The Heart and Voice of a Friend

It was the first time I’d heard her voice.

We’d met, through words and pictures on each other’s’ blogs. I first started blogging by posting a weekly gratitude list and linking it with Ann Voskamp’s community. I knew absolutely nothing about the rules of etiquette governing blog world. On Ann’s site I saw thumbnails, small pictures linking to the gratitude posts of others, lists each had made of weekly thank offerings. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to read and comment on others’ lists; if it was nosy or creepy or stalkerish to do so. But I did. I looked through the thumbnails and at the other blog titles and found one called Curious Acorn. I figured whoever chose that title must have been some kind of marketing genius. The curious word choice drew me in. Is the writer curious about acorns? I wondered. Or, is the blog about acorns that are curious? That doesn’t make any sense.

So of course I clicked. And I made my very first internet friend.

I met Jodi, an artist. And, as a left-brained, linear-thinking, spreadsheet-loving gal, I can tell you that very little of the way artists process life makes any sense to me.  And I think I’m only beginning to realize how desperately I need them in my life. I just don’t let them do the math when we’re eating out somewhere and it’s time to calculate the tip.

Despite our differences, I found a kindred spirit in this artist girl I’d never met. We love the same movies, we laugh at the same things. She is the Diana Barry to my Anne Shirley in the same way my friend Ethel from real life is the madcap counterpart to my zany Lucy.

How is it I’m always the redhead?

Anyway. Jodi and I have walked through similar pain in our lives. We’ve prayed for one another and for the other’s family. We love the same Jesus. So when I realized I would be in her neighborhood for The Relevant Conference, I dared to ask if I could come and meet her.

Come hungry, she said.

An early October snowstorm moved in during the course of the conference, disrupting and delaying travel plans for many. I called Jodi to update her on my plans and let her know when to expect me. And I heard her voice for the first time.

I found my way to the home of the Curious Acorn; I met Jodi and her family. She told me the stories behind the pictures on her refrigerator. She introduced me to her grandbabies. She spoke in a calm, quiet, deep, soothing voice; one like an NPR voice but without all the smugness.

I saw the famous chalkboard pantry door from pictures on Jodi’s blog. She wasn’t kidding when she’d told me to come hungry. She fed me well; she nourished my soul.

On a sideboard next to the table she’d written words she’d asked the Father to give her, words just for me:

If it’s possible for a house to breathe peace, Jodi’s does.

Most parents, I imagine, are as concerned as I am about the amount of time their children spend on the internet, and rightfully so. We warn our children about its dangers; we tell them not to reveal personal things to strangers. We encourage them to get outdoors, to embrace life in the beauty of God’s good creation. I believe God made us embodied spirits and placed us in particular places in space and time. We have been created for community and intended to reflect God to our neighbors. We are to inhabit the places we live.

I can’t quite make sense of what is happening in my life, in and through the strange reality of blog world, but something is. One of the speakers at Relevant asked, At what time in history can we go and make disciples around the world while in our pajamas and in our living rooms? I seldom know what is going on in the lives of people on the other side of this screen, those who are reading the words I’ve tapped out. I tell my stories, I get to know people; God is doing something. That’s all I know.

As I was loading up my car to leave, Jodi packaged up some of her fancy homemade gingerbread for me for the drive home. Who does something like that?

A kindred spirit. A real friend. A sister.

(The state of Connecticut is, once again, experiencing widespread power and internet outages. Linking late with Laura and L.L.

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

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.

Moving Beyond the List

At various times and in various places, I have been told that, as a mature Christian woman, I should:

• Have a regular, daily quiet time
• Memorize scripture
• Meditate on God’s word
• Engage in heavy, deep, theological study  of scripture
• Participate regularly in the life of the church
• Attend women’s retreats in order to find refreshment for my soul
• Practice hospitality
• Give thanks in all things
• Meet regularly with a prayer or accountability partner
• Serve wherever and whenever needed (even if I didn’t feel particularly gifted in the area of need)
• Participate in or consider leading a small group Bible study
• Evangelize
• Seek justice for the oppressed; speak up for those who are weak
• Consider fasting
• Be a good steward of creation (or, at the very least, take the time to separate my recyclables from the rest of the trash)
• Pray without ceasing

All of which I thought I was supposed to do while trying to be a loving and supportive wife, raising my children in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, and trying to keep the house stocked with adequate supplies of both milk and breakfast cereal.

Can I just say it’s been exhausting trying to stay on top of that list?

And sometimes I’ve felt as though I’ve missed an important memo, the one explaining what my regular, daily quiet time was supposed to look like. Because I’m not sure I’ve ever gotten that one quite right.

