Portrait mode

I love my son’s camera.

My 14-year-old takes the most amazing pictures with his phone. He flips through filters and adjusts this and that, slaps on a lens, pokes the shutter button, and, hey-whaddya-know, he can make anything look like a work of art.

Anything.

The ceramic frog on the back deck.

Dead fish.

A fly’s eyeball.

Our menagerie of cats and dog are frequent models for his photography sessions, and he’s snagged some seriously awww-inspiring photos of Cute Kitten Mavis. The even more fun pics, though, are the ones he creates by turning everyday this-and-thats, by the magic of his camera’s eye, into something beautiful.

The secret?

Portrait mode.

Oh, man. Portrait mode is the best.

In portrait mode, the camera figures out what part of the picture is important, makes that bit nice and sharp, and then blurs the rest into an artsy, soothing backdrop.

With everything behind dropping away, in view but stripped of its importance, what’s left becomes surprising and lovely.

What’s left, with all else faded, is the elegant beauty of a wilted flower, the intricacy and dignity of a single seed in the sunlight.

I love me some portrait mode.

Recently, I had to turn in a picture of myself for something at work.

Ug.

I fully realize the irony of someone who takes pictures of people for a living complaining about having her picture taken -- but, jeezaloo, it’s awful.

Do I want to look at pictures of myself? No, I do not. It’s bad enough catching glimpses in the mirror of that stranger whose body I occupy. I hardly recognize that woman, the one with lines around her eyes and a few more gray hairs every day, the one who startles me in the medicine cabinet mirror each morning.

But, I had to give my boss a picture.

Enter, portrait mode.

Kind enough to not grumble about the weirdness of taking pictures of his mom, my youngest -- always happy to play with the Camera of Awesomeness -- obliged, snapping a few dozen shots in hopes that one of them would suffice.

Ug.

My smile was weird, my eyes were squinched, those gray hairs looked grayer and hairier than ever.

But, there were a few -- not a lot, but a few -- that were … not bad.

Actually, there was one I really liked.

OK, in that particular picture, I was holding Mavis, and kittens can make anything look good.

But, what really made the difference was portrait mode.

The strident colors behind me softened and mellowed, and the camera magic did its thing, and, somehow, the person in the picture looked like someone I might be able to like.

I’m not one who can effortlessly quote Bible verses. But there’s one I think of often.

Samuel has been told to go find the man God has picked to be the next king. Seven tall, strong men, all very king-like, parade past Samuel, but of each God says, “Nope, not that one.”

Eventually, along comes David -- a good-looking kid, but still, the baby of the family, grubby from watching the sheep.

“That one,” God told Samuel. “That little dusty one. I choose him.”

“The Lord does not look at the things people look at,” God says to His prophet in 1 Samuel. “People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

God looks at the heart.

Now, on the surface of it, that is terrifying.

Humans, they can only see my outsides. Those may not be perfect, but at least they hide the mess inside that I’d rather not be on public display.

Not so with my Creator. He sees the inside stuff.

Ug.

But then I remember.

God uses portrait mode.

When He looks at His children, the background blurs. Accomplishments, failures, pasts and presents and labels and messes all fade away and become irrelevant.

In the lens of One who sees only the human persons He created, we are each startlingly lovely -- not because of our triumphs or trophies, but because a Savior has taken away the need for them.

I’m no runway model, nor a human of much significance, in the grand scheme of things. That’s OK. I get to look at myself the way God does — with all the extra stuff of life faded into the background, just an everyday this-and-that that’s actually kinda beautiful.

And then, remembering that I’m a photographer as well, I can adjust my own lens and see the people around me in portrait mode, too.

First published in The Alpena News on October 10, 2020.

Not climbing alone

Note to anyone who might be reading this, which is probably only my mother-in-law: I didn't realize until after the fact that I wrote about climbing two months in a row. I guess it's just been that kind of year.

I had one thought as I looked up at the big sand hill.

That sucker was going to be hard to climb.

After eight years as Up Northerners, the fam and I finally made it to Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore on a recent Sunday afternoon.

