Christmas and Babies

A memory from a Christmastime eleven years ago:

The family was sitting together in the living room. The time for The Big Announcement had come.

“So,” I said to the kids. “What would you think about having another person come to live in our house with us?”

Our agreeable daughter gave an unhesitating approval. Our son, though, was more cautious. “That depends. Who would it be?”

“Well, we’re not sure yet,” his father answered. “It would be someone we’ve never met before.”

Isaac paused. “I don’t know. Would it be a boy or a girl?”

“We don’t know that yet, either,” came the reply. “All we know is that the new person would be a baby, and that it would be your brother or sister.”

Isaac thought this over. He looked at me, looked at his dad, and let his eyebrows settle into a frown. “Well, to tell you the truth," he said with great seriousness, "I don’t really like babies.”

We laughed and teased my eldest about his anti-baby stance, but I knew what he meant.

To tell you the truth, I didn’t always like babies either. Growing up I wasn't one of those girls who begged for an opportunity to hold any miniature human in sight.  A baby was, to me as a non-parent, nothing more than a noisy, wet creature with whom it was impossible to communicate.

That changed, of course, when my first child was born. Suddenly a baby was not only wet and noisy but also soft and warm and snuggly and fascinating. That baby, my baby, was a part of me, my own child, and I could not not love him.

Yes, this small person that suddenly filled my house and my hands was noisy. Like any baby not yet blessed with the gift of language, he'd start up his siren any time he needed food or a burp or a snuggle. Without a thought as to what I was doing or whether I had time for him, he would commence a quivery-lip wail, devastated by discomfort and determined to rend the heavens with his discontent until all was made right again in his me-first world.

I would come to his rescue, soothing and providing and working my hardest to meet the needs of this small, self-absorbed, noisy creature. As exasperating as his constant neediness could be, I would never leave him in his misery. I held him in my arms, whispered words of love into his ears that were not yet ready to understand, and stayed with him until all was right again.

I was not a baby person. But this baby was my baby. This child was my child. He carried a piece of my heart. And I loved him unendingly, not because he was wonderful, but because he was mine.

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I can’t help thinking that, much as I know He loves us, I wouldn't blame God if He didn’t really like us humans all that much.

Really, from His perspective, what’s to like? We fuss about everything, demand constant attention and think that everything is all about us. Whenever life goes a little bit wrong we oh-no and it's-not-fair and wallow in our tiny miseries and fail to see the big, beautiful goodness that is all around us.

And it must be seriously frustrating to try to communicate with us. In His Word, from the pulpit, in the very moments of our days God talks and soothes and consoles in the ears of His children, but we don't comprehend His words. We often don't even notice that He's speaking to us, and the gentle tone of His voice is lost in our feed-me, comfort-me wails.

It’s hard to truly love a child until it’s your child. But when it's yours, it carries a piece of your heart. And you love it unendingly.

The infant in the manger cried, and His Daddy’s heart had room for nothing but His Son that He had sent to a world that would not love Him as it ought. A world that would mistreat Him and reject Him.

Thirty-three years later, the same Son cried up to heaven, Father, forgive them. Forgive the world that has been so full of rejection. Forgive these foolish people who wail and fuss and don't understand.

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We need. We want. We make a racket and are utterly unreasonable and frankly are kind of a pain in the rear.

But through Jesus we are God's little ones. We are the children that He chooses to love, not because we are cute and cuddly but because we are unendingly His own, brought to Him by the child who had no crib for a bed.

What a blessing a child is, a gift that shows us how much we are loved. What a blessing the manger-child is, a gift that made that love possible. To tell you the truth, babies aren’t so bad after all.

First published in The Alpena News on December 24, 2016

Where We Are

I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one can snatch them out of my hand. John 10:28

Have you noticed the caterpillars?

They seem to be everywhere this year. Every time I rake I send a couple of them flipping onto their backs in their c-shaped you-can't-see-me posture and have to apologize for disrupting their day. Maybe they like this fantastic weather as much as we do, I don't know. But they're out and about everywhere you look.

I am reminded of autumn out in the country where we used to live. Each fall we were treated to an invasion of inch-long critters, fuzzy hairs sticking out every which way, charging across country roads, on their way to fulfill their bugly destiny. I would try to drive slowly when I saw them, veering to avoid squishing the determined little guys who obviously had somewhere important to be.

