A string of quirky pearls

For the past two weeks, over and over again, God keeps hammering home to me the intense beauty and potential of our stories.  Occupying close space with extended family during potent and difficult circumstances, hearing first hand how a little boy who never spoke words changed the lives of people to which I am now connected, having the privilege of standing close to 31 participants of The Experience, sitting in a airport for an extra five hours (added to the first five planned hours), sharing a row of seats on an airplane with a gentleman whose name I do not know, talking to my neighbor yesterday, listening to my son’s neighborhood friend talk about things they did as a family before his dad died, opening our basement space to ministry interns, savoring photos and words from my nephew as he returns to his homeland of Africa.  The list grows as I sit here and marvel at the ways in which God is allowing me to witness His grace, His invitation to “come further up, come further in.”  (C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle)  Tears sting.  Deep joy.  I am humbled.

Who are we that He is mindful of us?  And yet, God–the Almighty, the Creator, the real and true God–condescends that our stories can be shaped, polished, ground down, even, to become something of indescribable artistry and infinite worth.

Rounded and smooth pearls, the cultured variety that we see in fine jewelry stores everywhere, come about with a bit of human intervention.  The naturally formed ones vary in shape, size, and color.  (1)  Interesting that, in either case, the final product is a result of a wound, such as when a foreign irritant or a parasite enters the mantle.  The mollusk creates a sac to seal off the wound, and the creature forms a pearl as a part of the healing process.  (2)  This information brings a whole new meaning to “a pearl of great price.”

Peppered with irritants, wounds, and parasites, our own stories bear forth varied shapes and colors.  Quirky pearls, we are.  Rare, valuable, iridescent, dazzling, multi-layered, costly.  As a part of the healing process of the wounds we know intimately, words of a transcendent story redefine us as singular fine pearls and then string us together into a collective strand of inestimable grace.

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls.  When he found the one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.”  Matthew 13:45-46

Feelings that can’t find words

“He tried to tell his father the thing that he had felt that day.  Penny listened gravely, and nodded, but Jody could not make the words fit his feeling, and could not quite make his father understand.”  –The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

I sat in the terminal, a backpack full of things to do–my journal, books on writing to read, a calendar to fill in, a workbook on poetry.  Hours awaited me.  Time alone in the nook of a bustling airport.  So many things happened in the days prior, and now the tangles in my brain could be undone, made sense of.

My eyes burned with fatigue.  Even now, as I try to go back and retrieve some of it, my fingers pause on the keyboard, my thoughts still jumbled.  Tired stays.  For a host of reasons, not all heavy, not all troubling.  As in this present moment, the time at the airport simply supplied me with space and some type of rest, but no untangling came, none of the items in my pack made their way to the surface for usage.  I sat there in the time lapse with all of the other travelers, feeling much and fully grasping little of what I had been privileged to encounter.

Converging at a house in a suburb of Dallas, family and friends from scattered points of the map entered into the gravity of grief and hope.  Bringing our own versions of each.  Grief with hope.  Depths of both.  The lingering sting of death.  The trump card of victory.  Contradicting emotions floating in the air, clashing into skin, the confluence of the swirling taking your breath.  Laughter escaping in awkward and grateful release.  Tears mingling.  Silence.  More food.  Sighing.  Table talk filling gaps.  Reality bursting in again.  Grief.  And hope.

*Share in a story still being written about a greater hope.  Read more about the courage of the Hood family.  

Church and a movie

A surprise might be to some that I could spend days likening pieces of my life to a line from a movie.

Okay.  Not very shocking news.

But it’s true.  Yesterday, it was a line from Remember the Titans.  We watched it recently.  It never gets old to me.  But the line was fresh, and it came to my mind so quickly during church that I leaned into my daughter and whispered it to her.

“Plain ol’ jealousy.  As old as Cain and Abel.”

