Newness

Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD. Psalm 27:14

I started a new job last week.

The nice folks at The Alpena News decided to let me do some writing for them as an official, honest-to-goodness reporter.

On the first day of work I got a tour of the newsroom, Bill Speer’s moustache bouncing jovially as he introduced my new co-workers. The first glimpse of my desk set my heart a-hoppin’.

A newspaper is such a lovely thing, a window to see each other and a rope to reach each other and a flashlight into the dark recesses where souls wait to be seen. That first day I was ready to dive into an exhilarating existence as a teller of truths, a transformer of society. Clark Kent, here I come.

Turns out you have to learn a few things before you can put on the superhero outfit.

The first day melted into the second as I learned the basics of my new job. How to conduct an interview. Where to track down the best stories. Which buttons are broken on the microwave.

By the third day I figured I had it all together and was ready to roll. I listened to Steve on the other side of the cubicle wall, tracking down a story in his hound dog way. Darby’s easy laugh carried across the room as she pulled together another interesting story for the Lifestyles section. They were hard at work, and I longed to join them.

Fingers flexed, the keyboard beckoning, I took a deep breath and prepared to change the world.

An hour later, the world had not yet been changed.

My editor, bombarded by my volley of exasperated sighs, stopped by my desk to see how things were going.

Slowly, that’s how they were going. While my coworkers were scampering through their stories, I was clawing my way forward one hard-won word at a time.

“It’ll get easier,” he said. “I promise.”

He’s a good guy, my editor. I can tell he’s not going to leave me to figure this job out on my own. He’ll be there when I have questions or need a word of inspiration or can’t work the microwave.

He made me a promise, and I believe him. It’ll get easier. It’ll probably get great. Someday I might even be able to bust out the spandex tights and cape.

Sometimes, if something really good is coming, you just have to wait.

We tell the story of Christmas night, the silent darkness broken by a baby’s cry. Rough sheep-herders talk in subdued tones, angels fill the sky, and a young mother holds her small son.

Okay, but here’s the thing about the Christmas story. That baby swaddled in the manger? The one that was also God? It was thirty YEARS before He started telling people who He was.

That’s a long time to wait.

Picture the new mother, possibly barely in her teens herself. She gazes at the tiny squinched face and looks for a sign that this small human is the Messiah her people have been promised.

She waits…and waits. Through toddlerhood, through those awkward junior high days, into adolescence and the letting go years, she watches and waits for what she knows is coming.

She waits until she is nearly fifty. Watching this man who is her son who is also her Savior, remembering God’s promises of rescue, wondering…when? When?? When will what is waited for arrive?

All mothers need patience. The mother of the Messiah – I can’t even imagine the endurance required for that job.

The serene tableau of Christmas lets us breathe a moment. There is in the nativity picture a peace that sets the rest of life in the background. Colored lights in a dark living room, scarf-wrapped shoppers scrutinizing lists of loved ones, Pandora playlists that hum through our ears with familiar words. A time away from the impatience of the daily to-dos and the striving and running and pushing and falling.

After Christmas, though – we go back to the waiting.

Waiting for change. Waiting for peace.

Waiting for the phone to ring, for the hurt to go away, for the good to come. Waiting for the time to pass.

Waiting to change the world.

The mother with the baby waited. She waited for a promise to be fulfilled, the promise of salvation for her people.

And as she waited, the very Messiah for whom she longed was right there by her side.

Day after day we strain toward a hoped-for tomorrow that can be so slow in coming. But we do not wait by ourselves.

The Savior who loves us does not leave us alone in our longings. He’s not at the end of the journey. He is our companion along the way.

The One who came into this chaotic world just to be with us is within reach, hearing our questionings, inspiring our footsteps, staying true to His promise to not leave us to fend for ourselves in the darkness.

Change may be slow in coming. Peace may lurk just out of reach. You might have to learn something before you get where you want to go.

Wait. Take your heart in your hand and stand strong and wait. It’ll come. And you are not alone.

First published in The Alpena News on December 29, 2018.

The Stuff That Matters

It was the last day of cleaning out my dad’s house. All the smaller things had been boxed up and moved, some to my house, some to my brother’s, some to Goodwill.

My brother had been able to take the couch and loveseat; I claimed the dresser Dad refinished after Mom died. The clothes mostly went to resale shops, but I kept a few shirts to wrap up in when I missed him most.

We had gone through it all…the big green bowl Mom used for her tuna-pea-pasta salad, the brown blanket Dad liked throw over his feet…every little object a reason to pause, and think, and remember. So many items passing through my hands, each one coated in memories and made priceless because it had been held by hands I could no longer see.