Scampering children and vigorous young adults made me feel my age as I trudged up the big pile, thigh muscles whimpering.

My husband and youngest son, outpacing me with their long legs, stopped to wait as I paused and caught deep lungfuls of air.

Below my bare feet, the sand was laced with footprints.

A hundred people had been in that very same place before me -- breathing hard, wondering what they were doing there, trying to muster up the fortitude to keep going.

It would be nice, I thought, if those people could reach through time and give me a hand up that hill.

We all climb alone, though.

Beside me, a hard-breathing wife told her husband in no uncertain terms that he could keep climbing, but she was going no farther.

On my other side, a dad laughingly got on all fours and crawled to keep up with his sprightly daughter.

At last reaching the summit of the giant hill, we paused, winded, and turned to watch green sunspots dancing on a distant lake.

Behind us, a new world waited to be explored.

My youngest -- days from his first day of high school in a not-normal world -- led the way, veering onto a small, solitary path strewn with some kind of sand-grown tumbleweed.

Surrounded by people moments before, we were abruptly alone in the scrub at the top of the dune, wandering low hills covered in an alien foliage. Voices of distant wanderers mingled with frog hiccups and the occasional thoughtful hmm of some small insect.

Somewhere, we lost the trial. Stepping gingerly between hard-working sand plants, we made our way to what looked like a tame path up a steep slope.

The sand -- on what, it turned out, was most definitely not a path -- melted devilishly beneath our feet as we scrambled upward, and we dropped to hands and knees to claw our way to the top, heady with giggles.

Finally, the three of us emerged from our solitary ramble, peering down the big hill that had been so great a challenge on the way up.

Climbs are like that, sometimes.

They can take your breath away.

A really hard year, unexpected and terrifying in its strangeness, can make you drop to your knees, make you cry out that you are simply going no further.

That you can’t.

You don’t want to.

It’s too hard.

In the distance and close by, people are putting one foot in front of the other, trying to catch their breath in the middle of a rough climb up a rough year.

Nobody can say what the top of 2020 will look like. I suspect, though, that it won’t resemble the life we left at the bottom of the hill.

Tumbleweed will tangle our feet as we explore an alien landscape, voices of other new-world explorers falling through the distance.

There may be other hills to climb, even after we think we’ve made it to the top, deceptive soft sand sucking our feet out from under us.

It’s going to be all right up there, mates.

There’s great beauty in the unexplored, and healing bonds to be built as we follow our separate paths together.

It’s a few days and several showers since we climbed the dune. I’m still finding grains of sand in my hair, reminders of a joyous somersault roll down the big hill and of an afternoon’s opportunity to wander and ponder and come to grips with the year around me and my place within it.

As for everyday faith -- where does that fit into the story?

Where, in all this plodding and breathing and musing, was God?

You know, I can’t for the life of me explain what my Creator had to do with that trip up the Sleeping Bear dune.

There’s no deep, spiritual message in my head. The metaphor of the big hill spoke to me of life, and acceptance, and climbing through hurt, and the thrill and danger of the unknown, but it didn’t teach me how much I’m loved by a Being greater than I as I stomp up my hills.

But God was part of all of it.

He just was.

That’s everyday faith, I think.

He’s just … there. In the middle of the little moments that teach us about us. In the big moments and on the big hills -- in, with, and under life as we keep on living it.

I’ll gladly take Him with me on my journey.

Especially this year. Especially on this hill.

I don’t want to climb alone.

First published in The Alpena News on September 12, 2020.

The Mountain Climber and Me

The cliff was enormous.

Then again, everything is relative.

I stood at the base of it, looking up. My kids’ merry faces hung over the edge, watching me expectantly.

“Could you put your foot in that little notch?” my daughter asked, pointing with one dangling arm, her hand only a few inches above my head.

OK, so “enormous” might be a stretch. The rock wall was maybe 10 feet high, maybe less.

My kids, taking a different way up, waited at the top as we explored our way down a river in the Upper Peninsula’s Porcupine Mountains during a recent and wonderful family vacation.

