Let the Rain Kiss You

I'm loving the sound of the late night rain. Sometimes I'm tempted to be tired of the rain, but it really is beautiful and I might as well let it kiss me since it's here! So, I go out running in it, and tomorrow I'm going for a hike with a friend, rain or no, and I throw open my window each night to listen to the drips and songs of a wet night.

I spent this evening with Mary and some other dear Larsons. Mary and I went for a walk on a trail near her house (in the woods, beautiful with spring green and little spring blossoms) and then made dinner at her house together with Sally. While we worked, Sally was composing a grocery list to text to her mother. Mary and Sally competently went through pantry and fridge, thought of what they would need for their upcoming road trip, and sent a list off to their mother. I smiled as I mused on my mother's carefully planned biweekly shopping trips -- she and Aunt Shar are sisters, friends, and keepers of lovely homes, but with very different methods as housewives! We made delicious black bean and chicken soup, which we enjoyed in style with candles, a pitcher of lemon water, and condiments in coordinating serving bowls. Then we played Speed Scrabble, drank Bengal Spice tea, and ate Theo's mint chocolate. We also laughed a lot, and told stories of our days, and shared our plans for the future. Mary is working as a nanny this summer, and I'm about to begin a job working with children too, so we compared notes. Luke arrived home from a sailing trip while we were arranging words with our Scrabble tiles ("hale" and "available" and "jaunty bovine"). We chatted with him while he ate dinner at the bar and unpacked from his trip. Then Uncle Bill and Aunt Shar returned home; they joined the quiet bustle and there was much puttering going on about the house and garage. Us four girls gathered in the bay nook and chatted for a bit; Mary was looking droopy, so we sent her to bed to rest up for her early and busy day of nannying tomorrow. I lingered with Aunt Shar and then said my goodbyes. Luke walked through the rain with me to load Mom's crockpot into my car (Aunt Shar had borrowed it). I like being family with these folks.

Last night I was looking for something in my Box (of old school papers, letters, and much more) and found a letter I had written to Aunt Shar on a page from a tablet of paper she had designed for me.

"Dear Anut Shar," said my seven-year-old self.
"I must say that I like this paper. This is the first time I've used it, I forgot all about it.
I think your a great Anut. What is going on down there? Is it still snowing?
The signs of spring are slolwy coming. Birds, flowers, showers + spring grass.
We will always be friends. Won't we?
Love in Christ, Julie"

Yes, I think we will.

One Moment

It's a moment in my life when all my to-do lists keep reproducing with endless details. Not hard things; not too many things to accomplish in the allotted time; just always more responsibilities, decisions, projects, phone calls, e-mails. Some days I am motivated, and able to work towards the goal; today I just wanted to cross everything off the lists and empty my e-mail inbox and take a break, but the truth is that the list is never totally done (which is probably a good thing, indicating that I am still alive).

I'm glad for the things that fill my days -- preparing for five days of fun and planting seeds of truth into all the children at VBS; making gifts and cards for birthdays, graduations, and Father's Day; trips (the latest one to Texas to help my brother and sister-in-law move into their new apartment); playing the piano at church; writing e-mails to friends; tying up loose ends before moving to Germany for seven months; hosting the youth group at our home for the last meeting of the year; providing childcare for a church event for young families; finishing a quilt. But so often I don't enjoy doing them because hoards of other duties are breathing down my neck, making me feel that time is short and the most important thing is Getting Things Done.

When really, the most important thing is Giving God Glory. And that may have very little to do with how many check marks are on my list.

Tonight, after spending the evening with a group of children, I had One Moment of breakthrough. I love the freedom of a child at play, and perhaps their joy colored my outlook. My own Peter was one of the children, and his sweet love for me can't help but lift my spirits. (He came up to me as the evening was coming to an end and referred to a silly joke I started with him months earlier; then when I scooped him up in my arms he said, "No go home, Aunt Jew-ey. Stay here!" When I asked him, "Are you staying here? Aren't you going home?" he just responded with a long, tight hug.) Then on the way home, there was quiet. I was alone in my car and the stereo was off, but the quiet began in my heart. The sky was pink with the glory of the setting sun, and for a moment I thought, "I wish I was on a long road trip so I could enjoy this beauty, this solitude; so I could sink into it and really make the most of it."

But I caught myself. Instead of wishing for something else, for more or different or next, I could enjoy the One Moment I was living in. I could be sad that I was driving east and the sunset was behind me -- or I could be thankful for a rearview mirror-ful of glowing pink. I could wish for the enforced stillness of a long drive -- or I could relish the quiet solitude on the familiar, beautiful route to my home. I could wish everything on my list were crossed off -- or I could do the next thing, the One next thing, with joy.

