Last night we saw the first fireflies of the season. Joy!
My firefly memories go back to age 4, living for one year in the suburbs of Philadelphia. The fireflies were plentiful in our yard, magical to a little girl. They danced in the shadows under the lilac bush and fruit trees, then emerged for a glowlight party as darkness deepened across the lawn. So many! If you lost sight of one, another would light up right beside you. I caught them in my hands, running barefoot across the lawn in my nightgown just before bedtime. My sister and I kept those magical creatures in jars beside our beds, natural nightlights. I was so disappointed that they were all dead by morning.
Then we moved to Wisconsin, where I saw an occasional firefly but rarely more than one or two at once. Being sparse and harder to catch, each individual firefly was charged with more magic and mystery, more like the mythical will-o-the-wisps that lured travelers astray than like the thronging multitude of my Philly memories. The older I grew, the more my memories seemed unreal, impossible. Could there really have been as many fireflies as I imagined? Could I really have caught those elusive insects myself at that young age?
My husband and I moved to New Jersey as young professionals. That first June, when the fireflies came out, I knew it was true: they really did exist in the grand galaxies I remembered as a little girl. They really were easy enough to catch that even a four year old can gather a constellation of her own. When I told my mother about the fireflies, she said she always thought God made them just for children: amazing to see and slow enough to catch. I agree with her.
These days, I find great joy in sharing fireflies with my children. I love how excited they get, like last night, when we see the first one. I love how excited they will get later when I let them stay up late and catch fireflies. I remember last year, Huckle running across the lawn, yelling, "There's another! I've got it! Mom, I've got 14 fireflies now!" And Sally busily and quietly tracking her own jarful in competition with her brother.
I love the science built into the firefly's light. I love that the firefly's light is the most efficient light known: 100%
of its energy is turned to light, rather than being lost as heat, as in our
manufactured bulbs. We have yet to learn how to make something already nearly perfect in nature. I love that the chemicals taste terrible, so the conspicuousness of the firefly also protects it. And I love that, as a scientist, I had the honor of using those chemicals (the enzyme luciferase) to track gene expression under the microscope. The only things cooler than cells are glowing cells!
I also love the peace of fireflies once my little chasers are in bed. I look out the window and see the flickering lights in the silence of the night. Fireflies are the Christmas lights of summertime, the fairy lights that decorate our patio and yard. They are the lowest and warmest level of the night sky: belong the stars with their awe-inspiring height and the moon with its benevolent glow are the friendly fireflies, right here among us.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Day 15: Thunderstorms
Thunderstorms might terrify Sally, but they make me feel cozy. That distant rumble, the pelleting rain on the roof, it brings me joy. I often assumed this was because I was safely indoors, but this weekend I found joy in a thunderstorm during our camping trip. We were outdoors, though granted we were under a big tarp. So I'm sure a feeling of safety still factors into my thunderstorm joy.
But another joy of being outdoors in a thunderstorm is seeing its power. You hear the thunder unmuffled by walls and roofs; you are right there with it. You see the lightning and can track the storm across the sky as different portions of the sky light up.
And Sally gets cuddly when it thunders. That brings me joy too. I feel as powerful as lightning and as safe as a house when my daughter seeks protection in my arms.
But another joy of being outdoors in a thunderstorm is seeing its power. You hear the thunder unmuffled by walls and roofs; you are right there with it. You see the lightning and can track the storm across the sky as different portions of the sky light up.
And Sally gets cuddly when it thunders. That brings me joy too. I feel as powerful as lightning and as safe as a house when my daughter seeks protection in my arms.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Day 14: Opportunities to Learn
As soon as Husband left the house with Huckle and Sally at 7:45 this morning, I sat down on the couch with a mug of tea and my Bible study. I can't begin to tell you how much joy that gives me.
I'll share:
The expression "the apple of my eye" is well known. When I hear it, I imagine a father doting on his little girl who is all dressed up in a frilly, flouncy, ribbony dress. She's twirling or dancing on the lawn, confident in her Daddy's adoring love. He's standing there with his arms crossed, thinking, "That's my girl!"
What I didn't realize is that this expression comes from the Bible.
- The peace and quiet after the hustle of kid waking, cereal pouring, fruit cutting, hair brushing, shirt buttoning, backpack packing, lunch making, bicker halting, kid rushing
- The comfort of the couch, my fuzzy robe and slippers
- The atmosphere set by a sleepy cat beside me (napping already!), no sounds except a ticking clock and the house wren guarding its nest outside our patio door.
- The terrific Bible study that I look forward to each morning.
I'll share:
The expression "the apple of my eye" is well known. When I hear it, I imagine a father doting on his little girl who is all dressed up in a frilly, flouncy, ribbony dress. She's twirling or dancing on the lawn, confident in her Daddy's adoring love. He's standing there with his arms crossed, thinking, "That's my girl!"
What I didn't realize is that this expression comes from the Bible.
- Deuteronomy 32:10, Moses' song, after giving the law to the people (which forms them into a nation), reminds them that God watched over Jacob [figurative for the Israelites] in the desert and "guarded him as the apple of his eye"
- Psalm 17:8, the Psalmist pleads with God to hear his prayer and protect him from enemies; he pleads that God would "Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings from the wicked who assail me"
- Zechariah 2:8, An angel tells the exiled people of Israel that God will punish the nations who plundered them "for whoever touches you touches the apple of his eye"
- The image is not of God's love for us (though he loves us dearly!) or of us as cute children that Daddy pets and pampers. Rather, the image is of us as a working and important part of God. This ties into the New Testament image of the church as the body of Christ. God sees us as that close to Him, that essential to Him! As God's eye, does this mean He uses us to see His world, to interact with it and perhaps color his impressions of it? Does he use us in that important of a role? If so, it's shocking and intimidating -- it changes how I need to view the world. I need Him to cover me with a contact lens that helps me see the world through His love and grace!
- Also, all these verses are about protecting and guarding. The pupil of the eye is not only essential but delicate. It needs to be preserved to allow vision. Also, the pupil cannot be injured without its owner being fully aware or without its owner being seriously impacted. Likewise, God is fully aware of anything injurious to us. And He is impacted by our troubles. Do you see the difference? He's not the daddy proud of his little girl but perhaps distracted from watching her by a phone call or his own needs. Imagine that she gets stung by a bee: no matter how much her daddy sympathizes, he doesn't actually feel her pain. If we are the pupil of God's eye, He is not turned away from us by a distraction -- we are always in His vision. And He doesn't just sympathize with our pain -- He feels our pain.
Day 13: A Full Life
I'm falling behind in my posts, but I will not be anxious about this. I already see the value of my "100-days" experiment: I am purposefully seeking the joy in my day, every day. I see something in the yard or think something as I drive and say to myself, "Yes! This brings me joy!" The only missing step is recording my joys on e-paper (ie, this blog).
This morning, I am thankful for the fullness of life that often prevents me from sitting at my computer. I am grateful that right now I must type for all I'm worth rather than carefully consider each word -- that's one of the smaller values of my 100-days experiment. I look at my to-do list, scribbled on an envelope and pouring onto its backside with nothing yet crossed off, and I realize that my list is a list of joys, not a source of anxiety.
