About a Boy

I finished my work for the day, tucked away my computer, and put up the footrest of my recliner with a sigh. Just as I was getting all nice and dozey, a thought bounced into my head that made me sit up straight. Tomorrow was my eldest son's birthday . . . and he was probably expecting me to actually DO something about that!

Not that his expectations would be very high. I've never been one of those moms who plan birthday parties with balloons and a clown named Bobo and a race car birthday cake. My kids have learned

that when it comes to birthdays, often the best they can expect is a gift or two wrapped hastily in a double layer of plastic bags from Dollar General. I can never find my stash of balloons, and the only Bobo I know is busy finding Bigfoot. I did make a shaped cake once, a giant E, which I frosted with chocolate pudding just to see if it would work. (It doesn't.)

It's not that I don't care about my children. I want them to have a happy day and all. It's just that . . . really, when it comes right down to it, a birthday is just a day.

That realization is a step on the passage to adulthood, I think. At some point you become aware that this day, the one that for so many years felt like Something Truly Special, is no different than the one before or after it. You still have to go to work and make the bed. It's just a day.

I didn't blow up balloons for Isaac. The poor kid didn't get a fancy meal, and his cake-substitute brownies weren't even from scratch.

But when my birthday boy padded into the not-decorated kitchen that morning with rumpled hair and a sleepy grin, I looked at him and thought, on this day that was his day, of all that he had been, and all that he would be.

I saw again the little boy with big brown eyes who used to stand peeking over the edge of my bed, waiting for me to wake up. I saw the first grader who was afraid he would get sucked up by the vacuum cleaner or whirled down the bathtub drain, the knob-kneed slugger taking a tighter grip on his Little League bat.

I saw in this talling, slightly goofy high schooler the young man who will someday walk me down the aisle at his own wedding. The man who will cradle my grandchildren in his arms, who will hold my hand in the nursing home.

Yes. Isaac's birthday was just a day. A day for me. A day to remember how much I love this kid. A day to be thankful for how much he loves me.

 My son's birthday is not about the day. It's about the boy.

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Christmas is coming, as it seems to do every year. You want to know something? Sometimes - please don't tell anyone, because they might not understand - sometimes I'm just not in the mood for it.

It's just so much. Such a big holiday, with so many expectations attached. Expectations that I can't possibly meet.  The gifts, the tree, the trimmings, the travel; it's all more than I have the time or energy to think about.

And when I do think about it, it sometimes strikes me that it's just plain silly. So much planning and preparation for the sake of one day, one day that isn't even all that special, really. Yes, it's a birthday. But no matter how much you fluff it up, a birthday is just a day.

Christmas is, indeed, just a day. A day to remember a rough foodbox cradle, and a God who was big enough to make Himself small enough to fit in it. A day to look back at a Boy who followed in His father's footsteps, learned a carpenter's trade, walked as one of us. A day to look forward to the hill, and the cross, and the stone rolled away, and a life laid down and picked up again in the same way it began: full of the deepest, most un-understandable love.

I'm sure we'll get some decorations up in the house soon, and maybe I'll even find time to make my mom's favorite candy cane cookies. But what I'd really like this Christmas is to let it be just a day. A day to close my eyes and take a minute with my Savior. To remember how much I need Him. To be thankful for how much He loves me.

Christmas, with all its fluff and frippery, isn't about the day.

It's about the Boy.

First published in The Alpena News, December 13, 2014

A Cat Tale

My cat is a nut.

I don't mean Oscar.  Other than his attempts to climb inside Kleenex boxes and his need to lick windows, he's a pretty laid back guy, his long orange fur making a kingly ruff around his get-me-some-food-you-lesser-being face.

I'm talking about Elroy, the white one with big brown and black spots. 

He's a snuggler, but he's got a very specific snuggling style.  No lap cat is he.  When at last, at the end of a long day, I sit down for a few moments' relaxation, I am instantly the recipient of an enthusiastic cat hug. 

Elroy is persistently vertical.  He's never once curled on a lap in proper cat fashion.  Instead, he hops onto my legs and promptly reaches up until his front legs are wrapped around my neck and his head is tucked against my jaw bone.  Then he purrs like a lawnmower and deliriously rubs his head against my chin.  Finally he settles in, cozy against my shoulder while I work, his hind legs tucked up in the crook of my arm.

