For the Beauty of This Day

For the beauty of a bed tucked into a little raised niche, creating something between a bird's perch and a window seat;

for a casement window that swings wide open, removing the barrier between me and the seventy-five degree day;

for sun not yet behind the trees, gently warm spring sun;

for a bee that wandered in and back out again, probably not even aware he had left the great outdoors, sounding exactly like summer;

for the end of a Theo's bar, dark chocolate with sea salt, and a bottle filled with our fresh well water;

for a Bible open on the windowsill, a journal and pen in my hands;

for hunger for fellowship with the Lord, for desire holding sway in my heart and being satisfied.

Lord of all to Thee we raise
This our hymn of grateful praise.

Could You Believe?

My path crossed that of a woman this weekend. I don't really know her; I only met her yesterday. She is separated from her abusive husband. She is hugely pregnant with their fourth child; their youngest turned one only last week. She is moving out of one transitional housing unit into another. I did not know what to say to her, how to connect. I heard myself echoing the Pharisee in Luke 18:11: "God, I thank you that I am not like other men"....not like this woman. I did not marry rashly, cling to a dangerous relationship, find myself dependent on others to provide basic care for my children. 


My instinct is to think maybe I could help this woman, but even that thought betrays my tendency to see myself as savior instead of fellow sheep. Peter reminds me "You -- you -- were like sheep going astray." (I Peter 2:25) Yes, me; I have this in common with all men, with this woman. 


Yet there is a transformation that has taken place in me, and I am no longer like all men. This morning a song was playing over and over in my head as I did the Monday cleaning, washing the sheets where she slept and vacuuming under the table where the children scattered crumbs. It is written from the believer to the searching, from the sheep in the fold to the lost one on the mountainside:

Could you believe if I really was like Him
If I lived all the words that I said
If for a change I would kneel down before you
And serve you instead
Could you believe?

(Twila Paris: Could You Believe)

By Moonlight

Amy Carmichael once wrote, "And only Heaven is better than to walk with Christ at midnight, over moonless seas." She humbles me with her trust, her willingness to walk in the lonely hours of the night, in utter darkness, over the waters.

On a cross country ski trip in a valley tucked into the folds of the rugged North Cascades, I had the privilege of a moonlit ski. The three of us had reached the cabin mid afternoon, and clambered down slippery snow steps to reach the cabin door. Mark built a fire, and we played games and drank tea and chatted and ate dinner. Then the lure of a full moon drew us back out of the cozy cabin, into the cloudless night. We clipped into our skis in the dark, for the moon was shining brightly on the hills across the valley but had not yet risen high enough to illumine Bridge Creek. In the dark, we skied towards the open area just before the bridge, only able to see enough to differentiate between the whiteness of the snow and the blackness of tree trunks. There was no depth perception, and hills and dips in the snow took us by surprise, our skis slipping backwards or carrying us down inclines through no effort of our own. When we reached the clearing, we stopped to take in the glory of the mountains bathed in bright blue-white light across the valley. Above, the stars were clear and distinct (though only the bright ones were visible in the glow of the moon) and two planets blazed above the horizon.

Then we turned our eyes to the ridge behind us, and suddenly, a sliver of white appeared behind the tree-lined hillside. We watched it grow, though it was almost too bright to look at. Shadowy skiers appeared behind us, and then, the whole round moon had slipped from behind the hill and glowed bright above us. It was not a painted circle but a shining sphere, full in every dimension. We skied down to the bridge, intoxicated, and the trail onward beckoned, but we at last turned to head back to the cabin. When we left the clearing, the trees shaded us from the moon's bright light and we were back to skiing by feel, bending our knees and letting the contours of the snow direct us as they would.

We laughed and sometimes wobbled and were breathless with the beauty of the night. Then there was the dark outline of the cabin before us, warm kerosene lamp light shining through the windows. Inside the warmth of the wood stove awaited us. And perhaps, as we make our way, we will one day be counted worthy of skiing at midnight over snow fields not just sans sun, but moonless, too.

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.

A Goodbye Wave

After a full and happy visit with Peter's family, we usually stand on the covered front porch as they load into their van, get all the legs and arms and buckles and blankets in the right place, and slide their doors shut. Then we wave goodbye as they drive along the front of the house, not turning back to the warmth of the house until we see taillights. Sometimes, especially this time of year when the air is sharp and woodfire warmth beckons from the other side of the door, I wait to come out until the car is loaded so I can just give a quick wave and scurry back inside. Or I open the door a crack and bid farewell from inside.

But recently, Peter and company have been visiting on Sunday evenings. I leave at 6:00 to go to youth group on Sundays, slipping out in the midst of getting supper on the table, changing diapers, picking up toys, and story telling. I call a farewell to the busy, happy group and head to the laundry room to slip on shoes and get my keys. Peter comes running down the hall, arriving in the laundry room with open arms. "Kisses and hugs!" he reminds me, a twinkle in his eye as if he is delighted to have remembered something I forgot. We share a kiss and a hug, and then Peter runs back through the living room to the front door. "Let's wave to Aunt Jewey!" he calls into the hubbub, but his call goes mostly unheard. 

When I get out to my car, coat zipped up to my chin against the chill, Peter is standing in stocking feet on the edge of the porch, hand cocked in readiness for a wave. "See ya, Peter!" "See you, Aunt Jewey!" we call to each other. He watches, waits, as I turn my car around, and then both hands come up for an eager double wave as I drive in front of the porch. I can't see when he goes inside; he waits on the porch until I am out of sight.