Examples from today's to-do list:
Finish the poster showing all the fourth grader's spring service projects. What a joy that these 14 children each found a way to serve their God and community. As I tape their photos and written descriptions of their projects to the poster board, I see their personalities in their choices of projects and their words describing the experience. What a joy that my children attend a school that encourages them to engage in the world in a way that furthers the Kingdom of God!
Pack for camping trip. This seems like a daunting chore, since it involves armloads of gear in the basement, clothing in the bedrooms, food from the grocery store, and -- oddly enough -- I can't even remember the name of this year's campground destination, so I need to figure out where we're going! But, despite the work of packing, camping is a joy. Our family loves campfires and hiking and cooking with a Coleman stove. We love this long-standing tradition of camping over Memorial Day weekend with this group of neighborhood friends. It is a joy to catch up with them and spend a leisurely weekend with them.
Pick up our farm-share early. We have belonged to a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farm since Sally was a baby. Every Saturday from May until November, we go to the CSA to pick up our fresh veggies. Some are waiting at the farmstand, others must be picked in the fields. Some weeks, it's a big job that takes more than an hour. But we love so many things about our farmshare. We love visiting the farm. We love that the kids see their food source and are actively involved in gathering dinner ingredients. When Sally was little, she would plunk herself down among the rows of green beans, barely visible through the leaves, and eat a whole meal's worth of legumes -- it gives me joy to imagine all those greenie little vitamins finding their way into my picky eater! We love the farm as a family activity; and Husband and I enjoy the challenge of finding uses for kale and collards and bok choy. We have amassed all sorts of favorite recipes for cooking veggies that we didn't even know existed when we were children. The farmshare has also taught me the joys of fresh flowers. By August, we have vases of cosmos and snapdragons and many flowers I can't even name, all lovely and colorful and day-brightening.
This morning, I am thankful for the fullness of life that often prevents me from sitting at my computer. I am grateful that right now I must type for all I'm worth rather than carefully consider each word -- that's one of the smaller values of my 100-days experiment. I look at my to-do list, scribbled on an envelope and pouring onto its backside with nothing yet crossed off, and I realize that my list is a list of joys, not a source of anxiety.
Examples from today's to-do list:
Finish the poster showing all the fourth grader's spring service projects. What a joy that these 14 children each found a way to serve their God and community. As I tape their photos and written descriptions of their projects to the poster board, I see their personalities in their choices of projects and their words describing the experience. What a joy that my children attend a school that encourages them to engage in the world in a way that furthers the Kingdom of God!
Pack for camping trip. This seems like a daunting chore, since it involves armloads of gear in the basement, clothing in the bedrooms, food from the grocery store, and -- oddly enough -- I can't even remember the name of this year's campground destination, so I need to figure out where we're going! But, despite the work of packing, camping is a joy. Our family loves campfires and hiking and cooking with a Coleman stove. We love this long-standing tradition of camping over Memorial Day weekend with this group of neighborhood friends. It is a joy to catch up with them and spend a leisurely weekend with them.
Pick up our farm-share early. We have belonged to a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) farm since Sally was a baby. Every Saturday from May until November, we go to the CSA to pick up our fresh veggies. Some are waiting at the farmstand, others must be picked in the fields. Some weeks, it's a big job that takes more than an hour. But we love so many things about our farmshare. We love visiting the farm. We love that the kids see their food source and are actively involved in gathering dinner ingredients. When Sally was little, she would plunk herself down among the rows of green beans, barely visible through the leaves, and eat a whole meal's worth of legumes -- it gives me joy to imagine all those greenie little vitamins finding their way into my picky eater! We love the farm as a family activity; and Husband and I enjoy the challenge of finding uses for kale and collards and bok choy. We have amassed all sorts of favorite recipes for cooking veggies that we didn't even know existed when we were children. The farmshare has also taught me the joys of fresh flowers. By August, we have vases of cosmos and snapdragons and many flowers I can't even name, all lovely and colorful and day-brightening.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Day 12: Psalms
Long before iPhone's "there's an app for that" slogan, there were the Psalms. And, believe me, there's a Psalm for that, "that" being just about any human condition. The Psalms are amazing because they show God's acknowledgement and approval of the whole range of human emotion. The Psalms are about us reacting to God, to His attributes and His actions. Through them, we can learn about Him, worship Him, or cry out to Him in all our humanness.
If you read straight through the Psalms, you could find a Psalm that expresses any human emotion and feeling. In facing trials, they range from assured hope to deadly despair. Joy comes in more than 31 flavors: from the raw, ecstatic joy -- that reminds me of David dancing like a madman when the Ark of the Covenant was returned to Jerusalem -- to a hopeful, peaceful joy. Even limiting yourself to the letter "A", you'll find anger, awe, anxiety, apathy, anticipation, and anguish all described in the Psalms.
Awe:
"For the Lord is the great God, the great Kind above all gods. In his hand are the depths of the earth, and the mountain peaks belong to him." (95:3-4)
"The Lord reigns, let the nations tremble; he sits enthroned between the cherubim, let the earth shake." (99:1)
Anticipation:
"come quickly to me, O God. You are my help and my deliverer; O Lord, do not delay." (70:5).
"My soul yearns, even faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God (84:2)
Anguish: "Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I call to you all day long." (86:3)
But reading through the Psalms to see the range of emotion misses something important. The Psalms are full of hidden treasure revealed only an "as needed" basis: the same way manna was given long ago; the same way grace is given today; the same way the birthday presents and "just because" presents hidden in my closet are given to two certain children. You can read a Psalm of anguish many times; but when you are in anguish, the extra treasure is opened to you. If you feel bitterness or shame, the Psalms expressing these feelings suddenly jump out at you, giving words to your base emotions, helping you express yourself to God. The meaning is revealed and the heartfelt emotion resonates between you and the Psalmist to the glory of God and to the comfort of you. The Psalms can be STAT care for the hurting heart, emotional ER.
When you feel God's protective hand upon you, a Psalm can express your joy and gratitude in ways that lift your heart to soaring glory. They can be the box of confetti to throw at your homecoming party, the fireworks to celebrate His faithfulness, the morning prayer when you hear the spring song of birds and feel the quiet joy of a new day.
No matter what emotions are expressed, the Psalms almost always return to quiet assurance and praising God. And that's a beautiful reminder that our human emotions are God pleasing but that our call is to faith and worship.
If you read straight through the Psalms, you could find a Psalm that expresses any human emotion and feeling. In facing trials, they range from assured hope to deadly despair. Joy comes in more than 31 flavors: from the raw, ecstatic joy -- that reminds me of David dancing like a madman when the Ark of the Covenant was returned to Jerusalem -- to a hopeful, peaceful joy. Even limiting yourself to the letter "A", you'll find anger, awe, anxiety, apathy, anticipation, and anguish all described in the Psalms.
