This morning I picked two cups of raspberries in our garden. Joy! It's my favorite food season. It took us seven years of raspberry-patch growing to have this abundance, enough for every family member to feel sated and generous with friends and neighbors, enough to experiment with recipes rather than hoard our precious berries and eat them one by one.
I have wonderful childhood memories of standing in my family's raspberry patch, picking a bowlful for breakfast. They fast like summer mornings, scratching legs and dewy feet, a shiver in the shade of long morning shadows before the heat takes over. They taste like lazy summer days with no place to be and no goals beyond finishing a library book and hunting for another.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Day 26: Examples of Godly Living
Anything powerful can be used for evil, including religion. That's what outspoken atheists emphasize when they write that humanity would be better off without any religion. They blame strong Christian sentiment for wars and acts of hatred.
But Christianity does not condone violence; in fact, the Bible states that vengence is to be left to the Lord and that people are to live in peace as far as they are able in this world. Rather, violence comes from a minority of extremists who warp and misinterpret Scriptures for their own purposes, as others do with laws or rational human thought. Anything powerful can be used for evil.
When a society has forbidden Christianity or muzzled the church, has the resulting culture been more humane? I think of the atrosities of Communism's rational, ordered societies. If you remove religion, something else will be used to oppress and subdue.
I also think of all the acts of lovingkindness performed in Christian faith that fly under the radar of history or publicity or atheist thinkers. Today I think of the selflessness of my friend Dolly, who left this morning on an errand of mercy. She changed all her plans and inconvenienced herself to help a friend of a friend, someone she barely knows but who has been on her heart. This friend of a friend, named Mercy, had a setback in her cancer treatment. Dolly is driving 5 hours to stay with her and care for her.
Millions of these selfless little acts are performed every day by Christians reaching out in love, quietly obeying God's call to care for the oppressed, the "widows and orphans" of our culture. This is not a political movement; these acts are not done for show or human approval. But they affirm the church's work in the world, the role of the Christian in bringing about God's kingdom on earth, a kingdom in which evil is subdued and love reigns.
Today I pray for Mercy, that she is comforted and encouraged. I also pray for mercy, that God forgives our world and us individual Christians for our failures to follow his loving will.
But Christianity does not condone violence; in fact, the Bible states that vengence is to be left to the Lord and that people are to live in peace as far as they are able in this world. Rather, violence comes from a minority of extremists who warp and misinterpret Scriptures for their own purposes, as others do with laws or rational human thought. Anything powerful can be used for evil.
When a society has forbidden Christianity or muzzled the church, has the resulting culture been more humane? I think of the atrosities of Communism's rational, ordered societies. If you remove religion, something else will be used to oppress and subdue.
I also think of all the acts of lovingkindness performed in Christian faith that fly under the radar of history or publicity or atheist thinkers. Today I think of the selflessness of my friend Dolly, who left this morning on an errand of mercy. She changed all her plans and inconvenienced herself to help a friend of a friend, someone she barely knows but who has been on her heart. This friend of a friend, named Mercy, had a setback in her cancer treatment. Dolly is driving 5 hours to stay with her and care for her.
Millions of these selfless little acts are performed every day by Christians reaching out in love, quietly obeying God's call to care for the oppressed, the "widows and orphans" of our culture. This is not a political movement; these acts are not done for show or human approval. But they affirm the church's work in the world, the role of the Christian in bringing about God's kingdom on earth, a kingdom in which evil is subdued and love reigns.
Today I pray for Mercy, that she is comforted and encouraged. I also pray for mercy, that God forgives our world and us individual Christians for our failures to follow his loving will.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Day 25: The Perfect Jog?
This morning, I might have had the perfect jog:
1. I jogged longer than I intended
2. I jogged faster than I intended
3. The temperature was neither too hot nor too cold
4. The last half-mile included a free spritzing shower
I woke up before the kids, which means I didn't have two little ducklings following me around the block (which the neighbors think is funny but takes extra energy; and, actually, Huckle keeps up quite well though I expend a fair amount of energy worrying if he's expending too much energy pushing himself to keep up with me. And then I expend energy checking on Sally).
I also woke up before my will power was awake enough to realize it was being dragged out of the house. And the heat wave of last week is over, so the morning was cool though humid. Even if my will power had been awake, it wouldn't have been able to argue that it's too hot to run.
