The Chambered Nautilus

Rare State

2012-01-13T09:45:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning at four. The faint light that made its way through our curtained windows was blue, but the house was dark. Fumbling my way through the house, down the stairs and through the hallways I found my computer. Its light blinked bright and I squinted. Would we have school today? All evening we had wondered as the forecasts of snow came. The snow fell first in a blinding fury and then lightly as if teasing.

I scrolled down the list to see if our county would be posted. Unashamedly I say I wanted our name to be on the list. A four day weekend would be mine if it were there. Nothing. Our name was not on the list. I went back to bed to await the 5:30 am alarm.

An hour and a half later I woke to my alarm. I knew I couldn’t hit the snooze this morning. My husband rose up and opened his computer. The screen light lit up our dark room and he scrolled down the pages once more. And our county’s name was on the list. An hour and half later it had been inserted in alphabetical order and we had a reprieve. I asked twice for confirmation. And then I scooted down into the covers and curled up and fell back asleep. Almost three hours later I woke.

I am still in my pajamas. My husband braved the cold and the roads and went to the store to purchase ingredients for his wonderful omelettes. And they didn’t disappoint—filled with ham and peppers and onions. That’s a treat from my normal yogurt and granola breakfast.

And now we are on our recliner couch reading and listening to the wind rattle against the windows. On their pillows the dogs lie at our feet curled in tight balls and snoring. And once again I listen to the sounds of a quietly working household: drawers opening, dryer rotating, and shower running. Outside the snow is swirling and the light is still blue, and I am at ease.

This is a rare state for me. Usually I am plowing forward with my mental list scrolling. Or I am moving from room to room attempting to create some kind of order even if it is only order I can detect. But this morning I am still.

I have been reading Madeleine L’Engle’s Crosswicks Journals. I am in the middle of the third one; there are four. I keep telling myself to slow down, read snippets and small sections, and savor. But her words and thoughts pull me along, beckoning me. And her words press in on my heart and I find that with the pressure comes out prayer. Sentence prayers. I will read a paragraph and before I even think what I am doing I am asking God to move in me. And there is this spontaneous blessing that just pours out to Him.

And isn’t this what good writing, a good story or a deep recollection should do? Would Madeleine be pleased that her words brought me to a place of blessing? a place of prayer?

Words she wrote thirty-five years ago remain relevant because they were infused with truth. Truth always remains relevant. And if the Spirit has been present during the writing, he will again be present in the reading. And through this series of books He has been very present.

The last six months have been a dry season. A season of schedule survival--simply attempting to survive my twenty-four cycle by paring down to what do I do next? What can I do to get to the next thing? And in the midst of this kind of daily survival you grow lean and edgy. Hungry.

I have been asking God to meet me in the midst of this. There seems to be no remedy for the scheduling right now. Very few options of adjustment, removal or rotation. But God is not limited by our options. He is not bound by the schedule we have enforced on ourselves. And I knew that if I asked to see Him in the midst of this taxing season He would show himself.

And show himself he has. Through words decades old. Through an author who is now with Him. Through a woman I admire. Through a spiritual mentor I have never met. And God knew. He knew what and who could speak to me in this season. He knew I would need a circle of quiet in the midst of this irrational season.

My God, who cares so much about me, has used Madeleine’s words to draw me back to his Word. Through her writing I search Scripture and attempt research—digging, delving, diving.

And so on this day, lest I forget what I learned during the Christmas Season, I am being still. During this season of schedule survival I have not done a very good job of taking care of myself. I have neglected what softens and shores me. Abandoned what anchors and connects me.

Now it is 12:30. I am still in my pajamas. I am pressed against my husband’s solid and warm side. Books strewn on the couch around me. Journal waiting. And I am at rest. The fury with which I usually meet a day has been tamed. The frenetic pace of my morning routine has slowed and I can hear my own heartbeat.

This morning has been a gift.

The Crosswicks Journal—four volumes

A Circle of Quiet

The Summer of the Great-grandmother

The Irrational Season

The Two-Part Invention

Madeleine L’Engle

Lest We Forget, Part 1--Day 13

2011-12-28T05:17:00.000-08:00

Once again I am in the quiet of the morning. I hear the furnace as it works to send heat through long and winding ducts to the rest of the house. I hear a bird on the back deck and I wonder what it is still doing here during winter. And I remember we have not had cold yet. Frigidness and snow have not yet arrived here—never coming for Christmas.

I sit in our back room—the catch-all, junk room of the house. I have a corner carved out among the clean towels and clothes that have yet to be folded. I hear the clocks ticking and the dogs are restless in their crates. Everyone else is still asleep.

My God keeps bringing me to these quiet places of the morning. He has tucked me away in this little corner because he wants me to breathe and to be still with him again.

Stillness is not a one time event—it is a way of life that many of us are quite reluctant to embrace. We are a production-oriented people. We want product and evidence of our busyness and toil. And the product and evidence of stillness is not readily seen. Its affects are not always immediately visible.

Christmas is over.

The anticipated, dreaded, loved, embraced and shunned holiday has passed us by on the calendar.

I wonder in the days after Jesus’ birth did Mary experience post-partum depression. Did she struggle in the dankness of the cave stable with her emotions and moods? Did she look around and second guess all that she had experienced in the past nine months? Did she look at the baby she held in her arms and wonder at his ordinariness? In those few days after the shepherds when she was alone, while Joseph was out looking for lodging, did she cry? Did the emotional weight of her experiences overwhelm her?

Isn’t Christmas like that? We work and work toward this season—planning, preparing and purchasing. We await this incredible day and then it is gone. It dissipates and we are left with these vague, shadowy memories.

Did Mary attempt to remember the exact words of Gabriel? Had he given her instructions for these days afterward? Did she try to remember the lines of the worn faces of the shepherds? Did she look at the donkey and replay the journey? Scripture tells us that she treasured and pondered all the events and things said in her heart. She mulled them. For the days from Jesus’ birth until his dedication at the temple she held all these things close to her heart lest she forget.

And that’s what I am doing this week. This Christmas there were some extraordinarily beautiful moments for me. Moments I don’t want to loose or fade, and so I am pondering and treasuring them.

Lest I forget.

A Gift for You--Day 12

2011-12-21T04:45:00.000-08:00

Psalm 131:2; Matthew 7:11

After a semester of getting up at 5:15 am every day of the week you would think that during the break I would be able to sleep far past that time. Internal time clocks are very hard to reset.

I woke this morning and my mind was already at half throttle before my eyes even opened. I fumbled for my phone and the bright screen showed me that it was 5:41 am. I pushed down into the covers and against the warm wall of my sleeping husband and was determined to go back to sleep. The gears, however, were already in motion.

Here I am in the kitchen. Mechanically the house is not quiet. The washer is spinning, the dryer is whirring and the bread machine is rotating. My mind is acclimating quite well to the rhythm.

Last night I went to bed and realized I had gone almost the whole day and failed to have any kind of conversation with my Father. Interestingly I didn’t feel condemned. I felt deprived. My whirlwind actions and schedule of the day had taken their toll. My lists, my schedule, my worries, my agenda and my plans had occupied my mind the entire day. Much was left undone and untouched even with my preoccupation.

Stillness is a hard place for me to reach. Often I can get my body still even planted in one place for longer than ten minutes. My mind will slow, but rarely will it shut off. It is triggered by even the most random pieces of information—flitting from subject to task at a dizzying speed.

This morning when the numbers on my phone said 6:00 am the Spirit said to me, “Get up.”

Get up? I have a long (but fun) day ahead of me. Shouldn’t I sleep a little longer? Shouldn’t I attempt to rest for a couple more hours? Shouldn’t I try to relax?

Get up, Tamera.

See, it’s Christmas. And I have been very busy trying to get everyone’s gifts and packages ready. I have been preoccupied with Wow gifts for others. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do?

This morning my Father had a gift for me to open.

I am like an adult child. I have had too much sugar, too much caffeine and too much stimulation. I am overloaded.

He wanted to still me. To settle me. To calm me.

He didn’t throw a wrench in my turning gears. He was not interested in giving me whiplash. He didn’t throw cold water in my face. He didn’t scold or yell at me. He didn’t threaten to return my gifts and he didn’t make me feel guilty.

Gently he woke me. Shaking my shoulder ever so slightly and speaking my name.

Get up, my child. I have something for you. Get up so I can give it to you this morning.

Here I sit in the quiet. The bread machine, washer and dryer have stopped. The house is very still. I am sitting at my kitchen table and then I hear it.

The rain against the window pane. Pattering against the glass. I wouldn’t have heard it upstairs. I wouldn’t have heard it in my bed; the sound would have been too muted. I don’t like rain in the winter, but this morning there is something so soothing about the sound. The rain is tapping down the dust that has been stirred up in the past couple of days of my fevered activity.

And I am still.

The rush of my thoughts has slowed. The thread of panic is dissipating.

With the psalmist of 131 the Father has stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me.

How many times have I held my precious daughters close to me—caught them up in my lap and held them close in the circle of my arms in an attempt to still them? How I savored the feeling of their coiled, energetic little bodies settling, going limp and their weight draping in my arms.

And if I, though I am evil, know how to give good gifts to my children, how much more will my Father in heaven give good gifts to me when I ask?

This morning my Father woke me (there are times that it is good to wake a sleeping child) so that I could climb up in his lap and sink into him. This morning he has wrapped his arms around me—it’s the first chance I have given him to do so all week.

I wonder if in the early hours of the morning Jesus stirred in the manger. Did the Spirit whisper to her, “Get up, Mary.”

Did Mary wake from her slumber and pick Jesus up and pull him close to her? In the stillness and quiet did she recognize who she held? Did she swaddle his little limbs close and tight so he wouldn’t flail and startle? Did she tuck him tight to her breast and soothe him with whispered words? Did she rock and sway him in the dim light of the animal stall?

This Christmas our Father wants to hold us. In this season when our arms flail, our limbs startle and our minds jerk he wants to give us peace. He wants to soothe our agitated hearts. He wants to calm our irritated spirits.

His gift to me this morning was his presence.

He wants to give the same gift to you.

Wow--Day 11

2011-12-20T06:45:00.000-08:00

Christmas is an incredible time of the year for me. Often it seems I save up most of my creative energies for this month. More art leaves my paper and hands and becomes reality during this season than at any other time of the year.

Every year I try to find or create wow gifts for my daughters. I search for something that is uniquely them-hopefully an heirloom gift that will be passed down to grandchildren--treasures of our family. One year we gave our first born a refurbished 35 mm camera (her father's). We gave our second daughter her first guitar, and our third her first month of private ballet lessons and our youngest was given spy gear.

Wow gifts. The elation on their faces was priceless.

Incredibly all of these gifts have blessed us a hundred times over in return. Our families and close friends have been blessed by the fruits of these gifts. We have been stunned by black and white photography, soothed by the strum of the guitar, awed by many dance recitals and followed by motion detectors.

My daughters are all older now. The atmosphere of Christmas has changed in subtle ways, but there are still lists and plans on my work table. And even this morning I have been adjusting--trying to find the wow. I am still looking for something that will bless the very heart of them. There's only been a few Christmases that have truly been Wow years, but that doesn't mean I don't try every year.

I have a gift I have been working for over three years now. A gift for one of my dearest friends. I have researched, planned, sketched, searched, and gathered. This gift has been created in stages. This gift began as a simple plan on a page in my art journal. Someday it will be in her hands. The tangible reality on my art table does not yet match the plans I sketched. When my art (sculpting or writing) comes close to the vision I have inside my head I am elated. Rarely ever does the reality match my ideal vision. There are times, however, I get close; I am dumbfounded when it happens.

Is this a minute fraction of how the Most High felt two thousand years ago? He had been planning his WOW gift since the foundations of the world. God had recorded the details in his book--obscure and impossible details only He could bring to reality.

God didn't just get close. His vision and reality were the same.

His Son was just as he envisioned; he was an exact likeness of his Father. Every detail, every particular was present in Jesus. God must have been so thrilled the night of Jesus' birth. When Jesus was placed in Mary's arms God must have shouted. Heaven must have vibrated with the intensity of the Most High's joy.

When I plan my gifts I am always adjusting, contemplating, and revising my plans in order to create something that speaks of my love and admiration for the recipients. If this is how an earthly mother and friend feels and considers gifts, then we can only begin to imagine the depth of God's gift for us.

Understand this: God never had to adjust or revise his plans in order to give something that told us of his love. He sent Jesus who is exact representation of himself. Oh, how glad we should be that God's vision is his reality. How glad we should be that at the foundations of the world he was thinking of us.

Wow gifts are not frivolous. They are not random, haphazard, obligatory purchases bought on bored or frustrated whims. God didn't send Jesus randomly. He did not send him because he felt obligated. He sent Jesus because he loved us.

And that is the definition of a real Christmas gift.

Christmas Hope--Day 10

2011-12-16T06:49:00.000-08:00

Lots of my students bring me wonderful presents during this season—there are several packages on my desk right now. Chocolate, ornaments and home-baked cookies. All of them wrapped brightly and given with hugs. But this week an extraordinary present came and I wasn’t expecting it. Not at all.

First, the back-story.

A couple of weeks ago a horrible accident happened to one of our precious teachers on staff where I teach. She is a beautiful, eccentric practical teacher who teaches a whole lot more than art. And I admire her; I am inspired rather than intimidated by her giftedness. She is a strong, strong woman.

She was in a car accident. A truck came through an intersection and slammed into the side of her car (the car is totaled). Both air bags deployed and her right arm was caught between an airbag and the steering wheel. Her arm was crumpled like tissue paper. Four days later she had to have surgery. The surgeon literally had to piece her arm back together like a puzzle. She has missed the last half of this term. And the students miss her.

Now at the busiest and most stressful time of the year she is without the use of her arm. An artist without her right arm. But she is a strong, strong woman.

Her daughter is in one of my classes. We will call her H. She is truly beautiful, wildly eclectic and quite flamboyant. H. is one of the delights of my day. But one day this week she arrived in class and it was obvious that this was not a good day. Her usual bright eyes and smile were dimmed. Her body language spoke volumes.
When we asked what was wrong she began to tell us that this was just a hard season and this was her mother’s birthday and she didn’t want her mother to be alone on her birthday.

That’s when it happened. The Christmas present came—all wrapped in plain brown paper. No jingle bells. No bows. No frills. One of the other students got up went around the table and sat down by H. and wrapped his arm around her.
The room went quiet. And there was a hushed expectancy.

I looked at the young man and then raised my hands to grasp the student’s next to me. Immediately the students circled for prayer. I looked at the young man who initiated and told him to begin and I would end and anyone could pray between us.

The students prayed—some aloud. Sincere and raw. And the tears seeped between my eyelashes.

Afterwards we called Mrs. M. H. put her on speaker phone and the whole class sang Happy Birthday. Incredibly, wondrously off-key and loud. I sat in my seat and watched the faces of these students and my heart swelled. (This is the same class from my post On Pause—see archives). We hung up the phone and then I explained I was going that afternoon to get a gift for Mrs. M. and if any one would like to contribute I would put it with some from another class. Not a word was said. But purses and billfolds began to open. Quietly. No fanfare. One student even dug a pile of change from his pockets and dumped it in my hands. In the course of about three minutes a whole lot of money accumulated.

And that afternoon we took a gift to Mrs. M.

This was Christmas.

Those moments in that class, from the time of the evident hurt and worry of H. to the student moving to her side, to prayer, to the generous outpouring of quarters and dollars, was Christmas.

And I looked around the room and saw hope. There is hope for this world as long as there are young people like these.

As long as there are young men and women who see hurt and woundedness, who move to comfort, who pray and then move to action then there is hope.

Advent--Day 9

2011-12-14T20:37:00.000-08:00

This week something in Luke's account of the Christmas story surprised me. Luke explains that he has carefully investigated everything from the beginning, and then he begins his account with John the Baptist. He doesn't begin with Gabriel's message to Mary, but with Gabriel's message to Zechariah.

Elizabeth and Zechariah are childless--barren and beyond the age and ability of conception. They have given up hope. To be barren in their culture was a disgrace. Why were they barren? Why had children been denied to them? They were of priestly lines and were upright in the sight of God. They followed the rules, the regulations; they kept God's commandments. And yet the line of Zechariah was about to disappear because there was no son.

How often did Elizabeth mourn? How often did she look at other young women's rounded bellies and nursing babies and chubby toddlers with an ache so large in her throat she thought she would choke? How often had Zechariah questioned his devotion to the Most High as each month, each year brought no children? Their longings and sighings were not hidden from God (Psalm 38:9). He heard them. Zechariah and Elizabeth couldn't see what God had planned for them.

Zechariah went to the temple for his priestly service. This was not an annual event. It is possible (because of the size of the priestly clans) that this was the only time he had to report to the temple for this type of duty. He was chosen by lot. Someone threw the dice and he was chosen. Proverbs 16:33 says, The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord. This was no coincidence that Zechariah was chosen. The decision came from the Lord, and his orchestration was on the move.

Gabriel announced that Zechariah and Elizabeth would have a child. Zechariah's old doubt and loss of hope caused him to question the validity of the angel's message. He would now be mute until the child was born.

Elizabeth conceived and was child. They didn't need an ultrasound--they would have a baby boy and name him John. Elizabeth secluded herself (I think to enjoy this incredible, impossible miracle).

Then she had an unexpected visitor. Her younger cousin Mary arrived in her courtyard. And John, within the walls of his mother's womb, recognized Jesus and leaped for joy. The cousins are connected before they are ever born.

John arrived. Zechariah holds this longed-for child-a son given in his old age. Did he feel a bit like Abraham? There must have been tears in his cloudy eyes, and his hands trembled. Awe filled and renewed his spirit.

And then he talked to his son. Old Zechariah prophesied in the power and filling of the Holy Spirit. He declared that John will be a prophet of the Most High, and he will give his people the knowledge of salvation.

John was sent by God to.pave and prepare the way for his Son. John and Jesus' lives ran parallel and then converged when Jesus began his public ministry at his baptism. John was sent to prepare the way. John laid the groundwork, staked out the building lines. John was the one shouting in the wilderness.

John is Advent. John came as a prophet of the Most High preparing the way for Jesus, the Son of the Most High (Luke 1 :32). John came explaining and giving others the knowledge of salvation and the hope of forgiveness for their sins. Jesus is the fulfillment of John's message.

God made Zechariah and Elizabeth wait. They were being prepared in the wings. Carefully he heard and held their longings and sighings until the fullness of time. They didn't know his plan included John. I believe their waiting was rewarded and their longings completely satisfied.

During this Advent may the sweet spirit of John come and prepare us for Jesus.

Conception--Day 8

2011-12-13T07:11:00.000-08:00

Matthew 1:20-21; Psalm 139:11-18

A couple of weeks ago my husband was speaking in church, and he read a passage I have read so many times that I am far too familiar with it. Once you have read something several times you start to think you know what it says. And that is dangerous. .

As he read the words of Matthew 1:20-21 a new phrase was highlighted for me. I was hearing it for the first time, and it was dangerous for me. I knew it was a phrase the Spirit would use to change me.
Matthew 1:20b Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.

Now, the angel was referring to Jesus—the Incarnate God. The angel was assuring Joseph that Mary had not been unfaithful and had not broken her vows. This manifestation Joseph saw in Mary had not been conceived by the natural ways of man and woman, but the Seed in her had been conceived by the Holy Spirit of God.

This phrase has become my prayer in recent weeks. These ten words have become the underlying whisper in the hidden places of me—the spaces I allow no one else to see.

Heavenly Father,

My spirit has been dark and low in recent days. The thoughts and attitudes that well up in me are not of you. They are not conceived in you because they are not the attitude of Jesus. They are self-absorbed and narcissistic. They are petty, hard pebbles of resentment. My attitude is laced with a deceptive coat of self-pity. I don’t like what is manifesting in me.

Come now, O Holy Spirit. Conceive in me those things that are of the attitude of Jesus. Let what is birthed in the hidden places of my heart be pleasing to you. Knit together those things in the womb of me that when you bring them into the light you will be pleased. Meet me in my inmost places and weave your Son's attitude into the weft and warp of me.
I want the meditations of my heart conceived by your Spirit. If the centering of my heart is to be like Jesus—to give up the equality and rights I so demand, to set aside my personal ego, to shun accolades and shake off criticism—then the Spirit must conceive these in me. I am not capable of doing so.

And, Father, if the Spirit conceives the words, thoughts, attitudes of my heart then the words of my mouth will be honey and bread to those who hear me.

And then, only then, will Christmas be conceived in me.

Revolutions-Day 7

2011-12-11T05:30:00.000-08:00

Christmas has been a very slow start for me this year. My tree is still not in my living room. The boxes marked Christmas are still in the garage. My mantle looks the same as any other season of the year. My Pandora Michael Buble Christmas station has yet to play. Only one present has been bought. My creative energy seems to be dormant, and nothing seems to have ignited it yet. I have put off all the traditional elements of the season and turned a blind eye to them.

Every year I struggle during and with the Christmas season: the stress, the expectations, the disappointments, the budget and the schedules take their toll. Struggle might be an understated description.

But this week a shift came in the bend of my attitude. The Spirit brought the shift at the most unexpected time and in the most unexpected place.

This week I was teaching and glanced up at the window of my classroom. Snow was whirling across the field next to us. Blowing at an angle were large white flakes swirling against the background of a weathered barn. Horses and llamas bent their heads against the snow and I bent mine towards it. I stopped teaching and just sat and stared out the window. I know my students thought Mrs. R. was having one of her squirrel moments, but I was unaware. Somehow the silence of that whirling snow penetrated through the concrete walls of the school and settled on me. The real Spirit of Christmas began to push past the crusted exterior of my heart. What an unexpected place for Christmas to call on me.

This week I spoke for a local church’s Christmas Tea. In the middle of sharing and gazing into these women’s dear faces the Spirit whispered to me. In my own message, the one I had attempted to craft out of the Word that had been hidden in my heart for the longest time, I heard His message in my own ear. For a brief moment I forgot where I was because all I could hear was what he was saying to me. And Christmas met me at the most unexpected time.

I shifted one more turn towards Christmas.

Christmas is a holy day. It is the season of celebration for the miraculous, unexpected Incarnation of the I AM.

Christmas is about the manifestation of Immanuel.