I've learned to work around him, peering over his head at the monitor of my laptop and hoping for the best as I blindly peck at the keys, one arm bent at an odd angle to hold him up in his peculiar neck-hugging position.

The really impressive part about the whole thing is how sneaky he is, and how relentlessly determined.  When that cat wants his snuggle time, he does not take no for an answer.

I can only handle being blanketed by cat for so long.  Eventually I give his head a final snuzzle and then scoop him up and pop him onto the floor.  He's never happy about that and stalks about indignantly for a few minutes, radiating his disappointment in me.  But before long he's circling my chair, looking for an opportunity to try again.  I'll see two bright eyes peeping at me from near my elbow, and then suddenly in a flash of fur I'll have my warm neck wrap back in place.

Again I'll peel him off, and again he'll circle and pounce.  Sometimes he tries a rear attack, leaping with silent paws onto the chair behind my head and sliding down into position when I'm not looking.  Other times I can see him coming from one side and ward him off with an extended hand only to discover him springing up from the other side a moment later and scuttling into place.

The cat is so good at his stealth maneuvers that often I will be humming along at my work and then look down and realize that I've got company on my shoulder, unaware of when he arrived or how long I've been holding him.

Over and over it goes - I remove the cat, and the cat returns.  And with each success his purrs grow louder.

Persistence.  Relentless determination.  And the heartfelt desire to be close me.  The cat may be a nut, but he sure does make me feel loved.

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Sometimes it's hard to believe in love.  I don't know how to trust in it.  I want to believe that I'm treasured, wanted for who I am, but I know who I am, and I know that that which lies within me is no treasure.  I cannot trust that love that is offered could truly be meant for me.

But when it is offered again, and again, when I am given reassurance after reassurance that it is real, when the persistence of the giver is greater than my determination to not trust...then, oh the joy is it to fall into belief and to know what it is to truly feel that I am truly loved.

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My nutty cat is the very definition of persistence.  And yet he doesn't hold a candle (which is, perhaps, a poor metaphor, given that cats don't have thumbs, but you know what I mean) to our persistent, relentless, determined, utterly stubborn God.

Again and again He murmurs in His Word, oh you silly child, I love you so.  Again and again He forgives our foolishness, looks past our failures, wipes our tears.  Though we push Him away again and again, time after time He comes to us, comforting and caring and wanting to be held close in our hearts.

Sometimes I see Him coming and I hold Him off with a hand, unwilling to accept His kind of acceptance.  But sometimes, in the middle of the messiness of the busiest of days, I look up and discover that there He is, tucked in close, right where I need Him to be. 

Persistence.  Relentless determination. And the heartfelt desire to be close to me...unworthy, undeserving me.  What a nutty God we have.  He sure does make me feel loved.

Originally published in The Alpena News, November 15, 2014

Collecting Acorns

Save us, Lord our God, and gather us from the nations, that we may give thanks to Your holy name and glory in Your praise.  Psalm 106:47

I can't stop picking up acorns.

There are oodles of them this year, have you noticed?  People say that means we'll have a long, cold winter.  (Silly people. Of course we will . . .  It's northern Michigan!)  I don't know if acorn count is an accurate weather forecaster or not, but I do know that our yard and driveway are littered with them.

Which means that I spend a lot of time bending over these days.  I don't know what it is about acorns, but I find them irresistible.  There is something so appealing about the smooth brown shell tapered to a point that just begs to be poked into the palm of a hand, all topped off with a jaunty little cap.  

It starts innocently.  I spy a nut on the pavement, bend to pick it up, admire it for a moment, and pop it in my pocket.  Then another one catches my eye and I'm off again, picking up and pocketing.  Before you know it my pockets are bulging and hands are full, with nuts and caps spilling over the sides as I scramble to keep hold of them all.

Finally I give in and go fetch a container from the house and begin filling it. No more casual bending and pocket popping; now I am on a mission, determined to find and claim every nut in the yard.  I scan carefully for stragglers, ruffling my feet through the leaves to find any acorns that might be hiding in the dark places below.  As I hunt I keep one eye on the treetops above, where the local squirrels scold and fret as I plunder their winter's food supply. I'm not willing to share, though.  They can get their own acorns.  These are mine.

I confess that I'm a little choosy about the acorns I'll collect.  If they've got a little squirrel nibble or a small crack they might go in my bucket, but the really broken ones and the squished ones under the van get left behind. If it looks like an insect might have taken up residence I toss them away, not wanting to infect my entire collection.