On our way home from school one day the kids and I stopped to examine a big, rust-colored fellow. He happily climbed onto the fingers I offered him. Slowly the caterpillar sniffed around my hand, curious about this new environment, looking perplexed when the ground beneath him began trembling as I fought to control the giggles brought on by his many tickling feet.The kids' eyes shone as they examined our new friend. His fur (fur on a bug – isn’t God awesome?) looked soft and inviting as he sat calmly in my palm. One of the kids reached out a finger. Touch! Instantly the caterpillar (he looked like a George to me) was off and running. And could he run! He raced up my arm and would have flung himself off my elbow into the great unknown of my van’s interior if I hadn’t put out another hand for him to tumble onto. He picked himself up and kept on running, from hand to hand to hand to hand as I worked to keep up with him.

George finally slowed his pace to catch a breather, until a curious finger reached out again, and, touch! and George was off and running. Running, running, a blur of fuzz and little legs, from hand to hand to hand.

I said softly, “Where ya goin’, George?”

Poor George really thought he was getting somewhere as he ran and ran and ran, but all the time he was in one place – my hand.

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I think I understand you, Georgie boy. I run and run, too. I’m in a rush to do what needs to be done, to get to the next Big Event, to reach tomorrow. I push blindly forward, hoping that wherever it is I’m going will be better than where I’ve been, and neglecting to see where I am. And I’m pretty sure that I’m not really getting anywhere at all.

Sometimes, of course, I stop running. Like when that small child with bright eyes is suddenly in high school and I realize how quickly time flies and how fast children grow. Or when a friend struggling with real hurts and worries notices that I'm blue over some petty problem and brings me a bowl of raspberries to sweeten my day. Or when a giant moon stretches a beam of light across a big water toward my toes and invites me to take a quiet breath. Then the nowhere race stops and I look around me, surprised by the stillness, and see where I am.

I halt, take a breath, and see that I am, as I have always been, in one place...safely in my Father’s hand.

Any moment, I know, I will be off and running again, but in the pauses, in those precious, sometimes frightening moments of stop-in-your-tracks clarity, I am able to see where I am, and where I’ve been, and where I’m going. Through it all, for every footstep of my sometimes frantic, sometimes giddy race through life, I am held, carefully and lovingly, by my Heavenly Father.

He who gave me life once with the creation of the world, twice with the creation of my body and thrice with the death of His own Son in my place now treasures me and sustains me, even when I don’t remember He’s there. Whether I’m racing off to nowhere or sitting still and savoring the moment, I am securely held in the hands of a God who gave a Son who stretched out a hand to accept a nail for me.

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Go on, George, run all you want. You won’t get very far, but that’s ok – I’ve got you. Just be sure to take a break once in a while, and see where you are. See? You’re in my hand.

First published in The Alpena News on November 19, 2016.

An Autumn Art Show

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.  I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.  Psalm 139:13-14

A few mornings ago my youngest headed out the door, having won the award for being first to be ready for the school day.  A few moments later he popped his head back in the house.  "Mom!" he called with a breathless voice.  "Just wait till you see.  You're going to love this!"

I was ready for a pleasant

surprise when I left the house.  At first I didn't see anything remarkable - just another lovely October day.  He paused to let me look for myself, and then flung his arm toward the ground in a gesture of magnificence.

"Leaves," he grinned.  "They're finally coming down."

He was right.  The autumn beauty that had been brewing in the treetops was starting its annual migration to the ground.  Leaves from our shade tree lay carpeting the yard in an orange and gold shag.

A dry skittering drew my attention toward a few lighthearted leaves strolling across the driveway, enjoying the sunshine.  I watched them, intrigued by the warm marbling on their backs – red and orange and yellow and a touch of green sponge-painted in muted celebration, a modest masterpiece. 

My eyes trailed around the yard, noting the different shapes, sizes, and abundance of color amongst the leaves, each canvas more striking than the last.  Their beauty was astonishing, once I took the time to notice it.  They were truly, spectacularly beautiful.

It had never occurred to me before to be envious of a leaf. 

Wouldn’t you like to be spectacularly beautiful?  What joy it would be, if leaves could feel joy, to reflect up to each passerby a little of the Creator’s glory, to make people stop in their tracks and say, “Wow, what a wonderful creation.”  How glorious to glow with color and light and the knowledge of being a real, unique and splendid work of art.

Here’s something to think about:  you are, truly, a masterpiece.

“I am fearfully and wonderfully made,” the psalmist writes.  God’s works are indeed wonderful – we know that full well.  All creation sings His praise and shows His glory.  Hummingbirds and giraffes and spring flowers and autumn leaves all gleam with the greatness of our God. 

And we, you and me, are His greatest creation – mankind, made in His own image.  We are wonderfully made.  We are spectacular.