Awe:
"For the Lord is the great God, the great Kind above all gods. In his hand are the depths of the earth, and the mountain peaks belong to him." (95:3-4)
"The Lord reigns, let the nations tremble; he sits enthroned between the cherubim, let the earth shake." (99:1)
Anticipation:
"come quickly to me, O God. You are my help and my deliverer; O Lord, do not delay." (70:5).
"My soul yearns, even faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God (84:2)
Anguish: "Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I call to you all day long." (86:3)
But reading through the Psalms to see the range of emotion misses something important. The Psalms are full of hidden treasure revealed only an "as needed" basis: the same way manna was given long ago; the same way grace is given today; the same way the birthday presents and "just because" presents hidden in my closet are given to two certain children. You can read a Psalm of anguish many times; but when you are in anguish, the extra treasure is opened to you. If you feel bitterness or shame, the Psalms expressing these feelings suddenly jump out at you, giving words to your base emotions, helping you express yourself to God. The meaning is revealed and the heartfelt emotion resonates between you and the Psalmist to the glory of God and to the comfort of you. The Psalms can be STAT care for the hurting heart, emotional ER.
When you feel God's protective hand upon you, a Psalm can express your joy and gratitude in ways that lift your heart to soaring glory. They can be the box of confetti to throw at your homecoming party, the fireworks to celebrate His faithfulness, the morning prayer when you hear the spring song of birds and feel the quiet joy of a new day.
No matter what emotions are expressed, the Psalms almost always return to quiet assurance and praising God. And that's a beautiful reminder that our human emotions are God pleasing but that our call is to faith and worship.
Day 11: Wedding Weather
The couple who moved to our street several months ago were married yesterday in their backyard. I've never met these people, but I love a wedding. My guilty pleasure -- when Husband is out-of-town and the house grows too quiet at night -- is wedding reality shows, in which soon-to-be brides "say yes to the dress" or receive assistance from a professional wedding planner to turn their half-baked ideas into something more tasteful.
So, though we joked with other neighbors about jointly turning on our chainsaws at 5pm or allowing the children to try out water balloon launchers, the whole neighborhood was hushed and still at 5pm. A wedding feels sacred, even when it's not in a church or officiated by a minister, even when you don't know the bride and groom. It's a vow-of-a-lifetime, a commitment of great worth to be entered with serious conviction.
The weather was perfect yesterday at 5pm, I realized with satisfaction. I wanted these not-yet-known neighbors to have a beautiful start to their married life. And 76 degrees with bright sunshine is just about as perfect as you can find around here. The rhododendrums and irises were in resplendent bloom, and the grass was lush and thick. Wedding weather.
I was reminded of my own wedding weather. A naive 22-year-old, I planned our reception outdoors in the middle of August. Oh, I knew how hot and humid and buggy mid-August could be, but the romantic in me, planning the wedding during a cold, dark Michigan winter, pictured the ideal summer day, with clean, happy children blowing bubbles in the grass, a string quartet playing beside the punch bowl, me in my white dress standing beside my handsome groom and surrounded by the people we love. The backdrop, so essential that I took it for granted, was a sunny summer day, not too hot and not too cold.
As the day came closer, I realized just how rare these perfect days were. The real possibilities of rain and mosquitoes and a wedding dress drenched in sweat kept me awake at night. I reserved the dark basement of the chapel as a back-up reception area, but the place depressed me. A dismal basement without natural light did not fit my dreamy picture of a wedding reception, that once-in-a-lifetime party. And so I prayed, sheepishly, for wedding weather. The God I serve is majestic and holy; I felt frivolous asking Him for a special favor. At the time, I did not see myself as the King's daughter who could approach her Daddy's throne for anything, even a stick of candy. And so I pleaded with Him with a sense of shame at my selfishness. I thought about farmers in need of rain and starving children in Africa and all the world of bigger, more important requests. Feeling I had already sunk low in making with my selfishness, I decided I might as well stoop even lower. "Dear God," I prayed. "I'll make a bargain with You: if You will give me perfect wedding weather on August 14 just this once, I PROMISE I will never again make a weather-related prayer request." I knew God could do it, but I felt bad asking.
The weather on August 14 was perfect. It was sunny and warm. Not too warm. Not too humid. Not mosquito-filled. Our wedding reception was held outdoors on a perfect green lawn with a string quartet and little sisters and cousins blowing bubbles. The cake didn't melt. Neither did the bride. And she was more aware than ever of an answered prayer and perfect wedding weather.
As far as I can recall, I have kept my promise to never again pray for good weather. When I wonder if the weather will be agreeable for a beach trip or vacation, I return in gratitude to my wedding weather prayer and am again reminded of answered prayers. I see that God could use that answer to teach me that He is powerful enough to control the weather, yet gentle enough to care about the little things. His domain is over all.
Although I have been grateful for this wedding gift for 18 years, I know it wasn't God's biggest gift that day: I was blessed by the presence of people who surrounded us in love; I was blessed by my choice in Husband. I recognize that this choice was more the result of God's goodness and grace than of my good decision-making skills: I was as naive about the possibility of stormy marriages as I was about stormy wedding days. But God has blessed my marriage. It hasn't been all sunny days, but it has been many sunny days and the strength of endurance through the stormy ones. His providence covers that too. Joy!
So, though we joked with other neighbors about jointly turning on our chainsaws at 5pm or allowing the children to try out water balloon launchers, the whole neighborhood was hushed and still at 5pm. A wedding feels sacred, even when it's not in a church or officiated by a minister, even when you don't know the bride and groom. It's a vow-of-a-lifetime, a commitment of great worth to be entered with serious conviction.
The weather was perfect yesterday at 5pm, I realized with satisfaction. I wanted these not-yet-known neighbors to have a beautiful start to their married life. And 76 degrees with bright sunshine is just about as perfect as you can find around here. The rhododendrums and irises were in resplendent bloom, and the grass was lush and thick. Wedding weather.
I was reminded of my own wedding weather. A naive 22-year-old, I planned our reception outdoors in the middle of August. Oh, I knew how hot and humid and buggy mid-August could be, but the romantic in me, planning the wedding during a cold, dark Michigan winter, pictured the ideal summer day, with clean, happy children blowing bubbles in the grass, a string quartet playing beside the punch bowl, me in my white dress standing beside my handsome groom and surrounded by the people we love. The backdrop, so essential that I took it for granted, was a sunny summer day, not too hot and not too cold.
As the day came closer, I realized just how rare these perfect days were. The real possibilities of rain and mosquitoes and a wedding dress drenched in sweat kept me awake at night. I reserved the dark basement of the chapel as a back-up reception area, but the place depressed me. A dismal basement without natural light did not fit my dreamy picture of a wedding reception, that once-in-a-lifetime party. And so I prayed, sheepishly, for wedding weather. The God I serve is majestic and holy; I felt frivolous asking Him for a special favor. At the time, I did not see myself as the King's daughter who could approach her Daddy's throne for anything, even a stick of candy. And so I pleaded with Him with a sense of shame at my selfishness. I thought about farmers in need of rain and starving children in Africa and all the world of bigger, more important requests. Feeling I had already sunk low in making with my selfishness, I decided I might as well stoop even lower. "Dear God," I prayed. "I'll make a bargain with You: if You will give me perfect wedding weather on August 14 just this once, I PROMISE I will never again make a weather-related prayer request." I knew God could do it, but I felt bad asking.