I've been collecting for several weeks now, and the acorns are starting to pile up.  There are little piles of them on the kitchen table, in the bathroom, on my dresser and on the dashboard.  Several glass vases filled with acorns adorn the living room.  I've spent more time than I care to admit poking around on Pinterest looking for craft projects that call for vast amounts of acorns, because by golly, I've got 'em.

And yet, every time I walk out the door, the routine begins again - see an acorn, bend to pick it up, slide it into my pocket.  There is no such thing as too many.  I want them all.

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Do you think God has pockets?

He's a collector, I know that.  Not of acorns, I don't imagine, although surely He's as pleased with their palm-poking points and comical caps as I am.  No, He collects people.  And He wants as many as He can get.

He started with just one.  The first one, the one He created from a handful of dirt.  And ever since then He's been collecting.

I wonder about that every once in a while.  I think about how God wants us to be His children.  How He went to such great lengths just so that we can belong to Him.  It's funny to me.  I mean, look at us.  In the grand scheme of things, we're nothing special.  Just a bunch of nutty humans, small and insignificant in the universe.

And yet God seeks us out, scoops us up with greatest affection, and lays us in the pierced palm of His Son, where we are safe and wanted and loved.

He doesn't just collect the perfect specimens, either.  Our God hunts and searches and looks in every dark corner to find each and every one of us . . . the broken, the wounded, those crushed by life.  There are no rejects.  None are tossed back.  

God wants us all.  As many as He can get.

It's not deep.  It's not profound.  It's just a little thought that is making me happy as I shuffle my feet among the leaves.

There are a lot of acorns in the world.  Some of them are pretty great.  But you know what?

No matter how many other people are His, God wants . . . me.

And you know what else?

He wants you, too.


First published in the Alpena News, October, 2014

Water on a Rock

The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation. He is my stronghold, my refuge and my savior. 2 Samuel 22:2-3

I could have sat there for an hour watching the same rock.

I was tucked into my favorite lake-watching spot near the marina. (You don’t think I’m going to tell you where it is, do you????) Though the lake was mostly calm, the ever-moving rhythm of the water pushed swirls and splashes up the side of a big rock sitting in the water directly before me. Again and again the water surged, receded, rose, fell, scurried up, rolled down. I was fascinated by the infinite variety in the water’s movement. At times it would leap up the side of the rock, bouncing determinedly like a kindergartener trying to reach the bottom limb of a tree. Other moments it would contentedly nuzzle the bottom of the rock, then suddenly throw itself wildly over the top like a great fluid hand reaching out of the depths. 

I marveled at the non-sameness of the waves that threw themselves against the rock. Each ripple was different from the one before, different and unique and beautiful in its own way. There were errands to run and dishes to be washed, but I couldn’t tear myself away from the drama of the unchanging rock and the ever-changing water rolling upon it. 

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My life is inundated with differences. 

We've lived here for two years, but I still feel like the new kid on the block. It’s been fascinating to learn about a new place and a new people who are so unlike what I knew before. There is a northerliness about Michigan people, an openness, a speak-your-mindedness that is different from the more reserved Illinois farmers to whom I am accustomed.

But there’s also such a difference between one person and the next. There’s a sameness in the beautiful Polish faces – I’m learning to recognize a Northern Michigan native from fifty paces – but each smiling face brings with it its own heart, its own self. How fascinating it is to watch the people of this new place, to marvel at their differences.

Life continues to offer up newness. New days, new challenges, a new job, a new set of expectations. Each day is startlingly unlike the day that came before it, special in its own way, full of new challenges, new hopes, new things to remember and do and be.

Oh, differences, differences. Each new experience, different from the one before. Each mood different from the last. Each challenge challenging in its own way, each joy tugging at a different corner of the heart. Each day is new, each hour, each moment. Everything is different. Everything is new. New. Different. Pushing, pulling. Tugging, sending, in, out, changing, shifting, different, different, strange.

The only thing that doesn’t change is the rock.

As the waves roll and pulse against it, the big rock sits, steady, calm, unmoved. The water comes; the water goes. The water changes. The rock does not.

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Change is good. I believe that, truly, with all of my heart. But change can overwhelm. New, unmistakable, unpredictable life, can sometimes become unbearable in its change-ness. We fling ourselves forward, struggling to be, to do, to give, to find. Places, things, people change. But the rock who holds us stands firm.