We can be pretty bad at seeing our own wonderfulness.  We look down at our imperfect, slightly lumpy bodies and say, “Wonderfully made?  This?”  We see our own mistakes, our failures, our weaknesses and flaws and think, “Wonderful?  Me??”

Yes!  Wonderful, you.  Not wonderful because you’re pretty, or well dressed, or because your house is clean and your kids are well behaved.  You’re not wonderful because you’re nice, or even because you go to church and say your prayers and help wash the dishes after the church potluck.  You’re wonderful because God’s works are wonderful.  He made you, and what He makes is good.

And you’re wonderful because not only were you wonderfully created, but you have also been wonderfully re-created.  Through the blood of His Son, God cleaned away the ugliness of sin that marred His masterpiece.  And now when He looks at you He sees you as the beautiful, wonderful creation He intended you to be.

Because Jesus lived and died and rose again, you – lumpy, imperfect you – are wonderful in the eyes of your creator.  With His love within us and His forgiveness around us, we are freed to be a spectacular leaf, a unique and uniquely gifted masterpiece who reflects the beauty of our maker and gives a glimpse of His love to those around us. 

Before long we'll have to rake our front yard leaves into good-smelling piles and take them to the town yard waste pile for the next stage of their life.  I will revel in the feeling of their cool, damp crispness against my arms and face as I herd them into a bag for the journey.

But for now I will enjoy my daily stroll through our golden carpet, swooshing my feet under the leaves and then up for that deliciously crinkly sound as they surge upward and then settle back down in my wake. And my eyes will trail over the God-painted beauty all around me, realizing once again that there is no most-beautiful leaf.  They are all lovely. 

I am only one among so, so many.  But the One who made me sees me as beautiful.  For today, that is enough.

First published in The Alpena News on October 22, 2016.

Making Plans

“I’m kinda nervous I’ll break my nose one of these times. Other than that, it’s fine.”

Last fall my teenager daughter declared that her room needed a loft bed. A trip to Home Depot and a weekend later, we found ourselves in her bedroom smelling of sawdust as we followed the penciled plan we’d sketched on a scrap of paper.

I have to say, we girls built a pretty nice little loft bed, complete with built-in bookshelves and only a smidge of wobble.

But…well, we ran out of time that day. And got busy the next. And, well...we never quite got around to building a ladder.

My daughter, who is patience personified when it comes to her mother, climbs into her up-in-the-air bed each night using a short stepstool. She balances on the top step, grabs the edge of the bed, then launches herself up onto the mattress. It works, but she often lands, yes, directly on her nose. Other than that, she assures me sweetly, it’s fine.

Fast forward past a busy year to early June. In our usual beginning-of-summer family meeting, I declared it The Summer of Mom. Such a list I had brought to the table! A master to-do list of all the things we were going to accomplish before school started. Back-yard fires and marshmallows. Massive cleaning projects in the basement. Tie-dying on the back porch. And, by golly, I WAS going to build that ladder. It was all part of the plan, and it was all going to get done.

Want to guess what I didn’t accomplish over the summer?

No tie-dying. No basement purges. And no ladder for my poor nose-smushed daughter.

I reeely, reeeely intended to get that ladder built. That was the plan. But plans...well, they just don't seem to go as planned.

Life is like that, I reckon.

A carefully rehearsed argument refuses to go as scripted.

You plan the perfect vacation, and it rains every single day.

A phone call, a construction zone, a child's cough, and just like that a pre-planned day can be thrown completely off course.  

Many are the plans in a man’s heart. But it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.  Proverbs 19:21

Oh, how we plan. Out of our worries and our enthusiasms come days and days and days full of plans, plans that simply will not go as planned.

Except for one. The one we don't make for ourselves.

God's a really good planner. I think maybe that's because He keeps it simple.

It's tempting to think of God's plan as being really big and complicated, encompassing every move of our day in a flurry of divine micromanagement. But while God's plan may be big, it's not complicated. It is a very simple plan, and it has been His plan since the beginning of time. And what is that plan?

To love us. And to make us His.

Throughout the entire Bible and up to this very minute, everything God has done has been in service to this simple, beautiful plan. Old Testament rules and manna in the wilderness. A cross on a hill, an empty tomb. The ins and outs and good days and tough days we are allowed to face...all part of that simple, simple plan.

I am struck by the beauty of that simplicity. And the strength of it. God's enduring focus on doing whatever it takes to guide his obstinate people toward the gifts He wishes to give them makes everything that happens in a day make sense as a part of His big but not complicated plan.

I plan my summers and my vacations and my columns and my arguments to the moment and am absurdly astonished when they go askew. Perhaps I need to take a lesson from God's planning expertise and learn to keep it simple.