Finally all that was left was the lumpy mattress from the bed Dad had built, the one with the cutout heart in the oak headboard. We couldn’t use another mattress and resale shops weren’t allowed to take them, and anyway, it was in pretty rough shape after thirty years of use.

I’d called the garbage company and scheduled a large-item pickup for mid-afternoon. The kids were off amusing themselves in the empty rooms as I gave the floors one last vacuum. I stalled as long as I could, reluctant to face the finality of the job, but at last it was time to pull the mattress out to the driveway.

My entrance to the bedroom was met with cries of, “Mom! Watch us!!” One of the kids hit the Play button on their mp3 player. The funky opening sound of the pop song All Star filled the room.

“Some..body once told me the world is gonna roll me…I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed…”

The mattress had been left on the floor of the room, waiting to be dragged out at the last minute. The kids, experts at finding ways to have fun, had been passing the time by bouncing industriously, making up a rowdy dance routine to accompany the song. I smiled as they giggled and leapt, joyously reveling in the moment. “Hey now, you’re an all-star, get your game on, go play…”

The song and dance finished in fine style. Just then I heard the sound of the garbage truck rumbling down the street. “Everyone grab a corner!” I hollered. We shoved and heaved and got the mattress out into the driveway just in time.

The workers with their strong arms tossed the mattress into the mouth of the truck. The lower jaw slowly crunched closed. I caught a last glimpse, and then the mattress was gone.

I leaned against the van and watched as the truck lumbered on its way. It felt ruthless, throwing away this intimate part of my parents’ lives, going through their cupboards and closets, dividing up their earthly goods as though it didn’t matter that these people I loved weren’t there anymore.

My mind flitted back ten minutes to the scene in the bedroom. My somber reflections melted into a smile as I thought of those goofy kids, jumping and laughing, using the mattress as a springboard for their joy.  Somehow, it seemed very right.

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That song still comes on the radio once in a while. Every time I hear it I flash back to that moment, leaning on the doorframe, watching the kids give the mattress one last hurrah. There was freedom in the incongruity of that moment. Freedom to let go.

“So much to do, so much to see, so what’s wrong with taking the back streets?” Optimism, curiosity, looking forward, taking the scenic route…that, friends, is jumping on the mattress. That’s what it is to loosen our grip on what we fear losing and turn our palms up, ready to receive the good things God has placed ahead of us.

I think there’s a place for sentimentality. Our Creator designed us with the ability to feel, and to care, and to get all lumpy-throated when the doll our grandma made gets ruined in the washing machine.

But when the stuff is gone, what matters still remains.

What matters about my parents, more than how much I loved them, even more than how much they loved me, is how much they were loved by Jesus.

My loved ones, your loved ones, were made priceless in their Father’s eyes by the hands we cannot see, the nail-scarred hands that reach out to each of us, crashing past the stuff and the sentiment and the empty houses and the garbage trucks and telling us exactly why it is that we are worth being valued.

It’s not about the stuff. The stuff matters, the stuff can make our hearts squeeze, but it’s not about the stuff. It’s about how much Jesus loves you.

Jump on the mattress. The mattress isn’t what’s important. You’re you, and you’re loved. Crank up the radio and jump.

 
First published in The Alpena News on November 10, 2018.

Food is Love

I’m probably going to have to make supper again tonight.

It doesn’t seem right. I mean, I just made supper yesterday. And the day before that, and the day before that. As of today I’ve been married 8,819 days. Let’s say I made supper 80% of those days; that means I’ve put food in front of my loved ones roughly 7,055 times. Do I really have to do it again??

I should clarify here. My reluctance isn’t because I don’t like cooking. The part that drives me bonkers is the decision-making. It just wears me right out. Every night I need to CHOOSE what we should eat. Every. Stinkin’. Night.

I know some women who are organized and efficient and make a meal plan for a week, maybe even two weeks. They know what’s in their pantry, rotate food in the fridge to make sure nothing sits too long, and make sure every meal not only offers appropriate representation of each of the food groups but is also color-coordinated.

I envy that level of kitchen organization. When I try to imitate it, though, it all falls apart and I’m once again staring into the fridge at 6:00 p.m. wondering what in the world I’m going to feed my poor hungry offspring. Nope, making supper is not my favorite thing to do.

You know what I’m going to do tonight, though? I’m going to make supper for my family. And not just because I don’t want them to starve. (My daughter, on a day when I was lamenting my weak parenting skills: “Mom, really. Being a mother means making sure your children don’t die. You’re fine.”)