I can’t count on anything being the same as it was a moment ago. Not the money in the bank, or the roof over my head, or the people I care about most. Not the well pump, which may or may not make it another day, or my children, who are growing up far too quickly. If I didn’t have my rock, I would be lost in the changes.

Oh, but I do – I do have a Rock. The God who made me, who loves me, who gave His life for me, is the stronghold of my life. Changeless, solid, sure, He is there. He is there. When I cry out to Him, He gives me the comfort of His love. When I throw myself at Him in a rage, He sets me gently back on my feet. When life overwhelms me with its changing days, my Rock, my God, is there. Is there. Is there. Is there.  

Is there.

First published in the Alpena News, September 20, 2014

A Gentle Kind of Quiet

My shoes are melting.

It's my own fault, though. I can't resist resting them on the metal fire ring as I lounge in my canvas chair, a poking stick near at hand.

My family is spending a few days camping downstate. After seemingly endless preparation (why does getting away from it all take sooo much work?), we were glad to find site 30E and start to make it our own.

The kids know the routine of setting up our little pop-up camper. Jonah shows off his eight year old muscles as he cranks up the roof. Emmalyn unzips the windows while Isaac puts the bed support poles in place. I take charge of the inside, unloading tubs of food and arranging bedding while my husband sets up camp chairs and moves firewood.

Everything has its place. The grilling supplies and dog food go under the bench, cups and plates in the middle cabinet, clothespins in the drawer, shoes on the mat outside. The kids usually wrangle over who gets to sleep where, but in the end everyone has a spot to call their own.

The options, once the camper is set up, are infinite. There are walks to be taken and playgrounds to conquer and a lazy river to explore by paddle. There is time to spend reading or playing cards or just sitting still.

Camping offers a gentle kind of quiet. Voices call in muted tones. The wheels of a child's bicycle crunch on gravel. Noises carry an earthy tone, softened by dirt and trees and fresh air.

Camping is pie irons and roasting sticks and checked table cloths and soft laughter and talk of Bigfoot.

It is listening to the tappety-tap of rain on the canvas above my head and knowing that there is nothing I have to do and nowhere I need to go.

It is rolling newspaper and collecting kindling. The thrill of success when the big logs finally catch. Finding the perfect position for your marshmallow. Melting the bottom of your shoes. Gazing at blackened logs and watching them twinkle like little cities.

Fond memories of my parents' voices murmuring by the fire after I had been sent to bed. Murmuring by the fire knowing the sound is a gift to my own sleepy children.

Falling asleep to the sound of my loved ones' breathing. Waking up before everyone else and stealing outside to poke the fire back to life.

Camping is a world apart. It is peace and stillness and permission to just be.

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He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. Psalm 23:2-3

I love the imagery of God making King David lie down in the grass. Can't you just imagine it? The most powerful man in the land, a kingdom to rule, wars to oversee, taking time to hunker down in a dewy meadow for half an hour?

And yet, maybe watching the fluffy clouds for a few minutes was just what he needed.

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There is much agitation in the soul that is responsible for its own happiness. How it must struggle to be good enough, to follow all the rules, to find justification for the mistakes of the past and the decisions of the present.

It is a great weight, the task of shaping yourself into all that you wish to be, periodically realizing with a thud that you will never succeed.

Ah, grace, beautiful grace…then comes grace.

Grace is your Maker saying, Stop, little one. Stop for a while and see what I have done. Stop. Hush. Be still.

Grace is a gentle kind of quiet. It is not having to be good enough, because Someone has been good enough already. It is laying down the weight of do-it-yourselfness with a sigh and accepting the freedom of forgiveness. It is admitting that you have made mistakes, shrugging a little shrug and giving them to God.

Grace is a being set apart from the world. It is peace and stillness and permission to just be.

On days when I'm fed up with who and what I am turning out to be, I am going to take my soul camping. I want to lie down in the sunny pasture of God's grace, barefoot and breathing softly,with all the permission in the world to be nobody but the person He made. I want to gaze into baptismal waters, reminded of the washing that has made me wholly clean and wholly His.

Our Savior stands with hand extended. Come to me, all you who are burdened. I will give you rest. I will restore your soul.

Let's go camping.

First published in The Alpena News, July, 2014

An Infestation

“They will fight against you but will not overcome you, for I am with you and will rescue you,” declares the Lord. Jeremiah 1:19

Our dog just scratched his ear.

