The Answer

. . . and a little child will lead them. Isaiah 11: 6

How can it be the end of August already?

It seems like only last week that we were gearing up for the first Vacation Bible School of the summer. This year I got to help with two different VBSs, one at our church and one at the Lutheran school my kids attend.

I love VBS. It's so much fun to make Bible stories come alive for young ears and to act silly and dress up like a farmer or pretend I'm a queen with a horrendous British accent.

I always get a giggle out of listening to the smallest children answer questions.  One sweet little guy from a few years ago was a particular favorite of mine.  His enthusiastically waving arm was impossible to ignore, even though you knew what was coming. It didn't matter what you asked - he always answered, instead, the question that was in his own mind.

Me: Do you know what Jesus did when the people said they were hungry?

Little boy:  My brother lost a tooth last night.

Me:  How do you think the disciples felt when their boat was caught in the storm?

Little boy:  Dogs have forty-two teeth.

Me:  What song should we sing next?

Little boy:  Look!  I've got a sucker!

Even though they were always wrapped up in the fun theme of the week, the children usually seemed to remember that the main reason they were there was to learn about God.  As the  closing leader quizzed them each day about what they had done and learned, they were ready with what they knew surely had to be the right answer. 

The leader would ask them who was their friend and they'd come up with that fresh-out-of-Sunday School answer to beat all answers: "Jesus!"  He'd ask what the day's Bible Story was about and they'd cry, "Jesus!"  He's ask what the children had made for a craft, and again the answer would come - "Jesus!"

No matter what the question was, the answer was always, "Jesus."

Children are sweet, aren't they?  And so naive.  And so simple.  And so deeply profound that it takes your breath away.

The questions get harder as we get older.  We go from Who wants ice cream to Who am I to How do I cope, and with every new and more challenging question the answer seems further removed.  But maybe the kids are on to something.  Maybe when we know the answer already, the questions are easier to face.

Question:  What does the future hold?

Answer:  (Change, no doubt, and good times and bad times.  But in all of it, one thing will remain constant - every minute of every day we will be offered the faithful love and soul's protection of our devoted friend,) Jesus.

Question:  How do I deal with the hurt that is tugging at my heart?

Answer:  (Nothing will erase heartache in an instant.  But the knowledge of being loved is the heart's greatest comfort.  And nothing shows so much love for you as the sacrificial life, death and resurrection of) Jesus.

Question:  Why is God allowing this to happen?

Answer:  (God allows sin to be present in the world, and that means that bad things happen.  But although we feel alone and frightened, He never abandons us.  He loves us so much that He refuses to let us sink into the pain of a sin-filled world and a sin-filled self, and to bring us to Him He sent his only Son) Jesus.

Question:  Why am I such a failure?

Answer:  (Nobody lives up to their own expectations.  Nobody lives up to others' expectations for them.  Most certainly, nobody lives up to the expectations God has for each of us.  But no matter what we look like when we look at ourselves, when God looks at us He does not see us and all our failures . . . He sees) Jesus.

We ask questions of God.  Big questions.  Important questions.  We ask, and then we seek His response in prayer and in His Word.  Then you will call, and the Lord will answer; you will cry for help, and He will say: Here am I (Isaiah 58:9).  Here am I, He says . . . Here is my Son.  Here's the answer.

It's naive.  It's simplistic.  But it's the ultimate truth - no matter what the question is, the answer is always Jesus.

Originally published in The Alpena News, August, 2013

Heaven on a String

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him.”

Romans 15:13

The town of Rogers City, where I live, is getting geared up for next week’s Nautical Festival. I was eager to sign up to work in our church’s booth (come try our pulled pork sandwiches!). I love doing that kind of thing. It’s a great opportunity for people-watching.

A few years ago, before we moved to Michigan, I spent some time tending a table at small-town summer festival. Several other church members and I gave away helium balloons tied to clothespins (which children could then clip to their clothing) on which were written, “Jesus lifts me up!” and the church name.

It was fun to watch people’s reactions as they passed our table. The adults either slid by, uninterested and hoping to escape notice, or eyed the candy bowl while trying to figure out how to snag one of the butterscotch rounds without seeming greedy.