The new plan: Be loved. Be His. And love those around me.

There, that's better. That's a plan to lean a day against. When the ladder doesn't get built and I am buried under my to do list and it rains when I want sunshine, things can still go according to plan.

At the end of today, let's look back with a smile at the human-laid plans that just didn't work out. And remember the bigger, simpler plan that was there all along. Whatever the day holds, you are loved. You are His because of Jesus, whoever you may be. And tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, that big, simple plan will still hold true. You will be loved infinitely by your Creator. You will be wanted by Him, no matter what.

Plan on it.

First published in The Alpena News on September 24, 2016

Lean On Me

The crackle-pop of fireworks always zooms be back in time.

Like most Americans, I've watched many a fireworks display in my life. From my vantage point in a folding chair, the hood of a van, a church roof, a sandy patch of beach, or a wooden front porch gazing across a field of soybeans, I've oohed and aahed in proper patriotic style at blossoming spheres of colored light in the night sky.

But my July Fourth time travel always carries back me to one specific fireworks show. I was in second or third grade. My parents, older brother and I were on a grassy hill on a scratchy blanket where we sat, watching and oohing and aahing.

I thought the fireworks were pretty. I enjoyed the lights and colors. The big sounds made me a little nervous, but they were exciting, too.

But the flash-boom ones - how they terrified me. Perhaps you've seen them. No colors, no orb in the sky, just a sudden, blinding flash of white accompanied by a deep explosion of sound so loud you can feel it in your chest. I hated them.

As soon as one started I would clap my hands over my ears and shut my eyes and try to keep it out, but it was so bright and so loud and so fast that all the scariness got in under my hands and eyelids.

Before long I was watching the display peeking out between my fingers, my thumbs plugging my ears and my face hidden behind the protective layer of my hands, crawling inside myself from fear that another scary flash-boom was coming.

And then...I leaned against my mom.

In retrospect, I feel bad for my mom. She must have been sad that this special family outing had turned into a terrorfest for her timid daughter.

But that night, as I trembled on that hill, my mom was a tower of refuge for me.

I don't remember if she put her arms around me. Probably she did. But the part I remember is the lean. And her shoulder. And how good it felt to know that she was there.

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Mom died not quite seventeen years ago. Three months later my first child was born, and suddenly I was a mother. How I wished, in the midst of that terrifying flash-boom, that I had Mom to lean on.

The fact is, even though we are grownups, there are still things in life that make us tremble. Most of the time we can see the beauty and excitement of life, the flash and sparkle of opportunities and challenges in our sky. But there are hurts that stop breathing in its tracks. Losses that make the heart crumple. Difficulties that send us diving under the covers pulling a pillow over our heads, blind to all else because the flash-booms are so overwhelmingly bright and loud and scary.

When life hurts, how I long for my mother's shoulder.

But I am no longer a child. I need to be able to handle these things on my own. My husband and children and loved ones are there for me and dear to me, but they can't shield me from the big booms. When it comes to facing what I tremble to face, there is no human on the planet that can be my tower of refuge.

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But I lean. I lean on the only One bigger than the flashes and the booms. I lean on a Father who doesn't keep the big scaries from my life, but who is by my side in the midst of them. I lean on the One who climbed a hill and laid down a life so that I might never be alone.

The lean isn't always pretty. We cry out to our God, questioning, accusing, pleading, defying. We lose our cool with the kids, pound the steering wheel, sob into our pillows. And in the end, when our hearts and lungs and eyes are exhausted, we lean. We simply lean.

And in the quiet, a shoulder is there.

Our tower, our refuge, our hiding place. Our strength. Our comforter. Our loving parent who is with us when the lights are too bright and the noises are too loud.

I am not on my own. You are not on your own. You are loved everlastingly by your Creator, you are bought by the blood of His Son. Is the weight in your heart too much to bear? Then don't bear it alone.

Lean.

First published in The Alpena News on July 2, 2016

Bits and Pieces

Last Thursday evening I was going through my daily ritual of trying to find something to make for supper.  (Sure I could plan ahead, but what fun would that be?) 

An expedition into the fridge and cupboards netted me some leftover cooked ground beef, a bag of not-too-old potatoes, a can of green beans I had actually bought it for the dog, who is supposed to be on a green bean diet (Dr. Jay swears it'll work), and a container of cheese spread of the sort that is supposed to be smeared on crackers.  I had bought it a few weeks back as a manager's special.  Its best-by date had come and gone, but surely I could heat it on the stove, add the meat and a splash of milk, and turn it into an interesting sauce to spoon over mashed potatoes.