On a whim, inspired by the frisky breezes of a gorgeous July day, I made up my mind to get up the cliff the hard way.

A thick, braided metal rope dangled over the cliff’s edge, anchored to a tree, a mysterious remnant of some project of the past.

It would hold my weight, I decided, giving it a hefty tug.

I handed my camera and flip-flops up to the kids, gripped the rope, and gave a little hop.

I’m not sure what I thought was going to happen, but nothing did.

This was silly. I didn’t know how to climb up walls. Didn’t know where to start, didn’t know what came next.

My kids, patient as the river was wet, waited at the top, offering suggestions. Fingers wrapped around the rope, I gave another hop, this time determined I was going no direction but up.

It wasn’t pretty. I climbed like the clumsy, middle-aged woman I am, and I’m pretty sure I used a swear word somewhere near the middle.

I’ll admit, halfway up that tiny cliff, I was a little scared. But, with cheerful encouragements from my offspring, in a few minutes, I was hauling myself over the edge, relieved I hadn’t made a complete fool of myself and grateful for the young people who didn’t roll their eyes at the old lady who thought a little climb was worth all the fuss.

****

Looking at them from a distance, I’m sometimes ashamed of my cliffs.

The obstacles I call problems are, in the grand scheme of things, often tiny and silly, trials of my own making that are nothing compared to what millions of people battle every day.

Held up against the struggles others face, my tears and sighs and worries are nonsense. I’ve a pleasant, good life, and I ought to be grateful, not fretful and frightened.

As my mom used to tell me when I didn’t want to finish my supper, just think of all the starving children in other countries.

But, when I’m standing at the base of a cliff of a problem, looking up, that wall seems insurmountable.

Even if it’s only 10 feet tall.

Money is tight. Someone is sick. A loved one no longer loves me. I’m sad. The task is too much, and I can’t do it.

Chances are, the crisis will pass, and, in short order, I’ll look back at my little problems and wonder what all the fuss was about.

But now, in the moment, oh, that challenge, that obstacle … from the bottom looking up, it’s scary, and big, and I don’t know how to get past it.

That day by the river, the happy faces of my kids made all the difference. They couldn’t make the climb for me, couldn’t pull me up or give me a push from the rear.

They just hung above me, encouraging me, not mocking me for the smallness of my cliff or reminding me it was my own darn fault I was climbing it in the first place.

There are voices in our lives, encouragers who help us up our cliffs.

Though we may pooh-pooh their encouragements and wave away their suggestions of how to inch higher, they are gifts, those humans who help us, be they parents or parole officers or bosses.

And when -- clinging to our rope, scared to go down or up, muttering swear words and feeling stupid -- we cry out to a great big God who can see how foolishly small our cliff is, He loves us through the crisis, is in and among the faces cheering our climb.

God sees everyone. He sees the real problems, the real struggles, the people who are hurting in ways that make my petty grievances with life absolutely absurd.

And yet, for me He came. It is me He loves and encourages, silly tiny-cliff-climber though I be. For me, my Savior scaled the greatest wall, lived and died and rose so I can face my little obstacles as a cherished child whose every move matters.

There will be other cliffs.

I will stand at the base of them, despairing, no matter their size.

Or, perhaps, I’ll be at the top, peering over the edge, being the voice that helps someone else find a toehold.

A mountain climber I am not, and my problems are small. 

But I can keep climbing my little cliffs, clinging to rope and hope and the love of One who will catch me if I fall.

First published in The Alpena News on August 8, 2020.

Smitten with the Kitten

Nobody can resist a kitten.

That was the hope, anyway, a few days before Father’s Day as I talked my offspring into a trip to the animal shelter.

We were doing it for their dad, I told them. He loved kittens. He needed a kitten. He would totally buy into the idea that we needed to add a kitten to our lives and not think I was totally nuts.

Granted, my spouse does have a weakness for the little furballs, and we didn’t have much in the way of Father's Day gifts. Really, though, I just wanted something new in our lives. Something happy that didn’t have to do with viruses or violence or anxiety about the future. 