I started around the block, not sure if it'd go the standard (and lame) 2 miles I've been doing or if I'd manage to get up to 3 miles, my old standard distance. That's when I noticed the dark clouds covering a third of the sky. I ran faster, thinking I didn't want to have done the hardest part -- the getting out of the house part -- for nothing.
I ran a mile and still no rain. The dark clouds were closer and more threatening. The air had that pre-storm stillness. Rain was inevitable and could begin at any time. I decided to get in another mile down my 3-mile course to make it worth my while. I knew I could turn back at any point. I kept a steady speed, assuming my run would be cut short. It wasn't.
I started the third mile. It felt good to let my legs stretch long in a cantering stride rather than the shuffling I often allow myself. It felt like I was racing the weather and winning. When the rain did start, I was already headed for home, having down my full course satisfactorily.
The last half mile, the thick humid air was broken by rain. It felt great. I ran even faster, enjoying the cooling drops, the long strides, the heading home to tea and breakfast. The rain was building in intensity, with the downpour setting in when I was 3 houses from home. Perfect timing to cool me down and speed me up for a sprint to the finish line.
Home by 7:30; sporting wet running clothes and a sense of accomplishment. A good start to the day.
1. I jogged longer than I intended
2. I jogged faster than I intended
3. The temperature was neither too hot nor too cold
4. The last half-mile included a free spritzing shower
I woke up before the kids, which means I didn't have two little ducklings following me around the block (which the neighbors think is funny but takes extra energy; and, actually, Huckle keeps up quite well though I expend a fair amount of energy worrying if he's expending too much energy pushing himself to keep up with me. And then I expend energy checking on Sally).
I also woke up before my will power was awake enough to realize it was being dragged out of the house. And the heat wave of last week is over, so the morning was cool though humid. Even if my will power had been awake, it wouldn't have been able to argue that it's too hot to run.
I started around the block, not sure if it'd go the standard (and lame) 2 miles I've been doing or if I'd manage to get up to 3 miles, my old standard distance. That's when I noticed the dark clouds covering a third of the sky. I ran faster, thinking I didn't want to have done the hardest part -- the getting out of the house part -- for nothing.
I ran a mile and still no rain. The dark clouds were closer and more threatening. The air had that pre-storm stillness. Rain was inevitable and could begin at any time. I decided to get in another mile down my 3-mile course to make it worth my while. I knew I could turn back at any point. I kept a steady speed, assuming my run would be cut short. It wasn't.
I started the third mile. It felt good to let my legs stretch long in a cantering stride rather than the shuffling I often allow myself. It felt like I was racing the weather and winning. When the rain did start, I was already headed for home, having down my full course satisfactorily.
The last half mile, the thick humid air was broken by rain. It felt great. I ran even faster, enjoying the cooling drops, the long strides, the heading home to tea and breakfast. The rain was building in intensity, with the downpour setting in when I was 3 houses from home. Perfect timing to cool me down and speed me up for a sprint to the finish line.
Home by 7:30; sporting wet running clothes and a sense of accomplishment. A good start to the day.
Day 24: Summer Hours
It's been 10 days since school ended, and FINALLY Huckle and Sally have stopped waking up at 6:30am. They were rising early on purpose last week; I don't know why after all the complaining at 6:45 on school mornings. Maybe they wanted to maximize summer. Or maybe they thought exciting things happen in the 15 minutes before their usual wake-up time. Anyway, I'm glad they are taking it easy and sleeping in today. I'm sure it helps that they were swimming at a neighbor's pool party until 9pm last night.
Lazy summer mornings are a childhood treasure. Some days that translates into kids stumbling downstairs in their PJs and throwing themselves onto the couch to stare into space for an hour (sometimes I have pity and let them turn on a cartoon!). Other days, Huckle is riding his bike around the block before breakfast, loving that summer means changing up the order of our activities, like leaving the house without having filled your stomach and brushed your teeth. For me, it's a relief to not have to pack lunches first thing in the morning and keep people on schedule to leave for school.
In the summer, we sleep in, pack a picnic lunch around 10:30, and head to the pool at 11. I get to talk to friends while the kids take swimming lessons. Then we all eat lunch together on the grassy lawn under shade trees before the kids hit the pools in earnest. This is the first year that the children of our "group" are all old enough to be independent, something that impossible or light-years away when I had a baby and a toddler or a preschooler and a toddler. What a joy to be able to read a book outside or have a conversation with friends I hardly see during the school year, while our kids go from pool to pool in a pack or go their separate ways, reporting to us for a snack, a rest, a request to watch them on the high dive or swim with them. It's all good.