During this season we celebrate the Incarnation of God. God sent his only Son to put on the work clothes of flesh. He entered our world, pierced through the thin veil between the holiness of his Father and the profanity of us. God allowed himself to become dirt and he played with us in the mud puddles and got grimy and dirt-streaked in the fields.

He became us.

He didn’t come to be like us. This statement implies a simile. No, he became one of us.

He laid aside the raiment of his Deity. He set aside his status as the Holy One of heaven. He tucked his crown away and hung up his heavenly mantle in order to pitch his tent here among us. He came to become the Bridegroom and take away our shame and disgrace. He came to dress us in bridal clothes. He came to reconcile us to the Father.

Christmas is not just about the Baby in the manger. If we limit Christmas to this one facet then we have missed the purpose. The purpose is about how God Almighty, through Jesus, became Immanuel.

Come, Holy Spirit! Meet me in unexpected places and speak to me at unexpected times. Shift me again. Shift me until I have made the full revolution to where you want me to be this season.

Orchestration--Day 6

2011-12-09T03:25:00.000-08:00

Several years ago my youngest daughter rode with me to do some errands. As we pulled out of a parking lot she asked me to do something. She knew the story of Jesus' birth, but she wanted to hear more, and she wanted me to tell her.

I began with the familiar lines of Luke, and I realized as I looked into her intense little face she wanted more. She joins me in her love of history and detail, and so I talked to her about the incredible orchestration of God.

When we hear these famous, familiar words of Luke and Matthew we tend to see everything in one long scene. Events and days are fast-forwarded or put in slow motion depending on our emphasis. I found my emphasis changing as I talked with her.

After Gabriel's message to Mary and during her visit to Elizabeth, Caesar Augustus was making the decision to take a census of the world the Roman Empire ruled. What was the purpose of sending everyone to their own towns? What reason did Augustus have to command everyone to return to their own city? Did he want the great Roman roads to be used; was he trying to boost the economy? For whatever reason, he sends riders across his domain to inform everyone to register. Little did he know that in his self-absorbed, power-hungry, inconvenient decree was used by the Most High to help fulfill a prophecy given by a Hebrew prophet hundreds of years before (Micah 5:2). The Messiah of the Jews (and the world) would be born in Bethlehem.

When Mary returns home to tell Joseph her news, magi from the east are studying a strange occurrence in the night sky. They had been watching this star for almost two years. They convene, discuss, plan, and pack their caravan for a long journey that most likely will cover over a thousand miles. Caravan camels can travel fifteen to twenty miles a day, and so this journey will require at least two months travel time. Beginning their sojourn across continents, the magi proceed in accordance with the star's coordinates.

I can see the camels plodding along during the day, the magi swaying on their backs. But at night around the fire scrolls would unroll, and instruments would be drawn from their leather packs. The magi would measure, note, calculate, and collaborate to assure their direction and destination. Educated and immersed in the mystical and celestial this group was quite baffled by this new phenomena in the sky. They set out to find a king who had not yet been born. The Most High assures their routes

The orchestration of God was building. He was directing and moving everything and everyone into their proper places for the birth of his Son. Nothing is beyond his reach or his ability to control.

As I explained all of this to my daughter I could see the amazement in her face. I think the story of Jesus' birth changed for her yesterday.

I changed in the telling.

The wings of this stage that we have been discussing reach far and wide. There is a depth and breadth in them that I just can't quite comprehend. The orchestration of God astounds me.

Even now, I wonder what pieces of the orchestration of my life is he moving? What events and people are being set into place so that his plan will be fulfilled? What role do I play in others' lives? When the Spirit asks me do do something, to call someone, to write someone, to talk with someone what is the Almighty setting in motion?

May God teach us to trust his orchestration. May God show and lead us to the people who want to hear more. And may he give us the courage and the wisdom to tell the story and be changed.

Mary Kneeling--Day 5

2011-12-07T19:48:00.000-08:00

I got up early this morning in order to post today's devotion (written last night), and it is nowhere to be found. I searched and searched. I must begin again.

Quiet is here this morning. As I begin to write it is still dark outside. And the hum of the house in slumber is soothing to me. The tree is twinkling beside me and the Nativity is above me on my computer desk. When I look up I see Mary's face and hands haloed in the bulb's amber light. My little, ceramic Mary snares my attention. Only her face and Jesus' is illuminated by the light. She is kneeling with her hands in prayer. Her face is shadowed by the heavy white veil the sculptor carved around her head.

I am moved. A question forms in my head. It's a question I am almost afraid to ask.

Did Mary kneel?

In the close space of the earthen stable did she kneel before the son she had just labored and toiled to bring into this world? As a mother I connect with Mary. Did she count Jesus' toes and fingers? Did she rub his new little ears and brush her finger across his tiny lips? Did she take him from his manger-bed even when he was sleeping just to nuzzle him into the crevice of her neck? Did she breathe in the scent only babies have and sigh? Was she startled when he cried hungrily? When his little arms and legs flailed did she wrap him tighter in his swaddling clothes to make him feel secure?

And while doing this, did it register fully in her mind who this baby was? In theory Mary knew who Jesus was. She knew what and who he was destined to be. She had been told that her son would be given the throne of David. Yet, when she looked down in his tiny face did she wonder how this ordinary little boy could be the long-awaited Messiah? She understood the theory, but could she get her arms around the reality that her son was to be the savior ofIsrael? This little being she held cradled to her breasts held the salvation of the world within him, and yet he seemed so beautifully ordinary.

Twenty-three years ago I held my first born daughter, and I thought she was anything but ordinary. In my mind she was a perfect miracle. My very first thought was that she looked exactly like her father (still does in a very feminine way). As Mary tried to determine whose features Jesus had did she wonder if he looked exactly like his Father? How extraordinary this ordinary moment must have become. This is the answer to my hesitantly asked question. Overwhelmed by the enormity and immensity of the child she was beholding I think she knelt.

As we continue in this holy season may we ask ourselves two questions: are we kneeling and do we look like our Father?

A Bent Heart--Day 4

2011-12-06T21:21:00.000-08:00

I Samuel 16:7; Luke 1 :38

My mind has been on Mary today. In the last couple of years there has been so much material written concerning the women of Jesus' life. Novels, extra gospels, essays, and movies have attempted to undermine what happened so many years ago in Bethlehem and beyond. Everyone wants to have a say in who Mary was and who she was not. We either make her an untouchable saint or just another unwed, pregnant teenager. We seem to be unable to find the reality of Mary.

I am forever amazed at the wonderfully ridiculous choices of God. There seemed to be so many ridiculous choices during the holy season: a virgin being with child, angels singing to shepherds out on the hills, a stable for a birthing center, wise men coming from the east following a star. God's choices are not determined by the same reasoning as ours.

I think of Samuel going to Jesse's boys to anoint the next king of Israel. Samuel thinks each strapping young man that appears before him must be God's choice. And God shakes his head. Samuel runs out of obvious choices and asks Jesse if there are anymore sons. They send for David. He arrives and stands before Samuel, and God nods his head.

I think Samuel was slightly dumbfounded at God's ridiculous choice. But remember yesterday's thoughts about the wings of the stage. God had been preparing David in the fields, in the unseen wings of the pastures with the sheep. Eventually this ridiculous choice, this young shepherd-poet, would become the greatest and most remembered king of Israel.

David was not chosen because of his ruddy handsomeness. He was not chosen because he was the greatest warrior or the oldest son. He was not chosen for his military prowess or his strength and skill with a sword (though He was and could do many of these things) No, David was chosen because of the condition and tenderness of his heart. His heart was bent toward the Lord.

Many have wondered about God's choice of Mary. Why her? Seems like another ridiculous choice. Why not a princess? Why not a wealthy woman? We must understand God Almighty does not look at the outward circumstantial appearances. His choices are not determined by what humankind can measure and see and comprehend. He does not choose who or what seems obvious. God, in his infinite wisdom, reaches beyond our comprehension and chooses the ordinary so that He can make it extraordinary. He chooses the ordinary so we might understand that he will use the willing vessel. He will choose and use the life that is tender and obedient to him. Doesn't matter how ridiculous this choice might seem to our human reason.

Mary wasn't chosen because she was beautiful, wealthy, or from the right political family. Mary was chosen because of the condition and tenderness of her heart. Mary had been prepared in the wings of Nazareth. And when Gabriel arrives with his astounding revelation we see Mary's heart. She tells Gabriel who she is. She is the Lord's servant, and she wants everything (including her own condition) to be as God has ordained. This is the true reality of Mary.

Mary's reality challenges me. I can follow Mary's example. When I read her words in Luke there is a resonating hum in my heart. Just like me she seems to be quite ordinary. She is God's wonderfully ridiculous choice. Mary gives me great hope. The condition of her heart is attainable.

What seems like a ridiculous choice in your life at this moment? What is God asking you to do that seems way out in the left field? way out in the boondocks of Nazareth? far from the obvious? Remember not everything is as it seems. Appearances are not always the reality.

He is looking for a willing, tender heart bent toward him.

The Wings--Day 3

2011-12-04T19:28:00.000-08:00

Christmas Devotions

As I have considered and pondered the third December devotion, I wondered if there was any possible way I could write twenty-two more thoughts about Christmas. Who am I to think I could possibly shed a new light on this great event? There is no new light. I am called to shine the same light as those of long ago.

Mary grew greater with child; and as she did she and Joseph continued their life in Nazareth. After the whispers concerning Mary and Joseph died down, the couple blended into the fabric of the village. The tiny town was not aware of who was in their midst. Villagers living in Bethlehem were oblivious to the fact that God would enter the portal of humanity in one of their animal shelters. They had no idea that the birth of an unknown baby would change the course of history. While Jesus was entering the world Bethlehem continued to endure the overflow from the census. Bethlehem's inhabitants did not understand that they were center stage.

Today I have been thinking about the wings of the stage. What was happening that could not be seen? Where were Peter and Andrew while Jesus was being formed in Mary's womb? Were they toddlers? Was Simon Peter forever running out the door when his mother opened it? Did Andrew get tangled in his father's nets? Where were James and John? Were they thundering through their mother's kitchen? Was John even a thought in his mother's mind? Where was Mary Magdalene? Where was Martha? Stephen? And where was Paul? They were in the wings—behind the heavy curtains.

Often others ask why don't we know more about these people? Why do we only see a few brief shining moments of their lives? We must remember that they came from the wings. Their stories began there and will continue there long after they leave the stage.

God is telling his story. Whether the world understands and acknowledges the fact or not (just like Nazareth and Bethlehem) this is God Almighty's story. And we are a part of it.

Mary, Joseph, Gabriel, the shepherds, the wise men, the inn keeper, and. Herod flared hotly on center stage for a brief time. Each one is like the flaring of an ember—red hot and then absorbed in the greater fire. And in the wings God was preparing others for the next act. Life and activity and orchestration go on in the wings even while the performance is happening on the stage. Often the audience has no idea of the drama that unfolds behind the heavy curtains.

The only one who will forever remain center-stage is Jesus. Two thousand years have passed and people are still considering him. They are still watching, studying, and critiquing his performance. They are still examining his program. His story is still being told. And we are all still a part of it. Don't doubt this fact just because you are in the wings.

Preparation and maturation happens in the wings. Joseph was righteous before God placed him on the stage. Mary was pure and believed the impossible before God made her the vessel where he formed his Son.

I want to watch the center stage of history. There are incredible people and events there to consider and behold. But I want to be very aware that God is at work in the wings. Scripture says that God sent Jesus into this world in the fullness of time. Time did not just mean center stage. God was also orchestrating the activity in the wings to fulfill every purpose he had planned.

Will my story ever be center stage? I used to long and yearn for that moment when I stepped from the wings into the light. More often now I simply want the ember of my story to become a part of the greater fire.

A Righteous Man--Day 2

2011-12-03T20:11:00.000-08:00

Matthew 1: 18-20, 24

The Nativity Story was released a few years ago. The story that so many of us have held so precious and dear played in theaters across the country during the 2006 Christmas season. I had not been aware that Hollywood would attempt to tell the story of Jesus' birth. I watched the trailer and viewed the book release of the still photos. I was enthralled. The authenticity of the historical setting overwhelmed me. But I asked would they get it right? Will these people I hold so dear to my heart be portrayed as who they really were? In 2006 I wanted to go see this movie and I was full of anticipation and trepidation.

I was most eager to see Joseph in the film—I have thought so much about him in recent days. While reading the first chapter of Matthew I kept returning to one verse over and over. Matthew says that "Because Joseph her husband was a righteous man and did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he has in mind to divorce her quietly ...”

Mary and Joseph were betrothed. They had taken vows. Binding vows. Mary makes a seemingly spontaneous decision to visit an older cousin in the hill country. Days turn to weeks and weeks to months. Joseph's betrothed returns from visiting Elizabeth. She comes with news for Joseph. She is with child. Joseph knows the child is not his. Decisions are imminent.

According to the law Joseph could divorce Mary. He could send her away in disgrace and shame. Actually a stoning would not have been completely frowned upon. Harsh. Yet most of his family and friends would have supported Joseph in this choice. He was the wronged one. He had the right to divorce Mary and find a more suitable wife.

But Matthew tells us that Joseph was a righteous man. And there are implications in the very fiber of that word. We expect something different from Joseph because of this description. And so we see him making a good choice. He chooses to divorce Mary quietly because he didn't want to expose her to public disgrace. This seems to be the good decision. A good plan.

God Almighty had another plan. This plan had been in place since the foundations of the world. Joseph was chosen by God, and God did not want his choice rearranged. God didn't want Joseph to make a good choice. God wanted Joseph to make the right choice. And so once again God Almighty sends a messenger with information to enable Joseph to make the right choice. And in a dream the angel says with great clarity: marry Mary.

Joseph is startled from his dream. He contemplates no longer. He obeys. In spite of her rounding abdomen Mary becomes the wife of Joseph of Nazareth. Joseph understood. This righteous man made the right choice.

A righteous man makes a godly decision. Precious Joseph made a hard choice, but it was God's choice.

Joseph didn't just appear to be a righteous man, he acted like one.

When I sat in the darkened theater and watched The Nativity Story I was hoping that somehow Hollywood would have noticed the difference in this man named Joseph. Would he be portrayed as a righteous man?

Sometimes we will be faced with a situation, and we will need to make a choice. We must stop and not be persuaded until we know God's choice. Will he send us an angel? I am not sure.

I want to be like Joseph. When faced with hard choices I want to have the courage to choose rightly. I want to have the wisdom to choose between good and godly. And that is part of the message of this holy season. God calls us beyond good decisions. He calls us to a righteousness that goes far beyond appearances.

Christmas Devotions 2011

2011-12-03T07:03:00.000-08:00

(I wrote these devotions in 2006. I sent them to various friends via email, but thought they would be a good addition to The Chambered Nautilus blogspot.)

December 1

Luke 1:13, 19, 30

Wal-mart has a countdown—three shopping Saturdays left until Christmas. I see this sign every time I walk through the store's entrance. At first the sign annoyed and frustrated me. It represented everything I do not like about this holiday season: panic, chaos, obligatory buying, rush, pressure, and disappointment. Tonight the sign looked different. It caused me to observe, examine, and reevaluate my attitude and traditional approach to this holy season.

Did heaven count down to the revelation and birth of Jesus? Did the heavenly host eagerly anticipate the day that the Holy of Holies would step into history and become one of us? Did they have the eternal time tagged of when the Creator of the universe would stoop low and enter through the door of humanity?

I wonder if Gabriel had the calendar marked? He was summoned into the presence of God, and there he was given a message of good news. The Holy One of Heaven whispered to Gabriel to announce that God was coming. Tell them I will live among my people. And in the fullness of time Gabriel pierced through the veils of heaven to the earth with the message.

Gabriel's message is for us also. Even now the good news he was commissioned to carry extends to us. Gabriel stands before us in this holy season and says, "Don't be afraid. Your prayers have been answered. Don't be afraid, you have found favor with God. Don't be afraid any longer; God With Us is coming to you."

Today may we be pierced by his message. May it change our approach to this Christmas season. Immanuel has come and is coming. We don't have to count down the days anymore. There is no need for panic. Breathe. Slow the rush—allow time to crawl. Cast off the pressure and the disappointment the world inflates.

Friends, He has arrived! Immanuel is present among us.

This is our good news: there are no more Saturdays.

O come, 0 come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.*

*Traditional Christmas Hymn
John Mason Neale

Climbing Trees

2011-11-27T16:47:00.000-08:00

Lately I have been too reserved in my relationship with my Father. Too preoccupied. Too busy. Too negligent. And the Spirit in all his gentleness and persistence has been nudging me.

And the urgency and frequency of the nudging has increased.

I was sitting in church almost a month ago. Dave, our minister, was talking about having a balanced life. Something caught my attention so much that I wrote it on the edge of my bulletin so I wouldn’t forget.

But I did forget. I did.

But the Spirit is persistent. When He wants you to remember, when there is something for you to glean, to learn, to store he will continually bring the concept back to the forefront until you recognize and acknowledge it.

I have been called to a relationship of abandon with the Father. A life of utter, unrestricted praise. And every time I try to be dignified, calm and sedate the Spirit shakes his head at me. He knows I don’t want to look foolish. I don’t want people to look at me and see me as a fanatic. I don’t want to be labeled.

But the Spirit is whispering. And he used a passage from Luke spoken through Dave’s mouth to remind me.

Jesus was traveling through Jericho. His reputation was moving before him like a wave undulating through the whispers of those who were inwardly hungry and wanting something more than the daily routine. People wanted to see the face of God. Jesus and his disciples, this close knit bunch, moved down that narrow highway—treacherous and dangerous. And the people heard he was coming. The heralds moved a few miles ahead of Jesus. They shouted and talked and gestured. The new prophet was coming. The man who had healed and raised people from the dead was passing by today.

Zacchaeus gleaned the tidbits of information. He was tired of the life he had been living. Tired of being a servant of the Roman rule, tired of being held in contempt by his Jewish brothers, tired of being stabbed with visual daggers, weary of the undercurrent of distrust and contempt when he came into town. He had stolen from these people and lined his own pockets with their money. Everyone recognized his name, but no one knew him. He was alone and isolated. Ostracized. He was hurting and no one knew. He was hungry and no one could hear his stomach growl.

The fervor increased the closer Jesus got. Zacchaeus knew he would never be able to get a glimpse of this man. Zacchaeus was too short. He couldn’t see over the shoulders of the crowd. If anything, Zacchaeus was pragmatic and resourceful. On the edge of the dusty road sycamore trees grew. Just a few. But the branches were strong and low.

Zacchaeus shrugged his dignity off like a dirty cloak. Left it laying on the edge in a pile. He girded his tunic and climbed the tree. He perched like a bird on the branches. He could see far down the road in either direction. And he waited.

He saw and heard everything. Inwardly he was thrilled to be high up off the ground and he was pleased with his vantage point.

The man and his group were almost to his tree. Zacchaeus leaned down just a little in order to hear the conversations as they passed. He held his breath so he could hear the slightest phrase.

“Zacchaeus!”

He didn't expect the shout and it startled him. For a moment he lost his balanced perch in his tree. Zacchaeus swiveled around and Jesus looked at him. Looked him directly in the eye.

“Zacchaeus, you come down. I am going to your house today.” There was no asking. Just a statement of fact. And Zacchaeus couldn’t pull his eyes away. They were locked with this man—this prophet who could see right through him. All the way through. “I am going to your house today, Zacchaeus. I want to eat with you.”

Zacchaeus slid down the branches of the tree. He barely noticed the rough scrape of the bark on his thighs or the scratches on his palms.

Jesus heard Zacchaeus’ stomach growl. He recognized the loneliness. He saw the guarded pain from being shunned for so many years. How long had it been since someone had been to Zacchaeus’ house to eat? How long since someone had broken bread with Zacchaeus the tax collector? Zacchaeus couldn’t remember.

Too long.

But, because he had climbed a tree, because he had left his pride in a heap at its base, because Jesus had arrived Zacchaeus experienced salvation. He had been restored. He had been redeemed from the ugly, futile way of life he had embraced.

The Spirit has been talking to me. Through my minister he reminded me that “we need to start climbing sometimes.” *

I need to find a sycamore tree and leave my cloaks of pride and reservations in a pile on the road. I need to reach up and wrap my arms around a fat tree branch and hoist myself up—shuffle and scoot. I have been too busy. I have been too preoccupied with image and perceptions. I need to abandon it all and climb a tree simply because I want to see Jesus.

My God hears my stomach growl. He sees my struggles with those around me. He knows the hurt and pain because I can’t get the relationships right. He understands why I can’t make sense of it all. He is very aware that I falter and fail.

He knows.

And he is waiting for me to climb the tree.

*David Scalf: minister

Christ Church

www.ccwky.org

Afternoon Prayer

2011-11-27T13:37:00.000-08:00

Hear my cries this afternoon, O God, as random and jumbled as they are.

Hear the noises of my heart that have no articulation, that have no annunciation, but just remain guttural sounds. My words trip over one another. They can’t find structure to explain the ardor coursing through me. This intensity pushes through a channel far too small for the enormity of the weight of your presence and glory.

Only you are great enough to absorb this

Hear me, O my God.

Oh, the glorious audacity to be able to call you mine. You are not just the Father of Abraham and Jacob.

You are not just the Lord of Peter and Paul. You are mine.

My God.

Hear me then. But more, let me hear you. Open and stretch the canals of my inner ear so I might hear what you are speaking to me. Talk to me and may your Spirit translate words too divine for me to comprehend.

Even at this moment the intensity overwhelms me. Do I dare to even speak it aloud?

This it is a holy unction—an anointing I don’t deserve. And yet you pour this holy lubricant on me and it seeps into who I am and transforms me. As I inhale my nostrils flare and my eyes burn. I am in a holy place now. I haven’t moved from my seat, but I am in the midst of the sacred. I am in your presence.

The epiphany comes not as an explosion, but as an expansion.

Why do I forget? Why do I lose grasp of these inevitable truths?

I was made to praise you. I was created to worship you—to lift my hands and bend my knee. Yet I fumble with my purpose. I stagger blindly on a well-lit path.

Pour more oil, please.

I ask for more because there is nothing else I can do. Nothing else I truly desire.

I need nothing else but your holy unction to cause my rusty arms to rise and my corroded knees to bend and my stiff jaw to open.

My God.

My beautiful, beautiful God.