I’m going to make them supper because giving them food…and agonizing once again about that doggone decision of what to make…is telling my family that I love them.

There’s a powerful connection between food and love. From the instant of our birth, and even before, we are flooded with the duality of food as a source of both nourishment and comfort.

All along our lifespans we nurture this connection. A casserole for a new parent. Cookies to thank the kind neighbor. A from-scratch cake with peanut butter-chocolate frosting to make a birthday boy feel cherished. A pot of soup because there aren’t words to make things better. Food is love.

My meals are weird. They’re usually edible, but Rachael Ray I am not. I try not to cook for other people because, well, it’s embarrassing. (“Mom, what IS this?” “It’s food. Eat it.”) But when I hand my husband and kids their plates of whatever I’ve thrown together, I hope they know that it’s not just food.

It’s love.

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Taste and see that the Lord is good. I am the Bread of Life; he who comes to Me shall not hunger. Whether you eat or drink do all to the glory of God. The feeding of the 5,000. Manna in the wilderness. The fruit of the Spirit.

The Bible is full of food. Throughout the Old and New Testaments there are hundreds of references to eating, cooking, provision, meals… The book that we hold as our tangible written connection to God Himself is loaded with down-to-earth recognition of our very basic, very human need to eat.

There’s something sweet about God taking care of His people by feeding them. Feeding their souls, yes. But also filling their stomachs. Taking care of their most rudimentary needs. I like that scripture is full of pictures of a tender Parent providing for His children, showing them on a simple, even-humans-can-understand level that He is love.

I’m filled by loving gifts from my Heavenly Father each day. Chips & salsa and Swiss cheese and warm chocolate chip cookies, absolutely, mmmm. But fed in my other parts, too. Fed by the knowledge of the Lamb that was sacrificed so I can be a forgiven child. Nourished by the Word that I can ingest and savor. Filled by being loved when I’m at my most unlovable.

Shortly before He ended His time on earth, Jesus turned to His dear friend Peter. “Feed My sheep.” Three times He repeated His command, begging His friend to carry on His mission. You can almost hear the catch in His throat, the deep yearning in His voice as He pleaded: “Feed My sheep.”

He wasn’t talking about the fluffy lambs in the neighbor’s field, you know. He was talking about us. We’re the fed.

And…we’re the sheep-feeders.

There are so many around us who need comfort. Who need nourishment of the body and of the soul. There are so many opportunities each day for kindness, for reaching into each other’s lives with giving hands and loving hearts.

Food is love. We’re so loved…we’re so well-fed…mightn’t we have some extra to spread around? Mightn’t we warm the hearts of people around us, perhaps by the simple, loving gift of a little bit of food?

Take the casserole. Sign up for the meal train. Bake the cookies. Fetch the slice of cheesecake. Find something for dinner. It’s all love.

Eat up. Enjoy the cookies. And then go feed His sheep.

First published in The Alpena News on October 13, 2018.

What a Mess

I started a new job recently. To earn an income while I’m working on launching a freelancing business, I signed up to clean rooms at a local motel.

(It’s actually a pretty funny choice of jobs. My family and our pet dust bunnies will attest that at home I’m not exactly the world’s tidiest mom. If you come to visit, don’t open the closets, just sayin’. But I digress.)

I quickly learned the hotel-room routine. You knock on the door, hoping to not disturb anyone. “Housekeeping!” Another knock, just to be sure. Then a turn of the key, a peek inside with one last warning call, and the door swings open.

Bathroom. White towels huddle on the floor and sprawl on the counter. Used coffee cups and a stray sock poke up from the garbage can. Water spots and toothbrush overspray freckle the mirror; slightly mushy bar of soap melts onto the sink.

Beyond, the bedroom. Rumpled bedspread, pillows lounging against one another, tv remote half-buried in the sheets. Curtain askew, lamp nodding off at odd angles near the pile of travel brochures on the desk. Sand in the carpet.

There it is. A room that’s been lived in. A mess.

But then again…

A mess from another angle is evidence of life being lived.

The thought of the anonymous strangers who have inhabited this space gives me unexpected pleasure. As I restore order I see them doing what they do every day – washing their face, brushing their teeth, having a cup of coffee. Living.

I see them kicking back and enjoying an evening movie or the morning news. Standing at the window to watch the sun rise over Lake Huron. Planning their day’s adventures and shaking out the sand from an afternoon at the beach.

It’s a good mess. It makes me happy, having this moment to be tangibly in the presence of another life in progress.