It was, I’m glad to say, just an everyday itch. But it reminded me of the time a few years back when we had (shudder) fleas in our laundry room.

They were hardly noticeable at first. I’d feel an itch about the ankle as I loaded the washer, but nothing worth even a downward glance. Then suddenly, within a matter of days, the occasional itch became a full-scale invasion. One morning I went down to put in a load of laundry wearing, with my usual impeccable fashion sense, a pair of white tube socks with my shorts & tee-shirt. I felt a bite, looked at my feet, and was shocked to see at least twenty black dots on each sock.

In a way it was comical. Like so many Lilliputians attempting to bring Gulliver to his knees, these minuscule, almost insignificant creatures flung themselves at my ankles, oblivious to the utter inequality of the contest. The humor was not long-lasting, however. Watching tiny but determined little bodies clinging to my socks, feeling their sharp nips as they hopped onto my legs with mad enthusiasm, I began to get the heebie-jeebies. I shook one leg, then the other, trying uselessly to dislodge the tenacious creatures. I tried to brush them off, then, failing that, began to smack at my legs, gradually working myself into a weird little dance around the room, spinning and hopping and flailing before an audience of amused detergent bottles.

Finally, defeated, I abandoned the laundry and escaped the room, peeling off my socks and flinging them sacrificially behind me as I rushed upstairs for fresh air and freedom.

The next time I went into the room I was armed with a can of flea-killing spray prescribed by the folks at the vet’s office. I sprayed with a vengeance, leaving no square inch untreated. I knew my legs were under attack, but I held my ground and did what needed to be done. It felt good – powerful – to stride in, weapon in hand, and conquer my enemies.

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Sins are flea-like.

I don’t notice them at first. They’re small, insignificant, harmless. But then they attack, ganging up to bring me down, to drive me to despair, to fill me with inward terror. I dance about, trying to rid myself of my sins – trying to shake off pride, to swat envy – only to discover another and another black spot on what should be white.

I flee in terror from my multitude of sinfulnesses to the office of the Great Physician, who gives me the prescription to ward off my attackers. Then I stride back into battle, full of confidence, and fight back against the enemy with the only weapon that works – the death and resurrection of Jesus. Cross in hand, I’m able to beat down this sin and that, conquering my foe.

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Sadly, all was not won on the flea front.  When we finally sold our old house I breathed a sigh of relief at escaping those darn insects. Even though it looked like I had killed them all, the vet informed me that the tenacious creatures could return at any time. Eventually we would have to spray again, and again. And again. Apparently fleas can remain in a dormant state indefinitely, unassailable, only to spring to life ready to pounce at our white socks when we least expect them.

So it is with our sins. Though we’re empowered to chase one away, another will come – many others, attacking with renewed strength. As long as we are alive we will sin, and sin again, no matter how diligently we apply ourselves to the pursuit of perfection.

Will our houses ever be flea free? Will we ever be able to welcome Jesus into our hearts, saying, “Here, see what a beautiful place I’ve prepared for you?” Not a chance. Vacuum and spray though we may, there will still be ugliness hidden in the recesses of the carpets.

The amazing thing is . . . God comes anyway. He knows our every imperfection, our vain attempts to clean ourselves, our pathetic offering of a sin-infested soul – and he comes into our hearts, forgives our impurity, and, because of the cleansing blood of Christ Jesus on the cross, loves us anyway.

Fleas and all.

First published in The Alpena News on June 28, 2014

Six Seconds

I can do all things through Him who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13

My son Isaac is about to graduate from eighth grade. The other day he was scheduled to take a tour of the local high school. As he hopped out of the van I called after him, “Are you nervous?” He nodded, his face paler than usual. And then he turned, straightened his shoulders, and walked into the building.

It was a little moment that took all of six seconds. But it left me teary as I pulled out of the parking lot.

My boy was scared. He had to do something that he didn't really want to do. But he did it anyway.

It seems like lately my life has been full of those six-second moments. Six seconds of really, really not wanting to do something. And then doing it anyway.

Six miserable seconds. Waiting for my cue to go on stage, sure I was going to forget my lines. Easing into the dentist’s chair. Being handed a laser tag gun and knowing I was going to be too inept and clumsy to use it. Stepping gingerly into a canoe, certain I would tip the boat and douse the two young girls in my charge. 

You've felt them, haven’t you? Six long seconds of, “I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this.”