The weather on August 14 was perfect. It was sunny and warm. Not too warm. Not too humid. Not mosquito-filled. Our wedding reception was held outdoors on a perfect green lawn with a string quartet and little sisters and cousins blowing bubbles. The cake didn't melt. Neither did the bride. And she was more aware than ever of an answered prayer and perfect wedding weather.
As far as I can recall, I have kept my promise to never again pray for good weather. When I wonder if the weather will be agreeable for a beach trip or vacation, I return in gratitude to my wedding weather prayer and am again reminded of answered prayers. I see that God could use that answer to teach me that He is powerful enough to control the weather, yet gentle enough to care about the little things. His domain is over all.
Although I have been grateful for this wedding gift for 18 years, I know it wasn't God's biggest gift that day: I was blessed by the presence of people who surrounded us in love; I was blessed by my choice in Husband. I recognize that this choice was more the result of God's goodness and grace than of my good decision-making skills: I was as naive about the possibility of stormy marriages as I was about stormy wedding days. But God has blessed my marriage. It hasn't been all sunny days, but it has been many sunny days and the strength of endurance through the stormy ones. His providence covers that too. Joy!
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Day 10: Homemade Ice Cream
Late last summer, Husband found himself a new hobby, one that the whole family appreciates. He makes ice cream. He doesn't just make chocolate and vanilla (although he does, and they are delicious), he makes fancy flavors, like watermelon/lemonade sorbet or banana with carmelized white chocolate. I just finished a bowl full of the banana/white chocolate. A mouth full of joy!
Husband's ice cream is more than a delicious dessert -- it's a bond within our family or with our friends. The whole family gets involved in choosing and rating the flavors or suggesting ingredients to add (Sally prefers M&Ms). The kids help mix ingredients and, of course, sample not-quite-frozen batches. We like to share our ice cream with guests and bring it to friends. In fact, Husband made a flavor specifically for sharing with people ill with colds or flu. But the flavor wasn't that good, so we didn't burden any sick friends with it. However, guests who have tried the good, sharable flavors shared our ice cream and our joy. Although I didn't make it, I feel a pride in how delicious it tastes and how wonderful it is to share something we love.
I love how humans have always bonded over food. That's where great events take place and strong connections are forged. Every culture has its prescribed food-related manners and traditions. That's a grandiose thought compared to our homemade ice cream. But the concept is the same: it brings us together and creates a commonality.
Husband's ice cream is more than a delicious dessert -- it's a bond within our family or with our friends. The whole family gets involved in choosing and rating the flavors or suggesting ingredients to add (Sally prefers M&Ms). The kids help mix ingredients and, of course, sample not-quite-frozen batches. We like to share our ice cream with guests and bring it to friends. In fact, Husband made a flavor specifically for sharing with people ill with colds or flu. But the flavor wasn't that good, so we didn't burden any sick friends with it. However, guests who have tried the good, sharable flavors shared our ice cream and our joy. Although I didn't make it, I feel a pride in how delicious it tastes and how wonderful it is to share something we love.
I love how humans have always bonded over food. That's where great events take place and strong connections are forged. Every culture has its prescribed food-related manners and traditions. That's a grandiose thought compared to our homemade ice cream. But the concept is the same: it brings us together and creates a commonality.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Days 8 and 9: Christian Friends
I'm doing 2 days at once because (1) I realized I'm one day behind and (2) this is a big one that I've been joyful about for a long time.
Christian friends: I'm not just talking about friends who happen to be Christians, just people you met at church or Christian school. I'm talking about friends who, in the course of your time together, mentor and minister to you, and you to them. These are friends whose joys and sorrows become your joys and sorrows, until you can't even remember what's really yours and what's theirs -- because they aren't yours and theirs, they are shared the way God intended. Sharing among friends has some remarkable qualities. Have you noticed the incongruities? A shared burden shrinks; a shared joy grows. What a lovely thing! And what a godly thing. Over and over again, the book of Romans talks about one-anothering:
I am in a season of my life in which I have been very, very blessed by one-anothering types of Christian friendships. At other times in life, I have felt isolated. For example, in graduate school, I knew only one other Christian woman in my university (and, in God's typical manner, He sat her down right next to me!), and she needed me as mentor. For many years, I prayed for a Christan mentor of my own: a mature Christian woman who I could model and whose advice and counsel I could seek. That prayer request has been answered in God's typical cup-overflowing method -- He has provided in such an abundance I could never have envisioned. Even the friends of my friends are women of God -- when I meet them, I often think, "this person and I could be great friends." I am grateful. I am joyful.
Christian friends: I'm not just talking about friends who happen to be Christians, just people you met at church or Christian school. I'm talking about friends who, in the course of your time together, mentor and minister to you, and you to them. These are friends whose joys and sorrows become your joys and sorrows, until you can't even remember what's really yours and what's theirs -- because they aren't yours and theirs, they are shared the way God intended. Sharing among friends has some remarkable qualities. Have you noticed the incongruities? A shared burden shrinks; a shared joy grows. What a lovely thing! And what a godly thing. Over and over again, the book of Romans talks about one-anothering:
- Be devoted to one another in love (Romans 12:10)
- Honor one another above yourselves (12:10)
- Live in harmony with one another (12:16)
- Love one another (13:8)
- Stop passing judgement on one another (14:13)
- Accept one another (15:7)
- Instruct one another (15:14)
- Greet one another with a holy kiss (16:16)
I am in a season of my life in which I have been very, very blessed by one-anothering types of Christian friendships. At other times in life, I have felt isolated. For example, in graduate school, I knew only one other Christian woman in my university (and, in God's typical manner, He sat her down right next to me!), and she needed me as mentor. For many years, I prayed for a Christan mentor of my own: a mature Christian woman who I could model and whose advice and counsel I could seek. That prayer request has been answered in God's typical cup-overflowing method -- He has provided in such an abundance I could never have envisioned. Even the friends of my friends are women of God -- when I meet them, I often think, "this person and I could be great friends." I am grateful. I am joyful.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Day 7: Family Reading Time
When it comes to books, the only thing that brings me more joy than a good read is sharing a good read with my family.
Sometimes this sharing just means handing each other a favorite book or discussing our readings at the dinner table or perusing the library shelves with one of the kids in mind. But one of my favorite family traditions is "family book time" each night before Sally and Huckle go to bed.
For awhile, Husband and I alternated: he would read to the kids one night and I the next. If it was a book we both knew well (like when Sally asked for E.B. White's Trumpet of the Swan three times in a row), we alternated in the same book. Other times, we alternated books. For example, Husband really wanted to share the Chronicles of Narnia with the kids, so he read them solo. On my reading nights, I chose a different book, such as Meindert De Jong's sweet children's tales, which Husband had never read.