Our pastor wasn’t talking about jealousy specifically, but rather about the kind of soil that makes for fertile ground to produce hatred, and all manner of sub-species of hatred.  It wasn’t a comfortable 30 or 40 minutes.  But healthy and revelatory.  And freeing.  I don’t want that kind of soil.

In biology, sometimes the instruction sends a student off to get a sample of a piece of land, a square foot of forest floor or fallow field or barn lot.  It’s amazing what lives inside of soil.  It’s amazing what is considered rich and fertile soil.  Poop, for instance, produces a plot of land ripe with possibilities for great fruitfulness.  Another writing for that alone.

But I’m just acknowledging that the sample of soul soil that I gathered last evening at church indicated that perhaps some work ought to be done, some better nutrients added, some overhauling undertaken.  Without a whole lot of thought or actual farming knowledge to back this up, but maybe certain types of specific poop actually prove detrimental to the soil?  Not sure.  Just postulating.

I recall a time, while listening to a teaching about jealousy, where I furrowed my brow and pondered the presence of jealousy in my life.  In that short span of searching, I didn’t see a lot of places where that particular nasty kind of manure occupied prominent places in my daily living.

It might be wise to interject here that if you ever want to see what does exist in proliferate form, all you need to do is say that it doesn’t seem to be existing very much.

Two years later, God is still gently, and I think with a smile on His face–not mockingly or derisively, but truly with a sweet and loving parental way–showing me, “There it is again.  Did you see that?  Let’s undo that.  It’s unhealthy.” 

So, during church, I saw it again.  Old as Cain and Abel.  Plain ol’ jealousy.  Comparison.  Looking at someone else’s outside and comparing it with my inside.  Judging, then, what I think I know based on what I see.  Mistaken perceptions.  Desiring my own life to look better than it does.  Wishing I had something they have.  Coveting.  She writes better than me.  Their bank account surely rates above ours.  He has friends.  They have a nice car.  Their family does devotional life so well.  If I lived there, then, well.  Must be nice.  Bluckety bluck bluck.  Whine.  Gripe.  Complain.  Call the wah-mbulance.

It doesn’t matter how you want to word it, even in more subtle ways than that.

How about friendships that are mutual?  How about family relationships that “clearly show favoritism”?  How about how we eat?  Or don’t eat?  Exercise?  Don’t exercise?  Dress?  Rest?  Don’t rest?  Work?  Speak?  Encourage?  Fear encouraging?  Career choices?  Callings?  Gifts?

It’s really quite heinous.  And I repent.

God, please nurture the soil of my soul with better nutrients.  Let your love wash me and overtake me.  May You, Jesus, breathe new things into my lungs, that what I breathe out smells like you, that the fruit of my life looks like You.  Christ in me, the hope of glory.  May it be so.  I realize that I do not know fully what I am asking.  But I want the right soil.

Light in the darkness

Early this morning, I sat again in the quiet of my room.  Eyes blurry with morning.  Alarm clock properly obeyed.  A blank page waiting for my pen.

After 10 minutes, I glanced at John’s clock.  30 minutes.  That’s what I had to work with.

Just begin writing.  Don’t worry about if it’s the right moment, the best answer to the question. But I stared out the window.  More snow on the tree branches.  A dove lighted in my view and disturbed just an inch or two of the snow on the bough.  I quickly googled the difference between doves and pigeons.  Same family of bird.  10 more minutes gone.

The page still blank.  And no more time really, not to begin answering the question and seeing it through.  Shut the book.  Get in the shower.  Come back to it later.

And in the mean time, Lord, why can’t I just answer the question?  Show me.

“When is a time where you experienced the presence of God?  Describe it.”  That was the assignment.

All of the moments that came to my mind were times of sadness, times of turmoil, times of darkness where, for a brief interlude, God’s light pierced the barrier.

Isn’t there a time, Father, where it was a beautiful, overwhelming time of Your glory?  A time when the music overtook me and I saw You, and the noise of everything around me faded in the presence of Your grandeur?