The good folks at the shelter watched in amusement as the kids and I spent the better part of an hour deciding which of the mewing darlings wanted to come home with us. Finally, a tiny tabby with alien-gray eyes told us she was ours, and Mavis officially joined the family.

(If you don’t like her name, for heaven’s sake, don’t tell me. It took us three more hours of negotiations to arrive at it).

I needn’t have worried about the spouse. He was as bewitched by the miniature cat as the rest of us.

The cheerful little squirt instantly took charge of the household.

Perched jauntily on a shoulder or curled with devastating sweetness on a lap, clonking around the rungs of a chair in pursuit of the enticing tip of her own tail, prancing on a keyboard or pouncing on a stack of mail, Mavis has managed to wrap us all around her tiny paw, turning five grown humans into a group of cooing, “aaawww”-ing, utterly smitten kitten fans.

Two-thirds of our other pets are, if not equally fond of Mavis, at least content to welcome her to the family.

Elroy, our boy cat who loves me ferociously, barely notices the kitten, intent as he is on claiming first place as my snuggle buddy.

Tucker -- our large, mostly blind, affable dog -- watches patiently while Mavis launches joyous attacks on his paws and snout, despite Tucker being about 200 times her size.

Our other cat, on the other hand, isn’t so charmed.

For several years the darling of the house, Amber was suddenly not the youngest, or the smallest, or -- don’t tell her I said this -- the cutest.

Evidently feeling every ounce of the indignity of being replaced as the favorite, Amber offers Mavis nothing more than a haughty hiss, sometimes followed by a low growl or a swat on the head when the kitten dares to get too close.

Mavis, though, doesn’t take no for an answer.

Laughably small in comparison to her full-sized adopted sister, the kitten pursues Amber time and time again, trying to be friends.

Even a whap on the head seems to only encourage the little sprite, who stalks the bigger cat, hoping for a playmate, eyes Amber’s flicking tail for a pounce, and, when Amber flees, chases her down to the basement, sometimes tumbling down several steps but picking herself up again good-naturedly and trotting after her intended target.

It’s only a matter of time, we humans agree.

Unyieldingly gumbly as she may be, Amber’s eventually going to give in and let Mavis into her life.

How could she not?

After all, nobody can resist a kitten.

****

Resolute grumpiness. I can identify with that more than I care to admit.

Too often, I catch myself sulking about in a snit, feeling very much put-upon by life and finding offense around every corner, determined to stay unhappy whatever the cost.

Ridiculous, isn’t it? There’s so much good in the world, so many reasons to be grateful, so many people about us who need us to come out of our self-absorbed funks long enough to notice them.

That grumpy place, though, can be hard to walk away from. With a hiss at my imagined opponents and a growl at life in general, I stalk off, holding on tightly to unhappiness as my right and my consolation.

It’s just weird. A foolish decision, determined negativity is.

Cats and humans -- not always the most logical creatures.

In the middle of my self-imposed gloominess, a kitten of joy is batting at my tail.

I don’t get why God chooses to keep loving us, stubborn and ridiculous beings that we are. But, He does. Back and back and back He comes, heedless of our growls and obstinate resolve to not be happy, not be loved, not let the life He’s given us be adequate.

We hiss. He says I love you.

We glare. He says I want you.

We reject. He says I died for you.

It would be so much more sensible to give in, to revel in being absolutely accepted as-is and to roll in gratitude for ice cream cones and birdsong and new starts and kind eyes and challenges that make us stronger.

Think we’re going to do that? 

Once in a while, maybe, when nobody’s looking.

But, mostly, because we’re silly, we’re still going to get grumpy and say there ain’t nothing anybody can do about it.

And the One who loves us each a trillion more times than we deserve will keep coming back, ignoring our growls, offering joy, and inviting us to love Him back.

You have to admit, it’s pretty irresistible.

First published in The Alpena News on July 11, 2020.

Above the Mask

I was reaching for a jar of salsa in Aisle 3 when the little girl rounded the corner, singing softly to herself.

The child glanced my way, and I gave her a smile.

The little song faltered.