The littlest children, though, had eyes only for the balloons. They’d spot them from across the parking lot and move slowly towards us, eyes glued to the floating blobs of color, entranced but timid. Could they have a balloon? Was it really all right? They’d glance at their mothers and tuck their chins away from me with shy uncertainty, but finally point to their favorite color and watch with ready hand as I untangled the chosen one from its brothers.

One little fellow chose a big red balloon and waited eagerly for his prize. When I reached to give it to him, however, his mother took the string before his outstretched hands could grasp it. Obviously worried that the balloon would be caught up in the light breeze and carried away, she turned him around and clothespinned it to the back pocket of his jean shorts.

When she stepped back, he looked around, puzzled. Clearly he was wondering where his balloon had gone. The mother gave the string a pull so he could feel that it was clipped to his shorts. He glanced behind him. In a flash his face went from concerned to elated, a brilliant, slightly crooked smile adding more warmth to the afternoon. He walked a few steps and felt the string tug reassuringly at his rear, then took hold of his mother’s hand and bounced away.

The balloon was his, and he was joyful.

…………….

I know that as a Christian I ought to be joyful. But sometimes I lose sight of where that joy ought to come from. Where is the elusive spiritual glow, I want to know, when the cat throws up in the living room and I have to clean it up for the third time in a week?

I know I’m going to heaven when I die because of what Jesus did for me – of that I am certain. But hopefully I won’t be dying for a good long time. So what’s the importance, today, of my salvation? What is it about my upcoming trip through the pearly gates that is supposed to be giving me joy in my day-to-day routine?

I think back to that sweet boy with the red balloon clipped to his backside. He didn’t do anything with his balloon. He didn’t play with it, didn’t tug at it, didn’t even look at it. He just knew it was there. And with that knowledge came peace, and with peace came joy.

I’ve got heaven on a string. It’s been pinned onto me by my Father, so I don’t have to worry about it being blown away by life’s winds. It’s there, trailing behind, hovering above, staying near. I’m headed to heaven – and that does mean something for today. It means that I am accepted and embraced by my Maker. It means that when I beat myself up for my faults and failings, I am fully forgiven by One who knows the worst in me and cares about me anyway. It means that when God looks down at the masses of people on earth He sees the red mark of salvation floating over my head and says, “Oh, yes, there’s My daughter – she’s Mine, and I love her.”

There are still hairballs on the carpet, and no heavenly balloon is going to make them go away. But as I go about my tasks, maybe I can remember the string clipped to my back pocket, and know that in all things, at all times, heaven is mine. And that means that the joy of being loved can be mine as well.

First printed in the Alpena News, July 27, 2013

A Little Foolishness

“I hope you will put up with me in a little foolishness. Yes, please put up with me!” 

2 Corinthians 11:1

Yesterday the kids and I had a fun little outing.  My friend invited us to her house on Grand Lake to go for a paddle.

You must keep in mind that we’re new here.  You don’t learn about boats in the middle of corn fields in central Illinois.  It was a new, exciting adventure for these Michigan newbies.

I didn’t want to embarrass myself by tipping over before I’d even started, so I was pretty pleased with the almost-graceful way that I tucked myself into my kayak and began to navigate around the shallow bay.

My kids were enthralled with the freedom of skimming across the water.  Jonah, usually my fearless warrior, was a little nervous about heading into the middle of the lake, so we stayed close to shore, peeking into people’s back yards and examining the zebra mussels.

Our turn-around point was a small dam that keeps Grand Lake from tumbling into Lake Huron.  It was a good spot to let the wind bump us up against the wall and to nibble the boxes of theater candy the kids had been given. 

My daughter Emmalyn spotted something intriguing wafting around the lake floor just below us.  Curious, I followed it for a while, paddling in circles to stay close to it.  The water was clear, but its rocking movement made it difficult to focus on the white object.

We decided we needed to know what it was.  I dug my paddle into the sand and grabbed Em’s kayak to keep us in place while she tried to push the object onto my paddle with hers.

It was a complete failure.  Mischievous waves pushed us apart, and the object of our curiosity stayed coyly just out of reach.

Eventually we gave up.  But as I tried to reposition my paddle, leaning to the left to pull it up out of the water, I had the sudden and alarming feeling of disequilibrium.  If I had been an experienced water person I could probably have stopped what was about to happen, but as it was I could only emit one started “Yeep!” before I was dumped into the lake.