Foggy Morning

It's a foggy morning on our Fall City hill, and I like the way it seems to blanket our house, cozy and quiet. Soon I will head out to spend the day downtown with Heidi (and co.): first, a trip back to the bakery for the first time since my last day of work; second, lunch with Jana (including an introduction to Jonas!). I look forward to going back and seeing many familiar and dear faces again.

Yesterday was cooking and quilting day; the weekend holds music practice and a wedding; then Sunday is a travel day. Since the beginning of April, I've visited Thetis Island, Balingen/Germany, and Stehekin; next on the agenda is Waco, TX where Mom and I will visit with Jeff and Melissa and help them move into their new apartment. I love the richness and the freedom of this little season of my life. The amazing fellowship both at home and on each of my trips fills me up with inspiration and encouragement and joy; there is ample opportunity for creativity of many varieties; I have been running regularly (with Mom, which is very companionable) for the first time in ages; I have tasks enough to keep me productive, and free time enough to let me be spontaneous. I am enjoying every moment here and also looking forward to my next adventure:

Being a nanny in Germany for six months. I love little children, and Germany is becoming more and more familiar and beloved. It's definitely a job and a family God has led me to, and I am eager to meet them and enter into life in that home.

I Sing for Joy

This morning when I read the Word, I felt too comfortable. The well-worn routine of opening the blue leather covers of my Bible, delicate leaves slipping between my fingers, and turning to words made familiar by years of reading and hearing seemed more like a rut than a life-giving action.

So after I read a Psalm, I slipped to the floor, to my knees, and asked God to make the Word alive in me. I searched for something specific in the words I had just read, something I could ask God to do in me, something practical. The verse that I landed on was Psalm 92:4: "I sing for joy at the works of your hands." I asked God to show me His works throughout the day before me, and to enable me to sing for joy, cultivating a grateful heart instead of a complaining heart, or one that was too caught up in the details of tomorrow to enjoy today.

And now, as the day draws to a close, I can say I was not disappointed. My heart has been singing today -- for many beautiful works of the Lord, large and small. My favorite one is this:

This cold spring morning, in a lull between rain showers, Mom and I went out for a run in the woods. The living garment of green worn by the forest at this time of year is a glorious work of God's hands, and it would have been hard not to sing for joy in the midst of such vibrancy, encroaching to the very stones we ran on. As Mom and I drew in lungfuls of sharp, fresh air and feasted our eyes on the verdant green, we prayed aloud together. And suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the songs of joy dancing in my heart for the beauty of the woods and of the morning, for a dose of health and strength for both Mom and me so we could run side by side, and most especially for God's gracious work of a sweet and holy and intimate relationship with a fellow sojourner along God's Way, my own mother.

"It is good to praise the Lord and make music to your name, O Most High, to proclaim your love in the morning and your faithfulness at night. For you make me glad by your deeds, O Lord; I sing for joy at the works of your hands. How great are your works, O Lord, how profound your thoughts!"

Germany

I don't know how to put into words the gift of the time I spent in Germany with my dear friends Melanie, Bernhard, and Joshua Hausser.
























So, for now, a few photos will have to suffice. Perhaps I will yet receive an inspiration, but I'm afraid that once I started writing about all of our conversations and delicious Swabian meals and adventures hither and yon I might never quit. Their fellowship is sweet and their friendship is a true gift!

Thetis Island

Tucked into the salty, wide waters between Vancouver Island and British Columbia are many evergreen-covered humps, some of which are big enough to be called islands, and others which are only homes for seals. One of these is the home of a dear community much like the one I so enjoyed at Bodenseehof seven years ago. Capernwray Harbour is a spread of grassy fields and white buildings across the middle of a bay on Thetis Island, right next to the ferry dock. I spent four days there visiting Mary and pretending to be a Bible school student. Mary is a dear friend and hostess, and we had cups of tea and cozy chats. One afternoon she had to work on her study project and I needed a nap, but we studied and slept together; one morning I joined her at 6:00AM for running club and she ran ahead, but we shared the fresh, quiet dawn of Tuesday morning.

I was known everywhere as Mary's cousin and greeted warmly by students and staff. I dove into deep conversations with strangers who didn't seem very strange, and was welcomed into jokes like a member of the family. I worked with Mary on work day, raking and lugging branches from a recent windstorm off of the school's two initiative courses. I went to Mary's Tuesday night babysitting job with her to take care of Silas, an 18-month-old, while his parents were at the weekly staff meeting. I greeted Luke when he arrived on his surprise visit, and the three of us climbed High Point and walked home on the beach, even though it was a gray and drizzly day (and sometimes downright rainy and stormy!). The dining room was a clattery and jovial meeting place three times a day, and we ate delicious home-style cooking: carrot-ginger soup, homemade granola, meatloaf from Capernwray Harbour cows, fresh bread. In the lecture hall I gathered with the students to hear honest and humble testimonies of God's faithfulness (one morning from a staff member, and another day from a student), and to take in the Word as prepared by the two lecturers of the week: Charlie Fordham on the Sermon on the Mount and Greg Miller on I & II Peter.