Eyes on my face, the girl edged past me and my salsa. The song was struck up again, with a whistle-in-a-dark-alley nonchalance, as she examined the soups, one over-the-shoulder glance flung worriedly in my direction.

Dang, I thought. It happened again.

In recent weeks, I’ve joined the ranks of people wearing masks indoors. Signs in store windows have taken the decision out of my hands -- which I appreciate -- and encouraged me to slap on some facewear before entering.

It’s a fascinating phenomenon, this walking about a public space, every face half-sheathed. Wrapped in dainty florals, practical white, or cowboy bandana-blue, faces become half-faces, top halves left to do the job of being human while mouths and noses hide for safekeeping.

With only the upper 50% of my face to work with, communicating with strangers has turned into a whole new art form.

Smiling, for example. It ain’t what it used to be.

When I smile, my eyes get weird. They squinch up into vaguely menacing slits, while the bridge of my nose wrinkles like a shar-pei. Taken by itself, the top half of my face registers all the friendliness of the Grinch, rightly alarming small children in grocery stores.

Don’t get me wrong -- I’m seriously stylin’ in my mask, the Hulk flanking one cheek and Captain America on the other. Masks are the bomb. Masks protect lives.

But, this demure hiding of our breathing apparatuses changes everything when you’re face-to-six-feet-away-face with a stranger.

When half of you is covered up, you have to learn to smile with your eyes.

As I paced the aisles in search of ketchup, peripheral vision skewed by the fabric that kept sucking up against my nose every time I inhaled, I practiced letting my eyes say what the rest of my face couldn’t.

Passing other masked shoppers, as they glanced at their shopping lists or looked worriedly for a bag of flour, all of us muted by the cloths over our mouths, I tried to unsquinch and ungrinch and silently, eyes-only, speak to those strangers words of kindness, warmth, and solidarity.

Some of them looked back, spoke back equally silent, equally heartfelt sentiments of, yes, we’re all in this together.

Others kept walking, heads down, eyes on their lists.

Trapped inside the wrapping around my face, stifled breath matching the omnipresent, ill-defined anxiety hovering over my own shoulders, I tried to let my fellow aisle-travelers see, whether they were looking back or not, that I wasn’t a creepy grinch-woman.

And I wasn’t another nameless stranger who didn’t care.

And they weren’t alone.

Heads down, eyes on our lists, it’s easy to be swallowed in ourselves, lives limited to the now and to our own fears, our own stories of what if and maybe and oh dear.

And, if there’s ever a time when deep delves into ourselves are justified, it’s now.

Everyone is reeling.

Every story is riddled with shrapnel.

The little sing-song girls, the ketchup-hunters, the cashiers with tired eyes and the worried-looking man in the parking lot -- all the stories around us are full of angst. 

But, in the middle of it, so many of the mask-bound masses are smiling with their eyes.

Depositing gifts on doorsteps. Hanging hearts in windows. Sending social media sunshine. Leading virtual classrooms. Hunching behind sewing machines.

Looking up from their own masks, brave-hearted people are radiating compassion and hope in the midst of a time when normalcy is as hidden as our noses.

****

I can’t help thinking of a certain man.

A man, on His way to certain death, to flogging and humiliation, to betrayal and scorn and pain.

A man with the weight of the souls of all mankind on His shoulders.

A man who knew angst.

A man who, on his heavily weighted 33-year walk, looked with eyes that smiled on fathers and mothers and children, teachers, lepers, fishermen and prostitutes.

A man who, suffocating on a cross, gazed with hazed eyes at the people who put Him there and -- even at His darkest time -- saw their need, their hurt, their confusion.

Looking up and out with love flooding your eyes when you are frightened-anxious-sad-overwhelmed -- it’s not safe. It’s not the expected. It’s not what’s easy.

But it’s what my Jesus did. And it’s what beautiful, courageous, love-driven people all around me are doing every day.

****

Lord, Lord, my heart cries out.

I’m breaking.

This is so hard.

In the midst of it, Lord, in the midst of even this, lift my eyes.

Let me see them.

Let me love them.