I didn’t panic.  I wasn’t afraid. As I flapped about in the water trying to figure out which way was up, one thought, just one, occupied my mind: “Oh, geez.  I bet I look completely ridiculous.”

I trudged over to shore, grateful Jonah had kept us in shallow water, and tipped the water out of my sloshing kayak.  There’s nothing graceful about climbing into a small boat in deadweight jean shorts and wet-mop hair, but I laughed my way into position, shoved away from shore, and off we went.

……..

The best part about falling into the water is that my kids were there to see it.  I’m so glad that they were able to watch me flail and fall, stand back up, snort the water out of my nose, and have a giggle at my own expense.  I want them to learn that sometimes you look silly, and that’s okay.  Ridiculous happens.

There is something to be said for foolishness.  It’s my area of giftedness.  I make a big goober of myself on a regular basis, to the great embarrassment of my family. I just figure that if you make your decisions based on whether or not you might end up looking silly, you’re going to miss out on a whole lot of life.

……..

God is fearless when it comes to looking silly.  Our mighty Creator chooses the most surprising ways of accomplishing His work. A father gives the life of His Son to redeem a bunch of goobers.  It’s downright ridiculous.  Yes, “the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing . . . but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” 1 Cor. 1:18.

Christ on the cross makes no sense.  But it’s the perfect way, the only way, to make us His.

God doesn’t mind looking foolish in the eyes of the world.  And by being willing to let people think He’s a little bit silly, He gave ME life.  I don’t have to miss out on a thing.

As I flail and giggle my way through life, I cling to the ridiculous love of my surprising God.  We may be goobers.  But we’re goobers who are loved, no matter how silly we may look.

I love living loved. Maybe that explains why I’m going to greet my next adventure with a big old goofy grin.  Even if I end up getting wet.

First printed in the Alpena News, June 29, 2013

Love, Honor and Obey

We’ve got a dog in the house.

It took us several months of searching to track him down, but at long last we found just the right fuzzy face waiting for us at the animal shelter in Sault St. Marie. Our sweet Springer Spaniel has made himself at home and is quickly becoming part of the family.

We didn’t know what to expect when we finally brought a dog into the house. We have been hosts to a miniature zoofull of creatures over the years, from fish to hamsters to rats to cats. But we’ve never gone canine before. For all we knew, having a dog could be a miserable experience.

But Tucker is wonderful. He is well-behaved and polite, and he doesn’t shed or bark much. Every now and again he’ll shake his head with a liquidy, wubba-wubba sound and a rope of slobber will come flying off his jowls and stick to the wall. But mostly he’s just about perfect.

Our dog seems to know, with that sixth sense animals have, that my husband is the one who needs to be won over. Tucker likes to sidle up to him, give him a doggy grin, and then lay his big head down on my husband’s knee and gaze lovingly up into his face. His eyes seem to say, “You are my master, and I adore you.” It’s pretty irresistible, and he is usually rewarded with a pat on the head.

He’s claimed us, this dog. We find it remarkable how comfortable he seemed joining our family. The thing that amazes us most is how obedient Tucker is. He has accepted without question that we are in charge, and he seems to delight in doing what we ask of him.

We say, “Come on, Tucker!” and his eyes say, okay, and he comes. We say, “Tucker, sit!” and he says, okay, and sits. “Let’s go to the beach, Tuck.” Okay. “Tucker, don’t eat the cat’s food.” Okay. “Sorry, Tucker boy, you have to stay home this time.” Sigh. Okay.

The obedience of this dog doesn’t make sense. I wonder if he knows he has a choice. He could sit down and refuse to do what he’s told. He could growl and do as he pleases. Or he could take off down the block and be free.

I think he knows. I think he looks at his options – to obey or not to obey – and makes a deliberate decision to do that which will please his people. He obeys us because he loves us. And he loves us because we brought him home.

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There is something to be said for obedience. When there is One in whom to place your trust, it is a beautiful thing to choose to do what pleases Him.