Rags and cleaners make quick work of the bathroom, whisking cleanliness into its place like Mickey Mouse’s magic mops. I rub the mirror to a spotless shine, hoping the next person who will assess themselves in its reflection sees how lovely they are. The cups need to be restocked, a wrapped bar of soap placed on its corner of the sink, tilted jauntily at a welcoming angle.

The pillows are reluctant as I wrestle them from their cases, but the bed is soon a pile of stripped linens that are toted out of the room in a giant armful. I have not yet learned to produce that satisfying snapping sound when flipping open fresh sheets, but no matter; in moments the mattress is shrouded in clean white. A blanket and then a comforter add cozy layers, the whole of it smoothed and tucked and fluffed into appealing neatness, wrapped like a gift for the next day’s weary traveler.

A quick go-round with a dusting rag leaves the room tidy, order restored. The sand in the carpet yields to the gentle tug of the vacuum. Curtain and lamp shade straightened, clock and phone set to rights.

I survey my work, seeing it through the eyes of its next occupants. Yes. I think they’ll like it.

Oh, they’ll mess it up again, of course. That’s all right. It means they’re busy living.

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Some of my favorite stories from Jesus’s 33 years on earth are about messy people. People who didn’t have it all together, who were seen by most others as distasteful at best.

Laborers. Rough sailors. Contagious sufferers. Embezzlers. Liars. Traitors. Cowards. Whiners. Impulsive makers of poor decisions. Ordinary, messy people who intersected with Jesus as He went about His ministry.

He never treated them as messes, though. Instead, He ate with them, relaxed with them, defended them, lived among them.

Jesus didn’t look at messy lives from the same angle as everyone else. He didn’t just see unacceptable failings and inadequacies. He saw lives being lived. Lives for whom He had come to give His life. Saw them, accepted them, chose them. He encouraged them to tidy up some of the loose ends of their lives, not as a condition of loving them but as a result of it.

If you look in my closets – or under my beds – or inside my head – you’re going to see a mess. I sooo much do not have it all together. Don’t leave me standing in the spotlight alone here – you’re a mess too, right? A few spots on your mirror distorting your self-image, life-management skills rumpled, emotional lampshade askew?

Yep, we’re a mess…but a mess from another angle is evidence of life being lived.

We go, we do, we try, we make mistakes, we bungle things up a bit. And like the everyday messy people Jesus chose as His friends, we are still loved by Him. He cleans us up and we get to start again tomorrow.

It’s not such a bad thing, being a mess. We’re just people, doing the best we can. We’re just God’s chosen messy people, living the lives we’ve been given by the One who gave us Life.

I can’t help thinking…if Jesus sees the life behind our messes, sees us not as failures but as people He loves living the life God has given us…perhaps, just maybe, we can do the same for one another.

God grant that our eyes look beyond the messes we encounter each day to see with ever-new compassion the lives in progress all around us.

First published in The Alpena News on September 15, 2018

Parenting 101

When I close my eyes, I can still hear him crying.

I’d scoured the baby books for advice and tried every trick they offered up. Nothing worked. After eight long months of effort, my firstborn simply would not go to sleep anywhere but in my arms.

It was sweet and all, but I couldn’t keep rocking him until he was in middle school. I chucked the books and, with certainly born of desperation, decided to let my son “cry it out.”

On a Tuesday night I informed his baby ears that Mama was going to bed and wasn’t coming back until morning. I kissed his warm cheek, tucked him and his jingly turtle under the quilt, and made my exit.

The protest began before the door was fully closed, and as he rustled up from under the covers I nearly relented and went back in.  With great determination I got the door shut, plopped down on the floor in the hallway and waited.

The little boy was not happy that his adult-sized security blanket had left the room. He whimpered…he wailed…he sang his grief, powerful voice piercing, holding, and vibrating all the way down the scale in a devastating opera of unhappiness. I could hear him standing screaming in his crib, hands clutching the rails, little legs bouncing and stomping in agitation, confused tear-bright eyes dark with grief.

I sat outside the door and quietly wept. Ached. Sat there for an hour and a half as my son’s little heart cried out – Mama, where are you?

The thing the books don’t tell you is that it hurts to be a parent. It hurts to see your child, your so-dearly loved one, feel pain or grief and to resist every urge to rush in and make it all better.

Eighteen years have elapsed. The baby is a young man, jingly turtle traded in for drum set and laptop and Rubik’s Cube. Tomorrow I will drive him to college for the first time. I’ll get him moved in, give him a hug, and drive away, knowing that behind me he is anxious and alone.

I’ll come home, lean my back up against a wall, and want desperately to rush in and make it all better.

He’ll get through it, all on his own. He knows that and I know that. And he will be stronger because of the experience.

But it’s still going to hurt.