Kissing the Frog

2011-11-23T07:22:00.000-08:00

Through the years I have gathered phrases and used them repeatedly in my daily management of life. Some I remember with great detail who coined them and in what situation. Others I have only a faint and vague recollection of their source. And others I simply don’t remember at all, but they have become permanent along with their explanations of usage.

For years I have told my daughters, my friends, my students and myself to eat the frog. Translation: whatever is the hardest thing to do—do it first. If you have a plate of food in front of you and you hate one particular thing, eat it first. If you have a to do list, do the thing that requires the most time and effort and you want to do least. If you have a situation that must be handled, but are procrastinating—eat the frog.

I never thought there would be a time when that phrase wasn’t metaphorical for me. Last week our school had a fund raiser. Most of the teachers had a jar with a photograph of them taped to the side. Goofy images. The teachers made faces in their photographs that most likely (hopefully) they would never make in the classroom. Students could drop coins and bills in the jar and the teacher who accumulated the most money over the week (had to be a minimum of $25) either got a pie in the face or must kiss a frog. I was slotted to kiss the frog.

The money would be used to help fund the seniors and their trip in the spring. At mid-week the jars only had a few bills in them. We really didn’t think (with sighs of relief) that the goals were going to be met. I left school on Thursday knowing that I was quite a few dollars from the goal. I came back on Friday morning and was informed that I had to kiss the frog and my husband had to take the pie in the face during chapel later in the morning.

Now I had agreed to this. What had I been thinking? During the morning my thoughts centered on how I was going to manage kissing a real, live frog. My husband had seen the frog. A couple of others had seen the frog. I kept imagining this frog. Cold, slick and damp. Where was this frog coming from? Someone’s creek? Pond? Aquarium? I knew the best way I could handle this was to hold the frog in my left hand and pinch its lips together with my right. Perhaps I could do this with little to no squeamish noises and grimaces and not embarrass myself. I had to kiss the frog for a full three seconds. We can do anything for three seconds, right? My husband laughed at me.

That was my plan. I was following my house rule. I wasn’t going to eat the frog, but I was going to kiss it.

Of course the order of chapel did not allow for me to go first and get this task over. No, chapel was full that day with announcements, games and devotions. And then it was time.

A wonderful colleague of mine, the teacher in charge of the fundraiser, came to the front with a very large metal pot containing the frog. The size of the pot threw me off-balance. I was expecting a very small frog, not a bull frog that had to be put in a pot with a lid. I was scrambling in my head trying to determine what I would do. The students were howling. Cheering. Ecstatic energy filled the room because Mrs. R was actually about to kiss a frog. I swallowed hard.

I looked around to find my husband. I told him if I had to kiss a frog he had to promise to kiss me afterward. If I were going to participate in this crazy fiasco and touch my mouth to a fairy tale amphibian’s cold lips then he had to watch. My mind was scattered and the longer my friend prolonged this the more nervous my insides became.

She held the lid on that pot as if it took some effort. Was the frog jumping? She was smiling. I wasn’t sure I liked her smile. Finally, I said, “Find my husband and let’s get this done.”

We have chapel in the gym and all the classroom doors open into the gym, and the door at the back slowly opened. By this time I was so confused I wasn’t sure what was happening.

My friend looked at me and said, “Here’s your frog, now give him a kiss.”

Someone walked out of the room with a painted frog mask on, a green cape around his shoulders and wearing a frog prince t-shirt. My six foot three husband was my frog.

My friend and colleague had not been able to locate a frog and scrambling for an alternative this is what she and the rest of our staff concocted.

I bent over in laughter. The students were in an uproar—they felt cheated.

I reached up and pulled my frog prince’s face toward mine and kissed his great big green lips laughing wildly the whole time.

I looked at the pot. No frog.

Instead I had gotten to kiss my frog prince. How fitting.

I was ready to do the thing I wanted to do least that day. I had checked my list, looked at my plate and I was ready to eat the frog. I had been prepared to do the hardest thing.

Instead, I got a surprise.

My whole life has been like this. I have attempted to eat my frogs, to kiss them and get it over with and there has always been some kind of wonderful, unexpected surprise waiting for me. Always.

And in that moment, in front of the whole school and my colleagues and my incredible husband with his frog face now dangling, I realized on a new level how good our Father really is.

When we trust him, when we go to him in prayer and petition and ask for his help with the hard things, the absurd things, the unexplainable things, the painful things and the crazy things he honors our asking. The Father honors our asking and comes along side of us and helps us with a plan to kiss the frog.

He honors the asking.

Go. Kiss your frog.

WINNERS!

2011-11-09T15:02:00.000-08:00

Today was the deadline for the Turning 200 give-a-way. A co-worker of mine drew three winners for me!

Janette Carver

Kim Jernigan

Christy Witt

Please let me know you have seen the announcement and I will get your gift to you.

Thank you to everyone for your kind words and encouragement.

Tamera

Turning 200 Deadline

2011-11-08T10:02:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow

Wednesday

November 8, 2011

Tomorrow is the last day to enter the Chambered Nautilus gift box raffle.

Just send me a quick note here or on facebook if you haven't already done so.

Can't wait to see who wins. Two prizes will be given.

New post coming.

Tamera

Barbara

2011-10-29T11:23:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to the funeral home. Reluctantly. Hesitantly.

I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want to acknowledge the finality of a passing that affected me far more deeply than I expected.

Instead I wanted her to wag her finger and look me straight in the eye and say, “What is going on with you? Something is not right, little Missy.”

I wanted to hear her pray. Just one more time I wanted to be present when she presented herself in the throne room. And that is certainly what she did. She was assured of who she was in the kingdom, not because of her own accomplishments or achievements, but because of Jesus’. She approached the throne room with a holy audacity that I want to experience.

But this audacity was born not out of pride or arrogance, but from suffering. This boldness was born out of sheer desperation—an utter conviction that she had only one place to lean. And lean she did.

Her name was Barbara.

Years ago Barbara was in a tragic car accident. The emergency team who found her thought her to be dead before they even reached her. She lost half her face. Literally.

She had no cosmetic reconstruction. The extent of what would have been necessary was too dangerous. And there were just too many infections. Twelve years later when I met Barbara she peered at me with one eye. And that one eye saw deeply into me; I couldn’t hide much from Barbara. She would take her hands and hold my face and make me look at her, and she would ask me questions that I had to answer, if not to her than to myself.

Disease also plagued Barbara. And yet, she had a deep, deep sense of joy. Not the frivolity of happiness which is often transient and dependent on outward circumstances, but joy established in a stout and relentless conviction that God had a plan for her—and that it was a good plan.

Once while Barbara was in church some younger children were snickering and jeering at her grotesque face. Furiously the mother attempted to shush the children, but Barbara turned and told the young mother to bring those children to her. She put aside her own self-consciousness and insecurities (if she even really had any at this point) and bent down to be close to the children’s faces. She began to explain exactly what had happened to her. She didn’t mince words. She didn’t exaggerate. The children never ridiculed her again.

If anyone has learned that our position in Christ is not based on any temporary, earthly thing—physical appearance, social status, academic achievements—Barbara knew.

When you first met Barbara her face took you off guard and you would have to avert your eyes or perhaps lower your head. After you got to know her, heard her talk about Jesus and her faith, your respect for her exploded and you couldn’t do anything but look her right square in the face.

Barbara had more vision with one eye than I do at times with both. If anyone should have suffered with the malady of tunnel vision, then she should have. She did, but Jesus was fixed at the end of her tunnel.

I still have both eyes, yet often my vision is limited, hindered or stunted because I don’t have my eyes fixed. I allow too many relatively trivial and temporary things to impede my sight.

The receiving line at the funeral home was long and filled with animated whisperings of stories and exchanges about Barbara. I listened—absorbing and tucking away the tid-bits of information for a later time.

I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t want to lose this woman’s influence in my life. The duration of her influence had been too short. I had questions I still wanted to ask. Prayer requests I still wanted her to pray. I still wanted to be snapped by her quick wit and encouraged by her keen insight.

I realized how selfish my train of thought was rolling. Barbara is now whole in heaven. Whole. All that the accident tragically took has been replaced. All that the ravage of disease had eaten away has been restored.

The reality of heaven belongs to Barbara now. Her faith is now sight. Everything that she preached (And preached she did! She and Paul would have made a great team.) to everyone she encountered is now an actuality.

I walked through the receiving line, pausing only briefly before Barbara’s shell. I didn’t linger. There was no need. Three nights ago she entered the throne room of God and I have a feeling that is where she still is.

Turning 200!

2011-10-26T16:34:00.000-07:00

When I hit the publish tab for these words to upload this will be my 200^th post. Two hundred times I have pulled back the layers of my skin and attempted to be real. As I scroll back through the months, the years, the posts are like the transparent, opalescent skin-thin walls of my beloved nautilus shell.

In these posts I recognize myself, and I have marked measurements of my growth and expansion. I realize this has often been a place I have been willing to look at and attempted to see myself soberly. Here in these spaces I seem to be able to identify the bits and pieces of the woman God was and is transforming. Certainly he has used this place, this virtual chambered nautilus, to enable me to have the courage to increase the size and capacity of my chambers.

In 2007 when I began this endeavor, born out of a challenge to one of my creative writing classes, I did not know who I was. There was a time before when I thought I did. In 2007 I most assuredly did not. Five years of chronicling my journey and two hundred skin layers later I know these truths: I know who I belong to and I know he does not change; these two facts determine who I really am. And I will continue to chronicle my journey here in this place.

Thank you for visiting me. I have no idea how many people see, read or follow The Chambered Nautilus, but two hundred posts, for me, are worth celebrating.

If you read this post please drop a line in the comment section (or message me on Facebook, if you read the post there). On November 9, 2011 I will compile the comments in a special drawing for two Chambered Nautilus gift boxes—gifts from me to you—and I will announce the winners in a post immediately after the drawing.

May His face shine upon you.

Tamera

A String of Pearls Photos

2011-10-24T14:50:00.000-07:00

A few images of Katherine and David's day!

Being Blindfolded

Classic Beauty

JOY!

My moment with my Katherine

Katherine and her proud and blessed Momma

A String of Pearls

2011-10-19T16:05:00.000-07:00

(This is a long blog, but there were too many memories and wonders of the day to choose. Forgive and indulge this long-winded proud Momma)

October 1. The first wedding of my four daughters.

My second daughter got married the first weekend of October and I have wanted to capture the day and seal it with words, but the words have been lodged. They were wedged tightly in too tight of a space. They would not form full sentences in my head. Even now I am not sure the ones I have chosen will convey the true reality of the day.

On that Saturday I stood on the dock wrestling yards and yards of white tobacco cloth. As the wind caught the cloth it also whipped my hair across my face—the short ends stung my cheeks. The PVC pipe frame, made to resemble a Jewish chuppah, reared up toward the cold, monochromatic sky and waited for its wedding attire.

The wind had been a difficult entity all morning. Slicing through the tent and creating havoc wherever it went, it came with a cold so sharp my teeth clattered together. I stood under the great expanse of white tent bundled in a hoodie, three layers of shirts, jeans, socks and crocs. And my body still shivered. I was unaccustomed to the damp chill. The threat of rain hung heavy in the morning sky.

What a day for an outdoor wedding.

Everywhere there was the fury of work.

One of our dear friends stood beside me under the great white awning and we surveyed the scene. Around us the tables were covered with fresh flowers. Thick cream, pale ivory and light white blooms stood in tall buckets of cold water. Airy greenery splayed across the narrow rims. Scents wafted through the air wrapping around us like mist.

Just beyond us under the tent my husband and my brother and the groom were fitting and adjusting the tongue and groove pieces of wood to create a dance floor—a jig saw puzzle with no instructions.

The whole crew of us was preparing for my daughter’s wedding. We had all come from different towns and congregated in this stunning backyard to create a wedding celebration.

The memories are tucked and stored like flashing jewels. There are many of them. And they flash across the back of my eyelids like an old black and white movie.

My daughter looked like a beauty from one of those black and white classics. Her auburn hair was twisted into a simple, low side knot and wisps of hair floated and fluttered. Her pale creamy skin shimmered. Her sea green eyes, inherited from her maternal grandmother, were soft and clear.

Her dress was tailored just for her by one of my dear and oldest friends. And she was so comfortable in her own skin that the dress was a part of her. Only a few minutes before it was time to walk down the aisle (path on the lawn) she was playing ping pong with the groomsmen.

She was so lovely.

And she married a beautiful, beloved man.

I call him beloved for several reasons: his name is David— a Hebrew name that when translated means beloved. He is rightly named. He is beloved to his family, my daughter, to my three other daughters and to me. I am so grateful for the way he treats my daughter. I enjoy the way he interacts and cares for her sisters. I respect the manner he watches over his own mama and the way he respects his father and grandparents. We have loved and prayed for this boy since he was sixteen years old.

So, the wedding wasn’t just about my daughter; it was also about David.

The whole day was a string of pearls strung together by God’s grace and orchestration. Things happened and were said and acted on that could have never happened without his grace. And wonder of wonders I recognized them.

October 1^st was a mixture of tradition and non-tradition. The bride and groom did not follow protocol; they chose to see each other before the ceremony. Normally I would have objected to the dismissal of this tradition, but watching them changed my mind.

While we were in the tent with the flowers my daughter arrived—in sweats and no make-up. And I watched the bride and groom as they embraced. They just wanted to say good morning to each other. David wrapped my daughter up in his arms and buried his head in the crevice between her neck and shoulder. The whispers were audible, but not decipherable. How incredibly sweet of a moment to be privy to—briefly I felt like an intruder, but that passed quickly.

For the better part of the day they would drift in and out of the places they were working and see each other, talk and share about what was unfolding before them. The willingness to let go of tradition enabled them to actually share the whole day—pockets of intimacy tucked in the oddest of places.

At one point a no-walk zone was created. David was no longer allowed in the downstairs of the house. Sadly I missed this event because I was changing into my wedding clothes, but I heard about it from others’ perspectives. When David and my daughter were finally in their wedding attire, the sisters and photographer took David to the dock and then blindfolded him. My daughter, in all her finery, walked down to the dock to meet him.

She pulled the blindfold away and his face was priceless to behold. They were able to experience that moment alone and together. No audience.

Everything unfolded wonderfully. The ceremony was tinged with laughter and an informal ease. There was an intimacy present that can often be lost in formality.

Later Emily, the photographer and on-the-spot wedding planner, announced it was time to cut the cake. You must understand this daughter of mine had been a professional wedding planner for ten or twelve weddings. She knew how this should all unfold. She and David cut the first piece of cake together, pushed cake in each others’ mouths, but then when it was time to cut the cake for all the guests, my daughter donned a black apron over her wedding dress. On the front panel of the apron embroidered in large white script was her new name.

She proceeded to cut the cake and serve it to her guests. The caterers were appalled. A bride was not supposed to serve her own cake. When my daughter explained this idea to me, “Mom, this is how I want this to be. This is what I do. This is who I am. I serve.” There was something so real and substantial about this gesture.

There are too many vignettes of the day to share them all—snapshots all day and evening of the wonder of when something is right and good.

At the end of the evening all the remaining guests lined up in the front yard. Sparklers had been passed out a little earlier. We formed an avenue and when they were ready we were told to light our sparklers with the candles placed at intervals on the ground. The candles were snuffed and the dark avenue became a lighted path for the couple to leave. The sparklers twirled and danced in the air. Patterns burned through the air for the briefest of moments. As David and Katherine ran through our parallel lines—cheers lifted and the couple’s faces were illuminated and utter joy was revealed.

Many people have asked me if I cried that day. Not once did I cry my usual Tamera tears. I am a crier—easily and often. But, that day there were only two moments when the tears almost spilled.

During the ceremony the wind was wild—whipping and pulling anything unmoored. The wind pulled Katherine’s hair around in her face and David lifted his hand and carefully tucked the strays behind her ear. This precious gesture, so like David and so what Katherine needs, almost caused me to cry in the ceremony. But the Kleenex remained in my hand.

Earlier in the day, during the photography session, I stood on the dock with Katherine. She wanted a photograph with her momma. Me. I was so honored, so touched. Even as I type these words now, the tears swell up in my eyes and the screen blurs. But that day, I whispered to her that I wanted her to be happy. I wanted David and her to have a marriage that lasted. And I told her that was what I was praying for them for always. She looked at me and said, “Don’t cry now, Momma.” And so I didn’t.

Instead, two weeks later the tears pour. Now I need a tissue and they are across the room.

October 1, 2011.

An incredibly lovely string of pearls.

She's Got A Way

2011-09-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

These last few weeks have been hard.

A couple of weeks ago my third daughter turned the magical age of eighteen. Finally, the Cinderella shoe fits—suddenly, she no longer has to have her dad or me to sign for her to get a tattoo. Her bank account will have only her name in the upper left hand corner. This was her Prince and Ball kind of day—the second great milestone of young adulthood.

In the middle of the day, however, her car tire decided to deflate and come unattached from the rim while she was driving home from the nearby university. She called me and asked me what to do. I struggled because I couldn’t get to her to make sure she was safe. And in that moment I realized she was eighteen and this was only one of the first of days when life would be hard for her, and I wouldn’t be able to get to her or fix a situation. My heart turned awkwardly and painfully in my chest.

She’s beautiful. And not just her mama thinks so. She walks in a room and everyone always turns to me and exclaims in quieted whispers that she is just beautiful.

She’s got a way about her. Billy Joel must have known.

I watch her sometimes. Her dark lashes flutter against her smooth olive skin. Her chestnut-colored mane frames her face—tendrils fluttering. She still walks with a dancer’s glide.

Frequently she comes to help in my classroom on Fridays. Calm and reserved she sits in a chair with the students and spells words for boisterous little boys. She makes them laugh and shows them how to set up paragraphs by marking the margins with penciled dots.

At home she sits at the piano for her nightly therapy—the music wafts up the staircase and under my bedroom door. I stop my rustling of pages and hammering of keys and just simply listen. Her music, just like her, is multi-layered. I hear fragility and tenacity. I hear strength and passion.

And I hear her—her.

She’s eighteen now—such a beautiful, unnerving and liberating age.

My heart turns awkwardly and painfully in my chest because at some point she will learn that glass slippers are very hard to walk in and those pumpkin coaches break down occasionally. And that even the best of princes sometimes have feet of clay.

But it is my prayer that in the midst of it all she keeps her way about her...

Mad-e-lyn

2011-07-20T06:38:00.000-07:00

Recently I was talking to a lady about the titles of Southern Ladies’ literature:

Being Dead is No Excuse by Metcalfe/Hayes

Someday You’ll Thank Me for This by Metcalfe

Suck Your Stomach In and Put Some Color On by Tomlinson

The last title brought a whole cache of memories to break open. There I sat, with all those memories of my maternal grandmother (Too big for My Britches). They were poured out on my lap like a mess of green beans (only white half-runners) on a tea towel.

How I loved her. I realize this more now than then. There were times her expectations and behavior annoyed me. Certainly she had an opinion about how things should be done, and for the most part she believed her way was right with little exception. As always in retrospection I understand more now. Being forty-something has given me a new perspective, and I realize she influenced me—especially in forming my definition of a strong woman.

Her name was Madelyn. And she was quite particular about the pronunciation—not Mad-lene, not Mad-e-line, not Mad-lyn. No, it was Mad-e-lyn (short e in the middle). Perhaps that is one of the reasons I tend to be so fussy about my name too; the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Mad-e-lyn had her own antidotes and she often doled them out with brutal candor.

Inevitably every time I visited her she would say the same thing to me. This phrase was quintessential Mad-e-lyn.

Hold your shoulders back and put some lipstick on.

Sometimes these two phrases were combined and sometimes they were used separately depending on her assessment of the situation. I managed to get both of them—often.

And both phrases rubbed me the wrong way. They caused my prideful defenses to kick in and my rebellious hackles to rise. I took them as criticism. Perhaps there was a smidgen of criticalness in both the words and the tone, but I understand, now, that she meant them to be constructive. She intended them to prod and motivate and maybe they did.

I have thought a lot about these two phrases, and I have developed new interpretations

Hold Your Shoulders Back.

Concern for my posture only partly fueled this command. And that is what it was: a command. Certainly not a suggestion. She, in later years, had a very rounded back and to compensate she held her shoulders up and back. Mad-e-lyn thought posture improved a woman’s appearance. She also wanted to see confidence in a woman. Slumped shoulders indicated defeat and lack of assurance.

Have a little pride in yourself, she would say.

Back then I thought all pride was bad. Hubris is the tap root of a bitter and ugly kind of plant. But this wasn’t Mad-e-lyn’s kind of pride. She didn’t want to see me (or any of her children) act like a victim. I wish I had understood this lesson far sooner than I did. Heeding her advice might have saved me some heartache. When a woman acts like a victim, they often get treated like one.

There is nothing good in me to cause me to hold my shoulders back. I look at myself, my past, my mistakes, my failures, my wiring and I understand this.

But I have every reason to hold my shoulders back because of who Jesus is.

With him I am an heir (Romans 8:17), a part of a royal priesthood, a treasure (I Peter 2:9) and more than a conqueror (Romans 8:37). Because of these truths I can hold my shoulders back. With Paul, I can boast in the cross of Christ (Galatians 6:14).

Put Some Lipstick On.

Mad-e-lyn’s hair could be askew, her clothing could be her everyday work clothes, but if she had her lipstick on she could face the world. She believed a woman ought to fix herself up. She didn’t like it when a woman (especially her only granddaughter) let herself go. She thought it was just plum awful when a woman allowed her appearance to deteriorate. A woman should take care of herself. She thought a woman should be able to turn a few heads. She did. More than a few before she married my grandfather.

When I was young I thought this mind-set was conceited and self-absorbed. And in my young self-righteous attitude I often dismissed her advice. I regret not sifting it and keeping part of it now. Once again, my own advancement in age has put new perspective on this mentality.

Lipstick was Mad-e-lyn’s soft-armor—a defense against an exacting world. For her to put lipstick on was to use every available means to improve what others saw. I realize too, this was another confidence booster. Today, I understand this and I keep my lip armor at the ready in the outside pocket of my purse. Most likely the hue would not be bright enough for my grandmother (I’m sure she would have a comment about that), but I have followed her example.

In more ways than one.