God says, “Give up big chunks of yourself to love your spouse and raise your children.” It makes no sense. But still we say, Okay. “Leave everything you know and move to a strange new place and start over.” Okay. “That person hurt you badly. Forgive them.” Okay. “Your home just blew away in a whirling wind. Trust me anyway.” Okay.

No, obedience makes no sense. But then again, God doesn’t make much sense to me either, sometimes.

Jesus, Son of God, King of Kings, chose for our sake to become small, and weak, and human. He “humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” Philippians 2:8. What a strange, incomprehensible thing it is. Why would He do that for me? Doesn’t He know who I really am?

He does know. He knows it all. And yet, the Son chose to obey His Father and give His life. Because He loves us. Because He wants to bring us home.

Sometimes it is hard to obey. It is hard to relinquish control, to accept humility, to give thanks in a storm. But we lay our head on our Master’s lap, and look to Him with liquid eyes, and He melts our hearts with a touch. And we know, inside and out, that we belong to Him.

First published in the Alpena News, June 8, 2013

Little Big Things

I was glad the whole family was in the van when it happened. They can all back me up and confirm that I’m not crazy. It really DID look like a giant snake.

We were enjoying the pretty drive to Cheboygan, minding our own business, when suddenly I gasped, whipped my head around, and hollered, “What was THAT?” The kids’ heads swiveled, trying to figure out what I’d seen. My husband, who has far too much composure to veer of the road the way I would have if someone had shouted in my ear, calmly asked what in the world I was talking about.

Well, I could hardly admit that I was positive I’d seen a big, fat, rainforest-style snake wrapped around the branch of a tree we’d just passed. This is Michigan. There are no giant snakes here. (And if there are, for heaven’s sake don’t tell me about them.)

But when you gasp and holler, you have to explain yourself. So I told them about my snake. We decided we’d better go back and have a look.

We drove slowly, cruising along until we were just across the road from the tree. The kids plastered themselves to the window. There it was. Thick as your arm, mottled black and gray and orange, draped lazily around a branch.

We blinked, and then leaned back in our seats with pink cheeks. Tennis shoes. My giant snake was an old pair of sneakers, tied by the laces and flung into the tree by a giddy passerby.

We drove off, laughing at ourselves because just for a moment we had believed that a bit of footwear was something extraordinary.

I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. Wouldn’t it have been thrilling if I had been right? I knew my eyes were deceiving me, but still, I wanted there to be something special in that tree. I wanted to see a little amazingness to make that day a day worth remembering.

And then, as I write this, I feel the keyboard gliding beneath my fingertips, translating my thoughts into a newspaper column. Amazing. The cats wrestle by my feet, making me smile. I hear a child’s laugh and the tinkle of windchimes. I don’t need a python to make this day memorable. I have what I have every day – the magic of the ordinary. The enduring amazingness of the little things that are, in fact, the big things.

……..

I feel pretty ordinary most days. I’m just your average housewife, puttering along through my days, trying to keep up with my kids and my volunteer roles and the laundry. I don’t mind ordinariness most of the time.

Once in a while, though, I get sunk in a mire of wishing to be more and feeling like less. I don’t want to be Great, with a capital G, but I also don’t want to be a Failure. Capital F. And some days, being ordinary feels like a failure. Like I’m not doing enough. Or being enough. Like I’m just here, taking up space on the planet without really being worth much of anything.

Peter and John are two of my favorite people in the Bible. They were brave and funny and fearless, and they adored their Savior. Heroes, in my eyes. But look:

“When they saw the courage of Peter and John and realized that they were unschooled, ordinary men, they were astonished and they took note that these men had been with Jesus.” Acts 4:13

My heroes were just a couple of ordinary people. Like me.

I’ve been with Jesus, too. And He has been with me. And because of that, my everyday humdrum self is the little thing that is, in fact, a big thing in God’s eyes.

When God looks at you he’s not searching for amazingness. He already found it. It’s in the figure of Jesus on the cross, and it’s draped around your shoulders, marking you as one in whom your God delights.

You, being who He made you to be, are claimed as His by the death of His Son. You may not be spectacular; you may not be changing the world. But God loves ordinary. He uses ordinary.

When God’s looking at you, it’s good to be a shoe in a tree.