Let me smile with my eyes.

First published in The Alpena News on May 9, 2020.

Being Tested

Note: Usually the stuff I post here is devotional writing. This isn't. I just feel like posting it. And, hey, it's my blog, so I can do that if I want.

I didn’t need a test.

I’m careful. I stay six feet away from people and I use hand sanitizer like it’s going out of style.

Still … as an essential worker, out and about in the middle of the coronavirus pandemic, I’m around people. I could endanger someone’s life by passing on this little virus that’s made such a big stir.

If I’m a carrier, it’s probably better to know, I admitted reluctantly.

Nervous about sounding ignorant, I called my doctor’s office, not sure what to ask.

In no time, I was transferred to a reassuring voice and scheduled for a coronavirus test.

The next afternoon, as instructed, I pulled up to the orange cones in the parking lot of Thunder Bay Community Health Service in Atlanta, the nose of my car facing an unpretentious black-and-white tent.

As instructed, I stayed in the car and waited my turn.

The nurse who came out to talk to me looked tired beneath her face shield and mask. Business had been non-stop all day, all week, she said. Her ears were sore from the mask’s elastic. Still, she was cheerful and kind as she explained what would happen.

It wouldn’t feel great, she said honestly.

Through the car window she handed me a paper mask covered in pastel flowers and didn’t laugh when I wasn’t sure how to put it on.

I wasn’t experiencing symptoms of COVID-19, the sickness caused by the coronavirus, but, if I did, I shouldn’t take ibuprofen, she said. Studies have shown it can make symptoms worse. Good to know.

There’s evidence that heat helps fight the virus, which lodges in the back of the throat -- so, she said, hot drinks work in your favor. Coffee, hot tea, or, she suggested, hot cocoa are on your side. OK by me.

She led me toward the enclosed tent, really a pop-up gazebo more suited for a wedding or family picnic than a medical center parking lot, with one black wall to protect patient privacy. I headed to the drawn-back makeshift doorway, feeling as though I’d suddenly stepped into a rerun of M*A*S*H.

Inside, there was mostly open space on parking lot cement, with the very notable exception of the big box in the middle of the tent.

Simply constructed of fresh-looking 2-by-4s and plywood, about 8 feet tall and 3 feet deep, the box was open in the back with a wall of Plexiglas in the front and a slightly-raised platform where the tired-but-kind nurse stood, holding an oversized cotton swab.

A wall of transparent acrylic between us, the nurse, in her open-backed box, put her gloved hands through two rubber-sleeved openings in the clear wall, much as though she was a scientist testing an unknown and potentially dangerous substance -- and I was the experiment.

As gently as she could, she inserted the cotton swab up one of my nostrils.

She had been right.

It didn’t feel great.

My brain couldn’t decide whether to shriek or giggle as the swab fished around in regions of my head that don’t usually receive that kind of attention. The process was mercifully quick, and I was given a moment to turn my head and cough into my mask, my sinus cavity still buzzing confusedly.

It was a two-sided test, and I had to gather my courage to offer my other nostril for probing. The nurse didn’t tell me if she used the same end of the cotton swab as in the first go-round, and I didn’t ask.

It seemed too quick, like there ought to be more to a test that was checking for a virus that has killed more than 50,000 people in the U.S. That was it, though, the nurse said, sliding the swab into a tiny tube. My sinus mucus would be shipped off to a testing facility, and results would be back in 48 hours.

I walked back to my car, head still gently protesting the invasion of its personal space, feeling like something had changed.

There are so many unknowns right now. Uncertainty has become the norm. And, to be honest, I’d gotten comfortable with not knowing, not with any certainty, whether I had been exposed to the virus that has been violently overturning the tables of almost every aspect of our lives.

In some ways, it’s easier to not know.

If you don’t know, you can lean on the incongruous comfort of uncertainty.

If you don’t know, you can hold fear at bay.

But, in little Atlanta, there’s a weary nurse who is spending her days sticking sticks up people’s noses because knowing makes a difference.

Facts can save lives.

In a day or two, the phone will ring, and I’ll know that I’m carrying the virus, or I’ll know that I’m not.