My soft armor is prayer. The best defense in the world, for me, is to be engaged in constant prayer—that slight whispering under my breath—prayer that intertwines with the rhythm of my breathing.

In Ephesians 6 Paul tells us to put on our armor, and the last piece of that armor is to pray in the Spirit on all occasions. Praying is my defense against an exacting world.

My grandmother was a wise woman. And it is never too late to heed good advice. I believe she would be pleased with my reevaluations and interpretations.

So, today I will hold my shoulders back and put my lipstick on.

Plow On

2011-07-16T08:04:00.000-07:00

My Father,

Your plowshare is digging deep, pushing down past the loose soil to the places tight and dark. Your blade slices through the packed earth, sparking against the stones buried deep beneath the turned surface.

And the stones are buried deep. But your blade finds them—lifts them up and turns them over and they glint in the light. I bend to pick them up. They are heavy and solid.

Stones in my field.

From the ribbon edge of the plot the field looks good. Narrow, fairly straight furrows. But you, O Lord, are not concerned with how something looks. Appearances are not the true indicators of what lies beneath.

Only the plowshare will turn over what lies buried under the layers.

With the pray-er I too ask, “Plough deep in me, great Lord, heavenly Husbandman, that my being may be a tilled field, the roots of grace spreading far and wide, until you alone are seen in me…” *

Spread your grace in me, O Lord. May its tendrils reach far and long and deep. Let this field be tilled far deeper than just the surface inches.

Use a longer, wider plowshare. Find the stones. Unearth them and show me how to remove them from my field. Don’t allow me to become daunted or dismayed by the number or the size of them. I want my field to please you. I want you to count it as usable soil. Do whatever you have to do for this to be so.

Plow on. Plow on.

Amen

*The Deeps from The Valley of Vision.

Release the Rain

2011-06-30T14:11:00.000-07:00

I have been told I have a blue personality. As much as I don’t want to be (and I have also been told blues don’t want to be blues), I am still a blue. I would much rather be yellow or even a bit of red, but nothing doing—I am blue. And all that goes with it.

Apparently I possess more than a tinge of melancholy in this soul of mine. I am bent toward carrying too much on my shoulders, convinced I have to fix every problem (or that every problem is my fault) and weighted down by a perfectionist nature.

Instead of viewing the world through rose-colored glasses, my lenses are tinted blue.

And today I feel my personality. Today I feel the smudged edges of blue rubbing and smearing. Most days the little bit of sanguine and yellow (mixing personality tests here) surface and float. The desire to smile and laugh almost always outweighs the want to cry, but rarely the NEED to.

All morning I have been trying to talk myself out of this blue place. But the talk is futile. When clouds get too heavy they must release the rain.

So, release the rain, LORD.

Remind me of your truth. Remind me that your reality is not rooted or established in my personality, but in your character.

Amen.

Steven

2011-06-23T10:59:00.000-07:00

He is two and a half years old. He sat in my lap facing me—long legs straddling mine. His feet dangled and swung, suspended above the sidewalk.

I was mesmerized.

His name is Steven and it means crowned one. His head is crowned with powder-white hair and it blew like a dandelion in the afternoon wind. His eyes are blue. Pale, cornflower blue framed by long, curved lashes. His face is heart-shaped, truly. Pointed little chin, broad forehead.

I kept trying to get him to grin for me. My fingers became spiders crawling up his legs and across his arms. When I would tickle him his whole body would collapse. His grin is snaggletoothed, a phrase my grandmother would have used, but it fits Steven. He fell and damaged a couple of his front teeth and they had to be pulled. He didn’t lose the very front two, but one front and the one next to it. His grin is lopsided, but the affect is actually quite charming and disarms me. I grinned and then laughed. And it was a real laugh. One that erupted before I even realized it had formed.

His voice is deep. Far deeper than a child his age should be and it startles you. He sounds like he has a jumbo marshmallow in his mouth.

That day I held him in my lap and I didn’t want to let go. I held his cherry slushy and fed him spoonful after spoonful of the sticky, messy concoction. He was content, and so was I.

I enjoyed watching this funny little boy. I have loved him since he was three and a half days old. I held him when he came home from the hospital to be with his foster parents. He was a tiny, malnourished baby. All bones, no fat. His head was far too big for his tiny frail body (he has truly grown into it now). I held him that night for a very long time, curled next to my body, not enough weight to even mention. He looked like a baby bird just hatched from an egg.

As I looked at him I wondered what he would become. This little boy was beginning with such a deficient—not a noticeable, horrific deficient like his older brother, but a negative one just the same (his problems would be revealed later). Perhaps that worked against him—he had no visible marks of abuse, very little of anything to evoke compassionate pity. There was very little about him to endear you.

And yet I love him. Do love him.

He has grown into himself. He is a charming little boy now. Full of personality and wonderful little quirks.

Later that day when the VBS Kick-Off was over and everyone had gone home, there were just a few families left at the church.

The kids who remained were running, trying to expend those last bursts of energy. If they stopped for just a minute they would have collapsed and been asleep from the delightful exhaustion of summer. While running the older children failed to realize Steven was trying to keep up with them; they knocked him down and plowed right over him before they even realized. His chin popped the floor and his cry wailed.

Somehow I managed to be the first one to him and I picked him up and examined him.

Let me see your mouth, Steven. Did you hurt your mouth? I asked.

Immediately he turned to me and opened his mouth wide. His mouth was fine.

He laid his head on my shoulder and snuggled into me. And he stayed there far longer than I had hoped. When he finally raised his head I asked him for a kiss. He turned to me and gave me one without hesitation.

His dad watched the whole interaction.

Oh gosh, he doesn’t ever do that. Rarely. That’s amazing. You really are family.

My heart became too big for my chest.

And the Holy Spirit spoke, just a whisper above the din of the expanding walls of my heart.

I realized I am just like Steven.

Just like him.

I started out this life in Christ as a malnourished baby. There was nothing to commend me. I wasn’t rosy-cheeked and baby-plump. I certainly wasn’t cute. There was nothing in me to endear someone’s affection—nothing. And as I grew my limbs and head didn’t fit my body and I had accidents and lost my front teeth. I was gangly and awkward. Delayed in my maturation. There was nothing in me to evoke compassionate pity.

And yet He loved me.

The Father loves me.

And because of Steven I understand His love a little more.

Only a Drawer

2011-06-20T19:49:00.000-07:00

All last week I struggled with attitudes and sins that the Spirit gently unearthed or uncovered in me. Attitudes fed by jealousy and resentment and insecurities.

Ugliness.

And all week long I have attempted to swallow them down, but they push up against the back of my throat and choke me.

I needed to speak them out loud.

Sometimes transparency annoys me. There are times when I simply want to wear an opaque mask, but I cannot. And there are three people who hear my confessions. Three people I allow to see the sordid ugliness of my heart. Three people who have proven that they love me even when they are exposed to the toxic sludge in my heart.

Two women. One I have known and loved for twenty-four years. One I have known and loved for nine.

The other is my husband.

My beautiful husband-man.

He received the fall-out and the spill-over of the sludge in my heart this week. The Spirit was dealing with me.

And so I reluctantly, but openly shared the ugliness in my heart with him. And that is just what it is. You can’t call it anything else.

I am not sure what I expected. I didn’t know what he would say when I exposed the nastiness that had been hiding. I told this dear man that I felt like the basement of our house—full of things that needed to be thrown away or put on the curb. I explained that I felt like my whole house was just filthy.

When I finished my rant he sat and looked at me for a long time. Just looked. His silence was awkward for me and I wanted to fill it, but refrained.

I will never forget—ever—what he spoke to me.

Tamera, your house is fine. Quit being so hard on yourself. Your rooms are clean. You are just dealing with a drawer. That’s it. This is just a drawer. A drawer with some stuff in it. You have opened the drawer and you have seen some things you don’t like. Clean out the drawer, but remember it is only a drawer. You may find a closet later that needs some attention, but it will only be a closet. And this is only a drawer.

I just looked at him. At that moment something in my spirit broke free. A restrictive band snapped.

Only a drawer.

There was no judgment in his voice. He didn’t dismiss what I was saying. He didn’t exaggerate it. He called it what it was.

Then he wrapped his arms around me.

He knows me. Understands me. Loves me. Anyway.

I look at my husband and one way he turns I see him; he turns a different way and I get a glimpse of Jesus. For a fleeting moment their faces merge.

It’s not that my husband is Jesus, he just resembles him.

And this is the quality I appreciate most about my husband.

It’s only a drawer, Tamera.

John 13:5-10; James 5:16

Look At Me

2011-06-20T17:23:00.000-07:00

I wonder if it thundered on the Sea of Galilee when Jesus stood up and told the waves to be still. And when he spoke did the thunder die away gradually, roll away like small marbles across the floor or did it simply cease mid-boom?

A storm moved in during the morning. The air was cool, the lightning cracked and the thunder smacked the heavy gray sky. I wanted to go outside and stand on the wet deck and breathe deeply, but I was reluctant to leave my cocooned dusky sanctuary.

I was afraid if I moved from that calm place the peace would dissipate—like when a butterfly alights on your arm and you remain still because movement will cause it to fly. Like when someone is rubbing your back and you don’t want them to stop, so you remain utterly still because your movement might break the rhythm and they will stop.

I listened to the sounds of preparations for church. I waited for my turn, but I was restless. Shimmering just along the edges of me was something I couldn’t name.

Storms are hushed and sacred places for me.

In the storms stillness pushes past all the inner barriers and descends to the deepest parts of me. Anticipation grows. Eagerness swells. Clarity emerges.

Be still and know that I am God the psalmist urges.

We went to church. Sometimes stillness is hard to achieve and maintain—even at church. Somewhere between the sanctuary of my room and the church sanctuary I lost my sense of stillness. I sat in my chair and my mind kept rolling hard events and words and actions over and over. They were replayed as if they were on a continuous loop. The escalation began. You know exactly what I am describing. Every poor thought led to another and led to another. Avalanching. Snowballing. My emotions built like the milky froth in a latte.

Just when I thought they would overtake me something broke through the storm.

A version of Amazing Grace filtered through the speakers.

And the Spirit of Jesus broke through the froth.

Look at me.

I shook my head.

No, look at me. These emotions and attitudes will overtake you, if you don’t look at me. Take your eyes off them and look at me.

Apparently I still wasn’t looking.

Communion was served. Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. And the juice-wine glistened, red and transparent, in its trumpet shaped cup—calling to me.

This wretch sat still.

In that moment that is just exactly what I was—a wretch. A wretch because I wasn’t accepting the amazing grace being offered. A wretch because I wasn’t acknowledging that the Father was willing to absorb all the ugliness that he had recently uncovered in me. A wallowing wretch.

Look. At. Me.

Finally I did. I started thanking him for everything good in my life. And instead of worrying and fretting I began to ask for his help. I asked for wisdom. For provision. For reconciliation. For patience. For love.

And the froth dissipated.

Evaporated.

I crunched the bread between my teeth. Ground it to powder and swallowed. Then I poured the juice-wine into my mouth, held, then swallowed. And the bread and the wine coursed through me. His broken body—ground by me. His blood—spilled by me.

Amazing grace—poured for me. Measured out lavishly.

Jesus told the waves to be still and the seasoned fisherman on the boat understood that he was God. He stilled the outer chaos of the storm and they recognized deity disguised in the cloak of flesh. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, they dropped to their knees onto the salty, sodden planks of the boat.

He repeated with me what he did with his disciples. He called for the storm to be still. He hushed the froth and the foam. And in the midst of my storm I stood slack-jawed and in awe of God’s amazing grace.

When was the last time we stood in the midst of a storm slack-jawed and in awe of what God was doing?

When is the last time you heard him say, “Look. At. Me.” And you obeyed?

Happy Birthday to the Last!

2011-06-16T15:40:00.000-07:00

She is sixteen today.

Her golden birthday. The baby. The youngest of four daughters.

This week I realized according to house and family rules she can now date. (What were we thinking when we set the age so low?) According to state law she may now legally drive a vehicle. She will be a junior—an upper classman. And she just started her first paying job this summer.

Where did time go? When did my chubby-cheeked, sweet little girl grow up?

Momma is having a hard time. My heart aches—rips in little tears every time she reaches a family milestone. I realize with a startling profoundness that she is the last.

Appropriately her name means a father’s delight. Undoubtedly she is that, but she is also my comfort. There’s something remarkably strong and consistent about her. Something immovable.

She has always and forever been the quiet one. Often this characteristic has been labeled as shyness or bashfulness—certainly not. Actually she is reserved and incredibly observant (quietness allows you to be in places and hear and see what you might not otherwise). This youngest daughter seems ageless; her age is hard to pinpoint because she conducts herself with such maturity and levity—far beyond her biological years. I am sure this is partly due to having three older sisters, but I believe it is also just simply who she is.

Sometimes I just simply watch her. I want to drink her into my memory, because memories sometimes fade. I observe her interactions with others and am amazed and often even flabbergasted at her bold candidness. I see the gears of her mind turn—rarely do they turn with haste, instead they rotate at a calculated pace.

I love to listen and see her laugh. Her laugh is contagious. It’s loud, but wonderfully so. Her laughter comes from a deep place. It is a bubbly laugh, but not a rapid succession of small bubbles, but rather giant, full ones. Her laughter radiates from her eyes and just simply erupts from her mouth. All I want to do when I hear her (regardless of where we are) is turn and find her so I can laugh too.

This last daughter despises injustice; legitimate unfairness is an issue with her. And much to her credit, she doesn’t always side with the underdog—because the underdog may not be right.

Her discernment is new-razor sharp. She seems to assess people and situations with emotion reined. Then she often remains unattached until the discernment has been processed. We have learned to pay attention to her conclusions. The times her advice went unheeded, regret usually followed.

Once resolved she cannot be moved. Her feet remain planted until she decides differently. She sets her eyes on a goal and moves toward it with an almost alarming tenacity.

She passed her written permit test this morning. We almost shouted. My heart swelled as I watched her smile for the camera and almost cried as she gazed at her newly minted permit.

One more milestone—accomplished. One more last to check off the list.

Today I (and many others) celebrate her. We rejoice because it is her day.

She is a wonderful way to end. She is the perfect last line in this chapter of life. This daughter blesses me; she eases my heart with her soothing spirit.

She, along with her three sisters, makes me proud to be a momma.

Happy Birthday, my daughter. Happy birthday, precious, sweet girl!

An Endless Parade

2011-06-12T05:04:00.000-07:00

I have been asking for big miracles.

I have been waiting for God to speak into my being so loud that even those around me would at least hear thunder.

I have been looking for evidence that not only I recognize, but that others recognize.

I have been waiting for loaves and fish to multiply and my endless glasses of Signs (another post, another time) water to become wine.

I have been hoping for fruit like the day of Pentecost—when three thousand came to believe.

I have been attempting to live happily ever after—as the framed print on my wall proclaims.

But you see, what would be better is if I asked to see the little miracles.

I started asking Him to open my eyes and make me aware of the extraordinary that goes undetected, unnoticed and unacknowledged.

I have heard his voice, but instead of thunder it is like the roll of the ocean—the gentle and consistent lapping of the water on the shore. Over and over his words wash over me. No one else needs to hear them; they are my words from him, my instructions, my exhortations, my directions. I have attempted to dismiss them as figments of my over-active imagination. As nothing more than my wishful thinking. But I cannot dismiss these words. My frail and fragile thinking could not produce what I have been hearing. I would never think to speak such as that. I am learning I don’t need thunder, and I am accepting that I don’t need anyone else to hear and confirm or approve.

I have watched Him take a meager offering, a limited staple, a ridiculous amount and multiply it exponentially. Recently. In the past two weeks. Not just in one area of my life, but in several. He provided in one place I never expected. Such a minor detail in my life, but He knows the details—details as insignificant and minor as tomatoes.

Fresh, garden tomatoes rival dark chocolate in my life and often in the summer the tomato will win. My husband and I weren’t sure if we were going to be able to find quality tomato plants this year. For the last two years someone very dear has spoiled me with heirloom tomato plants grown from seed. I wasn’t sure that they would have any this year. I was sad.

A few weeks ago my husband came in the house and told me that there were quite a few tomato plants growing in our two garden patches. Let me be very quick to say we hadn’t set any seedlings out this year. We realized that these plants were growing from seed left in the ground through the winter. Our plants produced tomatoes well into October last year, and the last few tomatoes were left on top of the soil or turned under with the vines.

They lay dormant all through the long, dark and cold winter. And then they began to grow. We had over twenty-five plants. Then the dear someone brought me four heirloom varieties. Tomatoes are planted in three places now. More than likely we will have a hundred-fold crop. Exponential growth. And I will share because I have experienced Him taking an everyday, common substance and transforming it into something incredibly rich and abundant.

I have come to understand his Pentecost. In his kingdom it is not the numbers that carry the weight, but the quality of the fruit. My brother, (from the posts White Cadillac and God’s Beyond) came with his fiancée to church with us. I stood beside him during worship. We hadn’t been in church together since he was a tiny boy. Beside me stood this man—all 6’2” of him. A man grown. In church with me. In worship of Him. And the miracle of this washed over me and my eyes and heart spilled the overflow.

Later in the day we sat on the couch together and discussed the fact that Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego’s clothes were not tainted with even the scent of smoke. This was one of my pentecosts. I could feel the flaming heat as the Holy Spirit hovered.

And I have diagramed the sentence on my wall—and realized that it is just a fragment. Not even a full sentence, but a phrase written in the past tense. My life is not yet after. Just as my Father does not want me to dwell and abide in the past, neither does he want me to live only in the after. Now is what counts. Right now. How we live right now affects our ever afters.

If I dwell on the mistakes, failures, regrets and successes of the past or if I constantly contemplate the what ifs of the future then I squander the now I have been given. I want to learn to live contentedly and beautifully right where I am. I don’t want my life to be just a fragment or just phrase.

I want to live a full, complete sentence.

Our minister often says that he isn’t preaching fairy tales. I’m not living one either.

I am asking to see the little miracles. And he is revealing them one by one in an endless parade.

.

Please Pray

2011-06-09T05:17:00.000-07:00

This morning I received a text. Pray, Mom. Sickness and disease is attacking the relief workers here.

My second daughter is near the outskirts of Joplin.

A week ago she heard that a group was going to work in Joplin and the surrounding areas to help in the relief aid. She signed up to volunteer for this weekend without much hesitation. She is an ER technician, and Joplin will look much like an ER room after a code.

She will see the ravages of the twister first hand—not just view it through the lens of someone else and posted online. Those photos, no matter how good, are flat. There’s no sound. Nothing to hear. Sound carries the weeping and the pain. She will hear and see.

And I know her. She will push up her sleeves and be in the middle. Right in the center of whatever they are doing. She will consider no job too small, no job beneath her. She will hug the elderly; she will rock the young. She will look into people’s faces and her empathy will take over. She will cry and shake her head and then begin the next project. Her problem solving lets-get-our-hands-dirty attitude will take over. And I wish I were a part of her team working right beside her.

She will come home depleted physically, but renewed in her mission. She will be able to explain some of what she saw, but most of it will remain inside wrapped around who she is. Even her precious fiancé will not completely understand (and I am praying he gets closer to understanding this time more than ever before). She doesn’t just feel for others—their pain and sorrow becomes intertwined with her own. She enters into the sorrow and it moves her to action.

In August my oldest daughter will walk the ravaged, wrecked and forgotten streets of Haiti.

She will be assaulted with the carnage of poverty and the chaos of concrete. She will cradle dark-skinned jewels in the circle of her strong arms. And she will want to bring at least one of them home with her. There will be one child (at least) who will quietly sidle up to the walls of her heart. And my daughter will mourn because she will be prohibited from carrying him home.

This daughter will see details others will not see. Her eyes will rove, seek and find the ones who are the most lonely, the most hungry, the most angry, the most afraid and the most needy.

I wish I could go with her. I wish I could trail along behind and beside her. I really wish I could be present when she squats down and looks a little Haitian boy in the eye. I wish I could be near when she has her first glimpse of the tent cities. But I will see them through her lens of vision. She will return with stories and images, and with her gift of words she will help me and anyone who reads her posts to see what she saw.

I tell these stories because they speak of the power and provision of our incredible God. He uses ordinary people to do extraordinary things.

And if you are reading this post please pray for these two young women. And when you do you become a part of their story.

Please pray.

A Dragon

2011-05-15T19:52:00.000-07:00

Recently I have had a heart full of petty complaining

A jaw full of pent-up frustrations

A throat full of raw sighings

A stomach full of harbored expectations

That’s what happens when we get weary and we forget to pray.

When we forget God is near.

And this morning he and I had a long talk. I did most of the listening.

At the end of the conversation I realized I had a problem. Certainly something I have aspired to. Certainly something I am never going to attain. I am a little too obsessed with perfection.

The wrong kind.

The wrong kind of perfection leads to constant defeat and an utter sense of failure. The wrong kind fills us with false and dashed hope. The wrong kind makes us expect what can’t be given. The wrong kind scrapes the inner lining of our heart until it’s raw and we lash out from the pain.

I have been striving for a perfection that just simply doesn’t exist. Demanding from myself what I just can’t produce. I just don't have the capacity to do this. I keep too many tally marks of my wrongs, mistakes and failures. And I multiply them. They become monstrous things--dragons. And this dragon of perfection breathes out fire and blisters my skin and scorches my eyebrows and hair. And when I cry the salt burns the raw places.

And this morning I was weary from struggling and I fell into my Father’s great big arms and wept. And wept some more.
He just held me there.

And he rubbed his salve on my blisters.

God's Beyond

2011-05-02T18:13:00.000-07:00

He used to call me Mammy.

He couldn’t pronounce my name. He was a beautiful child. Strikingly so. He managed to get the good genes from both sides of the family.

And he and I were inseparable.

On the weekends when I came home from college he wouldn’t leave my side. He rode in my 1978 green Monte Carlo with me—most of the time standing up in the front seat right beside me (I would never allow a child to do that now!) with his little arm thrown over my shoulder.

One of my most favorite photos in the world sits on the headboard of his bed. I don’t even know who took the black and white candid shot. We are on the ground in our back yard at our family home. He is in my lap and I have my arms wrapped around him. We are both laughing and the laughter reaches all the way to our eyes.

I learned later that when I would leave to go back to college he would stand at the window and cry for me. I wish I had known. It would have been hard, but I wish I had known. I would have come back.