Lazy summer mornings are a childhood treasure. Some days that translates into kids stumbling downstairs in their PJs and throwing themselves onto the couch to stare into space for an hour (sometimes I have pity and let them turn on a cartoon!). Other days, Huckle is riding his bike around the block before breakfast, loving that summer means changing up the order of our activities, like leaving the house without having filled your stomach and brushed your teeth. For me, it's a relief to not have to pack lunches first thing in the morning and keep people on schedule to leave for school.
In the summer, we sleep in, pack a picnic lunch around 10:30, and head to the pool at 11. I get to talk to friends while the kids take swimming lessons. Then we all eat lunch together on the grassy lawn under shade trees before the kids hit the pools in earnest. This is the first year that the children of our "group" are all old enough to be independent, something that impossible or light-years away when I had a baby and a toddler or a preschooler and a toddler. What a joy to be able to read a book outside or have a conversation with friends I hardly see during the school year, while our kids go from pool to pool in a pack or go their separate ways, reporting to us for a snack, a rest, a request to watch them on the high dive or swim with them. It's all good.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Day 23: Conversation
My 100 Days of Joy have been spread thin over the last few weeks due to the end-of-the-school-year craziness and now my inability to concentrate as Huckle and Sally adjust to The Unscheduled Life. Oh, all year they long for lazy summer days, but when those days first come, it's "Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom?" until they remember all the things they wanted spare time to do. Right now Sally is buried in a Hardy Boys mystery (she reads the beginning and the end; not sure if she then skips back to hit the middle or just moves on to the next book) and Huckle is sewing a pouch. I won't be surprised if they've switched in half an hour.
All this "Mom? Mom? Mom?" disrupts the solitude on which a big chunk of my joy is built, and so I am seeking other forms of joy. Today it's conversation with Huckle and Sally. Their conversation styles and topics differ tremendously. It gives me joy to interact with each in their own way.
Seven-year-old Sally is a quiet one. She thinks long and hard before bringing up a topic on her own. She is more likely to disappears into her room to play stuffed animals or quietly work on a craft at her desk than to seek me out for a talk. She's a solitude-seeker, like me. But when Sally does open up -- on her own time and on her own topic -- I love to hear her thoughts. She has studied her friends and classmates to know what they like and how they think. She has opinions about playground rules and kids who tease. She has a strong sense of justice and she often goes against the flow to do the kind thing. She knows who she plans to marry and has been certain since the day she met him two years ago. Sally is an easy companion. (Although she is also a complainer, especially when tired and hungry. We're working on that.)
Huckle is the none-stop motor mouth in our family. Since the day he learned to talk, it sometimes seems as if he hasn't taken a breath. He keeps a running commentary of his every thought, every sight. He is a wonderer. Even when he was two years old, I would stop him now and then and tell him "Mommy's ears need a rest" -- he is that relentless of a talker. At one point Huckle went through a phase when most conversations began with "What would you do if I..." followed by some little kid fantasy about finding a diamond mine in our backyard Digging Spot or inventing a car that ran on grass clippings or flying a plane around the world. Huckle would spend a good 5 or 10 minutes describing his invention or accomplishment and then pursue an answer: he needs a response. And so Husband and I developed a standard answer: "We'd call this newspaper." If that didn't satisfy Huckle, we would go over to the phone, pick it up, pretend to dial, and say, "Hello, newspaper? We just saw the most amazing thing. Our son just..." Huckle would watch us proudly. Afterwards, he would ask, "Did you really call?" We would answer, "No. But if it really happens, you can be sure we'll really call."
Huckle is our talker. Most of our conversations with him are 90% listening, but he doesn't only want us to listen. He needs a response. His love language is engaged conversation. And I appreciate that. I also appreciate knowing what he thinks. Huckle has no secrets -- I know his thoughts on God, on sin, on his own sin. I know his fears and joys. These days, my ears still often need a rest, but I find great joy in Huckle's conversation too, as he grows older. We go deep into controversy and science, politics and religion. Huckle's conversation is tempered with a great curiosity about the world, so he asks good questions and gives thoughtful responses. There is great joy in sharing your worldview with your child.
Huckle also has an incredible memory, which adds to the richness of his conversation. His school practices "narration" the retelling of a story or information. The teacher reads a paragraph and then the students tell back what they heard. Every one of Huckle's teachers has commented on his incredible gift of narration. He doesn't just tell them the gist of the paragraph; he repeats back word-for-word what they said. I didn't think much about it until I came across one of his papers last week on which the teacher had asked the children to write their narration instead of give it orally. He filled the whole page with a word-for-word regurgitation of the text (something informative, like how to make friends) with a few underlined blanks toward the bottom where he couldn't recall a word or two.