Either way, scary though it is, uncomfortable as I may become, it’s better to know than to not know.

Of that, I’m certain.

First published in The Alpena News on April 25, 2020

Always heartache, always resurrection

There ought to be lilies.

This is what Easter is supposed to look like: Rising in the dark, a sense of Something Special hovering in the silent house. Blackness through the kitchen window as the ham slides into the oven.

Alarm clocks buzzing, the kids turning in their beds with a humph before their consciousness grabs hold of the day and they sit up, rubbing their eyes.

Flowy skirt, shirt and tie, sleepy-awake smiles as the sky begins to brighten.

Car door slams; slams again; trot back inside for the forgotten colored eggs commissioned for the youth group casserole-and-sausage breakfast.

Church doors. Friendly faces, edged with undefined excitement in the pale light. Pastels, pinks and yellows, handshakes and warm voices as the eggs are dropped off in the kitchen.

And then … lilies. Tickling the nose, first, the scent of expectation. Then -- with a glorious “Ta-da!” -- white trumpets blaring, posing on pedestals, climbing a railing, flanking the altar, nodding encouragements and sincere greetings, potted lilies in purple and yellow foil wrappers wave to all who come.

Packed in pews, comfortably shoulder-to-shoulder, the regulars and the seekers and the tentative first-timers and the squirming children with their crayons and visions of jelly beans breathe in unison, palpable togetherness mingling disparate lives for an hour.

Amid the joyous enthusiasms.of the lilies, blended voices raise, eager, heart-full, as eyes moisten: “He is risen, indeed!”

The music swells and lifts, and together, they sing. Jesus Christ is risen today. I know that my Redeemer lives.

After, some stay for breakfast. Some head to family gatherings and hams and green bean casserole. Before they go, arms wrap around shoulders, hands clasp hands, conversations linger near the coat rack.

They go, finally, and the church is once again quiet. In the sanctuary, the lilies nod.

That’s Easter.

Except in a pandemic.

This year, there won’t be that first, exotic scent of lilies when church doors open. There won’t be families in their Sunday best, girls in taffeta dresses giggling between the grown-ups, white-haired parents proudly introducing grandchildren.

This year, there will be no youth group egg bakes, no children scrambling across church lawns to find plastic eggs tucked full of trinkets.

This year, there will be no one-voice-made-of-many rising to the ceiling, months of Lenten gloom giving vent to a thrilling, “Alleluia!”

A virus has taken away the Easter that should be.

It’s not fair, the heart cries. All of this. All of the change. All of the loss. The staying home. The looming fear. The masks. The deaths.

If ever we needed Easter, it’s now. Now, with homes and hearts besieged by anxiety.

We need anticipation, and hope, and a day being what it ought to be.

We need promises of a new life. We need death to be broken.

We need hugs, and music, and lilies.

About a week ago, during a quick, well-sanitized trip to the store, I bought a potted Easter lily.

It’s sitting on a table near my desk at work, its matte-finish trumpet flowers tooting a reminder that it needs to be watered.

You know what? Turns out, when you’re wrapped in the scent of Easter lilies eight hours a day for a whole week … they kinda stink.

There’s a picture we hold in our heads, I think, of Life, As It Should Be. If all were right, if life were fair, it would be like such-and-such.

The sun would shine. Our jobs would be secure. Our parents and children would be safe. Our hams would never burn, and our lilies would smell like resurrection.

It’s not like such-and-such for most of us, now, not when the world is topsy-turvy and the rules have all changed.

Frankly, though, even without the chaos of a major medical crisis, those pictures of a Right Life don’t hold true.

There’s always instability, to a greater or lesser degree. Fear and anxiety are always lurking, ready to jump into our lives whenever there’s a hole to fill. Days are gloomy, times are tough, projects and people are imperfect.

Lilies, as it turns out, kinda stink.

We need hope today. And we need it every day. We need reassurance in this troubled time, and we need it in every other time, too.

During tough days ahead, as now, as in all tough days of the past, there has been, there is, there will be hope. Reassurance. A place to lean.

