Beneath the Cross

Friday night I slept in the sanctuary of our church. The youth group was having a lock-in, and after pizza and grapes, prayer and singing, movie and discussion, and games around the fire, it was time to tuck into our sleeping bags. The guys trooped up the hill to the old chapel, and the sanctuary was left to the girls. There were only three of us, and we laid out our beds in the center aisle, overlooked by the cross on the big wall behind the platform. We arranged ourselves so our heads were together, rustled in our sleeping bags until we were comfortable, and chatted. I asked the girls to share a dream, big or small, serious or silly. They shared bits of their heart with me, their trust a treasure. Their dreams are worthy and bigger than they can accomplish on their own, and I pray for them, that they would cling to God tighter than any dream and yet not loose their unique passions and be willing to take risks and jump off cliffs and see what He will do.

And as we lay there I thought about all the shoes that have step, step, stepped up and down that aisle, high heels and polished leather, walking up to receive the body and blood of Jesus broken and poured out for us, carrying those treasures back to their seats. I thought about Dad and Heidi's feet, walking up that aisle side by side five and a half years ago, her feet covered by the white cloud of her dress. And I thought about Aaron and Heidi waltzing down the aisle together, eager partakers of a brand new union.

Here we were, three girls in pajamas and bare feet, camped out on that carpet, sharing a few dreams and drifting off to sleep together in that place perfumed by songs of worship and the partaking of Christ's body and the beginnings of holy unions. It seemed casual, presumptuous even, for the sacredness of the place. But perhaps prostrate and unshod before the holy cross and high calling of our God is the humble and amazingly intimate place He invites us to.

A Date, But Not to Go On

Peter and Lucy spent the night last week. On Thursday at lunchtime, Peter and I were in the kitchen making lemon pudding with lemons, avocados, and dates. Peter watched me peel and chunk up lemons and avocados, and his job was to dump the fruit into the food processor. But he didn't recognize the dates. "What are those?" he asked. "Dates," I told him. "Dates? I thought dates were something you go on," Peter replied. "I'm going to ask Daddy if he knows about dates you can eat!"

Meanwhile, Lucy had the doctor's kit out in the living room. She kept running over with one tool or another. "Can I look in your ear?" she would say, or "Can I check your heart?" or "Here, put this [thermometer] in your mouth," or "Can I give you a shot in your face?" So I kept squatting down, hands covered with green avocado mush or dripping with lemon juice, and letting doctor Lucy do her work.

Winnie the Pooh is very popular these days, and Peter has taken up the role of Pooh. I have a firm position as Piglet, and Lucy is Mrs. Owl. Others are Eeyore, Kanga, and Roo as the mood strikes. Yesterday, Heidi and I took the children to met a friend and her two-year-old son for a play date. Our friend was introducing us to her son. "That is Peter, and that little girl is Lucy, and that is Julie, and that lady there is Heidi." Peter, still taking in the new situation, was standing back by the door, Lucy at his side. They were quiet, not responding to Jana's introductions, but when Peter heard Jana say "that is Julie," he spoke up in a clear, solemn voice. "Piglet," he corrected. When Jana had finished, she turned back to Peter. "Who is Piglet?" she asked. "Aunt Julie is Piglet," he clarified very seriously.

A Large Quiet Space

I had a lot of solitude last week. The home where I was house sitting was large, and there was plenty of room for me, their two small dogs, and a lot of quiet, empty space.

So I brought my sewing machine and sent yards of fabric under the needle, pulling skirts, dresses, and nightgowns out the other side. Hopefully they will end up clothing little girls far and wide after they sell on my Etsy shop. It was work, but to create satisfies me: to choose a button or cut a fancy pocket shape or add a ruffle to make each item unique.

And while I sewed, I listened to music. I couldn't hook up my iPod to their stereo, and I only had five CDs. So I listened to them throughout the week, over and over and over. I don't usually do that on the pretense that I am bored with an album after one go-round, but I found that good music bears repeating, and I went deeper into message of the songs as I heard them again and again. Fernando's impassioned prayer reminded me of our status as strangers here: "Heavenly Father, remember the traveler; bring us safely home, safely home." Keith and Kristyn Getty's Christmas album sang to me simply and beautifully of our need and God's supply: "O Savior of our fallen race." When the Psalter CD came on, Psalms washed over me. Sara Groves sang of pressing on through the darkness we find in the world: "When the saints go marching in, I want to be one of them," and "Even when your heart is torn, love is still a worthy cause," and "You say to yourself, 'It's been a while since I've felt this, but it feels like it might be hope.'" An old Twila Paris album took me back in time, and then right into the throne room: "Lord of my heart, Lord of my heart I offer praise from the shadow of your throne!"

I also turned the stereo on while I was in the kitchen, dishing up dog food and then making more appetizing and nourishing meals for myself. They were simple, but I took delight in making tasty foods that would feed my body and my soul: quinoa with black beans and chicken and cilantro; chickpeas and sweet potatoes; beef stroganof; kale salad with squash and pomegranate seeds.

And while I ate, I read. I did a lot of reading; setting appointments with different books throughout the day gave me a sense of companionship. In the mornings, besides the Bible, I read from St Augustine's "Confessions." Mealtimes, Dietrich Bonhoeffer was my companion as I read his conversational "Letters and Papers from Prison." (A beautifully photographed Italian cookbook also made its way to the table and took my attention for a few meals.) Parker Palmer's "Let Your Life Speak," a inward-turned book about finding and living your vocation, gave me opportunities to sort out truth from falsehood and hold up everything to the standard of the Word. Bedtime brought a novel: "If I Gained the World." I like the parallel stories of Daniel and Lenore turning to the truth, and the picture of what really satisfies. When I finished that, Madeleine L'Engle's "The Summer of the Great-Grandmother" took over as the bedtime story. It is a memoir of her mother, and of the last summer of her life when her mind was leaving and she was not herself anymore. I liked the picture Madeleine painted of the generations, telling stories from the time of great-great-great grandparents all the way down the line. Two things: life is fleeting, but it still matters.

I would light a candle or open the blinds to bring light into my home; I went for a run through the cul-de-sacs of triple-garaged homes each morning to get fresh air and perspective on the day; I spent one afternoon and evening with Heidi and the kids at their house and had visitors from home two other evenings.

And it was good. Good to have space to pray and think and remember the delight of being in love with God. And it was a reminder that (distracting and messy as they can sometimes be) I need people; I'm thrilled to have them in my life.