I still have to drive away and leave him there alone.

Parenting is holding close and taking care. It’s also letting go. Letting the hard things happen. The books don’t tell you about that part. They don’t tell you that to be a parent sometimes means letting your heart break.

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It’s been many years since I watched from a dorm room window as my parents’ car pulled out of the parking lot that first time. I watched them go with a rock in my chest, feeling vulnerable and abandoned.

That rock comes back now and again. Trials come and go, bringing with them the miserable feeling of being alone, defenseless, exposed to the whims of the world. Things go wrong, a day gets hairy, the news is bad, I look around me and see no rescue, and my heart cries out to my Maker…Father, where are you?

No loving parent can watch their child suffer and not want to make it stop. We want to dry the tears, solve the problem, take away the pain.

Sometimes…oh, my children, how it aches to think it…sometimes we can’t. Sometimes we have to let them hurt. It’s better for them, and it’ll be okay, but how it hurts to watch your child struggle and not rush in to save them.

We’re all the struggling child. We all cry out in the night. As our Parent listens to our cries, His loving heart cannot be unaffected. How He must ache when we hurt and call out to Him, how He must want to reach in and make it all better.

I sit on the kitchen floor in the midst of my tears and wonder why I have been abandoned. I forget, as I sit, that my perspective is small. What is not seen is still there. I may be hurting, but I am not alone.

On a cross on a hill on a dark night a broken voice cried out, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” A Son called out to His Father in the devastating anguish of separation. And the Parent could not rush in and make it stop. For you, for me, so that we could become His sons and daughters, He let His Son cry.

Because of that dark night, and because of the morning that followed, that morning of joyful reunion, we are, each of us, eternally-loved children. Our hearts offer up tear-filled pleas, and our wordless cries are heard by One who will never forsake us.

Cry out in the night, little one. Your pain is felt. You may be hurting. But you are not alone.

First published in The Alpena News on August 11, 2018.

Lettuce and Fireflies

My seven year old dawdled in the kitchen while I opened boxes and rattled pans in preparation for dinner. His dark brown eyes followed my movements as I took out a head of lettuce and unwrapped the cellophane. Amused by his attention, I began to add a dramatic flair to my actions, stretching the time before the big moment that I knew was to come.

I cleared space on the counter and then gripped the head of lettuce in my hand, stem toward the ceiling. I took a moment to adjust the green ball, balancing it just so in my palm. With a glance at the quiet brown eyes still fastened upon me with intense curiosity, I hefted the lettuce into the air, arcing it up, around, and down, and slammed the stem squarely onto the counter.

My seven year old erupted. He jerked backward, bubbling over with shouts of ecstatic laughter. As I removed the neatly-separated stem, he hopped about the kitchen and crowed, “I want to grow up, I want to grow up!”

To that small lad, on that common day, the act of smashing a vegetable onto a countertop was the absolute pinnacle of the glory that it is to be, at long last, an adult.

It is, perhaps, a trait common among children everywhere…the longing to enter the grand and mysterious world of the grownup. Those who have passed through the portal into the realm of Adultness are bestowed with abilities and privileges that glow with promise in the eyes of the as-yet uninitiated.

Driving cars, controlling money, making decisions, indulging in bowls of ice cream after the kids are in bed…the life of an adult is full of happy little perks that look pretty darn good to the bright eyes peeking over the counter.

From the other side, though, things can look different.

The seven year old is now eighteen, a high school graduate preparing to leave home and head off to college. His 40 hour a week summer job gets him out of bed at 5:30 in the mornings. He pays taxes and is trying to decide whether to invest some of his money for retirement and has to remember to let the dog out and feed the cats before he goes to work. It’s a little taste of the serious business that lies ahead, a sampling that some days leaves him shaking his head and wishing he could go back to the not-yet-there days of childhood.

Adulting, that’s the current word for it. Noun turned to verb turned back to noun, “adult” has become not just something you are but something you do. Adulting is serious work. Job, health, finances, home, relationships – good heavens, there is nothing easy about this business of taking daily responsibility for a laundry list of Really Important Stuff. I wager that there is many a day on which most of us would gladly set down our burden of accountability and climb back into our longing-for-adulthood childhood shell for a while.

It’s hard, adulting. Sometimes mighty hard. It can wear you down. On days when expectation hangs heavy on my shoulders and I count my failures on both hands, I sigh a mighty sigh and wonder where the joy of life went and whether it will be coming back.

And then I make salad for supper, and I heft a head of lettuce in my hand, arcing it up, down, and whump! onto the counter, and I remember the bright eyes and the bouncing boy and realize that it’s right there in front of me, that elusive joy. Right in my hand. I am a grownup. And I get to slam the lettuce.