I was thinking about conversation while transporting Huckle's classmates to our house for his birthday party last week. In earlier years, the boys have shrieked or made gross noises or any other noisiness when all together in my car. When we reach home (only 10 minutes away), I need an ibuoprofen. But this year, now that they are "mature" ten year olds, they actually had a conversation! It was fun to listen in as they told cat stories, each relating a cat their family once owned, what made that cat interesting, how it was found and how it died. They each were eager to tell their story and yet they took turns and listened to one another. I was impressed! Where were the fart noises? Would we make it home without me needing an ibuprofen? Ah, my son is growing up. There's still Sally's classmates to count on for the noise and headaches.
All this "Mom? Mom? Mom?" disrupts the solitude on which a big chunk of my joy is built, and so I am seeking other forms of joy. Today it's conversation with Huckle and Sally. Their conversation styles and topics differ tremendously. It gives me joy to interact with each in their own way.
Seven-year-old Sally is a quiet one. She thinks long and hard before bringing up a topic on her own. She is more likely to disappears into her room to play stuffed animals or quietly work on a craft at her desk than to seek me out for a talk. She's a solitude-seeker, like me. But when Sally does open up -- on her own time and on her own topic -- I love to hear her thoughts. She has studied her friends and classmates to know what they like and how they think. She has opinions about playground rules and kids who tease. She has a strong sense of justice and she often goes against the flow to do the kind thing. She knows who she plans to marry and has been certain since the day she met him two years ago. Sally is an easy companion. (Although she is also a complainer, especially when tired and hungry. We're working on that.)
Huckle is the none-stop motor mouth in our family. Since the day he learned to talk, it sometimes seems as if he hasn't taken a breath. He keeps a running commentary of his every thought, every sight. He is a wonderer. Even when he was two years old, I would stop him now and then and tell him "Mommy's ears need a rest" -- he is that relentless of a talker. At one point Huckle went through a phase when most conversations began with "What would you do if I..." followed by some little kid fantasy about finding a diamond mine in our backyard Digging Spot or inventing a car that ran on grass clippings or flying a plane around the world. Huckle would spend a good 5 or 10 minutes describing his invention or accomplishment and then pursue an answer: he needs a response. And so Husband and I developed a standard answer: "We'd call this newspaper." If that didn't satisfy Huckle, we would go over to the phone, pick it up, pretend to dial, and say, "Hello, newspaper? We just saw the most amazing thing. Our son just..." Huckle would watch us proudly. Afterwards, he would ask, "Did you really call?" We would answer, "No. But if it really happens, you can be sure we'll really call."
Huckle is our talker. Most of our conversations with him are 90% listening, but he doesn't only want us to listen. He needs a response. His love language is engaged conversation. And I appreciate that. I also appreciate knowing what he thinks. Huckle has no secrets -- I know his thoughts on God, on sin, on his own sin. I know his fears and joys. These days, my ears still often need a rest, but I find great joy in Huckle's conversation too, as he grows older. We go deep into controversy and science, politics and religion. Huckle's conversation is tempered with a great curiosity about the world, so he asks good questions and gives thoughtful responses. There is great joy in sharing your worldview with your child.
Huckle also has an incredible memory, which adds to the richness of his conversation. His school practices "narration" the retelling of a story or information. The teacher reads a paragraph and then the students tell back what they heard. Every one of Huckle's teachers has commented on his incredible gift of narration. He doesn't just tell them the gist of the paragraph; he repeats back word-for-word what they said. I didn't think much about it until I came across one of his papers last week on which the teacher had asked the children to write their narration instead of give it orally. He filled the whole page with a word-for-word regurgitation of the text (something informative, like how to make friends) with a few underlined blanks toward the bottom where he couldn't recall a word or two.