But you do.

There is so much to be afraid of on the other side of those six seconds. Things could go wrong. You could get hurt. You might mess up, and someone might laugh at you. The other side of those six seconds is not safe.

You might not get the job. You might learn something about your health that you don’t want to hear. You might love someone and then lose them. You might strike out.

Six seconds of panic. Six seconds of doubt. Six seconds that almost make you turn back.

But you don’t.

You send your resume. You step into the waiting room. You love anyway. You swing the bat.

And then you are through to the other side, and you see how it turns out.

For the record, I didn't tip the boat. I did get us stuck in some branches, but we got untangled eventually. And I did mess up one of my lines, but I don’t think anybody minded. I had to have a root canal. But I lived through it. I was, in fact, inept and clumsy with the laser gun, but it was still tons of fun creeping around a dark old warehouse and shooting my kids.

It would be so easy to let fear of the unknown stop us. It would be so easy to listen to that voice, the one that hisses, “You can’t do this, you can’t do this, you can’t do this.”

But if we never did it, how would we know what was on the other side?

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Sometimes God feels far away, and I need to make a change in my life to get closer to Him. Sometimes I am convicted about my actions and I know I need to fix them.

But the six-second rule pervades, and the chant begins: “I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this.” 

I can’t step toward God. I can’t talk to Him, not for real. I can’t give Him my time. I can’t trust that He is who He says He is.

I can’t stop doing that which I know is wrong, not when it makes me happy and is so cleverly disguised as right.

I can’t do it, I can’t do it.

As we fight for a true and strong and living relationship with our Creator, the nay-saying voice wants us to give up and give in.  

We doubt. We fear. We want to walk away.

But we don’t.

We don’t walk away. Because on a warm night far away our Savior stood amid the twisting trunks of olive trees and prayed that his cup of suffering would be taken from Him. He knew what lay ahead, and he really, really didn't want to go. He didn't want to do it.

But He did.

And because He did, we can.

With glorious abandon we ignore the words that say we can’t and run toward the God who says that because of His Son, we can do all things.

We can cling to our God, full of unfathomable trust. We can cast off the sin that encumbers us, accepting that we will fail, knowing He will pick us up and face us in the right direction once again.

Those six seconds are still there. We are still susceptible to worries and insecurities and I can’t do its. But we know, through our fears, what’s on the other side.

On the other side there is Jesus.

First Published in the Alpena News on May 31, 2014

Market Value

We sold our house this week. I think.

Our residence back in Illinois has been on the market for two years. Hip hip hooray, someone finally wants the big American foursquare that we called home before we moved to Michigan. At the time of my deadline to submit this column, the closing has not yet happened. I’m afraid of jinxing it by saying it’s a done deal. But hopefully, by the time you read this, my house will no longer be my house.

I love my house - the one that is, I think, no longer my house. It was built one hundred years ago, and Eleanor Roosevelt once had lunch there, really and truly.

The trim around doors and windows and walls is a thick golden oak – the real stuff, heavy and solid. The windows are large and numerous; most of them won’t stay open on their own, so you have to prop them open with a stick.

But that’s okay. There are a lot of things in the house that aren’t quite the way they’re supposed to be.

The screen on the big front porch with the swing that squeaks still bears witness to the day Jonah decided to “help” me paint the house. The spiders have probably moved back into the basement, down in my cool, sawdusty workroom, with the water stains from the year we had that big flood.

The wooden banister creaks and jiggles fearsomely when feet thunder up and down the main stairs. There’s the corner patch of rug that got torn up when Oscar the cat got locked in the attic and was convinced he could dig his way out. And we never did get a replacement handle for the side door, or a new knob to replace the one that broke on the farm-style kitchen sink.

I knew just how to wiggle the broken right-hand latch to open the tall kitchen cabinets, the ones that reach all the way to the ceiling. There is a large brown stain on the carpet in front of the refrigerator (who puts carpet in a kitchen??) where one of the kids decided to draw with a stick of butter.

The pocket door sticks, the one that closes off the butler’s pantry and turns it into an elevator that, if you close your eyes and open your mind, will take you up a floor and land you in the bathtub. We laid the bathroom floor tiles ourselves, you know. And they’re mostly level, except for the wiggly one in front of the sink.