Adulting is undeniably difficult. But in the middle of difficulty there are moments. There are tiny sparks like fireflies that light up your insides if only you notice them. An unexpected laugh in the middle of an argument. A flash of solidarity with an opponent. Pleasantly sore muscles after a day’s hard labor. The satisfaction of folding a perfectly symmetrical peanut butter and jelly half-sandwich for your grumpy child. Moments, blessed moments, that keep us afloat and remind us that God is good and we are not alone.

I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Psalm 27:13

In the midst of the difficulty of adulting, the presence of a loving and attentive God can fade into the background. Even as we need Him more we remember Him less, busily chipping away at our days with our tiny pickaxes, our faces set in determination mixed with exasperation mixed with weariness. And yet He chooses to remain by our sides, showing us the cross and claiming us as His. He loves His industriously adulting humans, loves us enough to give us moments in our madness. Moments of heads of lettuce and fireflies in the dark.

Good Lord, let me see my life’s little moments of joy today. I’m going to be busy adulting, and I think I’m gonna need ‘em.

First published in The Alpena News on June 23, 2018.

Hunting for Easter

When I was growing up, my family never had Easter egg hunts out in the back yard. I imagine that had something to do with living in Minnesota, where back yards were still being used as skating rinks come Easter time.

Instead, on Easter morning my mom, clever lady that she was, conducted a jelly bean hunt in the living room. My brother and I would race around gleefully, filling little baskets with as many beans as we could find.

Over the years, as we grew older and wiser, my parents got pretty good at hiding the jelly beans in sneaky places. We might find them balanced on a lamp finial, up high on top of a picture frame, or in the crevices of a decorative pine cone. Green ones could be tucked craftily into the leaves of plants. One year we found a black jelly bean, slightly worse for the wear, hidden between the black keys of the piano months after Easter had come and gone.

It was a parental joy to be able to introduce my own children to my favorite Easter tradition. I have fond memories of many Easter eves, preparing the moment of joy for my little ones. When all was set to rights and the house was dark and quiet, I would steal about the living room, tucking little bits of color here and there and everywhere, some high, some low, some easy to find and some impossible, sampling my wares as I went.

Easter morning the kids weren’t allowed in the living room. They bounced with excitement knowing what was just on the other side of the door but weren’t allowed to peek, not until we had gone to the early service, eaten egg casserole in the fellowship hall, gone back in for the late service, taken our traditional Easter pictures, and waited impatiently for Dad to get home. At long last they gripped their baskets, threw a grin over their shoulders and were off, flashing about the living room in pink dress and small blue shirt and tie, scooping up jelly beans with squeals of delight.

 

Eventually the hunt was over. The kids plopped onto the couch with their baskets, popping red and yellow and green berries into their mouths, eyes scanning the room for one last find. By that point I usually needed to get up and tend to something in the kitchen, but I would sit there as long as I could, soaking in the joy of the moment as my kids radiated contentment.

Those were good Easters. I felt like I did those days right.

Last year things changed. For the first time we didn’t do a jelly bean hunt. My logical brain took over and told me the kids were too old for it. And, too, I couldn’t help thinking that there was something silly about hunting and pecking for candy when I could just as easily hand them the unopened bags and a pair of scissors. We still ate our jelly beans, out of bags and not baskets. Somehow, though, they didn’t taste as good.

I’ve been getting a little down about this Easter this year. I know it’s a special day. And holidays are supposed to be good days, different from regular days. They’re supposed to be something to look forward to.

But I don’t know how to make it good for my family. I don’t know what to do to set the day apart. We don’t have family nearby, and I’m not much of a cook… I’m worried that the day on which I’m supposed to be helping my family celebrate the Most Important Event in the History of the World is going to be just another day. Easter is not going to be special, and it will be my fault.

My mind wafts back to those grinning children flitting about the living room, hunting and gathering, wholly engaged in just being happy.

That’s the Easter joy I want. I want the kind of happiness on which children sometimes seem to have cornered the market. Delight in the moment, without analysis. I know that my Redeemer lives…and I want to spend a day just being happy about it.

The day gets in the way of itself sometimes. Expectations and preparations turn into weights that hang off the shoulders and drag joy to a standstill. A day on which merriment is the goal leaves so much opportunity for failure for the ones expected to provide it.

No. You know what? I’m not doing that. Not this year. This year I’m putting Jesus in charge of the joy.