Yyyeah, that wasn't such a great idea.  The cheese had a nice sharp tang to it, but it tasted like it was full of sand.  Heating it up only seemed to make it worse.  My cheesy sauce semi-plan was a no-go.

My eldest wandered into the kitchen.  Accustomed to my desperation dinners, he knew I would be open to suggestions.  "Got salsa?  Why not use those tortillas and make tacos?"  He was right.  Tacos were the prefect simple solution. 

I looked doubtfully at the big bowl of steaming potatoes that was now on the counter, noting aloud that mashed potatoes and tacos don't mix. In true teenage-boy style, he declared, "Hey, I know.  We could put the potatoes ON the tacos!"

And thus the potaco was born.  Yes, it was assembled from a handful of random odds and ends, none of them really fit for a meal.  And yes, it wasn't that good.  (I mean, come on.  Mashed potatoes in a taco.  You weren't expecting me to say it was delicious, were you?)  But still, there was something oddly endearing about our new creation.

I think part of it is the name.  Potaco.  It's just fun to say. 

And I think we also liked the potaco because it started out as a sandy-cheese failure, but somehow, mishmosh that it was, it had become a new, interesting thing, created by us.  Something unique and quirky that was more than the sum of its parts.

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Life is full of potaco days.  Days when nothing goes according to plan.  When you forgot that you were supposed to make a plan in the first place.  Days when the best you can do is try to grab hold of one or two good things and call it adequate.

I often find myself wishing I were having a better day.  Or living in a better way, more organized perhaps, or more focused, or more effective, so that I could feel good about what I have to show for each 24-hour chunk of life.

But most days aren't like that. Lots of days are full of odds and ends and unexpected bits, false starts and failures, restarts and just doing the best you can.

That night, as I dished up our odd dinner (complete with dog beans), my eldest pulled out his phone with a laugh.  "I might just need to tell my friends that we're having potacos," he told me.  "I think we've really come up with something here."

Every once in a while, amid my near-constant stream of self-evaluation and criticism and feeling I ought to be doing something better, I am struck by the realization that my crazy, hashed-together days are...well, they're potacos.  They are new, interesting, and even exciting, even though they're not at all what I expected. 

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Bits and pieces.  Put together into a whole that, for some inexplicable reason, has worth.

It's not only our days that are potacos, my friends.

Each of us are full of bits and pieces.  Good pieces.  Not so good pieces.  Leftover chunks of time, cold emotions, parts that look better than they really are.  Surprising bits, strengths we didn't know we had.  A mishmash.

I don't always feel like my parts add up to much.  My internal evaluations convince me I'm inadequate, and the sting of being rejected leaves me wishing I were made of some other parts.

But in Jesus, my Heavenly Father makes all things new.  He takes me the way I am and makes my pieces into something interesting and unique.  He made me to be a me.  He made you to be a you.  By giving us His Son He has given us a new name, a new identity, a worth beyond explanation.  Just as we are.

Take a look in the mirror.  God has really come up with something.  Something unique.  Quirky.  So much more than the sum of its bits and pieces parts. 

Just for today, see yourself as He sees you.  As his totally awesome potaco.

First published in The Alpena News, June 4, 2016

An Ordinary Day

I celebrated a birthday this week. Half of ninety. A nice, solid number.

The thing about birthdays, the thing that makes them kind of tricky, is this. They're supposed to be good.

Not that I'm morally opposed to having a good day or anything. It's just that . . . gosh, that's a lot of pressure. You can't just declare, first thing on a Tuesday morning, that THIS is going to be a good day. No, not just a good day, but a special day. An extraordinary day. A day that is on some level different from all the other days of the year. What Tuesday could live up to such demands?

Most of the day was fine. But then it got close to supper time. I knew the kids would want to know if we were going to go out to eat. That's our family tradition, sort of. As often as it works out, birthdays are celebrated by the treat of hitting one of the local restaurants. I had to decide if that's what I wanted to do, or if I would prefer some sort of nice dinner at home, with the kiddos handling the cooking and cleaning.

The supper question gnawed at me, and I grew gradually more agitated. What did I want to do? I truly didn't know. Nothing seemed right. The family wanted so much for me to have a good day. Surely I could come up with just the right way to spend the evening.

I was starting to panic. I had to please the kids by thinking of something to make the day special. I just had to.

And then it hit me. I didn't want special.

If I could truly choose any kind of celebration I wanted, any way to spend a few hours with my family, I wanted, with all the wants within me, to have not-special. I wanted ordinary.

The rest of the evening, happily, was as ordinary as could be. The kids did homework at the table and ran around in the back yard. I chauffeured the boys to drivers ed and little league practice. The husband and I took the dog for a walk.

