Friday, April 29, 2011

If I knew I could, I would...



In cahoots with The Gypsy Mama, here are my five Friday minutes of stream-of-consciousness, un-edited (word of honor) writing on the prompt:

"If I knew I could, I would....

GO.

...compose and release another CD of original music.  Be the best mom I could possibly be.  Rely on Jesus totally and completely, knowing there is always grace.  Love my husband unconditionally, completely, wildly, freely and creatively.  Never get impatient with my boys.  Go bungee jumping.  Or sky-diving.  Take a submarine to the bottom of the ocean.  Not be so perfectionistic.

Wonder more.  Open a photography business.  Take creative writing classes.  Create more visual art.  Maybe even sell it.  If I knew I could dance professionally, I would.  I'd be a ballerina, a swing-dance extraordinaire (is that a word?), a tap-dancer.  If I knew I could ride dressage, I would.  I'd ride Lipizzaners.

I'd tell the world that Jesus loves them.  Really, truly, died-for-them loves them.  And that it's so easy to get a new life, to get a first life, to get real life.  If I knew I could make a difference in people's hearts with words, I would work my tail off to make sure I never wasted one.  Not one.

If I knew I could shout for joy at any time, without looking crazy, or even if I look crazy, I would.  I'd dance like David before the Lord, wild with abandon, crazy joy in being in His presence.  Wow, I am really starting to feel convicted-- all these things I'd do if I knew I could do them?  Wonder how many are real?  Maybe all?

STOP.

of swallows and sojourning




We’re gardening anyway.  We're pretty sure we’re moving, but we don’t know when… Central Asian machinations: the “client” who wants to buy this house has to sell their own house first, so August has been mentioned, but nothing confirmed… 

Despite the up-in-the-air-ness (maybe because of it?), we planted corn, zucchini, yellow squash, pumpkins, parsnips, lettuces, spinach, broccoli, silverbeet (a New Zealand vegetable similar to Swiss chard).  A few tomato plants we were gifted at Easter.  Sunflowers, child height.  I’ve planted basil, oregano, cilantro and rosemary in tubs.  Flower seedlings from the bazaar, more tubs.  A whole row of tubs, to be exact (I’m an all-or-nothing kinda girl)…. a measure of peace in my soul.  







One morning  last week I was doing my three pages of early writing, clearing out my head.  I drew a basket on the page, and scribbled beside it, 
“Into this basket I put all my hopes and dreams and fears for this year and this move -- my parents coming, other guests coming, our short-term teammate, our neighbors, knowing You Jesus, Will going to preschool, keeping up with two sets of neighbors, sharing, recording music, writing, reading, praying, singing, cooking, loving, laughing, playing -- everything my life holds now goes into the basket, and I hold the whole heavy thing up to you.
“And I. Just. Trust. You.  
“I trust You, and I’m going to be thankful for each day as it comes and be faithful to do what You tell me to do.  With You I can do all things.  With You I can scale walls, run up mountains, walk on water.  You will never leave me or forsake me.  I find my home in You.  I find my home in You.  I make my home in You.  Ps 84 How lovely is Your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts!  My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and flesh sing for joy to the living God…

And I looked it up, Psalm 84, a poem written by a king who spent the first years of his anointing escaping from wilderness to wilderness, running for his life.  I copied it out, writing ancient words with fresh ink, writing the words on my own heart, writing a plea-bargain with God.
Even the sparrow finds a home, 
and the swallow a nest for herself, 
where she may lay her young, 
at Your alters, O Lord of hosts, 
my King and my God.

I thought of our nesting swallows, who come back each spring to rebuild their nest on top of the naked lightbulb on our porch.











Blessed are those who dwell in Your house, ever singing Your praise!  Blessed are those whose strength is in You, in whose heart are the highways to Zion….

And I thought of the highways to God’s dwelling place being in my heart, of each moment being holy.  Of the hard eucharisteo, receiving each moment with thanks.  How thanksgiving is my moment-by-moment door into communion with I AM.  

For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than...

No good thing does he withhold from those who walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in You!