What am I thinking, fretting and stressing about this of all days? I mean, good gravy, Jesus DIED to make it happen. He clobbered Satan, fought off death, and returned to an incredulous world, nail-punctured hands open in loving acceptance. And I think that I can add something to the occasion by making a green bean casserole?? That’s just crazy talk.

No, I’m not doing that. I’m not claiming the ability to be the joy creator. God’s got that covered. This year I’m going to sit back and enjoy it.

We’re having a jelly bean hunt. Yep, they’re silly. But you know what? They’re fun, and that matters. And we’re going to enjoy our ham and laugh at the cat and wash the dishes and maybe get a little grumpy and probably take naps. And it will probably be just another day.

But that’s okay. Because every day is a day with Jesus. Every day is a day on which we are loved.

It’s worth celebrating.

First published in The Alpena News on March 31, 2018

I Make a Motion

Sure, I told them. I’d be happy to serve as Board secretary. How hard can it be?

Last week I sat through my first official meeting as secretary for the Rogers City Community Theatre Board of Directors. We were tucked away in the chilly back room of a local restaurant, the smell of pizza making my nose twitch while I typed.

My laptop, the aging and increasingly irritable but still lovely Natasha, was low on power, so I sat removed from the rest of the board where my cord could reach a wall outlet. As the group talked through our agenda items I willed my cold fingers to keep up with their words, determined to do my job well and record all the important decisions that were being made.

Despite my grumpy computer and wall tether, as the meeting moved into high gear I was in the groove and feeling good about my mad secretarial skills, typing lickety-click as the others talked.

My friend Karl, who knows about such things, was filling us in on a point of order that we’d missed, something important that we had to get worded correctly to protect our non-profit status. “I make a motion,” he said. I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Motions are supposed to be short. I mean, they are, aren’t they? Things like, “I move that we authorize Larry to order the gray roof tiles,” or “I move that we adjourn and have pizza.”

This was not that kind of motion. It went on, and on, and on. All of it was really important, and had to get into the minutes just right. I urged my fingers to fly faster, trying desperately to keep up. Finally I gave up and stared at Karl with wide eyes.

When he finally stopped, I looked at my computer screen. It was a jumble of misspelled words and accusing red lines, Natasha making clear her disappointment with me. I turned my eyes back to Karl, who was looking at me expectantly. “Sorry,” I said, “could you repeat that?”

I waded my way through the rest of the meeting as best I could. But inside I was offering up a silent prayer: please, please, I beg of you…don’t let anybody make a motion.

Motions can be a headache. The long ones can bring a cold-fingered secretary to a shuddering standstill. Motions-making can feel more highfalutin and formal than a meeting really needs to be.

But think about this. What would happen in a meeting where nobody made a motion?

Here’s what would happen…nothing. People would talk, but nothing would happen. Because for something to happen, you need to have motion.

In Robert’s Rules of Order language, a motion is nothing more than a proposal to do something. It’s a kick in the pants that turns talking about something into doing something. A motion is…motion. It’s the decision that enough is enough, let’s quit yakking and get to it already.

Ever feel like making a motion in real life? I move that people quit being mean to each other. I make a motion that we all stop thinking we need to own more than we have. I propose that we all climb out of our holes of self-absorption and open our eyes to the people around us.

Think back to when you were a little kid, and you sat in the bathtub and put your hands in front of you, palms facing forward. You gave a mighty shove.

What happened? Motion. The water moved forward under your hands, ricocheting off the walls, making the whole tub roll and rock around you and setting the little toy boat a-bounce.

That’s the kind of motion I want to make. I want to give a shove and watch all the messes around me become neat and the bad stuff become good stuff.

Trouble is, I’m not a child in a bathtub. I’m an insubstantial grownup sitting on the shore of a big lake (wait for summer to try this one out, kids) with my hands in front of me, pushing at the water. No boats bob from the might of my hands. The water barely acknowledges my presence as it sweeps around me and then slides back where it came from. My puny motion is pointless against the big forces of life; how can this one person with her weak arms and tiny voice do any good in the world? What’s the point of even trying?

But perhaps…perhaps I don’t need to move the entire lake. Maybe I don’t need to change the entire world for my actions to be worthwhile. Small motions can be good, too.

Jesus made ripples everywhere he went. What did He do? What motions of His could we imitate as we move about our lives?

Oh, sure, He lived perfectly, died horribly, and sprang back to life to save mankind. We can’t do that. Can’t save the souls of those around us. Then again, we don’t need to. Jesus already took care of that.

But that wasn’t all He did. How did Jesus make waves as He went about His daily tasks?

One person at a time, baby. One person at a time.