And supper? Quite the opposite of fancy. I made a random and unexciting pasta/meat/veggie concoction. The kids and I recited our usual evening dialogue... Kid: "What's for supper?" Me: "Food."

And it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I shouldn't say that the day was completely ordinary. We played a quick game of Pit, and I actually won, for the first time ever. And I received a few loving gifts: some dark chocolate, a carton of Mike & Ikes, and a bag of Toasted Pita What Thins - haven't tried one, but they look delicious.

But for the most part, the day was just a day. A wonderfully average day. A day in which to revel in the absolutely ordinary pleasures of life. Balled-up cats snoozing with abandon in a patch of sun. A glass of cold milk. A moment to stand still and just be.

The game of Pit (that I won, you recall - not that I'm gloating or anything) got kind of silly and concluded with a loudly-played YouTube rendition of a Go Fish song (Pop Goes the Weasel, if you must know) accompanied by some pretty snazzy dance moves from around the table. I shooed the kids off to bed with a wide grin and a great internal peace. It had been just an ordinary day. And it had been perfect.

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How often do we treat ordinary days as something to tolerate until the next Big Event on our mental calendar?

We want special. We crave exciting. We forget, we overlook, that ordinary can be beautiful.

I think God knows the beauty of the ordinary. Sure, He sometimes works in magnificent and miraculous ways. But He also comes to us in simplicity. In the everyday. In the ordinary.

In His Word we see God immersed in the ordinary moments of His people's lives. A baby born to a scared young mother. A man sharing a cake of bread with his friends. Sheep, goats, donkeys, eagles' wings. A day out fishing. A tree, a stone, a walk along a dusty road. The simple used to bestow the astonishing.

With extraordinary care our not-ordinary God comes to us day after average day, laying before us a feast of ordinaries. Little joys. Precious moments. Simple, unspectacular gifts. And tucked in and among the cats and the little league practices and the glasses of milk are simple, unspectacular, utterly miraculous truths. You are cherished. You are forgiven. You are chosen. You are loved. Can't you hear the whisper? In a warm chocolate chip cookie, the smell of pine trees in the sun...for you My Son lived, died, rose. For you, my ordinary, average, so-special child.

Our God With Us, so very with-us...in the ordinaries. 

First published in The Alpena News on April 30, 2016.

Lost and Found

“For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.” Luke 19:10

The black box lay just past the center line, crumpled from a hard landing but still intact. A lone car in the other lane dodged the obstruction and continued on its way. I jabbed my driver-son. "We should move that."

We slowed to a stop on the gravel shoulder and I hopped out to investigate. It was a shoe box, the kind with a hinged lid. A few small items crouched on the floor of the box: a Webkins tag, a couple of dinosaur Silly Bandz, and a Lego minifigure.

Other small trinkets lay spread around the road. I scrambled about, collecting as many items as I could before the next car came by to crush them.

Back in the van we investigated the objects I'd picked up. A scratch-art pen, a shell casing, an inch-high trophy, a clay bead. We tried but couldn't imagine the chain of events that led to the box lying on the road. But I couldn't help feeling a twinge of sadness. Somewhere, some little boy was missing his treasures.

I couldn't help thinking of Teddy.

Years ago, our then-little girl and Teddy were inseparable. He was present at every bedtime, along for every outing, a companion at church and the park and the grocery store. In the course of his time with us he was stepped on, smashed, and on the receiving end of the stomach flu, but through it all he gazed happily up at us through his little black eyes, glad to be a part of the family.

And then we lost him. We don’t know where or when it happened. He could have been left anywhere – in an obscure corner of the house, at the bottom of Grandpa’s toy box, under a bush at a campground, in a cold, dark, wet parking lot.

Time has passed. But I'm still sad when I think of Teddy.

He was just a stuffed toy. We have had dozens of other animal friends since then. But I still miss Teddy. My child loved him. And so I sigh and get a little moist in the eyes when I think of our lost bear. He’s our Teddy, and I want him back.

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If I cry over a bear, surely God must weep for His lost ones.

If I love my child’s toy, surely God loves, with a love of unfathomable depth, the ones for whom His Child gave His very life. Surely He hurts when He thinks of those who are far from Him, whose hearts are alone and cold and held by no one. Surely He aches to have His lost ones back.

In the years after we last saw Teddy, my daughter would ask about her little lost friend. Most of the time she would calmly wonder when he would come back. Sometimes, though, the loss filled her. I can still see her dark eyes as she said in a small voice, “I bet Teddy misses me.”