Life has been hard for him. Partly because of his choices and partly because of the choices others (including me) made, but he couldn’t control.

Addiction snared him and embedded its nails deeply. The disease sunk almost to his heart. He’s been through two bouts in rehab and multiple interventions and spent a long time under house arrest. Sometimes my phone would ring and when I would realize it was my step-dad or mom I would steel myself and push down dread and panic. I was convinced they were calling to tell me my brother was dead.

He hit rock bottom. Almost all the way down.

Later this month he will be clean for eleven months. After a harrowing decade (longer) he is free.

My brother has returned.

This was miracle enough. Utterly amazed I have watched my brother come back to life—resurrected from the wasteland of addiction and all the ugliness and deception that accompanies it.

God, however, wasn’t finished yet.

My sights were not set high or broad or deep enough.

You see God finishes what he starts. And his answers are immeasurably beyond what we have imagined in our hearts and heads. **

This past Sunday I came home from work and checked my phone for messages. I had several, but I had a text message from my brother. This is a rare occurrence. I hit view. The words that popped up on my little screen were bigger than life.

I got saved today at church.

I reread that one sentence several times.

While I was reading that text message heaven was rejoicing. While I was processing that one sentence the angels were partying.

I called my brother. One of the first things he said to me was that he hoped Granny C, our grandmother, and LaVinia (see the post: White Cadillac) could see what he had done.

Brother, let me tell you this. Not only do they see, they’re dancin’, hollerin’ and shoutin’. Granny C. is clapping her hands and LaVinia is fussing at the angels because they are not lifting their feet high or shaking their wings enough—not nearly enough for their boy who has come home. Their prayers have been answered. My prayers have been answered.

Thankfully, God did more than what I asked for.

To save my brother only from the drugs would have only saved him from something. Our sweet God wanted to save my brother for something.

See, God finishes what he starts. Being free from the clutches of addiction is necessary and essential, but God wanted my brother to have more.

This is the greatest miracle. Utterly amazed I am watching my brother come back to life—he is now being resurrected from the wasteland of sin and all its ugliness and deception that accompanies it.

God always has the beyond in mind.

Always.

**

Philippians 1:6

Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

Ephesians 3:20

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us…

Seventy-seven Times Seven--Day 14

2011-04-28T19:22:00.000-07:00

Peter.

What did he do in those days right after the Resurrection? What coursed through his thoughts?

How many times did he beat himself up for the denials? How often did he play that fiery courtyard scene over and over in his head trying to find some way to understand what he did and did not do? In those immediate days after the Resurrection did he see the face of Jesus on the inside of his eyelids? Did he replay Jesus’ voice? How close did despair come in overtaking Peter? To drowning him? Weighing him down? Smothering him?

I can hear the dialogue in Peter’s mind. Can you?

Those days after the crucifixion and even after the resurrection must have been dark days for Peter. He pulled his nets out of storage and worked the tangles out of them until his fingers were raw and the cuts stung from the residual salt. His thought patterns must have resembled the knots. Tangled with remorse, disgust, fear and anxiety. Humiliation and paranoia choked him, and he just couldn’t swallow it down. Disgust mounted and overflowed.

Pressure had squeezed him. Excuses and justifications rose in his mind, but he punched them down. Deflated them. There were no excuses. For three years Peter had been with Jesus. Had he learned nothing? As he untangled the knots he remembered walking on water—and sinking. He remembered the Transfiguration—and making a fool of himself. He remembered pulling Jesus aside—and chastising him. He remembered pulling his feet from Jesus’ hands—and protesting. He remembered the heft and weight of the sword—and cutting through Malchus’ ear in the garden. He remembered the vehement denials—and the rooster crowing and crowing and crowing.

Peter’s situation seemed as hopeless as the net in his hands. He could not find the beginning or the end of this mess.

One blunder—doubling. One mistake—multiplying. One sin—avalanching.

Tortured, Peter dropped head into his hands. His great, bulky body curled inward. He longed to disappear. To be invisible. To be swallowed whole.

Jesus had called him a rock. Seems like this was the only time the Lord had been wrong. Peter had not held up under the pressure. This rock had cracked. This rock split wide open when the weight fell.

And Peter could not bridge the enormous fissure inside his soul.

I have been with Peter. I have shared that ugly space with him. Inside my mind I have curled up in a fetal position and wondered if my mistakes could ever be fixed. Often I have worried that I would not survive the consequences or more importantly that others would not survive them.

There have been times and seasons when I have believed my mistakes and sins created fissures too wide to ever bridge and too deep to ever fill. Some of these happened before I became a Christ-follower, but many happened after. Many have happened in the past few years. Too many have happened in the past week.

Have you been there?
I wonder though…

I wonder if the Spirit interrupted the patterns in Peter’s thinking. Did the Spirit remind Peter of another conversation with Jesus?

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?” Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times seven…”*

Jesus knew Peter. He knew his tendencies. His inclinations. His weaknesses.

Jesus knew the anguish writhing in Peter’s soul.

After the Resurrection Mary, Johanna and Susannah received specific directions from Jesus: go tell the others and Peter.**

And Peter.

How those words must have filtered into Peter and infused him with hope.

Peter didn’t expect the answer of seventy-seven times seven to his question of Jesus. And he didn’t realize they would be offered to him. Jesus did not ask of Peter or us something he would not be willing and ready to do himself.

Friends, Jesus knows us. He knows our tendencies. Our inclinations. Our weaknesses.

And it is time to uncurl. Time to stop beating ourselves to death. Time to stop despairing that our sins cannot be covered or erased. Time to stop living in fear that we (or others) will not survive the consequences. Time to stop acting as if there is something God can’t do.
It is time to hear Jesus say,

And Tamera.

And Terri.

And Christy.

And Steve.

And Angela.

And Dave.

And Amy.

And…

Do it.

Fill in your name.

And say it seventy-seven times seven.

*Matthew 18: 21-22

**Mark 16:7

Others--Day 13

2011-04-26T18:39:00.000-07:00

In beginning this fourteen day adventure I embraced a challenge. A challenge to my creative abilities and my spiritual discernment and obedience. But as always, God had something greater in mind. He had my transformation in mind. Not just mine, but possibly others, but mine nonetheless. And I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready.

Are we ever? Are we prepared for what God has planned?

Were the disciples ready for the events of the third day? Were the twelve men and all the company ready for Sunday?

Sunday, the day of Resurrection was surreal. Peter, Mary and John fell onto their bed pallets that night and pinched themselves in the dark to assure themselves they were still among the living.

Sunday was the day of the impossible becoming the possible.

Did they ask, “Is this real? Is this a beautiful idea? Is this just the manifestation of our hopes? Of our wishful thinking? How do we know? ”

Each time Jesus came to them was a confirmation of the reality they were beginning to understand.

I had a conversation with a friend this week. A hard conversation. My friend asked hard questions. And made some tough statements. On Easter weekend—the weekend of the impossible becoming possible—my friend challenged my faith.

We were discussing the reality of the faith. Is God just a good idea? Is he just an extension of our hopes?

My friend said, “I compare it [belief and faith] to "hearing stories of George Washington"...and seeing pictures of him in his black and white portraits and in the painting of him in his gallant pose crossing the Delaware. I hear the stories...I see the pictures...I tell the stories...I show the pictures......but that is all it remains....stories and pictures.....even though I've been told George Washington is real....etc etc.....he remains a story.

Soldiers followed Washington into battle even though they couldn’t see him. Some of the soldier’s never laid eyes on Washington. They followed because they saw the affects of Washington’s strategic leadership and benefited from the fruit of his character. Soldiers whose feet blistered and bled, whose stomachs caved and then bloated from hunger, weren’t just following an idea. They were following a man. A real one.

Twelve men walked away from the Resurrection reality and based their entire lives on the fact that Jesus was alive. They based their life not on a story. Not on pictures.

And they told others. Then others told others. Others told others. And others told others…and others told us.

The Resurrection was and is not just a story. I am writing not because of an idea, but because a man invested his life in others. So much that they lived and died incredible and horrible lives and deaths to declare the good news.

In the midst of the Washington conversation, I got another email. A friend from high school. I read and reread the email and sat in shock. Tears ran down my face. He delivered some hard news.

A precious friend had passed away. 45 year old Tim was gone.

Tim was one of the others in my life.

Tim was a part of a group who introduced me to Jesus—not just an idea. He didn’t just tell me the stories of Jesus or show me the pictures. He allowed me to be privy to what God had done and openly shared the changes God wrought in him. At school and in other places I witnessed the affects of these changes in Tim. He wanted my life to be changed and transformed. Tim helped pray me into the kingdom. He invested in me because Jesus and others had invested in him.

As a result, you are reading this blog.

I have never laid eyes on Jesus.

But I have seen the affects of his incredible leadership. I have benefited from the fruit of his ministry. I am a recipient of his transforming power. I do not even remotely resemble the person I was becoming 28 years ago.

I have experienced his salvation.

A story is a powerful thing, but I am not willing to give my life to just a story.

My Washington friend wants the reality. I want the reality. We want to live our lives in the power of the Resurrection. We don’t just want to tell stories. We don’t just want to show pictures.

To live like this we will have to have faith—because faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.* Every time that hope fades or the certainty dwindles I remind myself of what I have seen and experienced. I go back and recount and remember.

On Sunday Tim experienced The Resurrection. His faith became sight. He entered the Reality.

When all of heaven was watching us here, when the witnesses of heaven were leaning over and looking in as we cried and proclaimed, “He’s alive!”—

Tim stood and gazed into the face of Jesus and nodded, “Yes! Yes, he is. He’s alive!”

Someday my friend and I will do the same.

Please join us.

*Hebrews 11:1

The Linens and the Shroud--Day 12

2011-04-24T14:00:00.000-07:00

These had held him.

Precious strips placed on his body by hands that loved. The head cloth sealed by tears dropping from faces so close to his.

These last earthly bindings—
Wrapped his bloodied, broken body. Encased his emptied frame.

Embraced him in their soft folds. Swaddled him in their lengths.

He pulled them to his face and breathed deeply—still scented with the myrrh and aloes.

In the unwinding, instead of decay and stench, it was a sweet aroma unwound.

The linens and shroud had fulfilled their purpose.

Gone was the mortal flesh that had been his tent. It had not been the spices that had preserved him. The linens and the shroud could not contain him. Power pulled him forth—resurrected him up and through the woven threads. Left them behind as if they were simply air. His Father had called his name, just as he, Jesus, had spoken to Jarius’ daughter. Just as he had called her back from the darkness, so had I AM called him back.

Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?*

Now, scared hands are folding.

No hurry. No rush.

He folded the lengths of linen. Smoothed them down. Laid them one on top of the other. Not quickly discarded. Not absently thrown. Not hastily cast aside. The head cloth last—placed separate from the rest.

He knew they would find them, and contemplate their meaning.

And soon they would understand that the linens and the shroud had encased a broken, condemned man.

But a Power greater than death had released the triumphant Savior.

*I Corinthians 15:55

A Holy Day--Day 11

2011-04-23T16:29:00.000-07:00

I went to a local super-center today. We needed several things. I had part of the list and my husband had the other part and we went in opposite directions in order to shorten the time of the dreaded task. To see and navigate the crowd one would have thought it was a holiday. Carts were overflowing. Arms were full. The lines were long. The cashiers were flustered.

My husband found me in the Easter candy aisle. I was looking for something special. We walked from one end of the long aisle to the other, but I just shook my head. What I was looking for (chocolate truffle eggs) wasn’t to be found.

I stood in the aisle and stared.

The aisle was filled with color: petal pink, new green, robin egg blue and lemon yellow. There were ready-to-be-filled camouflage eggs and peanut butter eggs. There were bobble-headed bunnies and M&M’s© dressed as bunnies. There were foil covered ducks and chickens. Tie-dye egg dyeing kits (and eggs were a tad bit cheaper than normal). There were speckled malted milk eggs and jelly beans in every color and flavor (even buttered popcorn). There were displays in the middle of the floor with dozens and dozens of pre-made Easter baskets. If you were willing to pick out all your goodies a tired employee would fill the huge, transparent and hollow egg baskets for you. And the clothing finery was something to behold: tiny dresses with matching bows and little suits with clip-on ties.

Near the end of the aisle on the middle shelf something caught my eye. Two small boxes filled with sixteen to twenty smaller boxes of cheap chocolate crosses. The boxes were plain, generic and almost colorless. The crosses had been shuffled from their plastic indentations. And not one box was gone from its allotted slot.

I don’t have a bit of problem with hiding Easter eggs (actually I wish we could do it for the adults too). I enjoy the vast variety of chocolates. I adore all the wonderful colors and sweet whimsy. I will be delighted when I see our friends’ little ones in all their finery. And I, too, will don a new spring sweater in the morning.

But, this is not a holiday.

This is a celebration of a holy day.

A Holy Day.

Holy carries and envelopes a sense of being set-apart.

Sacred.

This is a shouting day for me.

This is a celebration because we don’t have to live in the agonized suffering and fearful despair of Friday.

This is a celebration because we don’t have to abide in the closed, rock-sealed guarded tomb of Saturday.

This is a celebration because we can enter the empty tomb and embrace the resurrection hope of Sunday.

Not just Jesus’ resurrection, but ours.

And this Holy Day will not be relegated and emaciated to cheap chocolate crosses and egg-laying bunnies.

Both offend me.

If these are my only options then I will choose neither.

Glory be to my God and Savior they are not!

Weighted Dice--Day 10

2011-04-23T06:03:00.000-07:00

Two small cubes carved from bone. Worn smooth from repeated use and valuable to break a watch’s boredom. The roll of the dice had gained many a coveted possession for Quentus. Sturdy sandals. Thick cloaks. Sharp daggers.

His job was to strip the criminals of their possessions. And strip them he did—piling the loot at the edge of the crucifixion mound. The soldiers would mentally tag what they wanted and then wait for a break so they might roll their dice and enjoy their luck. This was one of the few perks of this nasty job—a minimal bonus for the extra hours and effort waiting for these condemned people to die.

Today the plundering had resulted in a paltry offering of less than desirable pieces. The men on duty gave the pile a cursory glance. Out of spiteful boredom they jabbed and smacked the impaled feet of the crucified for their meager contributions to the gamblers’ pot.

Quentus stared at the pile. One piece caught his eye. Most likely only he recognized its value because he had held and examined it. A plain undergarment. Nondescript at first glance, but it was seamless—woven as one piece from top to bottom. Why would a man condemned to death by crucifixion have this kind of garment? Had he stolen it? Or had someone given it to him? Someone who loved him—Quentus felt the twinge of jealousy and pushed it down.

Who was this man?

Quentus shook the dice in his hand. The other guards were nervous—the sky was eerily dark at a time when the sun should have been at its zenith. Muttering and cursing they made gestures and signs to ward off bad omens. He found their wary superstitions humorous and contradictory to their usual bold and crass ways. The dice were warm in Quentus’ hand. He squatted in the rocky soil and brushed a circle clear of debris. The others joined him.

One at a time they cast their lots. * The highest roll would take the seamless garment, and for some odd reason Quentus realized he wanted it. He peered up and the garment’s owner looked directly at him. Quentus felt pierced, and he didn’t like the feeling. He could not look away from this man. This was a convicted man who the Jewish leaders wanted dead before their religious Sabbath began. But he and his guard had discussed this man. In all their years of carrying out these grisly executions never had they encountered one like this man. He had been different from the very beginning.

At this man’s expense his men had enjoyed an entertaining diversion. They had heard rumored mumblings that the man was a prophet and a healer. Quickly they had devised a plan—blindfolding him and taunting him to prophesy and tell them which one hit him. Quentus, himself, had cuffed the man in the ear and sneered. “Who am I? Who’s hitting you? Tell me.” Fear skirted around Quentus as he wondered if the man recognized any of their voices.

What fate had put that man on this cross on this particular day? What choices had he made to have him nailed to its crossbeam? Quentus was a Roman citizen. He would never have to endure this type of execution, but what roll of dice caused him to be born to his Roman parents instead of here in this far country to Jews? What stars had aligned to bring this man before him to this destiny?

At last Quentus looked away. He could not hold the man’s gaze. The dice lay scattered on the ground before him. Fate, however, was against him today. He had rolled the lowest; he must forfeit the seamless garment. Quentus felt a stab of foreign regret. He scooped up his knuckle-bone dice and turned and walked away. Fate was a fickle thing he had heard someone say.

Fate didn’t lead Jesus to the cross.

Destiny, as an entity, did not nail him there.

The stars’ alignment did not destine Jesus’ execution.

A roll of the dice did not determine his end.

Randomness was not involved in this course of events.

No!

A weighed and measured choice was made.

This course of events was planned, choreographed and orchestrated.

God’s redemption for his people, for us, was not left to chance.

Our redemption was not a random afterthought, quickly thrown together to try and fix the problem. Our redemption was a ransom paid by a man who knew what he was doing before he ever came to live among us. No trick of fate or chance unfolded that forced Jesus’ hand. He didn’t make a last minute decision.

Understand, my friends, the dice were weighted.

They were weighted in our favor.

God weighted the dice in our favor at Jesus’ expense.

Proverbs 16:33

Perform, Jesus--Day 9

2011-04-22T06:53:00.000-07:00

Thursday night of Passion Week.

More happened to and with Jesus in a twelve hour span than happens to most of us in a decade. As I read and studied the vacillating events I was astounded by the escalation and intensity. I shouldn’t have been. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Jesus took his stand against the devil’s schemes.

Long before Paul would tell us that the struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms—Jesus stood. Paul told us to put on the full armor of God. Why? So we would be able to stand our ground. And when everything else was/is said and done we would be able to stand. Just to remain standing in battle. *

And Jesus remained standing. Read that again.

We need to understand this. Because there will come a time of great darkness in our lives. For whatever reason, under whatever circumstance, by whatever means darkness will come. Not if, but when. If anyone has told you differently they have lied to you

And the darkness is suffocating. It is debilitating. It is paralyzing. It is frightening.

And who will enable you to stand?

Jesus’ night of darkness came. He ate his last meal with his disciples. He prayed in a dark garden until blood seeped from his pores. He was betrayed by a friend. He was pursued as if he were a common criminal and arrested. He had to break up a fight and heal in the midst of the chaos. And everyone who had just shared the meat and drink with him ran.

And then he was brought before the rulers, the authorities and the powers of this dark world.

Caiaphas. Pilate. Herod.

The powers that be. Or so they thought. Believing they wielded the power these three men batted Jesus from one court to another all night long.

Jesus’ trial resembled a circus. A three ring fiasco.

And Herod acted like the circus master. He had acted like one once before, and had John the Baptist beheaded. He had heard about Jesus. Herod’s spies and court soldiers had brought him news and accounts of the activities of this Jesus. He had heard about Lazarus. He had been told about lepers arriving at the temple, clean—skin glistening and healthy. There was a report about a wedding in Cana and water turning to wine. Bread and fish for five thousand. And he had heard that this Jesus, this prophet from Galilee, had called Herod a fox. Yes, he wanted to see this man face to face.

Herod treated Jesus like a performing monkey.

Herod wanted to see Jesus perform. Herod wanted to see the miraculous happen as if it were a show for entertainment and pleasure.

Herod hounded Jesus. Interrogating. Needling. Poking. Plying.

Herod stepped off his dais. Approached Jesus.

“Perform, Jesus. Show me what you can do. They have told me about all your miraculous feats. Demonstrate for me. Prove the reports to me.”

Jesus remained utterly silent. The darkness grew thicker. Heavier.

Herod could hear the black crows of the Sanhedrin pacing and shouting.

As Herod moved close to Jesus’ face the metallic scent of blood caused his nostrils to flair and burn. There was a weakness in Jesus’ body, but there was no sign of weakness in his eyes. Herod saw red. This man had called him a fox, and Herod both liked and hated the implications.

Herod changed his tactics.

Herod turned back to his throne and grabbed his robe. He flitted and danced around Jesus, dressing him in the elaborate garment. Herod’s needling questions became sneers and mockery. He ridiculed and taunted Jesus. Poked and prodded him in an attempt to dredge up a reaction. His soldiers joined him. Laughing at Herod’s buffoonery, they added their own.

“Perform, prophet. I have a cut on my arm, heal it. Make the skin close back and the wound disappear. Turn this pot into gold. It’s dark outside, make it day.”

And Jesus remained silent. But Herod couldn’t handle Jesus. Couldn’t handle the silence or the lack of reaction. Most cowered in front of Herod. Begged for their lives. Pleaded for mercy. But this silence was deafening. Louder than the crows’ vehement accusations. Shriller than his soldier’s mean and drunken teasings.

Suddenly the room seemed dark and the walls closed in on Herod. His breath was shallow and fast. He recognized the feeling. Fear. And Herod hated fear.

“Take him back to Pilate. Take him back.”

And the three-ring circus spotlight moves in reverse.

Herod appalled me. His behavior sickened me. To ask Jesus to perform a miracle solely for Herod’s pleasure and entertainment—

Who did Herod think he was?

Who do I think I am?

How often have I asked Jesus to perform for me? How many times have I said, “Jesus, here’s my problem—fix it. The bank account is almost empty—fill it. I am hungry—feed me. I am lonely—help me. I screwed up—make it go away. I am unhappy—change it.”

How often do I expect Jesus to perform? How often do I act like he is the star attraction at a three-ring circus?

Why should I be surprised if he is silent?

*Ephesians 6:10-14

He Remembered--Day 8

2011-04-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

He couldn’t get warm. He was chilled even though the fire before him blazed. He stared into the flames—watched them dance, leap and pulse. He wondered for just a brief moment if the flames were alive. Hunching his shoulders he strained to hear conversations across the courtyard. He could see the shadows on the stones of the palace courtyard. Elongated and surreal. He shuddered.

He closed his eyes, and he remembered. The Lord was on his knee, bent and stooped, wringing the soft, worn linen almost dry. Jesus had wiped the dust and grime of the day from Peter’s calloused, fisherman’s feet. Even now the protests rose and choked in his throat.*

Her voice startled him. “You were with him. You were with that man from Nazareth.”

The denial fell out of Peter’s mouth before he realized what he was saying. “I don’t know or understand what you are talking about.” He turned away from the woman and watched the flames. The tendrils seemed to reach toward him. Pulling and tempting. He just could not get warm. How had the Lord gotten to this place? Arrested and in trial across the courtyard even now. Why?