That was the way Jesus lived. Pass a weird guy up in a tree? Show him you notice him. Encounter an outcast being condemned by people from the right side of the tracks? Treat her like she matters and make them drop their stones.

The sick, the unacceptable, the frightened, the ashamed…Jesus saw them. And He made a motion. He made things happen by being Love to one person at a time.

There, troubled heart…there’s your answer. Don’t give up because you can’t do it all. Just open your eyes. See what’s around you. And make a little motion.

And if we all did that, everyone doing their own little bit…no, we wouldn’t change the world. But I bet we could set a boat a-bouncin’.

First published in The Alpena News, February 3, 2018

Every Day the Same

In the days before Christmas a mysterious thumping arose from the basement. The stifled whispers that accompanied it said that some big project was afoot.

As we sat in the living room Christmas day and opened our gifts one by one, the kids informed me with twinkly grins that one particular package - one in my pile - had to wait until last. Our family takes our sweet time opening gifts, so the mysterious Last Gift sat at my feet enticingly for quite some time before I was finally allowed to reach for it.

The kids exchanged nervously excited glances and then sat quietly as I peeled back the paper. A notebook emerged, black with gold hand-drawn designs on it.

"That's not the real gift," my daughter said. "There's more."

The kids bounded out of their seats and commanded me to follow them. They led me down into our basement. It's what I guess you would call a finished basement: white cement-block walls, peel and stick tiles on the floor, some odds and ends furniture, a bookshelf or two and a ping pong table.

Until recently there had been a monument of whatnots stacked in the back corner, boxes and tubs and unused end tables and who knows what. My cleaning-fairy offspring had cleared away all the clutter. In its place was a small wooden desk, one I'd picked up at a second hand store months ago with the intent of making it my writing desk and then promptly abandoned.

The desk was now tucked cozily into what had become an appealing writing corner. The kids had stocked it with writing essentials - pencils, erasers, paper, a corkboard for tacking up ideas, baskets of books, candles, and several crafty hand-made decorations.  A string of white Christmas lights wound among the cups of pens and Sharpies, and a giant, slightly-smushed gold bow sat in the center of the desk.

My son shrugged. "We thought you needed a place to write. You're good at it. And we believe in you."

I listened with blurry eyes as the kids pointed out all the little details and told me how they'd made this and decided on that. They were so excited to be able to do something special for their mom. And me, I was all wrapped up in loving my kids and being moved by what they had done for me.

A week later I sit at that little wooden desk, a fresh new year in hand, looking toward the future and wondering if I'll be able to live up to their expectations.

Look at the past, after all. Sure, there have been successes along the way. But so many failures, too. Goals haven't been met. Dreams have been abandoned. Visions of who I want to be lost in the flurry of living and resolutions to do better trompled by complacency.

On New Year's Day anything is possible. Many of us wake on the first morning of the year full of forward momentum and optimism, thinking of what could be, breathing in the clear air of a fresh start. But that positive energy never seems to last. Reality creeps in and climbs up your back to hiss into your ear that it won't happen. None of it. You've failed before and you'll fail again. The start of a new year is just the start of another round of nothing changing.

I sit at my little desk and stare at the keyboard and don't know where to start. The kids believe I can do great things. Maybe I won't. Maybe...maybe I can't.

My eye travels along the length of the strand of white lights and over to the bookshelf at my elbow. My daughter has made a little painting for me, tucked into a white frame. An adorable little sheep peeks out over the edge of the frame, surrounded by the first words of the song that my mom chose to have sung at her funeral. "I am Jesus' little lamb. Ever glad at heart I am."

My eyes bunch up as my mind sings through the rest of the first verse. My shepherd guides me...well-provides me... I pause at the second to last line. "Loves me every day the same."

Loves me every day the same. Loves me...the same...every day.

On January first, when I am full of hope and spitfire. On January second, when my shoulders droop with the fear of trying. On June the 23rd, August 14th, November 9th, whatever I am doing, succeeding or not so much, marching forth fearlessly or cowering in a corner...whatever the day, whatever the me, I am loved and accepted exactly as much as the day before because of Jesus.

Yep, I'm going to fail some this year. There are disappointing days ahead. I don't like that. But the sweet little lamb peeking over the edge of the frame reminds me that those not so great days won't do a thing to change my Father's love for me.  ...Neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come...nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39

I'll be honest - I don't think He's the only one who won't stop loving me if I don't get it just right. I rather suspect that those bright-eyed sprites with their big gold bow don't give a rat's patootie whether I write a best-seller. They just love their mom, every day the same.

Right back atcha, guys. Right back atcha.

First published in The Alpena News on January 6, 2018