Lately, Husband has been traveling often enough that he has chosen to read to the kids every night that he manages to be home. The kids love this -- they love every second with their dad. Right now, he is reading them Tolkien's The Hobbit (again), and they look forward to each new installment with great pleasure. When Husband reads downstairs, I enjoy listening as I tidy the kitchen or check email. When he reads upstairs, I enjoy a little post-dinner/homework/music practice/clean-up quiet time. But, I also love my turns to read aloud. Whether they snuggle up beside me or wander as we read (Huckle is an inveterate pacer, especially during the exciting passages), it's a joy to get lost in a story together -- to laugh, to wonder, to tense, to follow each word and scene as the story unfolds.
Recently, it was the Great Brain books by J.D. Fitzgerald. When we finished those, I was determined to try Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer again. Last fall, it didn't hold the kids' interest. I realized it was my inability to read it with interest, not the book's lack of interest. So now we are listening to the recorded book, read with accents and panache. It's truly a joy. Now that my eyes are not buried in the page, I can watch Sally and Huckle for their reactions. We can exchange a smirk at Tom's doings or at the actor's funny voice impressions. Now that my hands are not holding a book, I can pull Sally into a hug or pet her arm the way she likes. I can see Huckle closely following the story even though his body never stops moving. I can grab him as he passes and give him a kiss before sending him back on his way.
Sometimes this sharing just means handing each other a favorite book or discussing our readings at the dinner table or perusing the library shelves with one of the kids in mind. But one of my favorite family traditions is "family book time" each night before Sally and Huckle go to bed.
For awhile, Husband and I alternated: he would read to the kids one night and I the next. If it was a book we both knew well (like when Sally asked for E.B. White's Trumpet of the Swan three times in a row), we alternated in the same book. Other times, we alternated books. For example, Husband really wanted to share the Chronicles of Narnia with the kids, so he read them solo. On my reading nights, I chose a different book, such as Meindert De Jong's sweet children's tales, which Husband had never read.
Lately, Husband has been traveling often enough that he has chosen to read to the kids every night that he manages to be home. The kids love this -- they love every second with their dad. Right now, he is reading them Tolkien's The Hobbit (again), and they look forward to each new installment with great pleasure. When Husband reads downstairs, I enjoy listening as I tidy the kitchen or check email. When he reads upstairs, I enjoy a little post-dinner/homework/music practice/clean-up quiet time. But, I also love my turns to read aloud. Whether they snuggle up beside me or wander as we read (Huckle is an inveterate pacer, especially during the exciting passages), it's a joy to get lost in a story together -- to laugh, to wonder, to tense, to follow each word and scene as the story unfolds.
Recently, it was the Great Brain books by J.D. Fitzgerald. When we finished those, I was determined to try Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer again. Last fall, it didn't hold the kids' interest. I realized it was my inability to read it with interest, not the book's lack of interest. So now we are listening to the recorded book, read with accents and panache. It's truly a joy. Now that my eyes are not buried in the page, I can watch Sally and Huckle for their reactions. We can exchange a smirk at Tom's doings or at the actor's funny voice impressions. Now that my hands are not holding a book, I can pull Sally into a hug or pet her arm the way she likes. I can see Huckle closely following the story even though his body never stops moving. I can grab him as he passes and give him a kiss before sending him back on his way.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Day 6: Time for Worms
Yesterday I babysat a friend's son for almost 5 hours while she cared for her mother-in-law (who just had a mastectomy). I haven't had a toddler to myself for that long in many moons. As expected, not much was accomplished around the house or in my writing. However, I had time for worms and that is a joy.
Yesterday was a rainy day. My friend had packed her son's raincoat, and the little guy really wanted to play ball. "Play football. Outside," he insisted. How can anyone resist a cutie? Despite the soppiness of the day, we bundled into our raincoats and out we went. Little Guy brought the football, but the closest we came to playing was him passing it to me so he could concentrate on getting down our steps. Once outside, the wet world held far more interest than football: drips on a raincoat sleeve, puddles, and -- most of all -- a long, skinny worm worming his way across the driveway.
I've always loved worms. As a girl, I spent rainy days rescuing them off the sidewalk, picking up their ungratefully squiggly bodies and tossing them into the safety of grass. It was a matter of conscience and a matter of loving animals of any shape and size.
But part of growing up is no longer taking the time to rescue worms. It still bothers my conscience when I'm out jogging and step over or around a worm -- a big chunk of me wants to stop and rescue it. However, exercise time would be compromised by worm rescues (it wouldn't be fair to only rescue one) and so I let nature take its course as I run mine.
Little Guy might be only two years old, but he is clearly a thoughtful, quiet, gentle soul. He hugged the football and spent a full 5 minutes crouched over a worm I pointed out. "Big worm," I said. "Big worm," Little Guy repeated. (He's at that darling stage where he repeats every word.) We watched the worm's strange method of locomotion, the pointy front ("head"??) noses about and then pulls forward in the chose direction; the pull then ripples and flows down the body, inching the front of the worm forward in little sections. The last segment ("tail"??) then gets dragged forward and -- behold! -- all that motion has propelled the worm half an inch.
Little Guy giggled after a few minutes of watching. I was impressed that he had the patience to watch the slow progress, and that he could even see the humor in worm movement. For me, I loved that life had slowed down to worm time. The fascinating movement that I had taken time to observe as a child (between rescues) maintained its fascination. Why do I continue to live by my to-do list? Why don't I take more time for worms? Or ants? Joy is in the little details of life, an appreciation of day-to-day miracles.
Yesterday was a rainy day. My friend had packed her son's raincoat, and the little guy really wanted to play ball. "Play football. Outside," he insisted. How can anyone resist a cutie? Despite the soppiness of the day, we bundled into our raincoats and out we went. Little Guy brought the football, but the closest we came to playing was him passing it to me so he could concentrate on getting down our steps. Once outside, the wet world held far more interest than football: drips on a raincoat sleeve, puddles, and -- most of all -- a long, skinny worm worming his way across the driveway.
I've always loved worms. As a girl, I spent rainy days rescuing them off the sidewalk, picking up their ungratefully squiggly bodies and tossing them into the safety of grass. It was a matter of conscience and a matter of loving animals of any shape and size.
But part of growing up is no longer taking the time to rescue worms. It still bothers my conscience when I'm out jogging and step over or around a worm -- a big chunk of me wants to stop and rescue it. However, exercise time would be compromised by worm rescues (it wouldn't be fair to only rescue one) and so I let nature take its course as I run mine.
Little Guy might be only two years old, but he is clearly a thoughtful, quiet, gentle soul. He hugged the football and spent a full 5 minutes crouched over a worm I pointed out. "Big worm," I said. "Big worm," Little Guy repeated. (He's at that darling stage where he repeats every word.) We watched the worm's strange method of locomotion, the pointy front ("head"??) noses about and then pulls forward in the chose direction; the pull then ripples and flows down the body, inching the front of the worm forward in little sections. The last segment ("tail"??) then gets dragged forward and -- behold! -- all that motion has propelled the worm half an inch.