I was thinking about conversation while transporting Huckle's classmates to our house for his birthday party last week. In earlier years, the boys have shrieked or made gross noises or any other noisiness when all together in my car. When we reach home (only 10 minutes away), I need an ibuoprofen. But this year, now that they are "mature" ten year olds, they actually had a conversation! It was fun to listen in as they told cat stories, each relating a cat their family once owned, what made that cat interesting, how it was found and how it died. They each were eager to tell their story and yet they took turns and listened to one another. I was impressed! Where were the fart noises? Would we make it home without me needing an ibuprofen? Ah, my son is growing up. There's still Sally's classmates to count on for the noise and headaches.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Day 22: Distractions
A busy week can be a wonderful distraction from sadness. This week, two of my dearest friends are moving: one permanently and one for the summer. If I thought about it, I would feel vulnerable and sad. Both friends have been tremendous gifts to me in their kindness and gentleness and words of encouragement and faith. They have been strong supports through rough times. Both have taught me how a close friendship means hurting with one another -- how that pain is a privilege to share, not a burden. If I dwelt on these thoughts, my friends' moves would devastate me.
But I haven't had time to dwell on these thoughts. It's the busy end-of-the-school-year time, and all thinking time has been redistributed into doing time. I've hosted a brunch, given a science lecture and demo, performed many class parent duties, co-chaired Field Day, hosted a birthday party, plus all the usual keep-the-family-running-smoothly duties.
These duties were pleasures, none of which I would have traded in. But I now also see them as important distractions that kept me from focusing on my sense of loss. There was sufficient time for goodbye meals and many ways to assist with packing and childcare; there were wasn't sufficient time to sit on the couch and mope.
Today the diversions continue. Today is the 8th grade graduation, a happy-sad time that gets me weepy for the way life goes on and kids grow up and our sweet 8th graders will be facing the big world. But I won't be teary-eyed on the sidelines today, because I'm giving the invocation. (Well, at least I won't be teary-eyed at the beginning -- I'll be nervous!) I'm grateful for duties that keep me from dwelling on sadness.
But I haven't had time to dwell on these thoughts. It's the busy end-of-the-school-year time, and all thinking time has been redistributed into doing time. I've hosted a brunch, given a science lecture and demo, performed many class parent duties, co-chaired Field Day, hosted a birthday party, plus all the usual keep-the-family-running-smoothly duties.
These duties were pleasures, none of which I would have traded in. But I now also see them as important distractions that kept me from focusing on my sense of loss. There was sufficient time for goodbye meals and many ways to assist with packing and childcare; there were wasn't sufficient time to sit on the couch and mope.
Today the diversions continue. Today is the 8th grade graduation, a happy-sad time that gets me weepy for the way life goes on and kids grow up and our sweet 8th graders will be facing the big world. But I won't be teary-eyed on the sidelines today, because I'm giving the invocation. (Well, at least I won't be teary-eyed at the beginning -- I'll be nervous!) I'm grateful for duties that keep me from dwelling on sadness.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Day 21: Huckle
Last night my sweet Huckle sprouted an extra digit in his age. Suddenly, he’s
one decade old! And he's five feet tall! I look at him stretched out in his bed fast asleep, and I am in awe. He seems to go on for miles. I can still picture the little armful of wonder he was ten years ago. I still remember feeling awed by that little life, the responsibility of its care and keeping, the fact that he was my own progeny and shared half of my chromosomes. Life and its continuity and its growth are incredible!
Huckle's birth opened my eyes to a mother's capacity for pain -- a long labor, with drugs given too little and too late; an prolapsed uterus from pushing for 4 hours; pain so excruciating that I fainted between contractions (and everyone thought I was sleeping so nicely...). It was nothing like I had pictured -- me sweaty but triumphant, cuddling a sweet little bundle in my arms, feeling a life-bond connection with him from the second my eyes finally saw him; whisper-singing the happy birthday song to him and then inviting the delivery staff in for a birthday toast. Instead, I was given a quick look at him before he was carted away so the doctors could put me back together. And, in that quick moment when I first saw him, no bonds were formed. He looked unfamiliar and red and sticky. I lay there, hearing the panic in my doctor's voice as she called her colleagues into my room. I was only there physically; my mind was following that cart, hoping to catch another glimpse, hoping that baby would look more familiar on further consideration.
A day later, I was home, physically a wreck and emotionally a victim of post-traumatic stress. I did my mommy duties and grew in love for my boy. But I also cried for weeks, remembering the pain and the helplessness, the memory of being trapped in those endless cycles of contractions, pain beyond what I had known existed outside hell. Though I loved him, Baby Huckle seemed like an alien creature with alien needs like nursing, which was hard and painful. Chaffing, mastitis. We worked at nursing for weeks: 10 minutes left + 10 minutes right + 10 minutes left + 10 minutes right; repeat every 3-4 hours. That was another picture shattered -- that a mother and her infant would need to work at something that was supposed to be so natural and beautiful.