And then, out fluttered the words to a new song.  
Moving again, and I’m questioning:
how to find rest in this sojourning?
I just don’t have the strength…
You say I am blessed if I trust in You,
You say I am blessed if my strength is in You,
but I’m traveling, traveling,
and it’s hard to see Your hand.
Even the sparrow can find a nest
where she may lay her young;
even the swallow can find a home
at the altars of the Living God,
the altars of the Living God...
I am Your sparrow
and I’ll make You my home
I will dwell in You, tuck my treasures underneath Your wings
You’ll be my roof, my walls, windows and floor,
You’ll be my permanence,
my white picket fence,
and my backyard swing...





Someday I will sing it for you, each of us running from, or into, our own private wildernesses.  And we will rest together under His wings, and remember:

“Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies?

And not one of them is forgotten before God.

Why, even the hairs of your head are all numbered.

Fear not;

You are of more value than many sparrows.”


~Jesus Christ 


(Luke 12:6-7)






A question to ponder today...

What wilderness are you currently running from, or into?  

How can you become more aware 
of God's sheltering wings, and the permanence of His presence, 
right where you are today?

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The Hoopoe






He flutters, flashing zebra wings,

crest rising, cinnamon breast

bobbing, pecking breakfast

as the morning sings.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

of him who knew no sin







Jesus.  Jesus!  That you would die for me.  
For me.  
You, who were perfect in every way, who never raised your voice in annoyance or anger, never spoke unkindly, never got impatient with the crowds pressing in on you, or with the stupidity of your disciples {with my stupidity}.  You who loved completely, served without complaint, poured out your life down to the last, sweet, sacrificial drop of your blood.
That you would die.  
For me.  
Me, who just this morning stamped my feet and screamed in anger at my son.  Me, who grew impatient when toddler minds couldn’t focus on your precious story and wanted trikes and fresh air instead.  Me, all full of pride, secretly petting my own righteousness for fasting from lunch today when who could really be called righteous for skipping a meal?  Millions do, every day.  I am not so righteous, after all.  
But you… you are, Jesus.  Oh, you are, you are.  Utterly special, utterly unique.  You had your own fingerprint, your own timbre and pitch of voice, your own number of hairs on your head, your own color of eyes.  Unlike any eyes that had opened on this earth, or ever will open again.  
Only one there was, is, of you-- only one.  
And you died.  For me.
For this screaming, impatient, tunnel-visioned woman who can’t let go of her agenda long enough to enter into the grace of the morning.  This self-satisfied, smugly important woman who’s convinced she has her act together, has all the answers.  This self-absorbed woman convinced of her own wisdom, pressing it heavily on all and sundry… 
This woman.  Me.  You died for me.  

You died for me, Jesus.  Really, truly, horribly died.  You were without breath.  Without thought.  Without warmth.  A cold, stiff, dead corpse.  Where were you then, Jesus, while your body was wrapped and put in a cave?  
You were in utter, cold, dark blackness.  Total abandonment.  Complete separation.  Desperate loneliness.  
You were in hell.  
In some mysterious, paradoxical, mind-bending, universe-altering way, you  were somehow separated from your Father, from your own being.  You, who had remained wholly connected to your Father, mind, heart and soul at all times, never breaking communion for even an instant with sin of any kind… You, now to experience stark, desolate abandonment by that same Father whose Being you share and whose precious Son you are….  
He abandoned you because of me.  Because of my sin.  Because you were my sin.  
You were my pride, my impatience, my harsh tones, my unkindness.  You were my smug self-righteousness, my self-absorption, my conceit.  You became it for me.  Like a pure white cloth in dirt-black water soaking up all the dirt into itself, leaving the water clean and clear, you soaked up all my black sin into your very pores.  Like a vinegar-rag laid on sunburn absorbing all the heat into itself, leaving the sunburn soothed and cool, you absorbed all the hot shame of my sin into your very soul.  
Sin that I {that we} had not yet even committed!  Oh, the terrible roiling weight of our millions of billions of lives’ worth of sin pressing into your flesh, into your heart!  And worse, knowing this oozing, boiling blackness would cause your Father to hate you, even as you must have hated yourself in those moments, hours, eternity (so it must have seemed) on the cross.