And they heard the sound of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God among the trees of the garden. But the LORD God called to the man and said to him, "Where are you?" Genesis 3:8, 9 ESV

As I look back at all the busy-ness of my years of raising and homeschooling children, too often I neglected the voice of God crying out, “Where are you?”  I got caught up in my list of things I thought I should be doing for God, or feeling guilty about what I wasn’t doing. I cloaked myself in busy-ness.  I forgot I was created, first and foremost, for worship of and communion with God. At times the many good items on my list kept me from drawing near the heart of God.

The Apostle Paul, who was no slouch in his zeal for the things of God, said he considered everything else rubbish compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ (Philippians 3:8). The knowledge Paul spoke of wasn’t mere intellectual knowledge; he spoke of the kind of intimacy cultivated in regular communion with the triune God.

It took another list, a list of thanksgiving, to begin to open my eyes to what life lived in communion with God might look like. The practice of looking for God’s presence in my life as I gave thanks for His gifts helped me imagine a life of faith beyond a list of things I should be doing. I began learning about other spiritual practices, other ways of digging deeper into the riches of God’s word and creating space for His Spirit whisper to my spirit in prayer.  Practices like Lectio divina, celebration, and silence have begun to feel like walks with God in the garden during the cool of the evening. I’m also learning that I don’t have to commit myself to every spiritual practice I see exercised in the lives of other faithful believers. Not all are a good fit for me, given the way God wired me. My quiet time, my time communing with God, may bear very little resemblance to anyone else’s, and that’s okay.

Because I’m ready to move on from a list of things I do for God, to a life lived with God.

(For further reflection on the life of communion with God I recommend the book, With: Reimagining the Way You Relate to God,by Skye Jethani)

Have you ever gotten so busy doing things for God that you neglected to spend time with God? How do you make space in your life to draw near the heart of God?

Linking with Jen and the sisterhood:

Wind and Whispers

As these things go, it wasn’t awful. Along with several hundred thousand of my fellow Connecticut residents, I spent all but twelve hours of last week without electricity. By the time Hurricane Irene reached New England, it was merely a tropical storm. Yet the storm left more than half of Connecticut’s customers without power, and residents of New York, New Jersey, and Vermont continue trying to reclaim what’s left of their homes and livelihoods after devastating flooding.

We were well prepared for the storm, I thought. I had topped off our propane tank and joked that the beloved Swede could kill and roast his own game if need be. Unlike many in the state, we continued to have running water. My in-laws, the senior beloved Swedes who live less than a mile away, never lost power. They made space in their refrigerator and freezer to babysit some of our food. There are few things, short of a hurricane, which will motivate me to clean out my refrigerator, and now I have a clean refrigerator.

Local schools and town halls opened shelters and facilities for residents to take showers. For the most part, people remained civilized and calm. There were no mobs, no riots, no looting. This, after all, is Connecticut--the land of steady habits--where people dress in loafers and oxford button-downs, and bravely soldier on.

My in-laws invited us over for showers after our hot water tank had grown cold and we enjoyed several evenings of lovely family time, having been drawn together by the storm. Irene’s powerful wind blew in crisp, cool, sunny weather; so we opened our windows wide, not missing our air conditioning in the least. I commented on Facebook that, although I remained without power, it was hard to be grumpy while the weather was so spectacular.

After three days, I was grumpy. I was tired of having to get in the car and drive in order to take a shower. I was tired of carrying all my power cords in my purse; always looking out for places I could shoplift electricity and wireless service.  I was tired of hanging out at Starbucks and going out to dinner. Yes, sometimes too much of a good thing really is too much of a good thing. I longed for a home-cooked meal. A plate full of boiled spaghetti slathered in Prego sounded like heaven.

Lights began to go on in streets near my neighborhood, even as trees remained untouched and entangled in power lines near my home. I began to understand the temptation toward class envy—the resentment of the haves by the have-nots. I drove past people washing their cars in driveways and wanted to roll down my windows and scream, “Don’t you realize there are still people without water! How dare you?”

These past few days have not been among my proudest moments as a faithful, mature, gray-headed follower of Christ.

As someone whose heart breaks over images from places like Kenya and southern Sudan, where people experience real suffering and loss, I grew impatient with my own impatience. I tried counting the gifts, looking for opportunities to see God’s mercy and give thanks.

And I failed. Miserably. Over and over again, I found myself returning to words from a precious hymn I have loved all my life:

Oh, to grace, how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be.

Daily. Hourly. Minute by minute I need grace. In my whining self-pity, I found myself returning again and again in confession:

Lord I’m doing it again, being an ungrateful brat; thinking I deserve more blessing than you have given me.