Then came the colic: Huckle shrieked piercingly and endlessly from age 1 month to age 4 months. Every afternoon through evening (the "bewitching hours"), we wore ourselves out, walking his scream-racked little body through the house and around the yard, through the house and around the yard, through the house and around the yard, wearing a path over the carpet and lawn, rubbing him and patting him and hugging him and bouncing him and snuggling him and wanting nothing more than for him to be comfortable and happy. And quiet. We were exhausted and at our wits end and convinced we were failing as parents.
Huckle did stop screaming at age 4 months. In fact, he stopped everything: he stopped moving, he stopped eating, he stopped breathing. Huckle was diagnosed with infant botulism, a rare and terrifying experience, a near loss except through God's providence of a good hospital and our parenting instinct, which thankfully we followed despite feeling like failures at that point. Huckle remained in the hospital for 10 dark days with this paralyzing infection, a tiny 4-month-old in the middle of a huge hospital bed. Even the nurses cried to see such a helpless and tiny body hooked up to to many machines, for breathing, for eating, for monitoring.
Looking back, it seems we were thrown into the deep end of the parenting pool. Looking back, I see our strength instead of our weakness, our endurance instead of our helplessness, our love for Huckle instead of our fears, God's providence instead of our confusion.
Looking back, it seems we were thrown into the deep end of the parenting pool. Looking back, I see our strength instead of our weakness, our endurance instead of our helplessness, our love for Huckle instead of our fears, God's providence instead of our confusion.
I didn't just learn a mother's capacity for pain through Huckle. I also learned a mother's capacity for delight. No personal accomplishment could bring as much pleasure as the accomplishment of one's child. No personal strength or talent or gift can bring as much satisfaction or joy as those of one's child. My dear Huckle. I love him so dearly. I am amazed by God's gifting of him and look forward to seeing how he will serve in this world.
- Huckle is a boy of integrity -- he is honest; loving what is right and loving to do what is right. His conscience is razor sharp and he heeds it faithfully.
- Huckle is a boy of zeal -- his enthusiasm knows no limits and infects those around him, whether about paper airplanes or calligraphy or a particular book or electronics or Legos or palindromes or cats or God.
- Huckle has an inquisitive mind overflowing with questions and wonderment and suggestions and inventions and possibilities. He is a whirlwind of brain energy who questions his PhD parents until we must admit ignorance! His mind is nimble and tenacious.
- Huckle has an indomitable spirit. Huckle does not give in to injustice and does not give up. He loves to compete and improve. He is up for any challenge.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Day 20: Church Bells
It's Sunday morning, and I'm skipping Sunday school. I'll join my family in an hour for the church service, but this season I'm using Sunday school time for my own quiet devotional time.
In spring, it's easy to see Sunday morning as set apart, holy. The ambient temperature permits open windows, lazy air drifting in and out and smelling of honeysuckle. This is my incense. The ambiance of spring birdsong, the depth of nature exhibited by the nearness and distance of calls and answers. This is my call to prayer. The hummingbird at the gladiolas juxtaposed against the dark pine beyond, fragile against immense, flashy against staid, frenetic against still. This is my cathedral.
And then the church bells ring. Across the meadow behind our house, over the treetops of our tiny town. The little white church with the red door that I know so well from the years we attended it. The still air ripples with the sound, like a pebble slipping into a quiet pond. Another juxtaposition, this one sound against silence. This is the sound of holiness.
I love the beckon the church bells on Sunday morning. I love the ancient practice of calling worshipers to come, that the secular world rings with a call to quiet itself because God's people have gathered to worship Him. May God is praised in the hearts of His people around the world each Sunday morning.
In spring, it's easy to see Sunday morning as set apart, holy. The ambient temperature permits open windows, lazy air drifting in and out and smelling of honeysuckle. This is my incense. The ambiance of spring birdsong, the depth of nature exhibited by the nearness and distance of calls and answers. This is my call to prayer. The hummingbird at the gladiolas juxtaposed against the dark pine beyond, fragile against immense, flashy against staid, frenetic against still. This is my cathedral.
And then the church bells ring. Across the meadow behind our house, over the treetops of our tiny town. The little white church with the red door that I know so well from the years we attended it. The still air ripples with the sound, like a pebble slipping into a quiet pond. Another juxtaposition, this one sound against silence. This is the sound of holiness.