You became my sinNot just carried it on your shoulders while remaining pure in yourself: you became sin-- took it into your very body, heart and soul.  It was you, you were it, and as it, you were crucified.  In those moments, in your Father’s eyes, you did do all this heinousness, and he was forced to turn his back on you in disgust.  
You became sin….
...so I could be clean.  That pure clean water?  That’s me.  Now.  After your wretched, hideous death.  That cooled sunburn with no sting of shame left?  That’s me.  And you are all the stain, all the vinegar, all the burn.  You drank my shame to the very last drop, so you could hand me a cup brimful of the sweet wine of forgiveness, blood-red, and say,


“Drink.  Drink forgiveness, drink grace.  
“And so is my Father glorified, and I am satisfied in my deep joy, if you drink and eat my sacrifice!  I saw you, down through the ages, all of you, and willingly gave my last drop of life so your cup of Life could be brimful, pressed down, shaken together, running over.
“Drink!  Eat!  Feed on me in your heart.  Do this in remembrance of me, whose death bought Life for you, forever.”


Oh Jesus, how can I thank you?  How can anything ever be enough to thank you?  A thousand lifetimes poured out could never repay this Gift, that cleanses completely and lasts in joy forever.
For from you and through you and to you are all things. (Rom. 11:36)
To you be the glory forever and ever.  Amen.  




For our sake
he made him to be sin 
who knew no sin
so that in him 
we might become 
the righteousness of God.
2 Corinthians 5:21




(photos of a white stone cross faithfully maintained on a hillside near Sonoma, CA, USA)

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

holy ground




This Sunday morning, to lead up to Palm Sunday next week, we read the story of Mary of Bethany pouring her most precious treasure of perfume on Jesus’ feet. Afterwards I asked, “Will, what’s your favorite thing that you have?”

Immediately: “My Dog.” (The Dog he sleeps with every nap and night, the Dog he can’t go to bed without, the Dog I have to confiscate and keep in the cupboard or he’d carry it around all day stuck to his face.)

“Would you give your Dog to Jesus?”

“Yes!”

So we wrapped it up in lots of paper and tape.

“Ok, now yet’s give it to Jesus.” He pushed it straight up in the air over his head, and then didn’t know what to say, so I led him in this prayer:

“Dear Jesus (Dear Jesus),
this is my favorite thing (dis is my favwit thing).
And because I love you so much (and b’cuz I yuv you SO much),
I want you to have it (I want YOU to have it). Amen.”

“Ok, now yet’s throw it up in the air to Jesus!” So he did, twice, and it came back down again, twice.

“Look, Will,” I volunteered, ”Jesus is giving it back to you!”

He picked it up the little package and rapturously unwrapped it, and it was like seeing his dog for the first time. After he gave her the requisite adoring cuddles (by the way, it’s only just recently that Dog has become female and acquired the name “Fluffy”), I said,

“Ok, now let’s go outside and find treasures from Jesus for us!”

“Hooray!”

The next hour was spent supervising Will taking pictures with our camera for the first time (which I thought nothing of because he’s so naturally cautious and responsible, but James was a little concerned when he got home and saw the pictures-- some of me happily swinging on the swing with Ben, and Will obviously more than an arm’s length away from me!)

I reveled in Will’s perspective on the world, in all the things he found to take pictures of, in his contagious delight looking for presents from Jesus to us...


William's "Treasures from Jesus"


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)



(photo credit: William Broughton)


(photo credit: William Broughton)

But the best moment of our morning?

After taking his fifteenth picture of green grass (“Yook, Mommy! Jesus gave us more grass!”), Will says,

“Mom, remember, in the movie, dat girl with the yong hair danced on the grass with her bare feet?”
Light glimmered… we watched Tangled last weekend.


“Come on, Mom, yet’s dance on the grass!” He sits down and proceeds to strip off his socks and shoes, and then calls to Ben: “Ben! Come here! Yet’s take your shoes off!” Ben happily sits down, Will pulls off his shoes and socks too...





And all I can think of is that famous Elizabeth Barrett Browning quote:

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries.

~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And then I thought of Ann’s book, where she says she "might never wear shoes again", so conscious has she become of the holiness of God filling each moment with I AM.

Yes.

New spring grass from Jesus is definitely holy ground. My boys instinctively knew to take off their shoes.