First published in the Alpena News, May 4, 2013

The Time of Singing

I was heading out the door intending to make a quick run to the grocery store when I heard it. Faintly, far-off, but there it was. I stopped mid-stride, then sunk gracelessly to the driveway until I was sitting crosslegged on the warm pavement, ears open wide. A long moment later it was there again, echoing in the air from a far-off tree. Three notes, three more, three more, cheeriup, cheerily. A robin. I sat and listened, trilling on the inside as the bird sang and sang, ushering out winter and making way for spring.

I’ve only just learned about the magic of robins. Before moving to cold Michigan I had always seen them as cheerful little yard birds without much significance. My friend the bird lover has been teaching me otherwise. Robins are spring’s honor guard. At the end of a bleak, cold winter, a gray and orange ball of feathery fluff is a crack of light in the darkness, a pledge that soon, soon spring will come.

For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. Song of Solomon 2:11-12

. . . . . . . .

On Easter morning the kids and I pulled quietly out of the garage into the dark morning to head to the sunrise service. Their eyes were bright with excitement at being up so early. We entered the church building with that mysterious pre-dawn feeling, snuffling the perfume of lilies and hyacinths and murmuring understated Happy Easters to the other worshippers.

The sanctuary remained dark and quiet and still until the moment of that joyous pastoral proclamation: Christ is risen! And as the lights came up the congregation boomed back with one voice, glad and loud, He is risen indeed! Alleluia! It was as if we had been waiting, watching for a crack of resurrection light, ears bent intently to catch the sound of the grave being opened. The dim introspection of Lent was over. It was Easter, and there was joy. Alleluia.

It’s two weeks later. Easter morning is fading with the foil-wrapped candy in my children’s baskets. The jelly bean hunt is over; the breathless morning has mellowed into a series of gray days that refuse to grow warm. It’s easy to tuck the holiday into a box like so many others, putting it away until next year and wondering just a little why it seemed like such a big deal at the time. It’s just a holiday.

. . . . . . . .

There are robins all over my yard now. Their bright bellies are easy to spot and they do have a nice, cheerful song, but still, I’m tempted to say, they’re just a bird.

Just a bird? My robin-loving friend would be appalled at my saying such a thing. Robins are a lifeline. They are hope, and promise, and a celebration of having made it through another cold winter. Even in the middle of summer, I can look at the happy bird with the funny little run and remember the straining ears, the vigilant eyes, the rush of joy when I finally heard that three-note call. They are a connection to those days of longing, of looked-for joy and a heart clinging to the promise that the light and life of spring is just ahead.

Easter, just a holiday? Just a day to be celebrated briefly and then put away until next year? 

Easter morning is a lifeline. Our alleluias are not just a celebration of something that happened two thousand years ago. They are a thanksgiving for all that our loving Father is doing, has done, and will do in our lives. Our alleluias are hope, a desperate grip on the promise that there will be an end to the winters of our hearts. Each Sunday morning, each new day, is a little Easter, connecting us to the promise of light and life ahead. Each straggling strand of Easter grass caught in my carpet sings a song of joy, saying don’t forget. Don’t forget the days of waiting; don’t forget the burst of jubilation when you once again shouted the praises of Him who died and rose for you.

The time of singing has come. The voice of the robin is heard in our land. Christ has risen. Cheeriup, cheerily, and alleluia.

First printed in the Alpena News, April 13, 2013

Set Free

The kids and I visited the Huron Humane Society in Alpena last week, beginning our search for the Perfect Family Dog. As we entered the building, houndy voices rowfed and barooed from an unseen back room.

A smiling young man in a colorful wool hat bounced over to serve as our tour guide. We followed him past several cages of adorable young cats, trying not to look too closely into their mesmerizing, take-me-home eyes.

“In here,” our young man in the cap called cheerily. “Let me know if you have any questions.” He opened a door.

Instantly, what had been noisy became bedlam. Before we even entered the dog room the inhabitants were welcoming us, barking and baying and nearly shaking the walls in their enthusiasm. The pandemonium was nearly overwhelming, but we boldly stepped in and began to introduce ourselves to the dogs.

Animal shelters are a blessing, and I deeply admire and appreciate the people who run them. But they can be a hard place to visit. The dogs spend most of their time looking at bars and cement, and while they are not miserable, they would much rather be somewhere else. I knew that going into that room was going to be hard on my heart.