Brow furrowed as I plumbed the depths of my memory vault.  I wanted to describe that.

No.

In the hours upon hours sitting in a hospital room as we waited for my father’s heart to beat its last beat, his lungs stop drawing breath.  Holiness in that sterile room, while we sat in uncomfortable chairs, moving from bedside to chair to desktop, in a time lapse of 16 hours.  Sacred pizza.  Hallowed laughter.  Stroking Dad’s arms and hands.  Singing his favorite hymns.  The warm gift of holy tears, holy grief, holy release.  And God’s presence, so tangible, rested upon us.

My legs bruised from blood thinning medication and then from the cry of my veins for healing.  My intestines lodged with years of stuff.  Fighting what God gave me eyes to see.  Fear faced every day, with fear and with the choice to look it in the eye and say, “Not this time.”  Darkness of the waning hours of night leaning into morning, bed hair wild with sleep lost, and I met the others in the crispy cool room on the back side of the church.  The candle light flickering through my eye lids, and some days the smell of old, green carpet flowing into my nostrils as I lay prostrate on the floor, anointing oil on my bruises.  Subtle breeze of God’s breath.  No magical sparkles.  No flares of warmth as the healing came in an instant.  Because it didn’t.  Darkness.  And then the light of His presence piercing with a glimpse of hope.  Little by little.  Fear by fear.

Hands open.  Plain as anything, the outline of Kentucky right in my hands.  And He let me give it to Him.  We packed and packed.  Yard-saled and planned what we could.  And my mom came.  Her hands also open.  God’s presence in the cleaning.  For beds in which to sleep, to rest before the long trek.  Food.  Breakfast.  A table spread for royalty, overflowing with hours of work and love poured out.  For us.  Coolers full.  Packed to the brim with real, whole food for the miles yet to go.  Fresh biscuits left over from the morning.  Oatmeal cookies.  Roast beef, turkey breast, homemade sourdough rolls, a huge container of romaine lettuce, grape tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh salad dressing, apples, cheese, carrots, and chocolate salted almonds.  We pulled out with blessing.  The weight of newness and unknown pressing on every inch of all of us.  Heavy.  Mile by mile.  But God.

A voice mail.  The days when moving tears came without asking or warning, and I pressed dial to retrieve the message.  Another mom singing over me.  “It was just on my mind.  This hymn kept coming to me while I prayed for you.”  Words of comfort, of promise, of assurance.  Not in vain.  “I’m here,” He whispered through her voice.  Grieving hours, and the light broke the barrier.

Now.  Now, I can answer the question.  I’m amazed how much on-going frustration I experienced in the better part of this day.  Searching for a mystical, movie-like experience in the story of my life.

I suppose those might be in there, in all those chapters before today.  For whatever reason, I couldn’t find them today.  Because I needed to be reminded that the Light of the World overcomes the darkness.  And in the times of great gravity, I grow.

Thanks be to God.

What’s in a room?

Chilly.  Always chilly in this space, but warm.  Warm blankets, warm curtains, warm light.  Quiet.  Peaceful.  I smell chap-stick and essential oils, and the lingering scent of my husband, long since gone for work.  I love the morning in this room, even though I’m not often fully awake when the morning arrives or begins in full.  The space of my bed allows me to rest.

Rest from the noise of the world, from the noise in my own head.

We’re still tired on many days from this moving time.  It takes so much energy to do everything new.

New people.  New environment.  New altitude.  New everything.

Being in bed for long periods of time in the morning provides me rest.  Rest here.  In these sinking sheets, in these familiar covers.  Rest.  In the chill, snuggle down and allow the sleep to restore little by little.

The tree limbs outside my window obscure from view, mostly, the rest of the neighborhood.  Branches laden with snow, pine needles capturing flakes to stay a while.  The furnace hums, mattering little in this drafty room, and I’m grateful for the heavy Peruvian blanket over me.

Savor the quiet.  Rest in the quiet.