I love the beckon the church bells on Sunday morning. I love the ancient practice of calling worshipers to come, that the secular world rings with a call to quiet itself because God's people have gathered to worship Him. May God is praised in the hearts of His people around the world each Sunday morning.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
Day 19: Cancer-Free Anniversary
Several days ago was the one-year anniversary of my last chemotherapy infusion. My doctors counted my surgery as my cancer-free day, but the chemotherapy that followed surgery was a miserable experience. So I didn't count myself as through fighting that round with cancer until the chemo was finished.
It's a joy to be able to go a week or two without any doctor appointments. It's a joy to be regrowing my hair and feeling that my energy level has been restored.
I've been through a fire. I am joyful to be on the other side.
It's a joy to be able to go a week or two without any doctor appointments. It's a joy to be regrowing my hair and feeling that my energy level has been restored.
I've been through a fire. I am joyful to be on the other side.
Friday, June 01, 2012
Day 18: Variety in Food
Yesterday I brought a meal to an acquaintance who had a mastectomy last week. Providing meals is a big stretch for me: I am not a confident or organized cook. I often begin meal planning at 5:05pm, throwing together a salad and some sort of pasta main course. But the month of meals that were provided to me after my surgery gave me tremendous gratitude for meal providers, and I aspire to be more flexible and generous in this area.
The meal coordinator for this family provided instructions about dietary restrictions of this woman's husband. Before planning the meal, I took a quick look. Oy! Providing a meal was going to be harder that I expected. The husband has such severe restrictions that any meal I considered included something from the long list of forbidden ingredients. I finally settled on bean soup and bread. Oh wait, he can't have wheat or yeast. Okay, bean soup and salad. Oh wait, he can't have lettuce. (Can you imagine??) Right then. Bean soup and fruit salad with a rice and broccoli dish on the side. The next challenge was finding something interesting to do with rice and broccoli that didn't involve cheese. And then I realized my bean soup recipe has celery, another no-no.
In the frustration of preparing this meal, I discovered a joy I take for granted: eating food in great variety. I love trying new foods, and I am grateful to have no food allergies. I can go into any restaurant and order any dish without asking what's in it. I can travel without worrying about finding something safe. I can enjoy tastes and textures and the joys of starting a new summer season of eating: strawberries this week!
Next week, I'll be giving my son's fourth grade class a special lesson on the science behind taste. Our senses are incredible in their sensitivity and their ability to differentiate subtle differences. And, interestingly, taste is one of our weakest senses. But taste does more than balance our nutritional needs and aid us in differentiating safe versus unsafe foods. Taste can help recall memories, can give a rush of comfort or pleasure, and can promote community.
The meal coordinator for this family provided instructions about dietary restrictions of this woman's husband. Before planning the meal, I took a quick look. Oy! Providing a meal was going to be harder that I expected. The husband has such severe restrictions that any meal I considered included something from the long list of forbidden ingredients. I finally settled on bean soup and bread. Oh wait, he can't have wheat or yeast. Okay, bean soup and salad. Oh wait, he can't have lettuce. (Can you imagine??) Right then. Bean soup and fruit salad with a rice and broccoli dish on the side. The next challenge was finding something interesting to do with rice and broccoli that didn't involve cheese. And then I realized my bean soup recipe has celery, another no-no.
In the frustration of preparing this meal, I discovered a joy I take for granted: eating food in great variety. I love trying new foods, and I am grateful to have no food allergies. I can go into any restaurant and order any dish without asking what's in it. I can travel without worrying about finding something safe. I can enjoy tastes and textures and the joys of starting a new summer season of eating: strawberries this week!
Next week, I'll be giving my son's fourth grade class a special lesson on the science behind taste. Our senses are incredible in their sensitivity and their ability to differentiate subtle differences. And, interestingly, taste is one of our weakest senses. But taste does more than balance our nutritional needs and aid us in differentiating safe versus unsafe foods. Taste can help recall memories, can give a rush of comfort or pleasure, and can promote community.
Day 17: Testimonies
I've reached the 17th day in my "100 Days of Joy". Not the 17th consecutive day (alas!), but still worthwhile. As I said before, this exercise is about searching for and celebrating the joys in life rather than just going through the motion of living and getting through the day.
This exercise was inspired by, among other things, this article on the ancient practice of "examen", reflecting on our daily lives to see God's hand at work and to draw closer to Him.