In the light of the fire Peter remembered. The Lord had explained. And Peter had been appalled. He had told the Lord he would not suffer. He would not be held by these people, would not be killed. Never. And the fire in Jesus’ eyes had scorched him. Singed him. *

The woman’s shrill voice broke into his fragmented thoughts. He could hear the accusation. He could feel all the eyes on him.

“He was one of them.”

Quickly his mind registered the contempt as she spoke the word them. He realized he was one of them. One of the disciples she had seen with the Rabbi from Galilee. What if they made him leave the courtyard? What if they opened the gate and escorted him out? Best to deny a connection right now. He wanted to remain as close as possible to Jesus.

Raising his voice he looked at the servant woman and snarled, “I’m not one of them.” The woman raised her eyebrow and did not drop her gaze. Peter turned back to the flames. Absently he muttered and talked to those standing with him.

Someone threw fuel into the fire and the flames danced closer. Sparks popped and crackled at his feet. An ember fell on his sleeve leaving gray ash. He brushed it away.

And Peter remembered. The garden had been dark. The olive trees planted close and tight. It was a familiar place. And the Lord had asked him to pray. Peter could still hear the sound in his voice.
Somewhere in the middle of the pleas he had nodded off. The third time the Lord had wakened him, Peter had been embarrassed. And when he got embarrassed he always made a fool of himself.*

The man next to him leaned toward his ear. “Surely you are one of them. You talk just like them. You speak like the group of Galileans. Didn’t I see you in the olive grove with him?” The man’s words targeted Peter. Eyes narrowed. Slitted. Riveted.

Curses spewed out of Peter’s mouth. Cursing the tell-tale cadence of his speech. He turned and swore even as he felt the hair on his neck rise. “I don’t know this man. I don’t know this man you’re talking about. He ran his hands through his hair and across his beard. And those standing close moved back—moved away from the reach of his wild gesturing. The courtyard went still. Voices fell away.

Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed.

Peter shivered. As the crowing faded the spit in Peter’s throat began to choke him. Frantically he clawed at his neck. He turned.

There Jesus stood. Looking at Peter. His eyes bore. He didn’t look away. But Peter did.

And Peter remembered. The look in the Lord’s eyes had been soft and full of compassion and a gentleness Peter could hardly bear. He had called him by his old name, “Simon, Simon.” And Jesus had warned him, “Simon, you are going to be sifted like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your faith would not fail.” Peter had turned with vehement words, “Lord, I am ready to go with you to prison and to death.”*

Strong, bold words for such a weak man.

In bitterness Peter laughed. An ugly sound from somewhere in his throat.

The rooster had crowed.

Peter tallied his denials.

Three.

He ran out of the courtyard into the dark night.

And he began to weep. And he could taste the bile in his throat.

*John 13; Luke 22:31-34; Mark 14:32-42; Matthew 16:23.

Judas Ways--Day 7

2011-04-19T04:32:00.000-07:00

Did you know, Jesus?

You prayed all night long about the choosing of your twelve. Did you know even then? When you looked him in the eye did he look back? Did you peer into the eons of his soul? Did you see what he would do?

Judas.

A smart man. A hard man. A troubled man. A scheming man. A passionate man. A misguided man. An opportunistic man.

Did you watch him pocket the money? When you looked into his heart did you see the corrupted ambition? Did you hear the hushed conversations? Did it break your heart when he contrived the plan against you? Did it hurt when he seemed to want to spend time with you, but was actually taking note of your schedule in order to find an opportunity to turn you over to the authorities?

Did you see the flick of his heel and the twist of his heart as he turned away from you? Could you see his back as he walked away into the darkness?

This Judas, the fiery visionary from Iscariot, was a part of your inner twelve. You traveled with him. Rubbed shoulders with him. Taught him. Touched him. Included him. Ate with him. Broke bread with him. Washed his feet.

And he agreed to betray you.

Thirty pieces of silver jangled in his belt and the pharisaical stamp of approval was on his actions.

His zealousness, misplaced and misguided, pushed him to do the unthinkable and the inevitable.

And it devoured him. Whole.

You loved him.

You loved Judas anyway.

Reveal to me my Judas-ways, Oh God.

Uncover them and show them to me before I am devoured whole. Awaken me before I am consumed by my own motivations and agendas. Don’t allow my own vision to overshadow yours. Show me my own corrupted ambitions—ambitions I feed and justify. Justify because they seem to accomplish the end that I desire. But with you, Father, the end does not justify the means. Make visible to me the places in me that are bent against the philosophy and reality of your kingdom. Don’t allow me to be deceived by darkness. Please don’t allow me to trade my eternal position with you for a temporary place in a momentary spotlight here. Don’t allow me to taint precious opportunities. Don’t allow me to hold out my hand for a few pieces of silver. Silver spends too quickly.

We are not far from Judas. We want to think we are. The denial rises in our throat. We want to say we would never do such a horrendous deed. But be forewarned, our hearts are not far from corrupted ambitions and warped vision.

Reveal to us, our Judas ways.

And, please. Please love love us anyway.

The Carpenter Bee--Day 6

2011-04-17T07:06:00.000-07:00

Why.

A three letter word fathoms deep—

Echoing endlessly back and perpetually forward.

Every age, every era, every millennium asks.

Young and old. Male and female.

Why?

This word can be the hardest, deepest and saddest of all questions.

Why is often connected to cause and effect circumstances we can’t trace.

Why often remains answerless.

Why is a tangential question—a great tree that continues to branch and fork and grow in ringed girth.

Why is a child’s question—steeped in curiosity. Asked in the earliest stages of a child’s wing development. Asked when a teenager begins to stretch and discover flight.

Asked when a spouse leaves. Asked when the tests are clouded. Asked when the bank statement is close to negative. Asked when a child is abused. Asked when the cell divides. Asked when a dream dies. Asked when the answer is no. Asked when an earthquake destroys. Asked when a leader falls. Asked when suffering seems inevitable.

Why probes.

Why drills.

Why intrudes.

Why is like the fat carpenter bee that bore two holes in the sill of my backdoor. It hummed and buzzed furiously as it ate away at the hardwood. I watched as his round body disappeared into his spherical door and the sawdust kicked out behind him and drifted down to the deck. He continued to make the hole deeper and deeper—penetrating into the core and heartwood. Until I stopped him.

I thought about when Jesus would have asked why.

From Sunday to Thursday of this eventful week Jesus walked the steep and winding two-mile trek to Bethany. He traversed down and up the Mount of Olives. Each day before he entered and exited Jerusalem he would pass by the Garden of Gethsemane.

Every day Jesus had a foreshadowing of what awaited him. Jesus’ greatest struggle was coming. His greatest battle was being orchestrated. The enemy was strategizing.

Gethsemane waited. But, he had set his face.

Watch Jesus. Watch him.

He did not ask why. He knew and understood the why of Gethsemane.

The why was and is us.

You. Me.

As he passed by that grove of olive trees each morning, before he entered into the mayhem and chaos of Jerusalem’s demands, instead of asking why I believe he prayed.

“Father, give me strength for the day that is coming. I know your plan and purpose for me. Show me Tamera’s (put your name in place of mine) face this morning.”

And as he passed back by his would be place of suffering each evening, after all the accolades and interrogations, instead of asking why I believe he prayed.

“Father, thank you for today; you are faithful. I know you will provide strength for tomorrow. Thank you for my rest tonight.”

We are finite beings. We cannot see far enough into eternity to not have to ask why. Our perceptions, minds and realities are too narrow and too shallow to dismiss this word from our daily vocabulary. Don’t get me wrong. There’s a place and a time for the why. Why indicates struggle and growth.

But there are places and times we must learn to swat and smack the carpenter bee and have faith.

We must trust the Father’s plan.

We must.

We may be walking past our Gethsemane every day. We may be making a hard trek morning and night just to get through and we want to know why.

Why, Lord? Why?

Our greatest struggle may be on its way or have already arrived. Our greatest battle may just be around the next bend in the road or we may be right in the thick of it. The enemy may be laying out his battle plan or it may be in motion.

And we can ask why. Our Father is great enough to handle our whys. But as we walk by our Gethsemane let’s put the why aside.

In the morning when we pass by let’s pray, “Father, give me strength for the day that is coming. Remind me continually today of the plan and purpose you have before me.”

And in the evening pray, “Father, thank you for today; you are faithful. Remind me that you will provide strength for tomorrow. Please give me rest tonight.”

Yes, Gethsemane waits.

But we can ask the Father to prepare us.

There’s another carpenter bee hovering at my back door. I need to go and find my flyswatter.

.

A Temple Whip--Day 5

2011-04-14T20:06:00.000-07:00

Jesus went back to the temple.

He had unfinished business.

Let’s call this situation at the temple exactly what it was. It was contempt. The money-changers and the dove sellers profaned the temple. They had forgotten where they were.

They had grown so familiar with the temple it had become a common place. Just an ordinary place to do business. In the midst of clinking coins and bird feathers they had forgotten to be in awe, forgotten healthy fear and forgotten reverence.

The temple wasn’t a business to Jesus. It was his Father’s house. And he was returning to remind them.

But first—

But first watch what Jesus did.

He stops and makes a whip. He stands at the gate and slowly and methodically begins to braid cords together. He takes his time. There’s no hurry. There’s no exasperation.

Judas is staring. Peter is pacing impatiently. James and John are wondering what the whip is for (Perhaps they even wondered if they were going to get to use it. Remember earlier they had asked if fire could be called down on people. They don’t have the nicknames Sons of Thunder for nothing.)

And Jesus keeps braiding. Right over middle. Left over middle. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.* Love. Justice. Grace.

When he finishes he stands. And he entered the gates with Thanksgiving.

Thank you, Father, that this is your house.

And he entered the courts with praise.

Praise you, Father, for you are holy and good.

And then the whip cracked.

Smack.

Even the disciples jumped. Startled not just by the sound, but by the transformation in Jesus. There’s a light in his face and a shofar sound in his voice.

Tables turn. Cages open. Birds fly. Money rolls. Jaws drop.

And Jesus stood sentinel refusing to allow anyone carrying merchandise to walk through the courts.

And then…

Oh, I almost missed it. I almost missed the next detail.

And as he taught them…

As he taught them.

Jesus cleared the temple with a whip. Turned everything upside down and right side out.

Then he went back to the real purpose of the temple. He spent the rest of the day teaching and healing. Glory returned.And the house of God was once again a house of prayer.

We are the temple now. Yes, you read that correctly.

And we need to make a walk-through. We need to ask if familiarity is breeding contempt here in us? We may need to get angry with what we see.

We need to stop and make a whip of cords. Justice over love. Love over grace. Grace over Justice. All woven together to form one whip. And we need to be praying while we braid. Asking for discernment, for wisdom and for clarity.

When the whip is finished we need to go through and drive out all that is distracting and hindering us from the purpose of the temple—to be a house of prayer and to glorify God.

I need to go and make a whip.

Family and Friends

2011-04-13T18:52:00.001-07:00

Where do you go when you are sad or hurting? Where do you go to be safe? The better question is to whom do you go? Who do you want to be with when life is about to hand you a hard thing that has no give? Who do you want to sit with you in silence? Or make you belly laugh regardless of the circumstances?

Do you have them in mind?

Jesus did. Actually he had two places and a group of people in mind.

Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. Slow, steady and smelly. The palm branches fanned the air around him and the cloaks rippled like waves as they touched the ground before him. Shouts filled the air and a children’s choir delighted his heart. Innocence singing.

Zechariah’s word manifested.

And the spiritual leaders of Israel missed it. Before the palm branches stilled the Pharisees and the teachers of the law were rebuking and berating Jesus for the content of the children’s song.

But, watch Jesus.

Jesus moved past them. He was neither flattered by laud nor discouraged by criticism. He had set his face; he went to the temple.

Home away from home.

But what did he think when he entered the gates and courts? What did he mull in his mind as he studied this shadow of the reality? What was his assessment of this meager copy? What he found was a poor copy. A mimicry.

Sadly, this was not the house of prayer he longed for and needed. He had walked through the gates and entered the courts with a set face. He had come to pray. He had come to worship. He had come to talk to his Father.

What he encountered angered him.

Would it have angered us? Would we have been offended? Or would we have not seen anything out of the ordinary?

Jesus turned and walked away. He left his temple. He would talk to his Father somewhere else. He reset his face. His destination was Jerusalem, but that wasn’t where he was going to lay his head. He was going to another home away from home.

With his twelve men Jesus set out for Bethany.

He was going to Martha, Lazarus and Mary’s house to be among friends who had become family. He was going where he knew he was loved.

He could let his guard down in Bethany. No one would attempt to trap him in trick questions. No one would demand from him there. They would just let him be. (And if they didn’t, Martha would make sure they did. Don’t mess with Martha.)

At the most critical point in Jesus’ earthy life he needed to be with his Father and he wanted to be with his dearest friends.

He knows at the end of the week he is going to be left standing alone to face his accusers. He was going to meet death—face to face.

And where does he choose to go?

The hardest part of this earth-journey for Jesus was about to come. Pain, suffering, isolation and rejection. And he shows us what we should do. He always does.

Where do you go when life starts bending you backwards, when people start giving you grief, when your accuser points the finger at you, when your life becomes a hard thing?

Where do you go?

I hope you don’t have to think about it too long

Shouting and Wanting--Day 3

2011-04-13T04:18:00.000-07:00

Last night I struggled with this post and this endeavor.

I was fighting myself wondering if I was attempting this through vain conceit. When I got home from work something happened concerning one of these posts that embarrassed me. Frantically I tried to correct my mistake. And the beautiful Holy Spirit began to talk to me. My mind is often overwhelmed in his gentleness that is extended to me. You see the error that produced the embarrassment was a trivial thing. Easily fixed. Easily remedied. The change took only two or three minutes.

But my God knows me. He knew that the true root of the problem was not embarrassment, but pride. I said yesterday, let’s call these things what they are. And so there is my ugliness. Pride. And it cost me. My pride caused me to lose my focus last night. I have a very, very narrow window of writing time these days. And I squandered the time wallowing in what I delicately tried to call embarrassment. I was in a funk and on a mission. Not a good combination. So, I set my writing aside last night and went to bed. And this morning, the Spirit was beside me before I even came fully awake. He was already speaking to me.

So, if you are reading my blog today, first of all, I am honored. Second of all, if you are reading this blog today it is because of the grace of God. And because love covers over a multitude of wrongs.

He had a routine spot on the Jericho road. Old Timaeus’ blind son had nothing more than an indentation in the rocks to lay down his cloak. No more than a wide spot in the road.

He shouted and banged his clay pot on the rocks scattered at his feet. Bartimaeus called out names and listened for particular voices. His hearing was sharp. His interpretations were astute. The residents of Jericho recognized him, but rarely did they acknowledge him.

He was unkempt, tattered and dirty. His nails were grimy. Bartimaeus’ eyes were cloudy—milked over and empty, but his blindness had made him bold. And he was either brave or a little crazy because he was begging on a dangerous and treacherous road.

You see, Bartimaeus was blind, but he wasn’t deaf. And he was certainly not dumb. He heard the talk on the street. He was privy to many private conversations. People tend to ignore beggars and treat blind men like they are invisible.

And he heard that Jesus was coming. Every snippet of conversation and information about this Rabbi was tucked away for future reference. He asked questions of anyone who got close enough. Jesus was on his way. Leaving Jericho.

Bartimaeus heard them coming long before anyone else did. He measured the step counts—in his head he knew how many steps it took from the bend in the road to his begging station.

And when he reached his count he started to shout. He shouted loud. He was determined to be heard. He was going to make sure of it.

“Son of David, have mercy on me.” Oh, so much said in this short sentence.

“Son of David, have mercy on me.”

And then they began to shush him. They rebuked him—people who normally swatted at him as if he were an annoying fly, people who almost always ignored his pleas for help—they told him to be quiet.

But Bartimaeus just shouted louder. The more they rebuked the more he shouted. The louder they got, the louder he got. Oh, how I love the audacity of this man! He didn’t care what anyone thought. He knew what he wanted.

He kept shouting, and Jesus heard.

Jesus looked around at the gathering. He told the people to call the man. Tell him to come to me.

And so they went and told this blind man to get up and go to Jesus. Now, don’t you wonder who held Bartimaeus’ hand? Who led him to Jesus? Honestly, it doesn’t seem like anyone does. No, he’s too eager. He’s ready.

Remember, he’s been waiting for this moment. This is his one chance. He’s heard the whispers about what this man can do. He has heard the conversations about the healings in other places. And he is not going to miss his chance. He’s so eager and ready that he jumps up and throws his cloak behind. Mind you, he actually throws it aside, getting it out of the way so it won’t hinder him. His cloak and his begging pot are his only valued possessions. But he doesn’t care; he’s not thinking about that cloak right then. And he becomes the begging pot. He doesn’t just want Jesus to put something into the pot. No, he wants this Jesus to put something in him. And Bartimaeus doesn’t just hope, he expects.

He would bet every coin in his pot on this.

Someone does guide him directly to Jesus.

And Jesus looks him in the eye.

How do I know this?

Because this is the kind of man Jesus is. Jesus understood that you needed to look a blind man in the eye.

Remember Jesus had set his face toward Jerusalem. And here he is not but a few minutes out of Jericho and someone has already stopped him. But, watch him now. Watch Jesus. He stops in the middle of the road. Adds a delay to his purpose-driven itinerary and calls for a blind beggar to be brought to him.

A worthless blind, beggar.

“What do you want me to do for you?” Jesus asked.

Do you realize what type of language this is? Right before Jesus set out to leave Jericho there was a hard-nosed, pride-filled discussion among his closest followers. And Jesus said to them that he had come to serve, not to be served.

Jesus’ question to the blind beggar was spoken in common servant language. What can I do for you? Jesus will always embody and employ what he wants us to be. If he asks us to be servants he is going to show us how to be servants.

“What do you want me to do for you?” He asks.

Did you catch that?

Jesus asks Bartimaeus what he wants. Not what he needs. No, what he wants.

And Bartimaeus told him exactly what he wanted. He didn’t stand there and hem-haw. He didn’t make excuses and try to justify his answer. He just blurted out exactly what he wanted.

And I just want to weep with Bartimaeus’ answer.

“Rabbi, I want to see.”

Oh, Bartimaeus, how he speaks my heart.

Oh, my Jesus, I want to see.

Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem. He will not pass this way another time. He will not see Bartimaeus again.

Watch him now. Watch Jesus.

In compassion he reached out and touched the blind man’s eyes.

“Receive your sight.”

Listen carefully. There WILL come a time (more than once) when Jesus will be passing by us. And we best be shouting his name. And when others try to censor us, when they try to get us to not be so bold, so forthright, so vocal we should short louder. (Did you notice it was the religious and the disciples who rebuked Bartimaeus?)

And what will we do when we cry out his name and he turns to us, calls us to him and asks, “What do you want me to do for you?”

Will we stutter and stammer. Will we step back and try to think of the correct thing to ask Jesus to do for us? Will we allow pride to get in the way? False humility? The voices and expectations of others?

He’s asking right now. What do you want me to do for you?

Will I follow Bartimaeus and answer honestly?

Will you?

Mark 10:46-52; Matthew 20:29-34; Luke 18:35-43 and Mark 10:35-45

A Set Face--Day 2

2011-04-11T18:32:00.000-07:00

For twenty-eight years I have been a Christ-follower. That’s longer than I have done or been anything other than being alive. I have not always been diligent. I have not always been full of fervor. I have not always been a Christ-follower to emulate. But I could never turn away. I loved the faith. I loved Christ.

Somewhere along the next twenty-two years ago he became very familiar. And I took liberties and made assumptions. One of the ways this attitude manifested was I wouldn't read certain passages in Scripture because I already knew them. I knew the words written there. Again, familiarity bred contempt. I didn’t want to call it that. I didn’t want to put such an ugly name on it.

But we must call ugliness what it is.

Our Resurrection God recognizes this in his followers. He sees the sneers and smirks of contempt long before we do. He sees them as they begin inside. For me not to read a passage (especially the narratives of Jesus’ last week here) because I already knew them is a sin. And that sin is pride. Let me call it what it is.

But He didn’t deal with me harshly. Never does.

He asked me to go to the place of the greatest familiarity. Go back to the Gospels.

That was six years ago.

Six years ago I fell in love with Jesus. This is familiar phraseology—the best I can do to explain my relationship with Jesus. And it is a far-cry from the reality, but it’s close.

Six years ago I began to re-read the Gospels from a different perspective. I read and studied those four books simply to watch Jesus.

I watched him. I followed him through the crowds like an orphaned waif. I shadowed him through villages and followed behind him on the dusty roads. I saw him reach his hand out to a leper. I witnessed him raising a little girl from the dead. I listened as he gently chastised Martha. And I shrunk behind walls when he faced the Pharisees, the religious leaders, and called them white-washed tombs. I cried when he comforted the Widow of Nain. I hurt for him when his friend, Lazarus, died. I saw him show mercy so many times. He withheld condemnation when everyone else held rocks in their hands. He ate with people who were despised.

I saw him laugh and joke. I marveled at his teaching ability. I heard his encouragement to his disciples. I listened when he explained something to them for the fourth time and they still didn’t get what he was saying or doing. I witnessed him doing things that were beyond my comprehension—events I still do not fully understand. Apparently Peter, James and John didn’t either. I was nearby when he took the bread and fish and looked up and spoke with his father. I was in the crowd when the woman scooted under my feet and touched the dusty hem of his garment. I watched him make mud-pies and write in the dirt. I took a step back when he rebuked Peter. I saw him pick up a child and put her on his shoulders.

I fell in love with this man, Jesus. How could I not? How could I watch him and not love him?

But you see, he loved me first.

And I saw it on his face.

He was on his way to Jerusalem. He was navigating the treacherous Jericho road. So many told him not to go. He was warned. There was a bounty on his head. Cunningly the traps were being set and strategically the snares were being placed to entangle and indict him. They were waiting for him. And the ones around and with him were discouraging him—advising him to lay low, fly under the radar until the heat cooled.

But Jesus’ face was set. Like flint. He would not be deterred in this final journey. This was what he was sent here to do. To go to Jerusalem and die. He knew the details. Every single one. He knew the itinerary of this trip. He knew how it would end, and he went anyway. Love compelled him. He went because somewhere on that Jericho road he saw the shadow of me.