The ever-present chill, ever cold, in here, makes me ache to nestle back down into the warmth.  If I could, if time allowed today, I would turn off the light and draw the dark curtains again.

Gentle sleep breathing escaping from my children’s rooms, the absence of hurry and “got to” cradles me, comforts me.

Why do we resist rest?  Feel guilty about it?

If chores get accomplished, if no laziness overtakes.  But just resting.  Why do we resist it?

Night time in my room seems restless, full of busy thoughts and dreams.  But the morning brings quiet and sleep.

I don’t know how long this will be my room, but I’m filled with gratitude for it in this time.

This is peaceful, like floating down a river.  Peaceful and safe.  Not hurried, not frantic, not questioning.  No one editing, no one calling.  Some loneliness.  Some savoring the alone.  Hopeful.  Waiting for more rest.

Anxiousness creeps in as I see the clock and know the day won’t wait for me.

Let me not forget that I have everything I need.  The Lord is my shepherd.  And He has led me this morning beside quiet waters and allowed me to rest in green pastures.  In my room.

Goodbye, George.

Scrolling through the main headlines today, I learned that a country music legend had died.  George Jones, among many other “country when country wasn’t cool” artists, holds a specific place in my childhood.  At this moment, I’m listening to some of his songs on youtube.  Funny how music gets into your head and can resurface at a moment’s notice.  The lyrics, the memory of when you first heard it, the fragrance of the air floating through the car windows.  I love music.  And listening to country music from way back when makes me smile.  It’s an integral part of my story.

A while back, I wrote another post about George Jones.   Enjoy.

 

 

I’m pretty sure He said to listen

For three days in a row, in as many forms as I can experience, God has called to me and asked me to live inside the 23rd Psalm.  In my Bible, in the devotional guide, at church, in a blog post.  My eyes are heavy and tears are want to fall, though I’m not sure why exactly.  The cursor blinked at me, and while I waited, a song begins through my ipod.

“God is my shepherd.

I won’t be wanting.  I won’t be wanting.

He makes me rest in fields of green, with quiet streams.

Even though I walk through the valley of death and dying,

I will not fear, cause You are with me.  You are with me.

Your shepherd staff comforts me.

You are my feast in the presence of enemies.

Surely goodness will follow me, follow me in the house of God forever.”  –Jon Foreman, House of God

It’s amazing how quickly we dismiss the familiar.  How ironic, that.  We crave the familiar, cling to it, clamor for it.  But when God is gentle to remind us (or just me) of something so familiar that many non-churchy people can recite it, how easily it gets brushed off of the page.

“Yes, Lord.  You are my shepherd.  I don’t lack anything.  Fields and streams, rest, rod and staff.  Goodness and mercy.  Got it.”

Sigh.  I don’t have it.  I didn’t hear a dadgum thing.  Not even when I copied the words into my journal page some 12 hours ago.  I wrote it and maybe even yearned for it.  But, when it comes up three times in one day and probably seven times in the past three days, it probably means I should absorb it and take it in, allow it to sink into my marrow, not just read over it casually and nod my head like a prideful child.

I may as well be saying, “Yeah, yeah.  Blah, blah, blah.  Blah, blah.”  That seems fairly disrespectful at best, and purt near worthy of a good spanking at worst.

The Lord is my good shepherd, leading me to safe grasses, guiding me away from dangerous places.  I don’t have any need, because He is with me, finding quiet places for me to rest and to find restoration.  When we have to travel a dark and cavernous path, I can follow Him.  He’s leading me, even there.  Even when I can’t see very well.  Even when insurmountable obstacles present themselves, He is still there, navigating the way.  The table set before me flows with enough.  His oil runs over me, healing me, calling me His own.  His goodness goes behind me and before me, every single day of this life while I draw breath.  And, in the end, His kindness leads me right up to His dwelling place.

He is my shepherd.  I have everything I need.

I have everything I need.