Lost ones, do you miss your Father? Does part of you ache for something it once had, something you can’t name? Does your heart long to be held, to be loved? Little bear, searching soul, know that someone is looking for you.

The Father’s heart breaks for His lost ones. He knows the trials that life apart from Him brings. He sees the searching heart, the yearning soul unfulfilled. He longs for the lost, and with all His heart He wants them back.

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I look into the shoebox and think of that little boy who has lost his treasures. He can't possibly know where to look for them. Surely, if he is looking for them at all, it is with drooped shoulders and a feeling of hopelessness.

But there’s nothing hopeless in God’s pursuit of those He has lost. He looks into every corner, digs into every hole. He reaches and calls and hunts and offers, relentlessly, steadfastly, lovingly seeking the lost, seeking His loved ones . . . seeking you.

It is not only in the deepest shadows that the lost ones hide. In my waywardness, I’m the lost. And you’re the lost. We are the ones separated by sin from our eternal home. You. Me. We are the lost.

But in the cross...we are also the found. With Easter joy we are scooped up from the mud and carried to where we belong, reunited with our Father, washed and cleaned and warmed by His love. It is over us that He rejoices, it is us that He rushes to embrace.

Imagine the joy of a small girl clutching her found friend, the reunion of a boy with his treasure box. This is your Father, holding you. His found one.

Lost ones, Someone is loving you. He will always wait for you. He will always come for you. And He will always, always, always want you back.

First published in The Alpena News, April 2, 2016

What Needs To Be Done

I lay awake in the middle of the night, worrying.  The next day I had to go to the hospital.  And I really, really didn't want to.

It was a routine procedure, one done many times a day to all sorts of people in complete safety, and I had been told that it wasn't scary at all.  But as I lay in darkness, all I could think was that I didn't want to go.

We have all been there.  We know that we must undertake the task that lies before us, but our hearts clench and our stomachs knot and our mind drags its feet and says no, no, no, I don't want to, I don't want to.

Opening wide for the dentist's drill.  Cleaning up after a sick child.  Admitting fault. Walking into the dialysis center...the cancer clinic...the funeral parlor.

We don't want to hurt.  We don't want to suffer.  However brave we want to be, however warriorlike we feel, still we tremble and shrink and shudder inside at the threatening prospect before us. 

It is human, this fear, this trembling.  It is a part of who we are. With the higher-level thinking of our greater-than-animal brains we understand that we can be hurt. That it hurts to hurt. We look to the future and see hurt lying within it, and we strain backward against the leash of time and try to keep ourselves from having to step over to that place in which lies the ugly thing that is going to cause us unhappiness.

But, trembling humans though we be, as much as we don't don't don't want to...yet, we do.

We walk in the door.  We open our mouths.  We bend to our task, accepting that as much as we don't want to, we must. Though our hearts shriek in terror, still, we do what must be done.

It is a beautiful thing, this human courage, made all the more beautiful by the knowledge of the fear that came before it.  If we did not have that moment of I don't want to, life would be easy.  But it isn't easy, and we face it anyway.  There is great loveliness in the indomitable strength of the resolute human spirit.

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In a quiet garden on a Thursday night a man cried out in anguish.  I don't want to . . . I don't want to.  Please, isn't there some other way?  I know what's coming and I don't, I don't, I don't want to.

But then He did.

Jesus, God but also man, knew what lay ahead. He would face unendurable suffering of body, mind and heart.  The next day was going to be so very hard.

And He was human.  So He trembled. And He cried. And He didn't want to do it.

Somehow, it seems to me, knowing how much He didn't want to do it makes it mean so much more that He did it anyway.

The glory of Easter morning, the smell of lilies and the white cloths and pastel dresses and pretty eggs, does the heart good.  I love the joy of that precious day.  But it is so much sweeter with the knowledge of what came before.  A man, trembling in a garden.  And then, a raised chin.  Straightened shoulders. The decision that took all the strength in the world . . . to do what needed to be done.

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That routine procedure I was so worried about?  It was a colonoscopy.

Those of you who have had one will nod sagely and smile a bit when I mention prep day.  The colonoscopy itself is a breeze; the day before, not so much.  It's not THAT bad, really, but it's also no fun.  Not the way you would ordinarily choose to spend your time.

I requested the procedure because my mom died of colon cancer.  I really don't want the same thing to happen to me.  Not for my own sake so much, but because I have kids.  I want them to have their mom for as long as possible.  As I held the bottle of Miralax-laced Gatorade in my hand on prep day, thinking I don't want to I don't want to, I thought of my loved ones, and how they needed me to do this.  I needed to face the scary stuff because I didn't want to die because I needed to live for them.