And the shadow of you.

And he set his face towards Jerusalem.

Don’t miss this.

He saw us.

Don’t dismiss this reality because of familiarity.

Jesus set his face because of me.

Because of you.

Luke 9:51; Isaiah 50:7

Fourteen Days--1

2011-04-10T20:12:00.000-07:00

This has been a long winter. A season of stretched-out grayness and cold barrenness.

I know. I know. We need the winter. We need the rest and the dormancy. Our world needs to lay fallow for a season. Winter is a time of latent life that is invisible to the casual observer. Or the light-deprived—like me.

I am not sure how many times I have whispered to myself, “This too shall pass. Yes, Tamera, it will. This too shall pass.”

I was beginning to wonder.

But one morning I woke up and looked out my kitchen window and the grass in the yard was green. There were buds on the trees. The tulips and daffodils were pushing up through the dead grass.

The sun started to shine.

And I could feel my sap running. I came awake.

I have been resurrected from my winter slumber.

Two weeks from today Christ-followers will celebrate the most essential tenet of our faith. Without the fact of the Resurrection our faith would be null and void. Without this event—this coming to life, rising up from the grave and casting off the shackles of death event— we would lose the very life blood of who we are.

I have no interest in remaining in the darkness of burial. I have no desire to be left in a perpetual Friday or Saturday of that weekend event. I am a Sunday kind of girl. I want to live like it is Sunday!

For the next fourteen days I am going to share some thoughts with you about what we call Easter.

These thoughts will be nothing new and most likely written about and discussed a hundred times before. Most likely someone has or will communicate them far better that I. Solomon, in all his wisdom, says there is nothing new under the sun. I am not striving or looking for originality. I am looking for the Spirit to take something that has become far too familiar and make it fresh.

We tend to overlook, ignore or scorn the familiar. We grow weary of it. We say we have been there, done that. Heard that, seen that. Oh, but that is why God’s Word is living and active. It is not simply words on a page—no, we interact with the Word of God, because every time we approach it we are coming from a slightly different slope or angle. Every time we encounter the Word there is an opportunity for the Spirit to teach us.

I am not sure how many times I have read the last chapters of the gospels. I could not count how many messages I have heard about the last week of Jesus’ life. I do know this: I have become far too familiar. And the truth is: sometimes familiarity breeds contempt.

I am asking the God of the Resurrection to enable me to see the last chapters of the gospels in a new light. I am asking that in the next fourteen days to be changed.

Transformed.

Recently a dear friend of mine told me she preferred the butterfly as a symbol of her faith. I had to think about that for a while. At first it seemed far too clichéd to me. Ahhhh, too familiar. And because of its familiarity I almost dismissed it.

Today I was walking on our walking trail with my husband. The wind was blowing, the grasses were moving, my hair was whipping and the sun was shining. No clouds in the sky. No scent of rain in the air. Just heat and light. How could it get any better?

I was talking—thirty words to every two steps it seemed.

And the day got better.

Swooping, gliding, floating and fluttering across the grass, clover and dandelions was a butterfly. It flew ahead of me on the trail—hovering and dancing. A yellow butterfly.

A yellow butterfly.

Months ago an ugly caterpillar had fed its greediness full—and cocooned itself in a tight ball and went dormant. Waiting. Suspended all through the long, dark winter. One day it woke up and the cocoon was too tight. The creature began to push through the membrane that had been its protection. And it emerged.

Transformed.

And the symbol I had considered a bit cliché and far too familiar was new. In that moment on the walking trail God took something old, over-used and worn and made it new.

I came fully awake.

Would you join me in this fourteen day journey? Fourteen days of looking at the familiar and asking our Resurrection God to please show us something new.

Something fresh.

Are you awake yet?

15 Year Old Teachers

2011-04-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

I have been revisiting my blog. I have been rethinking this chambered nautilus space. I have grown too comfortable here.

In 2007 when I started The Chambered Nautilus: Deep calls to Deep this was a giant leap for me into the unknown and the uncomfortable. I created the blog because I was teaching a creative writing class and I challenged the students to get out of their comfort zone—start a blog, submit something for publication. My philosophy in teaching is that I do not give assignments or challenges I will not engage or do. I took my own challenge and this blog was birthed. It has been a place of solace for me.

I was mesmerized by this chambered mystery, but I hadn’t thought a great deal about my blog or its map legend too much since its inception. Recently I started to feel cramped again. I hadn’t stretched to full length in a long while. I realized I was staying in a close, tight space—a little afraid, reluctant to push outward.

Fearful of taking another risk

Suddenly, once again this symbol began to appear—vying for my attention. Reminding me of what God has done and is doing in me. A good friend, an incredibly thoughtful friend, gave me a birthday bag the week before my birthday. It was filled with special things, most of them centered on the chambered nautilus. And this wasn’t the first time she had showered me with gifts emblazoned with my symbol.

Finally it dawned on me. Was I missing something? Was the sweet Spirit of God whispering to me and I was not hearing because it was all too familiar?

A couple of weeks ago I assigned my public speaking class a high school version of show and tell. It was an improv of sorts with minimal preparation. As I stated my philosophy in teaching is that I don’t and won’t give the students an assignment that I am unwilling to do myself. In keeping with this philosophy I brought in my beautiful chambered nautilus to share. Most of the group had never seen or heard of this ancient creature or their incrementally beautiful shell.

I hadn’t shared about my map legend in a long time and it felt good to tell the story again. I did wonder, however, how many of the students had really even listened, let alone were interested.

My birthday was April 1st. I had an incredible day. Family, friends, students, teachers and coworkers were so wonderful and filled my day with so many incredible wishes and thoughts and sentiments. One gift, however, surprised and stunned me. I didn’t expect a gift from this person, and I certainly didn’t expect what he gave. One of my freshmen public speaking students came to me during my planning period and handed me a folded piece of paper. In his quiet, unassuming way he said, “This is for you.”

I opened the paper. At the top he had drawn three stars and Happy Birthday!!! His scratchy handwriting filled the space from top to bottom. I started to read. I finished and read again. And again.

God speaks. God speaks regardless.

And he teaches 45 year old teachers through 15 year old students.

Here is what he wrote. I asked for his permission to print and share this with you—my chambered nautilus readers.

I am a nautilus shell
Tiny, vulnerable and wiry

I am stuck between the light and the dark of the ocean.
I long for the light, but the dark is always pulling.

I am unwilling to grow
I am afraid of my vulnerability
I am trapped in my own shell.

I need room to grow, to expand my chambers,
To grow though means to become vulnerable
To become vulnerable means I could be hurt.

I am looking for a sign, signal—something saying it’s
Time for me to grow.

I am a fully grown nautilus shell.

I am no longer afraid of my vulnerability.
I am no longer trapped in my shell.
I am no longer unwilling to grow.

I’ve heard the signal.
It came like a whisper in the wind—
Calm, shy, fleeting.

My shell is grown.
My sign found.
I am in the light of God.

Ben Schanding

Bolivian Beads

2011-04-07T11:54:00.000-07:00

They were lovely beads—a double strand of dark red, off white and matte black irregular- shaped beads. My daughter brought them back from Bolivia to her younger sister as a gift and memento of her time there.

They matched my sweater, and I was wearing them. I regret doing so. I wish I had decided on something else, picked another necklace or scarf from my own collection, but I didn’t. Sometime in the course of the day the clasp had turned to the front. I stood in the kitchen and was turning the necklace back around my neck.

The shorter strand snapped between my fingers. The breaking happened before I even realized—so fast, so unexpected. The beads dropped to the floor so quickly I didn’t even catch one. I managed to grasp the strand and stop the unstringing midway, but I looked down and all around my feet the beads rolled. I gasped.

I had broken the Bolivian beads. They had traveled thousands of miles intact. They had been worn many times before, but I was the one who broke them.

I grabbed a measuring cup and started to kneel to retrieve them, but my husband was already bent picking up tiny black beads with his enormous fingers and placing them in the cup of his hand.

I stood, unmoving, still astonished that this had happened so quickly. In the middle of all this I still held the broken strand of beads. Finally, I handed him the cup and he began to fill it. We moved a cabinet in order to locate the stray beads. When we managed to find them all, I laid the broken strand in a shallow pottery dish on the counter and sighed.

A week later I was on the walking track at school. For thirty minutes every day I walk around in circles. I would much rather walk outside, but the long winter has prohibited that option. I do enjoy hearing snippets and snatches of instructions and lessons as I go by the open classrooms. Usually I walk with a book—reading as I go. The reading makes the time move faster and allows me to do something I love while doing something I don’t necessarily enjoy. The students think I’m funny. Several of them will wave at me. Some have even put things in my path to see if I notice. A trash can. A desk. I just move them and continue on my way.

Some of my deepest thinking happens in this cyclical routine. As my heart rate moves up, so does the awareness of my spirit.

And the Spirit spoke. Clear, pristine directions. This is what I want you to do, Tamera. But I had no pen, no paper, no means of recording what He was speaking into me. This fact didn’t matter. When he wants you to remember, you will. And when he wants you to make connections he will help you connect the dots. That day I was walking and I remembered the beads on the counter. The broken strand. The loose beads. As I turned the rounded corners I replayed the scenario in my head—a short clip I could fast forward and rewind and pause.

Something hard and sad occurred in my life a few weeks before the time of the beads. I regret that eventful night. I wish I had made other choices. I wish different choices were made. It was a night of unexpected and quick brokenness. The whole situation was like a fragile string that couldn’t handle the pulling and tension, and it snapped. Actually my strand snapped that night. I had felt my own fragility and watched as the beads dropped to the floor out of my reach and beyond my control. I wasn’t even able to hold to the strand to keep it from totally unstringing.

I stood gasping.

And I am still collecting scattered beads. I can’t seem to locate all of them.

But (God’s beautiful divine conjunction. Praise him!) as I walked that circle, one foot in front of the other, he spoke his peace to me. His solid peace moved to the most remote and broken parts of me.

Deep parts, deep places.

He whispered to me that he knew where all the beads were and he was quite good at restringing broken strands. Even if the beads remained missing he could and would create a new pattern if I put the string and the beads in his hands. If I trusted him with the process and the pattern.

At first, I looked for the right words, the right posture, the right attitude to fix and repair the situation myself, but I simply don’t have that capability. I can’t repair what is broken—especially not what is broken in me.

Several years ago the brokenness would have driven me to despair and depression. A few years ago I would have pummeled myself until I was spiritually and emotionally bloody. What good is that? What benefit does that have in my life and in the kingdom?

As I walked around that elliptical track, one foot in front of the other, I raised my head and closed my book. And I made a hard choice. I chose to hand over the beads and the broken string. I chose to follow his instructions.

Those beautiful, lovely beads and the fragile, broken string are in his hands now.

His hands are capable; they are skilled.

I trust him to the restringing.

Storm Breathing

2011-04-04T16:59:00.000-07:00

Spring Break.

I long and yearn to be at the edge of the ocean smelling the brine in the air and hearing the waves break on the shore. Watching the seagulls swoop and glide. I want to feel the grit of sand in my toes and relish the sun on my face. I want to breathe deep. Deep breathing that allows the breath to go all the way to bottom of my lungs.

I have to ask: can I only breathe deep at the ocean? Is it the salt on the air and the sound and noise and the sheen of the sun that produces this euphoria? Is it the burn on my skin and the slap of the ocean waves on my calves? Or is it the endless and soothing roll of the water wetting the sand and darkening it on the edges? What is it about the ocean? Can I only breathe deeply there?

At the ocean my restlessness gets absorbed. Schedules are relaxed. The question is what do we want to do rather than what do we have to do. Inwardly our bodies become tuned to the rhythm of the vast sea.

But I can’t go there now. Circumstances just aren’t in order. I am, however, realizing God is asking me to breathe deeply anyway.

I have been breathing these shallow breaths for too long. Functional and adequate breaths, but not the ones which move all the way down until my lungs are expanded and inflated. Shallow breathing does not get held, but expelled quickly in order to take the next one. God wants me to stop and hold my breath. Hold my breath until—I can release it slowly.

A measured exhale.

I have been concerned about Spring Break. The Theory of Relativity strikes true in this short week. I have been concerned my shallow breathing will jeopardize the next seven days.

Slowing down your breathing is not an easy task. Our lives demand us to do otherwise. Our heart rates stay high, and we seem to remain in a constant state of motion.

Newton stated an object will remain in motion until acted upon by an outside force.

The Spirit has been wooing me all day long. He is the outside force acting on my frenzied motion. Certainly I had enough plans to fill my whole day. My husband sensed I had too much on my mind—I started to make my lists—he could feel my restlessness.

I wanted sunshine today. Wanted the sun to come out full force—loud and brilliant. Instead I was given rain and a thunderstorm.

I was put in the middle of a thunderstorm.

A storm brings a stillness of its own. I went out on the porch and watched the rain come down in slate gray sheets—pushed sideways by the ferocity of the wind.

Even now thunder rumbles and vibrates across the sky. A sky, ten shades of gray, is hanging low and heavy. The house is quiet and subdued in shadows. The lights seem far too artificial and glaring. Intently I listen. The rain rolls off the porch roof and pours from the gutter spouts. Thunder comes again mumbling and grumbling.

Earlier I stood at the back door and then stepped out onto the deck. I crossed my arms and pulled them tight against my chest and closed my eyes. And I opened them slowly and watched the ominous clouds hover and then roll across the sky. I turned and saw the leaves flip and flutter and the tops of the trees sway. Lightning was somewhere I just couldn’t see it.

I can’t go to the ocean this week. God knew this. And I asked for sunshine.

Instead he provided a storm, and allowed me to be right in the middle. He knew which one I needed first.

Our front door stands open. As I inhale I can smell the rain. I can feel the coolness of the air floating through the house. And there is no brine, but there is something.

A calm. A stillness. A rhythm.

Restlessness absorbed.

I breathe deep. And I hold it.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Everything that has breath, praise the Lord!

Bless Today

2011-03-23T16:17:00.000-07:00

Last year I wrote 21 Things on this daughter’s birthday. Yes, today is my second daughter’s 22nd birthday and I have thought about her all day long.

I woke in the early hours of the morning. The upstairs was dark and quiet and shadows fell across the hall floor from the bathroom light. The dogs shuffled in their crates hoping I would let them out early so they could race to their food bowls. This morning I passed them. I walked down the dark stairs running my hand along the wall to feel my way. I always have to guide myself early in the morning. My ankle isn’t too pleased about alternating steps when I first rise, so the wall gives me a little more confidence.

I moved to my computer left on the coffee table overnight; I wanted to log on Facebook to wish my daughter her first happy birthday of the day. I didn’t get that honor; I forget that her generation is up way past the hour of midnight, and her page was peppered with wishes. I sent my wishes via message and then started my day.

And all day she has been laced into my thoughts—memories and vignettes of this now woman. A woman—grown. But she was my baby once. A tiny thing with snow white hair and vividly blue eyes and skin a shade just above alabaster. From the beginning she made her presence known to the world. I didn’t have to announce she had arrived. And this morning I thought about how I swaddled her and held her close to me right up next to the curve of my neck. For a few minutes I hold her there in my memory—remembering the sweet baby scent of her, recalling the steel independence of her, reminiscing the limitless compassion of her and reveling in the blessing of her.
These are not just memories of her.

When I feel my compassion flagging and moving to weary she will tell me a story of a little boy downtown and her passion fans to flame something in me I have misplaced.

My own independence has often been pocked with weak spots and lack of grit, but I have been challenged watching her take on the world that is hers with a bold fierceness.

There are days when I have whispered prayers requesting something, anything, to reveal His presence to me, something to remind me he’s near and he hears. Some days his answer has been a call or message from this daughter of mine. And the blessing of her is nourishing and rich.

I will walk back up those stairs tonight, back through the shadowy hall. I will lie down to sleep, but before I do I will bless my God for today.

I will thank him for the gift he sent.

I will thank him for her.

On Pause

2011-02-25T10:31:00.000-08:00

I witnessed something incredible this week.

I teach a public speaking class at a local private school. Needless to say this is not a favorite among my students. This class should have a warning label: Can cause hives, sweating and the jitters. On the first day of class one of my students asked if he could transfer out the next day. I laughed and told him no and that I knew his mama.

Several times a week the students have to participate in improvisation exercises. They have to speak (yes, in front of the class) on a random topic for a predetermined length of time—usually two minutes. To me two minutes is not a very long time, but to my students it seems like fifteen.

My daughter hates public speaking, and she is one of my students. She hates being in front of a crowd and looking into the sea of faces. She hates trying to think on the spot. She hates being watched and observed. Exaggerating I am not. Hitting the time mark in the improvisation exercises has been a true struggle for her. Usually she is at least a minute under the time requirement.

The class is a mix of several freshman, one sophomore and three seniors. My daughter is the one sophomore. And it was her turn. Often I will throw a twist into the format. The twist this week was I decided when they had to speak, but they got to choose the fellow classmate who would pick the topic.

Carefully my daughter assessed who she would choose. She chose well. Her fellow student asked her to talk about why she disliked public speaking so much. I laughed quietly. This was a topic she understood. She had quite a bit of personal experience with this subject.

My daughter started well. She was in control of her voice and her body movements. Her eye contact was strong. Her voice was well modulated. Thinking she was going to reach her time I began to cheer inwardly for her. Suddenly like a fan that had been unplugged she wound down. She looked at me and stated that she was finished. I told her she could sit down, but she would have to try again the next day.

That’s when it happened.

And it happened so quickly I almost didn’t catch it.

From the back of the room one of the boys raised up the phone they were using to time the improvisations. Several boys began to talk at once.

“No, wait she’s just on pause. “

“Go ahead, Abby. Finish.”

“You can do this. You got this. You were just on pause. ”

The whole room began to encourage and cheer for my daughter.

“C’mon, you can do this. Try.”

Turning back to Abby I saw she hadn’t moved far from her spot. I nodded, and she took a deep breath and began again.

The boys took the stopwatch off pause.

This time she finished. Actually she went over the required time.

And the class burst into applause.

I will never forget that moment and the look on my daughter’s face.

She will never forget that day.

Because that day we witnessed an incredible illustration of the Kingdom of God fleshed out.

Sometimes we just can’t reach the required mark. We are too afraid. Too tired. Too embarrassed. Too overwhelmed by the task. Too intimidated by the sea of faces before us. We start well. We move forward. And then, suddenly, we hit a wall. We are stuck, and we just decide we are done. That’s all we have.

I hope when this happens to us (notice I say when, not if) we have a cheering section putting us on pause. Just a moment so we can catch our breaths, gather our thoughts and garner our composure.

I hope when this happens to someone else we remember to encourage and cheer.

I hope we remember to offer a pause—even if it is just a brief one.

And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds. Hebrews 10: 24 (NIV)

White Cadillac

2011-01-31T18:26:00.000-08:00

On January 19, 2010 someone very dear left us unexpectedly. She was an incredible woman—full of spit and verve. Her filter was turned on a very low setting and she pretty much said what she thought. She dressed in UK gear and rooted the Cats on regardless. She had lunch with representatives, senators and governors. She helped my step-father with his restaurant business—serving food, cleaning tables and making customers laugh. She had a quick wit and a sharp tongue, but she had an incredible compassion for those she loved.

Her name was LaVinia. She was my step-father’s sister.

We went to her funeral and laughed. One of our state representatives spoke and told stories and quips from LaVinia’s life—how she touched those around her. How she made them laugh and how she encouraged them when their chin was dragging.

I was sitting toward the back of the room, but somehow I managed to get a straight view of my brother, who was sitting in the pall-bearers’ line. I watched his face as these stories were recounted. He was very close to his Aunt LaVinia; she was his best friend. He would nod, as many around me would, at LaVinia’s hilarious tactics.

LaVinia’s funeral was on a Sunday. My brother’s birthday was on the following Tuesday. He and Aunt LaVinia had planned the whole day: a whole day of festivities to celebrate not only my brother’s birthday, but his victory over addiction. LaVinia had been instrumental in his recovery—loyal, encouraging LaVinia.

On Monday night my brother told me he wished he could just go to sleep and not wake up until Wednesday morning. He wanted to just skip his birthday—no LaVinia to sing happy birthday to him—to make a big-to-do in a way only she could. He just wanted to miss the whole thing. This broke my heart.

On Monday night I told him I would pray. I was going to pray for our God to give him something—a very clear sign which would let him know without a doubt and with utter clarity that LaVinia and God were remembering him on his birthday.

I did pray. And I prayed again.

On Tuesday night I got online to wish my brother a happy birthday one more time. He was online and so we began to talk about his day. He asked me if I had time for him to tell me about a dream he had had the night before. In the early hours of his birthday. Of course I wanted to hear.

The following is a recounting of our conversation. (My brother’s comments are in italics, my responses are in regular type.)

I was at the Frosty Freeze (the name of our family restaurant) staring out the window (the take-out window) and Curt (LaVinia’s husband who passed away a few years ago) and LaVinia pulled up in a white Cadillac laughing and having a ball and singing happy birthday…it was so real.

As these words popped up on the fb chat screen I started crying.

I told my brother, “I prayed and asked God to send you something to let you know LaVinia would remember…that He remembered. Of course God always outdoes what I ask him to do. Only He could come up with something like that!

“Yeah, it was pretty cool. After they sung they just drove off laughing and having a blast. It [the dream] blowed my mind. It made my day”

That’s how God really is.

Yeah, I know.

Can I tell this to the girls and at school?

Yeah, tell whoever! I told everybody today. Figured I’d tell you about it. You said God would send me something and he did.

Yes, he did.

I won’t ever forget that.

Neither will I.

A white Cadillac.

Amazing.

Too Big for My Britches

2011-01-17T05:31:00.000-08:00

In the past few weeks I have been shown that I have been too big for my britches. Not my physical britches, despite the fact we just came out of the food-laden holidays, they are still fine. No, my other britches.

Many of you who did not grow up in Eastern Kentucky might not know what britches are. This is an alternative spelling for breeches—cropped riding pants. This doesn’t make a great deal of sense until you realize this is an idiom meaning asserting oneself beyond one's authority or ability.*

I learned this phrase from my maternal grandmother. I am sorry to say I can’t count how many times she said this phrase to me. Seemed as if I was forever outgrowing my britches.