Little Guy giggled after a few minutes of watching. I was impressed that he had the patience to watch the slow progress, and that he could even see the humor in worm movement. For me, I loved that life had slowed down to worm time. The fascinating movement that I had taken time to observe as a child (between rescues) maintained its fascination. Why do I continue to live by my to-do list? Why don't I take more time for worms? Or ants? Joy is in the little details of life, an appreciation of day-to-day miracles.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Day 5: Solitude
Yesterday I kayaked down the river behind my house. It was lovely. Tall trees arching over the water, tangles of spring-green bushes, the slow path of the river, solitude. Just the sound of my paddle dipping and dripping on the surface of the water. It was hard to believe I could feel so alone in the middle of NJ.
Yes, it was Mother's Day, and I love being a mother. I loved the greetings upon waking, the pancake breakfast together, time as a family. But solitude is essential to my mental health. That was the hardest part of having a baby and a toddler six years ago -- alone-time was rare when the kids were so dependent, especially when my work and Husband's travels were factored into our days.
Now my kids are older, and I see that they need their solitude as much as I do. Both tend to disappear on their own, either in the house or in the yard. Sally comes home cranky after a long day of school -- she feels better after a snack and some quiet playtime, perhaps drawing a picture or making a craft or finding her way up to her room to play with her stuffed animals. Huckle disappears into the basement to take apart electronics or to pound nails in some construction project. Or he loses himself in a book.
I'm glad my kids and I share a need for solitude. I helps me feel less guilty find joy in quiet Monday mornings, the end of a busy, noisy weekend. And it helps us all relate to each other and respect one another's need for solitude.
Yes, it was Mother's Day, and I love being a mother. I loved the greetings upon waking, the pancake breakfast together, time as a family. But solitude is essential to my mental health. That was the hardest part of having a baby and a toddler six years ago -- alone-time was rare when the kids were so dependent, especially when my work and Husband's travels were factored into our days.
Now my kids are older, and I see that they need their solitude as much as I do. Both tend to disappear on their own, either in the house or in the yard. Sally comes home cranky after a long day of school -- she feels better after a snack and some quiet playtime, perhaps drawing a picture or making a craft or finding her way up to her room to play with her stuffed animals. Huckle disappears into the basement to take apart electronics or to pound nails in some construction project. Or he loses himself in a book.
I'm glad my kids and I share a need for solitude. I helps me feel less guilty find joy in quiet Monday mornings, the end of a busy, noisy weekend. And it helps us all relate to each other and respect one another's need for solitude.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Day 4:Gifts From My Kids
My kids bring me joy. On Mother's Day, their gifts remind me of qualities I love in my kids.
Huckle, almost 10 years old, has always been a saver. He collects anything, can throw away nothing, and loves to earn money for the sake of having it, saving it, perhaps even hoarding it. Huckle is the kind of kid that still has Christmas candy at Easter, Easter candy at Halloween, and Halloween candy at Christmas.
Huckle bought me an orange begonia for Mother's Day. The sweetness is that my dear boy parted with his hard-earned money for me. That's love.
Sally, age 7 and missing her two front teeth, is a spender. Money falls through her fingers as fast as she earns it. Her Christmas, Easter, and Halloween candy disappear within days. But Sally is generous. She showers her friends and parents with homemade gifts. If she has two of anything, she gives one to her brother. Or one to her brother and one to a friend. What Sally does not give freely is hugs and kisses. She only demonstrates her love on her own terms.
Sally gave me a coupon book for Mother's Day that included a coupon for a free hug.
I used it right away.
"This is great!" I told her. "Is the coupon re-usable?"
She thought about it. "Yes. Except for the ones about taking out the trash and about doing the dishes."
The sweetness is that my dear girl parted with her control of physical affection for Mother's Day. That's love.
Huckle, almost 10 years old, has always been a saver. He collects anything, can throw away nothing, and loves to earn money for the sake of having it, saving it, perhaps even hoarding it. Huckle is the kind of kid that still has Christmas candy at Easter, Easter candy at Halloween, and Halloween candy at Christmas.
Huckle bought me an orange begonia for Mother's Day. The sweetness is that my dear boy parted with his hard-earned money for me. That's love.
Sally gave me a coupon book for Mother's Day that included a coupon for a free hug.
I used it right away.
"This is great!" I told her. "Is the coupon re-usable?"
She thought about it. "Yes. Except for the ones about taking out the trash and about doing the dishes."
The sweetness is that my dear girl parted with her control of physical affection for Mother's Day. That's love.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Sun
We are so familiar with the sun. It's that bright, happy ball that gives us light and warmth. We know life could not exist without it and that the earth orbits around it. That's our daily reality, so part of our normal existence that it's easy to take the sun for granted. That's earth-centric thinking.
The other reality is the stuff of science class: the gee-whiz numbers that are hard to fathom and fill us with wonder. That sweet happy ball of sun is really an explosive gaseous sphere that is more than a million times larger than the earth. It's performing millions of tons of nuclear fusion every second and its core reaches temperatures above 6 million °C.
To me, this is an interesting analogy for our relationship with God. On the daily level, He's familiar and goodness and light and love. We know life could not exist without Him. Our world is centered on His creative force and upholding power. It's easy to take this for granted. It's also easy to limit God to "us thinking", to picture Him only as the Being Who created us and upholds us day to day and saved us by the death of His son and has prepared a home for us in heaven. But that's earth- or human-centric thinking.
God is much grander than the scope of our understandings and dealings with Him. Although even His love for us is hard to fathom, there is so much more beyond our brain capacity. He does not only deal with humans. To think so is to limit Him. Just as the sun has all those "millions of" statistics, so God has qualities beyond our comprehension, a greatness beyond human fathomings and dealings.
When we meet Him face to face, which will overwhelm us more: the power of His love for us measily little humans or the awesome power He has beyond our scope of understanding?
The other reality is the stuff of science class: the gee-whiz numbers that are hard to fathom and fill us with wonder. That sweet happy ball of sun is really an explosive gaseous sphere that is more than a million times larger than the earth. It's performing millions of tons of nuclear fusion every second and its core reaches temperatures above 6 million °C.
To me, this is an interesting analogy for our relationship with God. On the daily level, He's familiar and goodness and light and love. We know life could not exist without Him. Our world is centered on His creative force and upholding power. It's easy to take this for granted. It's also easy to limit God to "us thinking", to picture Him only as the Being Who created us and upholds us day to day and saved us by the death of His son and has prepared a home for us in heaven. But that's earth- or human-centric thinking.
God is much grander than the scope of our understandings and dealings with Him. Although even His love for us is hard to fathom, there is so much more beyond our brain capacity. He does not only deal with humans. To think so is to limit Him. Just as the sun has all those "millions of" statistics, so God has qualities beyond our comprehension, a greatness beyond human fathomings and dealings.
When we meet Him face to face, which will overwhelm us more: the power of His love for us measily little humans or the awesome power He has beyond our scope of understanding?
Day 3: Brunch
Brunch. Even the word gives me joy. It speaks of a sprawling spread on a relaxed weekend morning with people I love. Brunch might be my favorite meal, though life rarely allows time for it. Or is it that I rarely allow time for it?