Today, I am thinking about the joy of having a testimony of God's faithfulness in my life. My Bible study is examining the book of Daniel, and this week is the fourth chapter. That's the crazy one in which God disciplines Nebuchadnezzar for his pride by causing him to act like a beast for seven years. One of the most interesting things about this chapter is that the author is Nebuchadnezzar himself, writing to his amazing testimony as a sort of memo to "the peoples, nations and men of every language, who live in all the world". Another interesting detail: he writes "it is my pleasure to tell you" this story, of his pride and humiliation. The pleasure he feels is the joy of a powerful testimony.
That joy is mine too. I am glad I can look back on the difficult times in my life and see God's hand. I can see His providence, often the most amazing stories were during my darkest times. If my dark times were like a labyrinth, His grace usually didn't offer a trapdoor that removed me completely from the twisting passages. Rather, He sometimes provided a ball of string, like Theseus used in the story of the Minotaur. In these cases, I only need to doggedly follow. My bout with breast cancer was that sort of labyrinth. Other times, I had no ball of string to guide me. When I reached a blind alley and felt that there could be no way out, a way would appear: my eyes would adjust to see a hidden passage, or the walls would shift to reveal a new way. It is a joy to be able to look back and see.
This joy also reminds me of how far God still needs to take me in my learning. While I am able to look back and see His hand, I continue to pray for peace during the hardest of trials: the ones in which I do not fall through the trapdoor or receive the ball of string. I think about a recent flight in which the airplane flew through turbulent air. Due to a terrifying airplane experience many years ago, turbulence gives me severe anxiety. My heartbeat races, my palms sweat, I nearly pass out in fear. On this recent trip, I had no reason to fear for my life. But I sank in my seat, limp against the headrest in the dark, as soon as the turbulence began. As I lay there willing myself not to faint, I prayed desperately for a sense of peace, for a sense of God beside me. I don't want to be fearful. I want to be strong in all circumstances. When I die, I want to go calmly, knowing that I'm headed into my loving Savior's arms. I crave that degree of trust in God.
Lord, I know You are very real and very here. I know you are beside me, and I praise you for my testimony, the many times I have seen your work in my life. I pray that you will give me Your strength "in the moment" when I am fearful. Help me to trust You that much.
This exercise was inspired by, among other things, this article on the ancient practice of "examen", reflecting on our daily lives to see God's hand at work and to draw closer to Him.
Today, I am thinking about the joy of having a testimony of God's faithfulness in my life. My Bible study is examining the book of Daniel, and this week is the fourth chapter. That's the crazy one in which God disciplines Nebuchadnezzar for his pride by causing him to act like a beast for seven years. One of the most interesting things about this chapter is that the author is Nebuchadnezzar himself, writing to his amazing testimony as a sort of memo to "the peoples, nations and men of every language, who live in all the world". Another interesting detail: he writes "it is my pleasure to tell you" this story, of his pride and humiliation. The pleasure he feels is the joy of a powerful testimony.
That joy is mine too. I am glad I can look back on the difficult times in my life and see God's hand. I can see His providence, often the most amazing stories were during my darkest times. If my dark times were like a labyrinth, His grace usually didn't offer a trapdoor that removed me completely from the twisting passages. Rather, He sometimes provided a ball of string, like Theseus used in the story of the Minotaur. In these cases, I only need to doggedly follow. My bout with breast cancer was that sort of labyrinth. Other times, I had no ball of string to guide me. When I reached a blind alley and felt that there could be no way out, a way would appear: my eyes would adjust to see a hidden passage, or the walls would shift to reveal a new way. It is a joy to be able to look back and see.
This joy also reminds me of how far God still needs to take me in my learning. While I am able to look back and see His hand, I continue to pray for peace during the hardest of trials: the ones in which I do not fall through the trapdoor or receive the ball of string. I think about a recent flight in which the airplane flew through turbulent air. Due to a terrifying airplane experience many years ago, turbulence gives me severe anxiety. My heartbeat races, my palms sweat, I nearly pass out in fear. On this recent trip, I had no reason to fear for my life. But I sank in my seat, limp against the headrest in the dark, as soon as the turbulence began. As I lay there willing myself not to faint, I prayed desperately for a sense of peace, for a sense of God beside me. I don't want to be fearful. I want to be strong in all circumstances. When I die, I want to go calmly, knowing that I'm headed into my loving Savior's arms. I crave that degree of trust in God.
Lord, I know You are very real and very here. I know you are beside me, and I praise you for my testimony, the many times I have seen your work in my life. I pray that you will give me Your strength "in the moment" when I am fearful. Help me to trust You that much.
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