The pink-on-pink stripes and polkadots in Emmalyn’s room are a little grungy, but when she was little they were a perfect backdrop for princess dresses and stuffed animals. There is a spot on the rug in Jonah’s room that is a pale tan now, much better than the red that it used to be ever since the time…well, you don’t really want to know how that spot got there. Isaac’s room still smells faintly of fish bowls and pet rats and sneakers.

I worry a little bit about these new owners. I wonder if they will see only the butter stain and the broken windows. I hope not. I want them to appreciate the real value of my wonderful house. I want them to know why it’s so special, despite all its flaws.

My house is not extraordinary, and it is not anyone’s dream house. But it is where my family lived. What has given it value is the life inside it. What makes it special is how much it is loved.

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I will make my home among them. I will be their God, and they will be my people.  Ezekiel 37:27

God. Living in me. It gives me pause.

Goodness knows I’m not a perfect place to live. I’ve got all sorts of stains and broken parts on my inside. Some of my blemishes may look okay because I’ve scrubbed over them and hidden them away from outside eyes, but I know they’re still there.

We’re not going to be able to do much to boost our own market value, you and I. As fast as we try to fix our flaws, new ones pop up. We may look good on the outside, but even a cursory inspection would reveal a multitude of problems that would defy remediation.

And yet…. And yet these imperfect hearts are where our Savior decides to dwell.

The empty cross and the empty tomb shout with Easter joy: He is not here. He is there. There, in the heart He has chosen. There, with you; accepting you, forgiving you, giving His all so you could be His.

The stains and broken parts are still inside. But, despite our imperfection, we are of infinite worth. What gives us value is what lives inside. What makes us special is how much – how incredibly, breathtakingly much – we are loved.

First published in the Alpena News, May 3, 2014

Update from the author:  We sold the house!!!

Flying Lessons

I sat in the waiting area of Alpena’s adorable airport, pretending I was an experienced traveler without a care in the world.  Inside, though, I was all a-jitter.  It had been a long time since I was on a plane.

The building didn't do much to calm my nerves.  A cute airplane decoration hangs from the ceiling near the entrance, caught in the middle of a mid-air loop.  Unfortunately, the sight of an upside-down airplane is not entirely reassuring to a nervous traveler.  I found the ceiling fans charming, decorated as they are to look like propellers, until I realized that they are doing nosedives toward the earth. I thought, as I had thought many a time on the way to the airport, that if man had been meant to fly, God would have made us with wings.

My seat was in the second-to-last row of the small plane.  I climbed over the legs of the nice lady in the aisle seat and wedged myself in under the sloped ceiling that curved menacingly over my head.  Hot air was inexplicably blowing full-force from the air vents overhead, and passengers were stripping off coats and vests and panting in the heat.  I shoved my sweatshirt down by my feet, trapping them against my computer bag. 

I scrunched down to peer out the low window at the airport people scurrying about doing very official-looking things.  A woman on a wheeled platform started spraying the tip of the wing with some sort of fluid, undoubtedly, I realized with a shudder, to ward off the possibility of the airplane freezing mid-air. 

A series of mysterious thumps was followed by a thud as the door was closed and I realized with a sinking finality that I was trapped in this small space, my head pressed against the ceiling and my legs squished between my belongings and my arm tucked in close to avoid stealing space from the woman next to me and hot air blowing on my head and forty nine sweating strangers blocking my path to the door that was shut between me and fresh air, between me and the ground that was about to drop away from under me.  I tried to breathe; it wasn't going well. 

The airplane taxied slowly to the runway like an overgrown school bus. It turned, rolled into position, and paused just long enough to let  my heart stop.  Then, with a whoosh, we were speeding forward, faster and faster.  I peeked out my little window.  The ground was there.  And then it was a little less there.  And then… and then it was down, far below, falling away ever so gently as the houses and trees and fields shrunk and slid behind us. 

We were flying.  I was, somehow, magically, up in the air, high above everything.  It was grand, and glorious, and amazing. My fears faded and melted away.  I was soaring.

Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength; they will soar on wings like eagles.  Isaiah 40:31

Man was not made to fly.  It is ridiculous to think that a person could be 2,000 feet in the air gazing down on the world, safe as if they were in their own car.  It is ridiculous, and yet it is.