We scanned the doggy faces. Each one looked at us intently, eyes pleading, barking out a supplication. Open the door, each face seemed to say. Let me come out and love you. Let me be your friend. Take me home.

Some of the dogs I could pass by with only a friendly word, but a few earnest faces made me pause. There was Carla, who covered my fingers with kisses. Rusty’s fascinating multicolored eyes promised to chase balls all day if only we would let him out. Marley’s gentle paw on my wrist said she would love me forever.

It was time to go. Most of the dogs had settled down and given up barking. They just looked at us, furry bodies pressed up against the metal that held them in, following us with entreaty in their eyes: “Let me out. Set me free. Please, take me home.” I wanted to adopt them all.

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Sometimes, on a difficult day, I look around me and see only bars and cement.

Some days I’m in a prison of my own making; my misuse of time and poor decisions leave me sorrowing and defeated. Sometimes I’m trapped by forces outside myself. A failing body, an emaciated checkbook, a series of mishaps that overcome optimism can all leave me helpless and hopeless, crying out for rescue.

With David I call out to my maker, “Set me free from my prison, that I may praise your name.” Psalm 142:7

We plead for Someone to open the door of our cells. Lord, we pray, ease my pain. Take away my suffering. Help me find my car keys. Let me out of this prison in which I do not belong. I’ll be so grateful, so well-behaved, so totally Yours. Just let me out.

I do, eventually, find my car keys. I do make it past the financial crisis, past the sick body and the aching heart. I’m set free. I can run and play and be happy.

And with the first rush of freedom, when my troubles melt away and I can breathe freely again, I go off skipping and rejoicing and completely forgetting that I ought to take a moment to say thank you to the One who has secured my release.

We forget our promises. We forget to praise His name, as we ought. And yet, our loving Lord gives us freedom upon freedom, offering us healing and comfort and pardon.

Yes. Freedom. We are not abandoned, rejected and unwanted. Our maker looked at our pleading eyes and helpless hearts and chose to take us home and make us His. He paid the adoption fee with the life of His own Son. We are released forever from the prison of sin, from the sorrow of separation from the One who loves us and who we are privileged to love in return.

There will be hurts. There will be lost hope and lost car keys. But we are not imprisoned. We are not alone, barred in and pleading for someone to come love us. We have been rescued; we have been adopted; we are at home in the heart of our loving Lord.

Kinda makes me wish I had a tail to wag.

First published in the Alpena News, March 9, 2013

A Love Story

I did something strange the other day. I looked at myself in the mirror. Ok, so that’s not exactly gasp-worthy news. But it wasn’t just a quick check as I was brushing my teeth. For some reason I got the urge to actually look – closely – at my face. It was an alarming experience.

I leaned in, examining the eyes that don’t quite match, the blotchy skin, the wrinkle that I hadn’t noticed before. Wincing at each flaw, I decided to find some things I liked about my features. I did find a few. My nose is okay; it’s just like my dad’s. And I don’t mind the thoughtful space in between my eyebrows.

As I looked, I began to notice something curious about my eyes. Each time I looked at them, they were looking at me. Nothing odd in that – it was a mirror, after all. But though I slid and scooted and zipped my real eyes around my reflection, I could never once catch even the tiniest flicker of movement from those eyes that were staring back into mine. It was unnerving. The direct gaze in the mirror wasn’t looking at my flaws; wasn’t seeking out my pleasing parts. It was just looking at ME.

- - - - - -

Why is it so hard to be looked at? Really, really looked at. A passing glance we can tolerate; the indifferent eyes of a stranger may not cause alarm. But to be in the full focus of a direct, piercing gaze makes us squirm. Is it, perhaps, because we fear we may be truly seen?

Sometimes I’m afraid people will figure me out and know that I’m a fraud. That my insides don’t match my outsides. The person inside is frightened sometimes, and prideful sometimes, and in secret sometimes longs to run away. What if people could see that? What if someone looked – looked closely – and saw all my insecurities and foolishness? Wouldn’t they back up, murmuring an apology, and walk away as quickly as they could? To let someone look inside is to be vulnerable. Because if they look, they may choose to not love what they see.