My Jesus didn't want to die. But His love was stronger than His I don't want to. He stepped forward, toward the arresting soldiers, toward the cross, toward the terror of what the next day held.  He needed to die so that He could live for us, so that we could live in Him.

In the face of life's trials, with the knowledge of my Savior's sacrifice for me, my heart falls to its knees and lifts its voice in prayer.  Father, not my will but thine be done.  Let me live with courage.  Help me to march forth in faith and offer my life to the service of my fellow man.  Fill me with the strength to know that no matter what trials I face, because You did, I can.

First published in The Alpena News on March 5, 2016

On Your Side

Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing.  1 Thessalonians 5:11

Saturday morning bright and early a small but determined group of boys in matching orange t-shirts stride into the gym, arms swinging, shoulders back, heads held high. 

They pause at the row of chairs that rim the court to change their shoes and dig water bottles out of their duffel bags.  The man in the black and white striped shirt gives them a five minute warning. The squeak of tennis shoes and the twang of basketballs fills they gym. 

One small boy dribbles the ball ferociously, face intense with concentration. He trots toward the basket, building speed as he goes. The basket nears. At the last moment he leaps into the air, heaving the ball upward with all his might. His eyes are big and brown as they follow its path, his thin chest heaving from exertion. The ball arcs up, up . . . and then drops to the court, missing the hoop completely. The small boy raises a fist and lets out a whoop. It has been his best shot ever.

 A third and fourth grade basketball game can be an...entertaining experience. 

The boys worked so hard. And they were so very sweet. And so full of mistakes. 

They blocked their own teammates. They ran toward the wrong basket. They picked up the ball and carried it, without dribbling, half way down the court before passing it to a player on the other team. They launched the ball at the hoop, missing by a mile.

The grownups sitting around the edge of the court alternated between grinning at the boys' antics and hollering encouragements. We rooted for all of them, our own sons and each of their teammates, and even the other team sometimes. It didn't matter how well the boys played. We were on their side, applauding their small successes and telling them they were doing great.

The coaches, a pair of bright-eyed high school girls, yelled instructions to the boys. They called time-outs and gave pep talks and made sure the tuckered players were able to take a drink of water when they needed it.

And then there was the referee. He was an amiable young man, maybe in his mid-twenties.  Based on the number of mistakes the players made he could have been blowing his whistle practically non-stop. Instead, he was oh-so gracious with those little boys. He overlooked error after error. Sometimes he would take a player aside for a moment and explain some small rule or offer a shooting tip. He handled the game with good humor and kindness. 

The boys made mistakes, and lots of them. But they didn't shrink with embarrassment. They just played with all their heart. They knew the people around them were on their side, no matter what.

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Despite my most earnest efforts, I mess up. A lot. At pretty much everything. And you know what? I'm okay with that. After all, we all mess up, don't we? In all sorts of ways. We miss our goals, forget who is on our team, and shoot at the wrong hoop. It's part of playing the game.

Sometimes I'm afraid that my mistake will result in a chorus of giggles from the sidelines. I'm sure those who know me best must sometimes be amused by how often and how consistently I make the same old slip-ups.

Of course, maybe they won't just giggle. Maybe they'll be annoyed. Or angry. Maybe, I think, my many messups will cause those who love me to not love me so much.

But somehow, no matter how great a blundering oaf I may be, the people around me keep cheering. 

My husband. My kids. My friends. My co-workers. Even though they are around to witness my most embarrassing moments, they are my sideline encouragers. They tell me I'm doing good, give me pep talks and share wise advice, and forgive me my imperfections, over and over. Bless their hearts, they see all my goofs, and they love me anyway.

Encouragement is contagious. When we are accepted, warts and all, by the people around us, we are freed to accept them, too. We, too, can be someone's cheering section. And as they care for us and we care for them, as we all play our games and make our mistakes and forgive and are forgiven, we are pictures of God to each other. 

When my kid gives me a hug and tells me I'm a good mom even though I burned the grilled cheese sandwiches again, that's a glimpse of God. When I help the man at the grocery store pick up the cans he knocked over, I'm showing him a smidgeon of our Creator's affection for His people.

We constantly give God reason to blow the whistle at us and toss us out of the game. Instead, He looks at us with kind, forgiving eyes. Jesus came as man because through Him God accepted man, just as we are, blunders and all. Instead of rejecting us He bends over us, teaching us His way, helping our aim be sure.

Today, as you stride into your day, throw your head back. Straighten your shoulders. You have a game to play. And a cheering section that's on your side. And a God who put His name on your t-shirt. How can you possibly lose?

First published in The Alpena News,  February 6, 2016.