I look up at birds sometimes and marvel at the effortlessness of their flight.  They lift their wings, and in a trice they are up, held by the wind.  The utter improbability of it is staggering.  Air – they are sitting on air!  Ridiculous.  Foolish.  Improbable.  And yet, there they are, soaring high above, apart from the noise of the world, peaceful and strong and free.  It shouldn't be.  And yet it is.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe in things that seem improbable.  It is hard to accept that the creator of everything could notice one of His least significant creations and care about its small, everyday problems.  It is ridiculous to think that our deepest sins, the ones that we hide from the world so carefully, could be forgiven.  It is a foolishness, when life has been everything but trustworthy, to trust in the love of Someone who wanted us so much that He died to make us His.

It’s crazy.  It makes no sense.  It shouldn't be.  And yet it is.

The inexplicable, senseless love of our unfathomable God lifts us.  It gives us strength.  It is the reason that my family was smiling through their tears at the funeral I was flying to attend.  It is the reason that I can cry out in anguish and yet be strong and full of hope.

Man was not made to fly.  It is utterly improbable.  But those who hope in the Lord….they get to soar.

First published in the Alpena News, April 5, 2014

At The Feeder

The goldfinches are back.

There’s a group of about twenty of them that frequents our yard. They settle in the bare branches of the maple tree, camouflaged neatly by their muted winter colors of dull yellow and brown.

They don’t sit long. First one and then a handful shove off from their perches, tiny wings aflutter, and swoop breathily toward the feeder.

A lantern-shaped bird feeder hangs from a tall shepherd’s hook right outside our dining room window. It is usually full of black oil sunflower seeds. The tray that dispenses them is big enough for five or six little songbirds, or one bossy cardinal.

The finches plop onto the feeder a few at a time. They hop about the rim of it at first, eyeing each other and tilting their heads to squint evaluatively at the seeds.

Sometimes suspicion gets the better of them and they fluster off to the safety of the trees, leaving the food untouched. But usually one gets brave and makes a swipe at a seed, hopping sideways in a little scuttering dance step.

Soon the birds are twittering about the feeder, scooping up their snacks and chasing each other away.  New birds dive in, nudging the vanguard out of position and greedily snapping up the plumpest seeds.

Suddenly, the whole conglomerate starts in alarm, and then lifts into the air in a rustling cloud. They have seen my movement in the window and are frightened into the trees. They sit, subtly blending with the bark, until one of them gets hungry enough to be brave and lifts its wings. And the dance begins again.

Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Matthew 6:26

I put food out for the birds because I want them to be fed. It is a source of joy to watch their little stuttering approaches, their silly squabbling, and finally their ecstatic appreciation of the feast I have laid before them. I don’t want them to be hungry and alone. I want them to come, trust me, and be fed.

We sometimes approach our Heavenly Father’s feeder with hesitation. He gives us what we need to live and be content, but we look at it sideways, thinking maybe it’s not for us. Maybe it won’t be enough. We hop about and evaluate the blessings we have been given, wondering if our neighbors have a better selection.

Our Father’s feeder includes more than material things, of course. He offers His presence, that we might never be alone. He offers to take our days into His hands, to carry our burdens for us. He holds out forgiveness, and a chance at living without the fear of unredeemed failure.

And we flutter, and we hesitate, and we think we can do everything on our own, and we think we are not worthy.

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I think my favorite visitors to the feeder are the tufted titmice, with their pretty gray feathers and comical Ed Grimley hairstyle. They will sit plumped on the feeder for long minutes, ignoring the squabbling birds around them and focusing on the meal at hand, cracking the shells efficiently with their short, fat beaks.  They don’t fret about whether they ought to be there or whether the food is really for them. When the tufted titmice get to the feeder, they eat.

I spend a lot of time fretting over the details of life, worrying that there won’t be enough money or enough time or enough of me to go around. Even though I know better, I can’t stop thinking that I’ve got to take care of it all on my own.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have the courage and the confidence to fly to our Father’s feeder, fluff up our feathers, and simply sit and eat?

Look at the birds of the air. They are so little, and so insignificant. And yet our great big God takes care of them, and loves them.

God cares for birds. Must He not also care for me and you, the ones for whom His Son died? Mustn’t He sit and watch as we approach the good He has offered, smiling at our foolish hesitations, delighting in our joy when we finally accept what He wants so badly to give?

I’ll worry again tomorrow, I have no doubt. But maybe, just for today, I can place my frets into God’s hands. He can carry my burdens. He can comfort my soul. He can give me all the good He has in store.

As for me, I’ll be busy giving thanks for birdseed.

First published in the Alpena News, March 8, 2014