I left in the sunshine on the ferry with a full cup and much gratitude for the chance to live in this community for a few days. I am also encouraged to extend myself for others, to let this kind of fellowship be part of my daily life.

And, if you want to see how idyllic it really is, here are a few photos!

Wet

"You look like you just came in off a fishing boat," Christian greeted me when I came in to work on Monday morning. Drew seconded his comment. "Yeah, what happened to your hair?"

You really want to know?

Well, once upon a blustery March Monday morning, I locked Rosie in her kennel and shut the garage door and headed down the driveway, windshield wipers staging a formidable defense against the sheets of water cascading down from the dark sky. Large branches cluttered the road from the night's storm, and the wind still hadn't died down. I was glad I had, at the last minute, changed from my fleece jacket to my heavier wind-and-rain resistant coat.

It was my last Monday to head to work at Le Panier, and perhaps I was thinking about that, or praying for my family vacationing in California. I'm not sure; when my windshield wipers tangled into a screeching knot, skidding across my windshield, all other thoughts were terminated. Putting the wipers into the "off" position was a reflex; what did not come so easily was determining what to do next. I could not keep driving without windshield wipers. I was on the Preston-Fall City Road, which has no shoulder to pull off on and which, at 5:35 in the morning, is very dark. I knew the green bridge turn off was just around the corner, and there was no one behind me, so I was able to slowly make my way to the green bridge and pull off on the side of the road.

First Thankful: Besides having a scrap of shoulder for my bedraggled car, the green bridge location also boasted a street light. This was very handy for my next task, which was untangling the offending wipers. I had to apply a bit of force, as they were crossed in a most unnatural way, and when they were finally separate, I saw that one wiper blade was all but unattached from the arm. Bear in mind that I saw all this through blinding rain, which was either being driven into my eyes or my backside by a ferocious wind, depending on which side of the car I was standing on.

So, I finally achieved the goal of separating the wipers from each other and the loose parts from the car. I was left with one apparently functioning wiper and one bear wiper arm with a hook on the end. I opened the car door to put in the key and see how this set up would would work. One flick of the wiper switch showed me that it would not work very well at all. The hooked arm skittered over the windshield and grabbed onto the working wiper, resulting in a shuddering tangle. Back out in the rain, I once again separated the wipers. Then I got back in the car to think.

I could not drive like this. Maybe if it was light rain, or if there was daylight. But not in a downpour in the dark. I needed to get to work. I prayed for wisdom and provision. Then I thought of the Grigases and the Millers, two families from church who lived (Second Thankful) just around the corner from where I sat in my crippled car. Could Glenn or Larry help me fix my wipers, or could they loan me a car, or would they have another creative idea? Perhaps, and I knew they would both be very happy to help me . . . but it was 5:40 in the morning.

I considered the facts again, and perhaps a third time. Then I decided to inch down the road and drive past their houses to see if any lights were on. The Grigas home had a porch light on, but the interior was midnight black. The Miller home had a light on in the entryway, and perhaps a sliver of light coming from a room in the second story.

No, I couldn't do it. I circled around the cul-de-sac and parked under a street light so I could get out (in the torrent) and examine the situation again. Further examination yielded no new information. But I couldn't knock on the door. I picked up my cell phone and thought about texting Dad. Maybe he was even awake. But what could he do from down in California?

I drove down to the end of the street where the Millers lived again, past their house, turned around, past their house again . . . and I turned into the driveway. (If this had been a true crime-watch neighborhood, someone would surely have reported very suspicious behavior by now.) I drove up to the garage. I turned off the car. I got out into the rain and pulled my hood up once again against the downpour. I climbed the steps to the front door and stood in the shelter of the roof, thinking about the body of Christ.

What does it mean to be brothers and sisters, to bear one another's burdens, to love one another? I know the true church is not limited to Sunday mornings or office hours, to holding hymnbooks together or passing the offering plate nicely. We are supposed to be a family. And I also know that sometimes it is easier to give than to receive. I like to be self-sufficient; it is hard to be humble and acknowledge need. I prayed and pondered on the porch, then reached for the doorbell. I held my finger over the orange glow, arrested by one last image of the quiet, unsuspecting family sleeping within. Then, with the word "receive" pulsing in my brain, I pushed the button.