Brunch is a simple luxury, like a vase of flowers and a fragrant soap. My idea of a good vacation is sleeping in (joy!) and then eating brunch (joy!) with a big pot of my favorite tea (joy!). After that, the vacation day can hold anything, from reading in a beach chair to a strenuous hike -- after brunch, I'm up for anything. We have a favorite hotel in Mexico where the restaurant patio lies four steps up from the beach. I can eat my brunch with my family, and then the kids -- always impatient for the beach -- can play in the sand while I watch indulgently from the patio. We're all happy.
I just returned from a Mother's Day brunch at the home of a church friend. It had no beach, no family, no pot of favorite tea. But it was just right too: good friends, new faces, scads of food. Ah, brunch!
Brunch is a simple luxury, like a vase of flowers and a fragrant soap. My idea of a good vacation is sleeping in (joy!) and then eating brunch (joy!) with a big pot of my favorite tea (joy!). After that, the vacation day can hold anything, from reading in a beach chair to a strenuous hike -- after brunch, I'm up for anything. We have a favorite hotel in Mexico where the restaurant patio lies four steps up from the beach. I can eat my brunch with my family, and then the kids -- always impatient for the beach -- can play in the sand while I watch indulgently from the patio. We're all happy.
I just returned from a Mother's Day brunch at the home of a church friend. It had no beach, no family, no pot of favorite tea. But it was just right too: good friends, new faces, scads of food. Ah, brunch!
Friday, May 11, 2012
Day 2: Bluebird of Happiness
The bluebird couple that return to our yard every year bring me joy. I know, I know: the bluebird of happiness. But it's true that seeing them brings me a rush of joy. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of that brilliant blue as the male dives from a tree onto the lawn; sometimes I see the male and female sitting near one another on posts. The birds are lovely in their dedication to their family, their continuity in returning to our yard year after year, and of course they are lovely in color.
A friend of mine said that having bluebirds raise their young in your yard is the ultimate compliment to a gardener. I cannot take the credit. The bluebird couple has been returning to our yard since the previous owner, a woman named Gloria whom we knew from church, lived in this house. In fact, every year I wait, hardly daring to hope, for the bluebirds to return despite the non-ideal state of our yard. They arrive early, while it's still cold and wintery, and I worry that the bluebird house is worse for the wear of another year of neglect. I kick myself for all those cold and empty months when I could have stopped by the birdhouse to check its condition. I wonder if I should check it now or stay away to avoid worrying them about human intruders. Then the bluebirds seem to disappear for weeks. I am convinced they have finally given up on us and our less-than-perfect conditions. The birdhouse was probably stuffed with the messy sticks of a house wren, used to fool other birds into thinking a house is occupied. But spring bursts into the neighborhood and, with it, our bluebirds reappear. They sit on tree branches or posts and then suddenly swoop to the ground for insect food. Their orange chests and blue bodies are as striking and delightful as the male cardinal's bold red, which brought me joy all winter long.
Our first summer in the house was the summer we watched in awe as the bluebirds -- now OUR bluebirds! -- raised 3 sweet nestlings 50 feet from our kitchen window. That was the summer I fell in love with them. I was pregnant with my second child, and extra-susceptible to nesting and babies and such.
The next summer was a messy one with construction between our former kitchen window and the bluebird house. I was busy with my own nestlings -- a nursing baby and a busy toddler -- and with the building on our nest. My view was obstructed by an excavator and then the raising of a new kitchen and family room. How miraculous that the bluebirds returned despite the noise and activity -- the most unpeaceful of settings for their little family. Nail guns, pounding hammers, power saws, shouting, even one workman who loved to sing random bits of songs at a volume that matched his power tools. He was our birdsong that crazy summer, since anything more delicate was drowned out.
I awaited the next bluebird season eagerly: now I could sit 20 feet closer and watch the birdhouse from an enormous picture window in my new family room. I had a front row seat! The birds didn't disappoint: our bluebirds returned to their house and their activity bespoke eggs and then nestlings.
However, tragedy struck: one afternoon as I cautiously weeded the little flowerbed surrounding the bluebird house, I found three dead little baby birds. Their throats were slit. It was grotesque, horrifying. It made me feel nauseous for days. A house wren, a mini-bird with a sweet trill but murderous jealousy, had killed the baby birds to limit competition for resources in our yard. Nature is not all loveliness but is fallen and made ill with sin. The bluebirds disappeared, and the house wren filled the nest box with coarse sticks to prevent further competition.
I didn't expect the bluebirds to return after that. Our yard was not a safe nesting ground anymore. But there they were the next spring, just as before. I was reminded of hope and grace, how God never gives up on us, no matter how grotesque and horrifying our sin. I as like a third bluebird parent, hovering anxiously near our back window, unsure how to combat mini-murderers.
I saw it happen. I saw the house wren take over and chase away the bluebirds. I ran out again and again to shoo it away, but there was nothing I could do. In the course of one day, all that remained were beautiful eggs with gashing holes poked in each, bluebird lives snuffed out. The house wren moved into the bluebird house and raised some darling-but-murderous progeny, and there was nothing I could do. House wrens, like other native songbirds, are protected by law, as are their eggs.
That winter, I replaced the bluebird house. It had grown shabby, and there was already a good chance we wouldn't see bluebirds the next year. We did see them though. They appeared early, as always but did not nest in our box. I would see flashes of them in the field behind the house. I mournfully wondered whose yard they had adopted in place of ours.
This year, my husband fixed up and erected a purple martin house that my grandfather built many years ago. I had stood for years in my parents' yard, filled with birds but never purple martins. Spring came and I saw the bluebirds again in our yard and sitting on the bluebird house. For two days, it seemed as if they had moved in. They were busy going in and out. But then they disappeared and a chickadee moved in. Within 3 days, I saw three delicate babies. I have no idea how they arrived so quickly! I was thrilled for the chickadee but still missed our bluebirds nesting nearby. Then I began to see them often. They still stood on our tree branches and swooped into the lawn. It took me several weeks to realize it, but they had nested in our newly-remodeled purple martin house. How wonderful -- a birdhouse passed down through my family now a blessing to theirs. Joy!
A friend of mine said that having bluebirds raise their young in your yard is the ultimate compliment to a gardener. I cannot take the credit. The bluebird couple has been returning to our yard since the previous owner, a woman named Gloria whom we knew from church, lived in this house. In fact, every year I wait, hardly daring to hope, for the bluebirds to return despite the non-ideal state of our yard. They arrive early, while it's still cold and wintery, and I worry that the bluebird house is worse for the wear of another year of neglect. I kick myself for all those cold and empty months when I could have stopped by the birdhouse to check its condition. I wonder if I should check it now or stay away to avoid worrying them about human intruders. Then the bluebirds seem to disappear for weeks. I am convinced they have finally given up on us and our less-than-perfect conditions. The birdhouse was probably stuffed with the messy sticks of a house wren, used to fool other birds into thinking a house is occupied. But spring bursts into the neighborhood and, with it, our bluebirds reappear. They sit on tree branches or posts and then suddenly swoop to the ground for insect food. Their orange chests and blue bodies are as striking and delightful as the male cardinal's bold red, which brought me joy all winter long.
