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