. We move on, leave things behind, and accept responsibility. We witness decline and decay. We see life as it really is. We get busy, too busy at times to stop and smell the lilacs. Some of us become wounded, weary, and cynical.

We grow up.

And growing up is a good thing; it is one of the main objectives in life and far better than its alternative. We were not created to remain children forever. Responsibility is a virtue, one which parents try very hard to instill in their children. In the book of Ephesians, chapter four, Paul urged his beloved congregation to live a life worthy of their calling, to become mature—attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ. Then, he said, they would no longer be infants in their thinking.

And yet Jesus said:

Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth; anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it. Mark 10:14, 15 NIV

So what was Jesus saying when he declared that we need to receive the kingdom of God like a little child? Yesterday’s sermon suggested that followers of Jesus need both to become like little children and to grow up to maturity. Our pastor said,

As we grow older and more mature in our faith, paradoxically we become more childlike, recognizing our utter helplessness and dependence on God.

So many of the good things I remember from my childhood came to me not through my efforts; I can take no responsibility for them. I didn’t plant those lilac bushes. They were simply there. Gifts.

As I’ve grown and tried to accept the duties of adult life, I’ve often made the mistake of thinking that the responsibilities of faithful Christian living lay solely on me. These last few years have been ones of seeing how easily my plans can be frustrated and of realizing how futile, sometimes, my efforts can be. I have had to cast myself, childlike, before my Father and confess, “I don’t know what to do.” These have been years of re-learning this child-like dependence, of recognizing that every good gift is from above.

Looking for and counting those gifts has been a beautiful part of my re-learning process. And as soon as I post this week’s gratitude list, I’m going to go outside, bury my face in my lilac bushes, and inhale their fragrance into my lungs. Because lilacs don’t last all summer--at least not on this side of eternity.

Joining with Michelle and with Ann:

 

878. Ummmm.....

(Oh, if only you could crawl through your computer screen and smell them!)

879. Good conversation.

880. Successful driving test.

881. Graduates--Lord, keep them in childlike dependence on you!

882. College student/friend moving in and bringing joy to empty rooms.

883. Brothers and sisters in Christ.

884. God hears and answers prayer.

885. Mother's Day tea to support mission team.

886. Sitting outside enjoying a Mother's Day lunch with the beloved Swede.

887. Every flowering plant and bush and tree.

888. A job application.

889. Mother's Day love.

890. All those who ran/walked for life. Because cancer is stupid.

New Life and Springs of Joy

Watching spring flowers open into bloom is always a joy but more so, I think, when the winter past has been especially brutal. Which this year's was. I've always been a fan of beautiful yards and gardens, but not so much the yard work and gardening. I'm sure there's a deep spiritual parallel in that sentence somewhere, but it escapes me at the moment.

Bonnie at Faith Barista has asked us to publish a photo journal reflecting things that speak of joy.Though I'm no better photographer than I am a gardener, here goes:

Because I'm not much of a gardener, I was happy to move into a house which had been landscaped beautifully by its previous owners. The year we moved in, everything had just begun to bloom. Watching flowers and bushes and trees follow one another into blossom was like listening to a beautiful symphony as each would rise and fall, giving way for the next to echo the theme of beauty.

Snow Fountain

One of my least favorite yard clean-up jobs is raking dead leaves and branches out from underneath this tree. Under the tree, next to the driveway is some kind of low growing pricker bush. To clean up that section, I have to get down on my knees and untangle matted down debris by hand. I always seems to feel a sense of urgency about getting this job done, however, because this tree's blossoms go by so quickly. It seems that its petals start to fall as soon as the branches have reached full bloom. Sometimes I get only a single day to enjoy this tree at its peak, and I don't want the joy of that day diminished by the knowledge that my least favorite job is still looming ahead of me.

Last night, I walked out into the yard just to take in and enjoy the sight of my tree in almost-near-full bloom and was surprised to see my first hummingbird of the season hovering within its branches. I've long considered hummingbirds as love notes sent from the hand of my Father, and I gave quiet thanks for this gift of joy. I saw the hummingbird again in the morning, hovering just outside the window to my front door. I walked out, intending to drink in more of the beauty of the snow fountain, and found this nestled in a branch near my front door:

Remind anyone else of a lovely book that has helped so many re-discover joy?

Surprise!

While doing my yard clean up, I took a pile of leaves, sticks, and debris to dump into the woods. There, I found these growing out of last year's leaf pile.I'd bought several mini-daffodils in late winter of last year just as soon as they showed up in the florist department of my grocery store. I placed them on the windowsills in my dining room, hoping to coax spring out of hiding. I must have pitched them into the woods after they'd finished blooming, and a year later they came back to surprise me.

Anyone know what this is?

This is one of the first plants that blooms in my yard each spring. Although I've lived in this house for seven years now, I still have no idea what it is. It's a low-growing ground covery kind of thing with waxy leaves. Each year I make sure to clean out this flower bed as soon as the weather starts getting nice so that I don't accidentally lop off the flowers with my rake. Any horticulturally gifted bloggers out there who care to help me solve my mystery?

Photo credit: The beloved Swede

While spring in New England is lush and green and filled with beautiful blossoming plants and trees, I find a deeper, quieter kind of joy in seeing desert plants grow and bloom. Being in dry wilderness places in my own life has helped open my eyes to find beauty in unlikelyinhospitable places. I find the promise of hope and joy in seeing plants nourished by streams in the desert.

Great Sand Dunes National Park

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with singing...For waters break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water...and the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.  Isaiah 35