Day 31: Unexpected Solutions

Oh, the lazy days of summer. They feel packed, even though not much happens. Does that make sense? I think the slower pace I expect makes "less happening" still feel like "too much happening."

This week I'm celebrating the joy of an unexpected -- and better -- solution to a dilemma.

I planned to tithe this week. My original plan was to spend it at church as a Vacation Bible School leader.

Well, with the lazy pace of summer, I didn't manage to sign up to help at VBS, and the requests for helpers eventually stopped coming.

Great! I thought. I'll tithe my week in a way I prefer. I'll write up those interviews I'm supposed to be doing for Intervarsity. No offense, kids, but VBS is exhausting. Exhilarating but exhausting. And ours is 9am until 2pm. Plus, if I'm going to get serious about writing, I need to get serious about making myself write every day.

As VBS got closer, I grew more excited about a whole week of writing, every day from 9am to 2pm.

Then, two Sundays ago, another call went out. The church needed a few more leaders. Would anyone out there be willing to serve?

I sighed. There goes my great plans. I thought about not responding, but knew I must. Tithing my week meant doing God's work where ever He wanted, not where ever I wanted. His week, His choice. So I emailed the VBS leader and asked if she still needed help.

Now here's the cool part: she needed someone to help with crafts on Wednesday and Thursday, the days the other leader wasn't available. How perfect! How affirming! This week, I was able to participate in the excitement of VBS on two full (exhausting) days and to write the other three days.

Well, sort of write. My stubborn heart still refuses to sit still for the hard stuff, so my writing time was also laundry time, email checking time, packing for trips time, errand time, etc. All the same, more writing was done that would have happened if the kids had been home.

This unexpected solution serves as a reminder of God's ways of answering our problems. He isn't limited to the solutions we see. He can give more than we can possibly ask or imagine.

Day 30: Well-Timed Rain

I woke up early to water my fern garden, because it's been hot and dry here for days. It was already being watered by a gentle rainshower that lasted at least 1 hour. Perfect! Instead of watering, I had a quiet hour of reading and responding to emails.

Day 29: All Sorts of Fireworks

A big town near us hosts fireworks on a Thursday night before Independence Day to save money, so we've already seen our annual pyrotechnical display, though the 4th of July is two days away.

Fireworks seem a little silly to the adult in me, who knows how much those gaudy explosions cost. But the adult in me also values nostalgia and tradition -- I love that Americans publicly gather for mutual awe. It is sweet. And it really does inspire awe (once you shush the adult in you that keeps grumbling about literally burning money). Each year the display amazes with its power and color and variety. For Husband and I, we're watching for something new. This year it was fireworks that exploded in fountains and then each "drip" of the fountain blossomed into a  mini-firework partway down the sky. Last year it was fireworks that resembled cascading waterfalls. A few years ago, it was a new orange-colored firework we didn't remember seeing in earlier shows. Best, of course, is hearing your children ooh and aah. Motormouth Huckle kept a running commentary about each firework -- types he liked best; how this one compared to the last; thoughts about seeing fireworks from an airplane. I love to hear his thoughts. Sally doesn't need her ears covered any more, as she did when younger. She would sit on my lap and I would help her guard against those cannon-like booms (not against her brother's half-hour discussion). Now she has her own chair in our row and doesn't cover her ears and thinks her own thoughts, including thoughts about how much she doesn't like the loud booms.

This year, my favorite light display wasn't in the sky; or, at least, it was barely in the sky. This year, we chose not to sit with the crowd on the lawn of the local high school. Instead, we parked at the township building separated from the high school by a cornfield. The location was quiet, only a dozen other families, most quiet crowd-avoiders like us. Dusk fell. It was dark enough that the kids asked, "NOW will they start? Isn't it time? Could it be any minute now?". It was still too light for the fireworks. We faced east, looking over the cornfield toward the high school on one side and a dark line of trees on the other. There was nothing special about the cornfield, and yet I now rank it among the most amazing sights I have ever seen. Just above the knee-high stalks were more fireflies than I have ever seen all together. In the quiet of the evening, in the dusk of the day, the field sparkled, like a crop of star spangles ripe for Independence Day. The glows were not random flits in all directions, as on our lawn. Rather, the thousands of flickers were uniform in height, skimming the tops of the cornstalks as if tethered by stems, and were synchronized in direction, with each light ascending. I don't know why the fireflies only lit their ascents and not their descents, but the result was lovely. No booms, just a field where the works of fire were small and natural and more beautiful than my words can describe.

I have added this image to my mind's collection of memorable settings, like William Wordsworth describes in his poem Daffodils. It sits beside a favorite memory of the first snowfall in a redwood forest -- craning my head to see the treetops in a sky full of large, lazy snowflakes, drifting white against the still dark needles, silently filling a woods that has stood for a thousand years. When I am old and sitting in a nursing home, perhaps I'll find the words to describe these experiences.

Day 28: Library Reading Program

The first days off school were days of bickering. The kids complain during the school year of not having enough free time; then, when they hit the motherlode of free time in June, they squander it arguing.
I prayed for peace in my household.
The library reading program was the answer to my prayer. Not only do my kids love reading, they love getting rewarded for something they consider normal behavior, ie, reading. The day we signed up for the library reading program was the day Huckle and Sally switched from 3 hours per day bickering to 3 hours per day with book glued to their faces.
Peace. Quiet. In fact, sometimes it's hard to get them unstuck from their books. Both are devouring Hardy Boys mysteries. Sally started by reading the first chapter and then skipping to the end. Then, after seeing the formula long enough, she realized she can handle the inevitable kidnappings and thefts. It's all part of the genre. So now she plows straight through them., like her play-by-the-rules brother who would never peek at the ending.
A week into the reading program was enough to restore balance in their time. They are no longer racing through books to earn little bouncy balls and other toys. But they also are bickering less, as if they've remembered how to spend their lazy summers and even -- sometimes -- enjoy each other's company. This morning they started a board game and made it a full hour without fighting.
Maybe summer wouldn't be as argument-filled as it began. Joy!

Day 27: Garden O' Raspberries

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.
  

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

This boy is a gift, a joy, a blessing. I thank God for the privilege of being Huckle's mother, and I humbly pray for strength and wisdom as I continue to parent him.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Day 16: Fireflies

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.

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.

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.

• 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. 

But that restful scene isn't the joy that struck me at 8:25 as I finished my Bible study: not only was the rest of the day still ahead of me, but by 8:25 I had already learned something significant, something that changed the way I think.

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"

Here's what I learned: the expression "the apple of my eye" refers to the pupil of the eye. I never thought of that! It gives me so much to think about, so much that I will mull over this morning as I go about my responsibilities. Here are some beginnings to thoughts.

• 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.

What a joy to have a fresh perspective on an old saying so crusted over with cliche that it's origins and full meaning have been lost to me. I'll be mulling this over all day.

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.

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.