The lack of an egg casserole can do nothing to change the fact of a Savoir dying and rising. A few fewer Easter handshakes may leave a hole in the day, but the whole of humanity is still extended a hand to which to cling, when the sun shines and when it rains.

I know that my Redeemer lives. I know that I’m not alone, even when times are tough. I know that Someone loves me, enough to die for me, enough to live for me, even though I’m far from perfect.

Everything is different.

But nothing has changed.

Alleluia.

Originally published in The Alpena News on April 11, 2020.

Seeking Sanctuary

I just wanted a place to be alone.

A few weeks ago, I found myself roaming the halls of Alpena Community College, searching in increasing desperation for a place that wasn’t overrun by people.

The annual Science Olympiad had drawn flocks of eager young scientists ― my youngest son among them — to campus, where they hunched, goggled and lab-coated, silently over lab tables or giggled through the hallways, playing long-form games of hide and seek.

The designated driver-mom of the day, I had hours to kill while The Offspring did his science thing. Happily, I’d brought my handy-dandy laptop and a headful of ideas. All I needed was a quiet spot where I could retreat into my keyboard.

But, the people.

They were everywhere.

Humans on benches, in corners, under stairwells. Voices frolicking down corridors, laughter bursting through doorways. People, people, everywhere.

Don’t get me wrong ― I like humans. They’re fascinating, and life would be lonely without them.

Sometimes, though, they are many and overwhelming, and I need some little corner of refuge where I can hide from them all.

The word “sanctuary” has been much in the news lately.

A place of refuge or safety, a sanctuary is supposed to be. A place of comfort. Quiet. Security.

A place where you can tuck your head in and hide a little when you need to.

In national and local forums, though, the concept of sanctuary has, instead, raised concerns and blood pressure.

In so-called sanctuary cities, immigrants receive extra protections from extradition or arrest. To some, these cities are a rightful refuge. To others, they represent the illegal coddling of criminals.

Several northern Michigan communities have declared themselves Second Amendment sanctuary cities in support of gun owners’ rights. The meetings where such decisions are made have been sometimes thick with tense faces and raised voices on both sides of the issue.

There are, of course, other kinds of sanctuary that don’t make people call each other names and clench their ideals in angry fists.

The Thunder Bay National Marine Sanctuary, where big boats recline, undisturbed, at lake’s bottom, this year celebrates 20 years of allowing a treasured resource to rest at peace.

Critters and green things are kept safe at the Alpena Wildlife Sanctuary, Spitler Shore Nature Sanctuary, and other nooks set aside for quiet and security and retreat.

To me, sanctuary is a tree with friendly branches that peered over the back yard fence at my girlhood home, waiting to welcome a shy child and her latest paperback.

It’s the place I often long for, the arms of that gentle tree — a place away from the world and its sometimes-too-much-ness.

I’ll be honest — in the hubbub of a forward-slanting day, when I’m frazzled and fearful and full of regret, I forget. I forget that there is a sanctuary, a place to lean my head and close my eyes, where there is a moment of quiet and I can just breathe.

It’s not amid ships or squirrels, my sanctuary. It’s not even in a pretty church building, cloaked in quiet and stained glass and where sinful humans bare their imperfections just as much as they do anywhere else in the world.

My sanctuary is in a tree.

You are my refuge, King David achingly told the God of Israel, over and over.

And over.

A full 48 times in the book of Psalms, its author ― a wealthy and powerful king, the type of person who really shouldn’t need a place to hide, most would say — clings to his Creator, longing to conceal himself in His robes of refuge.

For a king, and for a foolish child who forgets where to lay her head, there’s sanctuary in the simple knowledge of being loved. Forgiven. In spite of everything, and in the midst of everything.

All because of One who climbed a tree, reached out His arms, and said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Life will be taxing. There will be people, people everywhere, and peace will be hard to come by.

There’s a corner, a refuge, a quiet place, a sanctuary, in being a wanted child for whom everything has been given.

Tuck in your head and breathe.

First published in The Alpena News on March 15, 2020.