Thursday is Valentine’s Day. A day to celebrate love. Call me a sentimental sap, but I think love is the greatest force in the world. And being in love is the greatest joy of life.

Being in love is not a blessing bestowed only upon the young and starry-eyed. It is not merely boy-meets-girl romance and happily ever after. Being in love is being IN love. Inside of love. I am in love, in the love of my husband, my children, my adored friend. In-love love is the eyes in the mirror, gazing into the inside of me. It doesn’t look at the imperfections that I can so readily see, nor even at the good I might do in a day. It sees ME. And it chooses to not look away.

- - - - - -

There was a man of some importance. He wished to be a good man. He wished to be respected for the life of value he had led. He found His Savior in the street, spoke to Him, lay before Him his offering of a well-led life. Jesus looked at the man’s pride, his foolishness, his inability to be all that he hoped to be. With the clear, seeing gaze of the Son of God, Jesus took in all that that man was. He looked at HIM.

And Jesus, looking at him, loved him.  Mark 10:21a

I am in the gaze of my Savior. He looks at me and knows me – the inside part of me, that nobody else can fully see. I want Him to see the good parts, to know I’ve tried my best. But I know what else is in there, and that I can’t hide it from Him. I squirm, vulnerable, unable to defend myself, too aware of my inadequacies.

And in those gentle, steady eyes, I see love.

I see the love that hung on a cross, covering over my flaws. I see the love that claims me as its own, taking away my need to be anything other than His. I see the love that sees ME, that looks right at the inside me, and does not walk away.

I am in love. Within love. Eternally, consistently, determinedly surrounded by love.

Jesus looked at him and loved him.

Jesus looks at you – really looks – and loves you.

Happy Valentine’s Day.  You are in love.

First printed in the Alpena News, February 9. 2013

Forward, March

On Christmas Eve our church hummed with children in red velvet (“Look! I’m dressed like Santa Claus!”) and clip-on ties. Weeks of preparation for the annual children’s Christmas pageant culminated in this one special night. While the grown-ups sat scanning their bulletins in the pews, the younger generation bounced about the fellowship hall, chattering and giggling and eyeing the bags of goodies that would be theirs after the service.

As the time neared for the pageant to begin, the children vibrated with excitement. Sparkle-eyed angels chased each other with high-pitched giggles while shepherds turned their staffs into light sabers. Mary wrestled her baby away from a rambunctious wise man. The adults stood in the middle of the chaos with slightly dazed expressions, straightening any halos within their reach.

Finally the moment came. The children were shushed. Our fearless leader, Mary Jo, rose to say a few words of encouragement to the eager eyes that were upon her. She steered Joseph to his seat, scooped a stuffed sheep off of the floor, and addressed her audience.

“Ok, you guys. This is your night. I want you to do your best, and have fun. If you get lost, look at me. I’ll get you back on track. If you get scared, look at me. I’ll remind you to smile. Ready? Let’s go. It’s going to be great.”

Mary and Joseph and all their caravan lined up – big kids first! – and headed out the door, eager smiles and bouncing footsteps revealing their anticipation of what was to come. They couldn’t wait to get there. It was going to be great.

Marching into a new year, dressed in our seasonal best and giddy with anticipation, we can’t help thinking, at least a little bit, of what might lie ahead. As we recite our lines and play our part, we’ll have to stand up straight and try not to squirm and try to remember where we are and what’s supposed to happen next. People will be watching us, and we don’t want to let them down. It’s a little scary, looking to the future and knowing you have to go there but not being sure that once you get there you’re going to be able to avoid messing up.

A new year; it sometimes fills my heart with trepidation. But I’m not walking into it alone.

I hear the voice of my Fearless Leader, speaking to me through His written Word, whispering in my heart:

I want you to do your best, and have fun. Even if you really try to do everything right, you’re going to mess up; I’m going to love you anyway.

If you get lost, look at Me. I’ll point to My Son on the cross, making you mine, and then you will know where you are.

If you get scared, look at Me. I’ll remind you that you are not alone, because I will never leave you or forsake you. And I will give you My joy to be your strength.