Our first summer in the house was the summer we watched in awe as the bluebirds -- now OUR bluebirds! -- raised 3 sweet nestlings 50 feet from our kitchen window. That was the summer I fell in love with them. I was pregnant with my second child, and extra-susceptible to nesting and babies and such.
The next summer was a messy one with construction between our former kitchen window and the bluebird house. I was busy with my own nestlings -- a nursing baby and a busy toddler -- and with the building on our nest. My view was obstructed by an excavator and then the raising of a new kitchen and family room. How miraculous that the bluebirds returned despite the noise and activity -- the most unpeaceful of settings for their little family. Nail guns, pounding hammers, power saws, shouting, even one workman who loved to sing random bits of songs at a volume that matched his power tools. He was our birdsong that crazy summer, since anything more delicate was drowned out.
I awaited the next bluebird season eagerly: now I could sit 20 feet closer and watch the birdhouse from an enormous picture window in my new family room. I had a front row seat! The birds didn't disappoint: our bluebirds returned to their house and their activity bespoke eggs and then nestlings.
However, tragedy struck: one afternoon as I cautiously weeded the little flowerbed surrounding the bluebird house, I found three dead little baby birds. Their throats were slit. It was grotesque, horrifying. It made me feel nauseous for days. A house wren, a mini-bird with a sweet trill but murderous jealousy, had killed the baby birds to limit competition for resources in our yard. Nature is not all loveliness but is fallen and made ill with sin. The bluebirds disappeared, and the house wren filled the nest box with coarse sticks to prevent further competition.
I didn't expect the bluebirds to return after that. Our yard was not a safe nesting ground anymore. But there they were the next spring, just as before. I was reminded of hope and grace, how God never gives up on us, no matter how grotesque and horrifying our sin. I as like a third bluebird parent, hovering anxiously near our back window, unsure how to combat mini-murderers.
I saw it happen. I saw the house wren take over and chase away the bluebirds. I ran out again and again to shoo it away, but there was nothing I could do. In the course of one day, all that remained were beautiful eggs with gashing holes poked in each, bluebird lives snuffed out. The house wren moved into the bluebird house and raised some darling-but-murderous progeny, and there was nothing I could do. House wrens, like other native songbirds, are protected by law, as are their eggs.
That winter, I replaced the bluebird house. It had grown shabby, and there was already a good chance we wouldn't see bluebirds the next year. We did see them though. They appeared early, as always but did not nest in our box. I would see flashes of them in the field behind the house. I mournfully wondered whose yard they had adopted in place of ours.
This year, my husband fixed up and erected a purple martin house that my grandfather built many years ago. I had stood for years in my parents' yard, filled with birds but never purple martins. Spring came and I saw the bluebirds again in our yard and sitting on the bluebird house. For two days, it seemed as if they had moved in. They were busy going in and out. But then they disappeared and a chickadee moved in. Within 3 days, I saw three delicate babies. I have no idea how they arrived so quickly! I was thrilled for the chickadee but still missed our bluebirds nesting nearby. Then I began to see them often. They still stood on our tree branches and swooped into the lawn. It took me several weeks to realize it, but they had nested in our newly-remodeled purple martin house. How wonderful -- a birdhouse passed down through my family now a blessing to theirs. Joy!
Thursday, May 10, 2012
100 Days of Joy
I have resolved to be intentional about living joyfully. Why? My eyes were opened when I once again snapped at the kids during dinner a few months ago. Kid A had probably managed to work the word "fart'' into a story; Kid B was probably complaining about the vegetables. I don't really remember, but that's fairly typical. What I do remember is my son saying, "Mom, why are you always so angry?" Of course, I snapped in response to that! I said something about how badly behaved children would make any parent angry. But I was convicted. Reviewing my behavior that night after the kids were in bed and the house was finally quiet, I realized that I do often act and feel irritable. I have a good life. I am cancer-free and have cut back my work responsibilities (which add a thick layer of stress onto family life). I have a nice family, a nice house, a nice neighborhood and country and a Christian faith which guarantees my salvation. That's an overabundance of blessings! Yet so often I pray Psalm 51:12, restore to me the joy of my salvation and renew a right spirit in me. Why don't I feel joy?
My children's Christian school talks a lot about forming good habits, whether physical like washing your hands or mental like writing down your assignments or spiritual like praying daily. It's hard to form a new habit but not as hard as ridding yourself of a bad habit. I think I've developed the bad habit of irritability. I go around with my mental to-do list, rushing from one task to another and cranking at anyone who gets in my way. I don't want to be that kind of person.
I'm not sure how to be intentional in choosing to life joyfully, but I'm going to start with an attitude adjustment. For the next 100 days, I'm going to write down one thing each day that brings me joy. I do not mean this to be a selfish goal of pursuing my own happiness -- it's not about bubble baths and baubles. Rather, it's about living a life of gratitude and praise -- looking beyond me to my fellow humans, this world, and God.
Nonetheless, today, my joy comes from writing, an internal pursuit. Whether this sort of spewing out my soul's burdens and intentions or making every word count in a short story, writing brings me joy. It's often frustrating and difficult, even just to get myself to take the time to sit down and write. But it still brings me joy, especially when I have a good story to tell or scene to set. I also love the planning process: working out a plot or the logic behind an argument. It carries the same satisfaction as a well-organized closet, which might be minor to some but is major to me! But I'll save that joy for another of my 100 days.
I think the most powerful writing experience I've had was posting an article in public about anxiety and getting responses from people who felt the same way. Connecting to people through writing -- it gave me a greater appreciation for the power of writing and for how the passion I feel about writing might be used by God. I am trying to write regularly to improve my skills as I wait to see how I can serve through this pursuit.
My children's Christian school talks a lot about forming good habits, whether physical like washing your hands or mental like writing down your assignments or spiritual like praying daily. It's hard to form a new habit but not as hard as ridding yourself of a bad habit. I think I've developed the bad habit of irritability. I go around with my mental to-do list, rushing from one task to another and cranking at anyone who gets in my way. I don't want to be that kind of person.
I'm not sure how to be intentional in choosing to life joyfully, but I'm going to start with an attitude adjustment. For the next 100 days, I'm going to write down one thing each day that brings me joy. I do not mean this to be a selfish goal of pursuing my own happiness -- it's not about bubble baths and baubles. Rather, it's about living a life of gratitude and praise -- looking beyond me to my fellow humans, this world, and God.
Nonetheless, today, my joy comes from writing, an internal pursuit. Whether this sort of spewing out my soul's burdens and intentions or making every word count in a short story, writing brings me joy. It's often frustrating and difficult, even just to get myself to take the time to sit down and write. But it still brings me joy, especially when I have a good story to tell or scene to set. I also love the planning process: working out a plot or the logic behind an argument. It carries the same satisfaction as a well-organized closet, which might be minor to some but is major to me! But I'll save that joy for another of my 100 days.
I think the most powerful writing experience I've had was posting an article in public about anxiety and getting responses from people who felt the same way. Connecting to people through writing -- it gave me a greater appreciation for the power of writing and for how the passion I feel about writing might be used by God. I am trying to write regularly to improve my skills as I wait to see how I can serve through this pursuit.
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