And He, the One who reveals but the fringes of His power in the winds of the hurricane, answered me--not with the thunder of condemnation, but in a whisper of grace. Because I belong to Him.

I know, He says. I forgive you; you are mine. Continue to follow me, to learn of me. We’ve still got much work to do. I’m not finished with you yet.

Near the peak of my frustration last week, I heard a knock on my door. Upon opening it, I found the woman who works at the local post office. She bears a long, vertical scar on her chest and often wears a halter monitor while working behind the post office counter. I’m guessing she’s acquainted with suffering and is grateful for mercy received in her life.

She was going door-to-door at homes where she knew folks were still without power, offering bottles of water, snacks, and popsicles; offering a glimpse of God’s mercy, goodness, and grace. I pray that in whatever small measure of suffering  I experienced last week, I’ve learned some of these deeper things of God--demonstrated both in the wind of the hurricane and in the still, small whisper of His kindness.

And may God give me the grace to take the things I've learned and put them into practice.

Linking with Jen and the sisterhood:

and with emily at imperfect prose:

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

Reaching One Thousand: Lessons Learned

On December 11, 2009, I wrote this:

So the reason I decided to revive my blog was so that I could publicly join The Gratitude Community:

I read about The Gratitude Community on Ann Voskamp’s blog, Holy Experience. In one of her posts she wrote this: “A heart is a one-feeling dwelling; gratitude evicts stress, sends frustration packing.”

I’ve been stressed. I’ve been frustrated. And I’ve been sad. Time to sweep those things out of my heart and invite gratitude in. And so my list begins. (Technically, I think the posts are supposed to go up on Mondays, but I'm not being legalistic about this)

Today, I reach one thousand.

I’m sitting here, watching my cursor blink, trying to come up with an adjective to describe what this experience has been like. I’m not sure I can find one to capture it. Instead, I think I’ll scribble down some of the things I’ve learned through the counting:

• Cycles and patterns are gifts in themselves. God created the world with a pattern of work and rest, and He calls us to seasons of doing and of ceasing, of giving and of receiving. He intends for us to stop, take time, look up, and see where He is present, how He has been present, and how He has given beyond all we have asked or imagined. The patterns of work, rest, worship are gifts that help me see these things.

I knew, theoretically, that thanksgiving was a good thing, an important element in faithful Christian living. I just wasn’t doing it, not on any kind of regular basis. Having a weekly appointment to stop and count gifts helped me develop a rhythm. It sharpened my focus, enabling me see what I’d been missing. Being a part of the gratitude community gave me a deadline, it provided accountability; it kept me from giving up.

• Just because people are imaginary, it doesn’t mean they aren’t real. As I started linking my posts, I began meeting other people, other gift-counters. One-by-one, we started commenting on each others' posts, and we got to know one another. Soon I began referring to them as my imaginary friends. I didn’t know it was possible to care so deeply about people I’d never met. I have wept and prayed with some of these friends, celebrated and rejoiced with them. I’ve read their stories and been humbled and amazed by being reminded again and again—God sees all things, heals all things, restores all things.

I’ve met a few of these folks in person now—for reals—and have plans to meet others soon. Some, I’ve already made plans with to party together throughout eternity. You know who you are.

• Writing helps me write. I’d wanted to start writing; I’d been threatening to begin, scribbling a few lines in a notebook now and then, and then giving up. Once I started giving thanks, making a weekly appointment to sit at my computer and form sentences, I kept going. There are better writers in blog world, ones whose words make my heart ache with their loveliness, but I’m writing. Every now and then I receive a kind comment saying “God encouraged me through your words.” I don’t know where this writing thing will take me; I’ve got some ideas, but for now comments like those help me see this work as noble and good.

• Sadness does not equal unbelief. This may be the most important lesson I’m taking away from participating in the gratitude community. I joined with Ann and the others because I was in a profoundly sad place in my life, and it scared me. I was afraid I was sinking into depression and despair. I beat myself up pretty badly for lacking faith in God’s goodness.

I’ve learned that counting gifts, seeing God’s goodness, doesn’t necessarily make the sadness go away. We live in a world that is broken by sin. There are things that can and should break our hearts and make us sad. It’s called lament and, throughout the pages of scripture, there seems to be an awful lot of it.

When I count the gifts, when I see glimpses of God’s goodness amidst the sadness, I’m no longer frightened by it or worry I’ll be consumed by it. I can stare directly into the sadness and yet worship. I’ve learned:

Lament is a kind of worship that says, “This is wrong, but I know You are good.”