We stride ahead into 2013, shoulders straight, chin raised, our Leader’s voice ringing in our ears. The Good Shepherd walks beside us, His staff of righteousness raised to defend us from what wolves may come. The sound of angels’ music lingers in the air, reminding us to sing the praises of the One who gave His life for us. Wise men forge ahead, leading the way, leaving a trail for us to follow. Behind us Mary cradles the Baby in her arms, and we too can ponder in our heart the wonders of an infant Christ, God made man, journeying with us, behind us, beside us, before us, in and with and under and through the year ahead.

Let’s go. It’s going to be great.

First published in the Alpena News, January 12, 2013

Solid as a Rock

Michigan rocks.

Well, ok, yes it does.  It’s a great state, and I like it a lot.  As my ten-year-old daughter would say in her best Mutant Ninja Turtles voice, Michigan totally rocks, dude.

But that’s not what I meant.  I mean rocks.  From Michigan.

I’m a big fan.

Michigan rocks are a new thing to me.  Actually, all of Michigan is a new thing.  Our family moved up here over the summer, transplanting in from the wide open spaces of rural Illinois.  Six months later it’s still surprising to find ourselves here, surrounded by birch and evergreen and a big blue lake.

They fill my home now, Michigan rocks.  There’s the reading rock that keeps me company during my morning devotion.  And the cooking rock guarding the stove, and the walking rock waiting by the front door.  My driving rock hogs a cup holder next to the driver’s seat.  My coats are all stocked with pocket rocks, their thumb-shaped dips ready to be rubbed when my hands are restless.

My husband thinks I’m crazy.  Maybe he’s got a point. Maybe it’s not normal, in the middle of reading or driving or cooking, to reach for a rock.  But they bring me comfort.  There is something about the weight, the solidity, the inherent strength of a rock that is reassuring when life gets a little too tumultuous.

I’ve needed reassurance the last six months.  And solidity.  It’s hard, moving to a new home, a new state, a new life.  I like it here – no, I love it here.  Michigan rocks.  But still, there’s so much that’s new and different and strange.

It’s scary to be the new family.  It’s hard to look into the faces of your three children and your exhausted husband and know that you need to be their strength, their source of encouragement and comfort, when you yourself are still off-balance from the newness and strangeness of this new, strange life.

Somehow, holding onto a rock helps.

…....

As Mary held her tiny baby, still red and wrinkled, gazing up at her with the uncomprehending, fascinating eyes of a newborn, she must have felt all the exhilaration and terror of newness.  What a strange experience it must have been, holding on to this child, knowing who and what He was.  What an overwhelming responsibility was hers, this young girl, facing for the first time the whirlwind that is motherhood while having also the responsibility of being the mother of Him who was to be her Savior.

When life is tilting about you, it helps to know you’re holding onto a rock.

As she held my Jesus in her arms, I hope Mary found peace in the nearness of God’s love.  I hope she knew, amid the strangeness and newness of her turned-upside-down life, the comfort and strength of holding onto a rock – the Rock.

Life gets swirly sometimes.  We’ve got scary things to face, all of us.  Newness.  Oldness.  Hurtness.  Indecision.  Uncertainty.  How will the bills get paid?  How will I cope?  When will I be able to breathe again?

In the midst of the tumult, it helps to hold onto a Rock.

For who is God besides the Lord?  And who is the Rock except our God?  It is God who arms me with strength and keeps my way secure.  2 Samuel 22:32-33

Our Rock, our God who loves us, who gave His life for us, is strength.  He is solidity.  I need reassurance; I reach out my hand and run my fingers along the smooth contours of a rock fresh from the shores of Lake Huron.  I need reassurance; I reach out my heart in soundless prayer and in faith take hold of the rock-solid strength of my big, strong, certain, solid God.

And I remember, in that moment, that my big, strong, solid God is holding onto me.

My young son Jonah just came into the room and saw me gazing at my computer screen, my cheek pressed against a smooth black rock.  He rolled his eyes.  “So that’s your computer rock, I suppose?  Mama, that’s just weird.”

Weird it may be.  But I love my rocks.  I love this crazy life.  And I love being the child of a God who loves me enough to call me His . . . who invites me to hold on to Him in the midst of my every need.

I’ll get through this newness thing.  Until then, and forever after, I’ll be holding onto my Rock.

First published in the Alpena News, December 15, 2012