A chorus of barks sailed into the silent morning, and I waited on the porch, finding suddenly that I was fighting back tears. The eyes of Larry Miller appeared in the window at the top of the door, large and curious and alarmed. By the time he opened the door, his face had returned to normal and he greeted me kindly. "Why, you're here early this morning, Julie!" (But, Third Thankful: he was dressed and obviously had already been up.) I tried to explain my predicament, but found myself with lips stiff from the cold and emotion rising high, and wondering what exactly I thought Larry could do about it all anyway. He apparently extracted some meaning from my gestures, bedraggled appearance, and tangle of words, and went to get a coat. Meanwhile, his daughter Jana tumbled down the stairs with sleepy hair and pajamas. "What's happening? What's happening?" she asked.

"It's okay, Jana," I said, wondering if I believed myself. "I just had some trouble with my windshield wipers."

"Oh. Well, I needed to be up anyway!" she said. Larry was ready with his coat; we entered the deluge, pulling up our hoods. Larry examined the wiper blade I had removed and agreed with me that a piece was missing, and then he had an idea. "As a quick fix, let's try just pulling this arm straight out from the windshield," he said. So I got in the car to turn on the wipers and see how it worked. It seemed to be alright.

"Do you think it will stay up?" I asked. He thought it would be okay. So I thanked him, not profusely enough, and turned my little car around, letting a few tears fall now. Fourth Thankful: a lesson on humility. Fifth Thankful: the working wiper was on the driver's side. My bus had already left the park and ride, with me still twenty minutes away, so I headed straight for the Seattle. My strangely dancing wipers did fine; the naked, hooked arm remained extended, away from the dutifully swishing wiper. I was so glad to park the car and battle the wind and finally arrive at the welcoming, familiar bakery. With the teasing, caring comments from Christian and Drew and the cozy warmth radiating from the busy ovens, the uncertainty and fear faded and the whole thing became a good story. (Though it was a few more hours before my underwear dried out.)

However, I realized midway through the morning that while I may have achieved the immediate goal of getting to work, I was not yet finished with the problem. So after a long day at work and a few errands (yarrow flowers for Heidi, soap and note pads for hostess gifts, city hall errand for Dad), I stopped at O'Reilly Auto Parts, where I had (only two weeks ago) purchased new wiper blades. I took my disconnected blade into the shop to see if it would be possible to exchange it. Sixth Thankful: the salesman I talked to came out (just as it started to pelt down huge drops again) and looked at my car. He said the wiper blade was actually not damaged, but when he looked at the arm, he found that it was loose. He didn't know if it just needed to be tightened or if there was a more substantial problem, and he recommended taking my car in to the shop.

So I mused about this on my way to Fall City, all of my musings of course mixed with prayer, when it dawned on me: my auto repair shop is in Fall City, and I would be arriving there about 5:00, which I figured was probably half an hour before closing. I could stop and at least find out what was necessary. I found a place to park at Model Garage and went in, waiting in line behind a woman talking about smoke billowing into her car from the engine compartment. Dennis came out and asked how he could help me. I explained my problem, and he said, "Where's it at? Let's take a look at it." I had parked in front of one of the garage doors, which proved to be very handy when it started pouring down buckets of rain just as we reached the car. "Let's pull it inside!" Dennis suggested, raising the door and motioning me in. I had long since given up any idea of looking like anything other than a drowned rat, but it was more comfortable in the garage. With a few jovial comments and an easy touch, Dennis found the right wrench, tightened the arm, and snapped the blade into place. I tested the wipers and found their systematic dance to be wonderfully beautiful and graceful. Seventh Thankful: "You're set to go!" Dennis said. I thanked him dearly, and backed out into the drenching rain.

The library was my last stop; I returned a book there and just as I was diving back into my seat to escape the driving wetness, my phone rang. It was mama, wondering if perhaps I was eating dinner (wouldn't that be nice!) or if maybe I could chat. So, although I had been taking delight all day in composing the written version of the story (since there would be no one at home to listen to the tale), of course I poured it all out to her eager ears.

Once at home, I took care of the egg- and dog-gathering and entered my castle for the night. I built a huge and roaring fire, raced around putting away everything from the day, put the towels in the dryer, started rice, answered Larry's phone call to see how my wipers were doing, showered and layered flannel pajamas, cozy robe, and fluffy slippers on my chilled bones, stir-fried veggies, piled a plate with rice, veggies, and peanut sauce, and settled in front of the ferocious fire to watch "Miss Potter" while I ate dinner. Then, savoring the sense of safeness, at home in front of the fire, I wrote in my journal to my dear Father, making note of his great faithfulness in case I should ever need such a reminder for another rainy day.