Ann continues her list; she’s well beyond two thousand in her counting. I'm going to continue to blog and continue to look for the gifts, but have decided, to stop posting my weekly gratitude list. God has met me in this place, helped me to see Him and hear Him, and know His love for me more deeply. I am grateful to Ann for creating this space where those things could take place. Now I sense Him inviting me to meet with Him in different ways. You'll most likely be hearing about those.

But if I find my heart echoing its thoughts from December 11, 2009, I know where to go and what to do. I'll be back.

984. Son getting driver's license.
985. Relaxing and enjoying lunch together afterward.
986. A rainy day matinee.
987. Watermelon = the taste of summer.
988. Plans for a Fourth of July getaway.
989. Chipotle sour cream.
990. A walk in the rain.
991. Getting the roommate assignment and knowing that God is in control of all things.
992. 60th birthday celebration,
993. On a perfect summer day when the forecast called for rain.
994. Kids throwing frisbees
995. And kicking soccer balls.
996. Seeing lightning bugs
997. Friends who encouraged me to write.
998. My imaginary friends.
999. The Gratitude Community.
1000. Ann Voskamp

For lack of attention, a thousand forms of loveliness elude us every day. -- Evelyn Underhill

Chasing the loveliness like a child chasing a kite:

967. Beach-side birthday celebrations.
968. Salt air
969. Sand.
970. Husband who says, "Go! Enjoy! Soak it all in!"
971. A joy shared IS a joy doubled.
972. Ending the day with a blue slushie, because it was just that kind of day.
973. Children pretending to be in Narnia.
974. Corn and black bean salsa.
975. Getting the student loan forms submitted.
976. Zinnias.
977. Exciting news about a dear friend.
978. Second interviews.
979. Sunday morning breakfast on the deck.
980. Family gatherings in the park.
981. Gift from Ethel that makes me laugh harder than I have in years.
982. Sitting poolside with the beloved Swede until the bats come out at night,
983. This: "God gives, God takes. God's name be ever blessed." Job 1:21, The Message

Redeeming Social Media

One of my very first friends in blog world was JoAnn at Ostriches Look Funny.  She was one of the few brave souls who read my early posts and took time to leave kind comments for me. She’s also very, very funny so I started stalking her following her blog. Because I considered her a blogging diva, I soon began bothering her with technical questions like, “What is a McWidget Linky Thingy? Where do I get one, and How does it work?” JoAnn has always been patient and helpful. Not once has she said to me, “Good grief woman! Don’t you know how to Google anything?”

                                                            

(Truth is, I know how to Google.  It’s just easier and a lot more fun asking JoAnn.)

JoAnn got me started on the Twitter (@nancyfranson). When I questioned the value of yet another social networking tool (#whining), one seemingly intended solely for self-promotion, JoAnn said, “It's not about self-promotion, it’s about the Great Commission.” JoAnn uses social media—Twitter, Facebook, her blog, to tell funny stories and post goofy pictures of her kids, but she also uses them to bear witness to the love of Christ. She tweeted me this:

My Bible study leader always says that if you are going to use FB, that you are called to redeem Facebook.

Last week I received a phone call from my sister asking me to round up my prayer warriors; her daughter was at the hospital and in need of an emergency C-section. I prayed and then sent out prayer requests via text, Facebook, and Twitter. My phone started buzzing immediately. I had messages from friends, family, and folks I’ve never met saying, “Praying.” “I’m on it.” “Joining with you.”  One friend (who has done this for me on several occasions) texted to share with me the words she was offering in prayer.

If that’s not a picture of redeeming social media, I’m not sure what is. But maybe that's a question I should Google.

Using social media to count blessings (and saying nice things about JoAnn on the internet because she just had a baby and can't stop me. Congratulations, friend!):

951. My sweet baby niece, all grown up and becoming a mama!

952. Answered prayer and a healthy baby girl. Welcome to the world Carly Nicole!

953. My big sister becoming a grandma.

954. My mom becoming a great-grandma.

955. Becoming a great aunt.

956. Seeing pictures online within hours.

957. God uses all things to glorify Himself. Even Twitter.

958. Friends who join in prayer, even via text.

959. Heavy, deep, and real conversations in the pool.

960. Daughter’s friends who stop by, grab a raft, and float with me.

961. Hard, physical work and the satisfaction it brings.

962. Opportunity to interview a friend.
963. Feeling brave enough to take some risks.

964. Memories that spark more memories.

965. Another year, another graduation, another celebration of God’s faithfulness in the lives of some quality young men and women.

966. Daughter and husband blessing my mom by spending their Saturday with her at the local Strawberry Festival.