I don't set an alarm; I love to be up early but it is especially delightful to wake up to the brightening of the sky and the chattering of the birds instead of the beeping of my alarm clock. I lie in bed and check the sky to see if it is cloudy or clear, and watch the sun bathe the top of Sisi Ridge, across the valley from me. A waterfall rushes down a deep crevice in the steep side of the ridge, directly across from my bedroom windows. The screen door squeaks and thumps shut as Mark heads out to feed the chickens or Monica goes to the cold room to get breakfast makings. Red house finches land on the radio antennae wire that runs in front of my window, cocking their heads at me, still in bed, and flitting away.
I throw off my covers and slide my bare feet to the floor. My running clothes hang on a peg, easy to grab and pull on. I head to the door and pull on my running shoes, lacing them up snug. I throw my hair into a ponytail and am ready to go. Under the clothesline and through the wet grass, through the gate that hangs open, across the plank that bridges the tiny pelton wheel runoff stream, past John's tent in the woods, down a little hill and under low hanging tree branches where the Grosbeaks love to congregate, and then I am in the field. I tromp along the edge, tall plantain seed heads whacking my ankles. The buckwheat is flowering now, and the path is hard packed and barren from horseback riders daily making their way to the barn and back. I think of the seed that is sown along the path, and its small chance of fruitful survival. I reach the corral, usually empty because Bethany has already let the horses into the pasture for their morning feeding. When I reach the corner of the empty barn, my warm-up walk is over and I break into a run. I jog past Bemoo's corral, and she watches me, MOOOOOing impatiently when I go on without feeding her. At the corner of the dirt driveway, I turn onto a little path that cuts through to the road. As I feel the crunch of the gravel, I begin to hit my stride. The air is cool, and there is a barely perceptible breeze that almost gives me goosebumps -- I am not warmed up yet. The sky is so pale it is white, but I can tell it's going to be blue once the sun paints it. The mountains, the trees, are all standing up straight, stretching towards the coming sun. I push to get up the first hill, knowing that once I arrive at the top my legs and lungs will have adjusted to running and be ready for the rest of the journey.
And that's when my mind goes free, too. Sometimes I harness it to quote Scripture, other mornings I just let it be. I sing in my head, pounding the lyrics into my heart as I pound up the road. I pray for my family and my friends and coworkers and whatever comes to mind. I praise God for the day and lay before Him the things on my heart. He speaks to me. In the rush of the river I hear His promise to give peace to those who pursue His ways. In the golden gleam of sun on the clouds I hear his declaration of His own glory and radiance; I remember that He is the true, the only light. In the carefree tumble of a bear cub from a tree trunk I hear his promise to care for the sparrows, and for his own children. As I take the time to listen, He reminds me how temporary are the decisions and responsibilities that sometimes crowd my mind -- how much meat to cook for dinner, which recipes to try, how to speak words of correction or re-direction to my crew. He redirects the affections of my heart, so easily set on self or earthly desires, and fills me with new love for Himself.
I reach High Bridge, tramp across the bridge and back, and run back down the gravel road, reveling in the blueing of the sky and the pumping of healthy legs and heart. By the time I sprint past Bemoo and walk back along the edge of the field, I am warm and wide awake and eager for the day ahead, and for how the Maker of my heart will use me in it.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, April 2, 2012
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:
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(Twila Paris: Could You Believe)
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?
Friday, March 23, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, February 27, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, February 10, 2012
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.
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.
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