Sometimes we get so comfortable in our faith and routine we forget we are not above mistakes and sins. We ignore the fact that even though we have been saved by his grace, bought and cleansed by his blood and justified by his sacrifice we can still be the one in the wrong. We can still be the one not making the right choices, saying the wrong things and not doing what needs to be done when it needs to be done.

During the past few weeks the Spirit has been gently and quietly, but very firmly disciplining me (I mistakenly typed the word discipling—fits too, I think). His reprimands began a couple of weeks ago in church (the morning I did NOT want to go) and he has been relentless ever since. His word to me had been very clear.

I have asserted myself beyond the authority and ability God has given me.

I have offered answers to questions I didn’t have any business answering. I have acted as if I know more than others around me. I have judged when I should have extended mercy. I have patronized when I should have offered the hand of grace. I have been stubborn when I should have been flexible. I have hidden when I should have been available. I have turned inward when I should have been focused outward. I have been too harsh when I should have been gentle. I have been too demanding when I should have rearranged my expectations. I have found fault when I should have allowed love to cover a multitude of wrongs. I have exchanged the Word of God for the endless prattle and fodder of a novel. I have ignored the silent promptings of the Spirit. I have been silent when I should have spoken. I have spoken when I should have been silent.

This is not a hypothetical list. I can give a specific example for each.

And the root of it all is hubris—ugly pride.

I have been too big for my britches.

O God, renew a right spirit within me.

*www.dictionary.com

The Day after Christmas

2010-12-26T19:14:00.000-08:00

The house is quiet. The girls have all gone out—a result of cabin fever.

Earlier today the house was alive. All my girls were here; this event alone is a blessing to me. Packages were opened and exchanged. Surprises were attempted and executed. We had some of our old traditions and initiated some new. Food was made and consumed (too much). A bag of torn and discarded wrapping paper sits by the door. The tree will come down tomorrow because we are going away for a few days, and I want the house in order when we return. All the decorations will be wrapped and put back in their totes and boxes.

And just like that Christmas is over.

This has been a very different Christmas. Why? I am not sure. There isn’t one single reason to which I can point.

Don’t misunderstand. This wasn’t a bad Christmas. It wasn’t a Christmas Vacation scenario. You understand: when odd-duck family members show up or a Christmas bonus doesn’t come or a squirrel gets in the Christmas tree. There weren’t any odd demands or expectations. There weren’t any mishaps or great disappointments.

A different Christmas.

What was the day after Jesus’ birth like?

Did Joseph and Mary and the new baby remain in the stable? What happened the day after the shepherds appeared unannounced declaring they had been instructed by angels to find the couple? Did Mary and Joseph experience the anti-climatic depression that often follows a huge event? Did the quietness of the stable close in on them? Or did they welcome it as they mulled the meaning of their unexpected visitors?

Did Joseph go out into the Bethlehem to locate a more suitable shelter for his wife and her baby? Was the census really over that quickly? Did hundreds and hundreds of people suddenly leave the small town of Bethlehem and go to the larger metropolis of Jerusalem? Did this, perhaps, open up a room in an inn?

As Joseph scoured the small village of his ancestor, David, did he question his sanity? The birth had been normal. And Jesus looked like a normal baby. Had he imagined the angel’s message in his dreams? As Joseph walked through the labyrinth streets looking for a real bed, sandless food and a cold drink what fears did he confront? And what thoughts and plans and doubts did he entertain?

And what did Mary ponder as she tidied up the stall and replenished the straw in the makeshift cradle? As she changed the swaddling clothes on her little boy what was she thinking? As she rubbed his little limbs and body with oil did she ask herself if she had simply dreamed or imagined the day before? As she called back to mind each shepherd’s face and words what exactly did she ponder in her heart? As she held the tiny bundle what stirred in her breast?

It is the day after Christmas.

The din and the excitement have simmered low.

My house is quiet.

My spirit is not.

What are you saying to me, Father?

What lessons have you tucked into this holiday to reveal yourself to me?

Inn or Stable?

2010-12-23T15:16:00.000-08:00

Here we are. The day before Christmas Eve.

Many people have asked, Are you ready for Christmas? More people than I can count. What does that question mean? In the middle of writing this post someone just asked, “Are you ready for Christmas?”

How does that question translate?

Is your house clean and in order? (Are you kidding me?)

Is your tree up and decorated? (Yes. Crazy lights and red ornaments and all.)

Are all your presents bought and wrapped? (Bought? Yes. Wrapped? Not yet.)

Have your packages been boxed and mailed? (Nope, I fail with that one every year.)

Is your baking done? (No, that grand event begins tomorrow.)

Are you ready for Christmas?

Am I ready for Christmas, Father?

On this Christmas Eve Eve what preparations do I need to make? What do I need to do for this Baby to be birthed in my heart anew?

Will I be the inn or the stable?

Will I send you away—not recognizing you in the trappings of humanity? Will I tell you there’s no room because I have filled this heart of mine with so many other things? Will I dismiss the niggling feeling I have beneath my skin as just the jittery adrenaline of the season? Will I be able to discern your voice in the cacophony of the crowded streets around me?

Will I invite you in and recognize you for who you really are? Will I throw open the door of my heart regardless of the cobwebs and dustiness? Will I make a place for you in my warm and pungent scented stalls? Will I be able to set aside my embarrassment and just simply tell you to come on in? Will I welcome you despite the fact that I am a stable and inevitably filthy?

Am I ready for Christmas, Father?

Someone just asked me that question again.

The Christmas Feeling

2010-12-18T10:27:00.000-08:00

One week until Christmas Day.

I thought I was moving into the season. Catching the spirit. Snow came—unexpectedly. The Christmas program at church was incredible. The last day of school came, and there was a latent sense of excitement. Students passed out packages to the teachers, said Merry Christmas and have a good break. Snow came—again. And ice.

And still many around me are saying this doesn’t feel like Christmas. What does Christmas feel like? When you wrap your arms around this holiday what weight does it have in your embrace? Or do you even embrace it?

A co-worker of mine played the annual Santa Claus not long ago. Obviously he enjoyed himself very much; you could see the enthusiasm as he donned his red velvet coat and knee-high boots. His bells jingled merrily as he walked to his place and greeted a whole lot of children who came just to see him. Later, I asked him what he enjoyed the most about this role. He explained, “I love seeing the wonder in the children’s eyes. Knowing I helped that happen is just great. Absolutely great!”

Seeing the wonder. Perhaps that is what is missing this Christmas. This year I find myself far more cynical than in previous ones. I avoid the retail marketplace—going only when I must. It’s more than that though…

I have lost my wonder. I seemed to have misplaced my awe. Perhaps this is because my children are grown now. No Christmas lists. No Christmas wishes (other than ones I can’t provide). Gone is the starry-eyed gaze when the Christmas tree is turned on and the lights dimmed. Gone is the barely-contained excitement of hiding gifts and trying not to peek. Gone are the whispers and the anticipation of Christmas morning. Next Christmas morning we will wake up in different places and have different agendas.

So, what does Christmas feel like?

Another one of the best Christmas memories I have happened when I was about seventeen. Christmas was very close and my step-father had not shopped yet. He and I talked about what he wanted to get his children for Christmas. They were all older than me. I offered to shop for him. I remember the amount of money he gave me, and I also remember the fun I had shopping. Honestly, I can’t remember everything I found for them that year, except for my oldest step-brother. He loved to camp, so I spent a great deal of time looking at portable stoves, sleeping bags, lanterns and cooking gear. I was elated.

I brought all these gifts (plus the ones for my step-sisters) and showed them to my step-father. He seemed so pleased. I handed him an envelope with the remainder of the money he had given me to purchase these gifts.

He opened the envelope and then looked at me quite puzzled. “What’s this?”

“Your change and your receipts.”

He started to chuckle. I love to see my step-father smile and laugh. His whole face lights and his blue eyes sparkle.

“Honey, that money was for you for Christmas. That was your Christmas money.”

I stood looking at him, not quite comprehending what he was telling me. He handed the envelope back to me.

He hadn’t known what to get me, so he had given me money so I could get what I wanted. I hadn’t understood. I know I must have looked just ridiculous to him—standing there with my mouth agape.

I remember trying to think about where I had misunderstood my step-father? What phrase or set of instructions had I not heard? What course of conversation had led me to believe he was sending me out as his Christmas elf?

I still don’t know.

I do know the feeling I had in that moment standing in the back room of the family restaurant is what I want Christmas to feel like.

That was probably one of the best Christmas presents I ever received. No, not the envelope. I don’t remember what I bought myself with that left-over money. Don’t remember at all. I do know that years later my step-brother was still using the camping stove.

Investments

2010-12-09T18:58:00.000-08:00

Recently someone asked the question what is your favorite Christmas memory? I couldn’t answer immediately. Can I answer according to genres of memories? Of course I have favorites from my daughters’ childhoods, and I have favorites that are connected with my dearest friends. One memory, however, is highlighted for me, and I think it is time to share.

When I was sixteen years old I started writing freelance for our county newspaper. No illusions of grandeur involved. It was just a small town, weekly paper. I wrote feature articles and occasionally did my own photography for my articles. I can’t express how much fun this little job was for me. To be able to interview and have conversations with interesting people, write their stories and record their expressions through film incorporated so many things I enjoyed.

I was an only child until I was almost eighteen. The Christmas I am recounting was before I had a baby brother. When I look back now, I realize how young my mother actually was. Young, pretty, charming and only thirty-four years old. Today I am ten years older than she was that Christmas—this detail fascinates me.

Christmas was always a strange event at our house. I do not say this to be critical, but just simply because I didn’t grow up with set traditions. One year Christmas was one way and the next it would be completely different. For some reason that year Christmas was at my grandmother’s house.

We ate dinner; honestly, I don’t even remember what was on the menu. I was preoccupied. After dinner was over my mother gathered everyone and pushed a huge box toward me. Huge. Beautifully wrapped and hard to move. No one else had a gift to open and I felt quite awkward. Everyone was watching me. I unwrapped the box; the brown exterior gave me no clue as to its contents. Eagerly I opened the box. Certainly what was inside was not what I expected. Inside were shredded newspaper and other packages. I am not sure how many, but I pulled out the first one and opened it.

I am sure I looked at my mother as if she had grown three heads. The first inside package was filled with potatoes. Yes, you read that correctly. Potatoes. No explanations. Everyone started to smile. I pulled out the next box. I opened it with much less enthusiasm. Inside this box was a five pound bag of flour. No explanations. Everyone chuckled. I did not. Quickly I decided everyone in the room had been clued in on this Christmas prank.

I pulled out a third box. When I got the paper off I was surprised. Surely not, I dared not to hope considering that so far I had potatoes and flour. I opened the box. Startled I reached in and pulled out exactly what was pictured on the box. I was stunned speechless. I was holding a 35 mm camera. Oh, it was a beautifully professional black monstrosity of a thing. I remember my hands shaking as I removed the lens cap. I lifted the camera to my eye and peered through the viewfinder. I felt the magic; I tingled.

Before I could fully absorb this magic my mother spoke, “There’s more. You’re not finished yet.”

I looked around and everyone nodded. I put my camera down and reached into the box again. This time I unwrapped canned goods. Green beans, I think. Maybe corn. By now, I had caught onto the game. I can’t remember what was in the next box. I reached for the last one. I am not sure, but I think I held my breath. What could top a 35 mm camera? Again, the box caused me to pause. Surely not. Surely this was not what was inside!

I tore the flaps back and pulled out…a typewriter.

Not just any typewriter, but one with an LCD screen that enabled me to correct my text before it ever touched the page. Flabbergasted might be a good word to describe my feeling.

A camera and a typewriter.

Almost thirty years have passed since that Christmas. Thirty years. I am sure my memory is colored and muted in some ways. Very much like when we were young and visited our grandparents’ house and it seemed enormous, then years later we returned and suddenly the same house seemed very small. I am sure I have some of the details out of place or perhaps even incorrect.

I don’t, however, have the impact these gifts made on me incorrect.

My mother invested in my future. She recognized my promise and gave me something to empower that potential.

She invested in my love of beauty. Over the yeas I used that camera to take many photographs. This developed my eye to see the unfamiliar. I learned to see something incredible in both the ugly and the lovely.

She invested in my love of words. I still have poetry and short stories printed from that early word processor. It went to college with me and helped me produce quite a few research papers.

She invested in my imagination. There was incredible magic for me in those captured images and descriptive words created with that camera and typewriter.

That Christmas my mother invested in me. With those gifts she acknowledged my giftings and encouraged them.

Many elements from that Christmas are gone. Sadly even the camera and the typewriter have been retired.

But the magic they held remains.

Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much.

Reason for the Season

2010-12-04T06:13:00.000-08:00

There’s a billboard war going on in New Jersey. I was checking CNN news this past week and caught the blurb.

In New Jersey there are certain groups purchasing billboard space to advertise the Reason for Christmas. One declares Christmas is a myth and to please USE reason this season and one declares Christmas is not a myth and remember the reason for the season. I had to read the article twice to make sure I understood what was happening.

What a sad, sad commentary on both sides of the issue. Not only do we have to go into retail stores and be bombarded with the mentality that purchases make us superheroes at Christmas, but now we have to watch a petty tit-for-tat squabble played out on the edges of the highways.

Yes, I did say I was sad. I don’t like politics at all, and this whole scenario smacks of political bantering and bickering on both sides.

Both groups would have made better use of their funds by investing in their communities—feeding the hungry, clothing the ragged, giving shelter to the homeless, providing medicine for the sick and caring for the lonely.

Love should manifest in action. There should be feet and hands to accompany the declarations. We are exhorted to not only love in word, but in action and in truth.

We, the Christian Body, constantly make reference to the fact that Christmas is the time when our Deity became flesh. He entered our world and put skin on to become one of us in order to save us. And as cliché as it may sound we are now extensions of his flesh. We are his hands and feet.

Often we are too busy arguing religion or theology. We are too preoccupied with the abstracts of the faith instead of becoming the tangible manifestations of His flesh. We are told to know in whom we believe, to be grounded in sound doctrine, but not at the expense of neglecting those who Jesus is so tender towards: the hungry, the poor, the destitute, the weary, the helpless, the weak and the oppressed.

Please, let’s not spend this holy season arguing about the reason for the season. Let’s not spend our time in an endless debate, but instead let our love be manifested in taking care of each other.

Yes, let us celebrate reason. Our God says, “Come, let us reason together.” (Isaiah 1:18).

What I Want for Christmas, Part II

2010-12-04T05:31:00.000-08:00

I can’t write this one.

I tired to finish it right after the last one; even then I had to set it aside. As I sat here this morning and tried to articulate the other requests I have on my heart, I realized they are far too personal -- not just for me but for the ones I long to bless.

Happy December 4th!

What I Want for Christmas--Part 1

2010-12-02T16:14:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week I was talking to one of my daughters on Facebook. We discussed the Christmas holidays—with our family, and all the webs and networks it contains—and how complicated they could be. She has to work on Christmas Day, and we were trying to plan Christmas at my house. Then I asked her what she wanted for Christmas.

Her answer surprised me. She explained that what she wanted this year couldn’t be bought or put under the tree. She elaborated and I realized I cannot obtain what she longs for and my mother’s heart aches.

Only the Father can fill this list.

Pondering our conversation led me to consider my own What I Want for Christmas List.

Part 1

Retreat. I would enjoy three days of retreat.

One day of retreat I would drive to Gethsemane , Kentucky and spend the day. I would take only my bible, journal, pen and a sketch pad. Simply a day designed and made for reflection—looking back, seeing now and peering forward. Just me.

Another day of retreat I want to spend with my four daughters. I want to sit around a table and have lunch and tease each other. I want to stand in line and get coffee and hot cider and linger. I want to sit in the middle of the four of them at the theater and see a movie and laugh or cry. And I want to take photos and then go and print the ones we love just so we can remember the day. Just the five of us.

And another day of retreat I want to spend with my husband. I want to visit all our favorite haunts, and then to dinner where we sit on the same side of the booth and share a plate and talk and discuss the ideas we write down on our napkins. I want to share a piece of cheesecake at a tiny table at a bookstore and laugh about two year old memories that seem like a lifetime long already. And at the end of the day I want us to read a book out loud to each other. Just us.

Remember

2010-12-01T17:23:00.000-08:00

Usually Christmas is the highlight of my year—the culmination of a whole year of days strung together. Christmas is like putting the cherry on the top of the sundae or the curly-que on top of the ice cream cone. Christmas is the finishing touch on the year.

But I haven’t been in the mood for Christmas. I winced as I typed that sentence. It seems so disloyal and Scrooge-like. I have avoided even thinking of Christmas this year. I am not sure why; I haven’t been able to put my finger on the reason.

Procrastination? Lack of funds and time, perhaps? Fear of being unable to meet expectations and demands? Maybe even a tad of rebellion because I don’t want the retail moguls influencing me. Actually let’s get to the root of the problem—for me Christmas is only Christmas if my heart and gaze is fixed on Jesus.

And it takes time to fix your heart and gaze. You can turn in that direction, but that doesn’t mean you are fixed. To turn in that direction there has to be a moment of stillness—an immeasurable stretch of time when you are held in suspension. A holding of your breath. A remembering.

Remember sitting in the dark with a cup of coffee or hot chocolate and only the lights of the Christmas tree illuminated the room?

Remember the wonder you used to feel at the tiniest, simplest of things like the play of the light on an ornament suspended from a branch?

Remember waiting for the bell to ring in It’s a Wonderful Life?

Remember when the first strains of O Holy Night wafted through the air and you paid attention—you actually heard the words?

Remember when your children came down the stairs on Christmas morning—pell-mell, tumble-bumble* and their eyes grew wide?

Remember the poignancy of The Little Drummer Boy’s melody?

Remember when during a Christmas Eve service someone reached across the aisle and lit your tilted candle?

Remember when the angels broke the stillness of the dark night to announce a baby’s birth?

Remember when Mary gave birth to her child and there was a silence before he cried?
Today I remembered.

Today I held my breath. Just for a moment.

Large, airy flakes fell today—the first day of December.

Snow.

Beautiful.

White.

Silent.

For an immeasurable moment I felt wonder and awe.

In this stillness my heart started turning and stirring.

Come, Christmas! Come.

My heart is now being prepared.

I am ready for you now.

*from The Pokey Little Puppy

Regardless and Anyway

2010-11-29T18:45:00.000-08:00

This weekend I went to church. I didn’t want to go; I thought about staying home. As I turned into the parking lot I considered whipping the car around and going back home.

But I didn’t.

I went in and took a seat. Our crowd was low due to sickness and a four-day holiday weekend. The music did not move me; odd, since there is always one song or one phrase that catches me. Communion did not pierce me as it usually does. My spirit was dull.

I dug in my purse to find a pen to take notes. Not one to be found. I am a teacher and a librarian and no pen or pencil? Seriously? My daughter handed me one, and our minister started to speak.

Here’s the crazy thing. Our minister is one of our dearest friends, so when he speaks there’s an element of conversation—a dialogue of sorts, but I was a little off kilter and so the first part of his message filtered in and filtered out (sorry, Dave). His message was about gifts under the tree this Christmas.

I didn’t want to hear about Christmas. I had had enough of Black Friday (and I didn’t even go shopping) and I had already heard way too much about Cyber Monday. The subliminal headlines in everything I read or heard was buy, buy and buy. So, Christmas was not on my high list of priorities or even on my agenda yet. But here was Dave preaching about the gifts under the tree.

Where are you going with this, Dave? He let me know. He asked, “Do you have peace under your Christmas tree this season?” If you answered the question no then he suggested several things to help you find that peace. Typical message, right?

Nope, not with Dave.

Dave wasn’t talking about world peace. Dave was talking about personal peace, and what we must do to find it.

Now remember I was zoned out during the first part of his message. Little did I know the Holy Spirit was sitting in the row right behind me. As Dave began to discuss this last point, the Spirit leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder. He whispered in my ear, “Are you listening? You need to pay attention. This one is for you.”

Dave’s final point. If you want peace in your life there are some relationships that must be restored. There are some people in our lives that we just simply have to decide to love regardless. And forgive anyway.

Regardless. Anyway.

Again the Spirit nudged me just to make sure I was taking notes.

I was. Reluctantly.

Dave asked, “Are there people in your life who are just mean? Family members who have wounded you in some way? Is there somebody who makes you want to grit your teeth and clench your fists? If you want peace in your life you got to love and pray for them anyway.”

And the Spirit whispered that somebody’s name in my ear.

I flinched.

I didn’t want to hear this message. Maybe I should have just stayed at home, then I wouldn’t have heard this challenge and I wouldn’t have had such an inner struggle.

Today, the Spirit whispered another name in my ear.

Obviously I needed this message.

Good thing I didn’t stay home.

Lord, please help me with regardless and anyway.

Thanksgiving List 2010

2010-11-24T12:41:00.000-08:00

I heard someone say this week that one of their favorite holidays was Thanksgiving; I suppose I was surprised. Of course, being surprised I tried to decide why. Another wise person commented that department stores had not quite commercialized Thanksgiving. And I pondered the truth of that statement.

It is not easy to market thankfulness. Gratitude is a commodity which cannot be coerced; it is either present or not.

I am rethinking Thanksgiving.

I am thankful, so very thankful for:

Mid-term Grades. Posted on the fridge and shouted from the rooftops, in classrooms or across phone towers. More importantly I am so thankful for the incredible minds producing these grades.

Hugs. These have to be one of the best parts of life. When my husband and daughters and best friends hug me I am in a sweet, sweet spot.

Phone calls. My heart is blessed a thousand times over because my grown daughters call me almost every day. What a pleasure. What an honor.

My brother. I am thankful for the letter he carries in his wallet and for his voice on the phone.

Laughter. Absolutely one of the most phenomenal medications in the world. Cleansing, refreshing and invigorating.

Babies. Precious Tatem. Hosea from Bolivia, Silas, Wyatt, Steven, Jude, Olivia and sweet Sinclair. They renew and replenish something old and ancient inside me.

Co-workers. How blessed I am that both places I work are filled with incredible people. Talented, creative, energetic, concerned, intelligent, spiritual, eccentric and beautiful people.

Teaching. What an incredible, wonderful, frightening calling.

Friends. People you love and who love you.

Family. People doing life together—in whatever way you possibly can: emails, letters, phone calls, quick visits in between classes, moments grasped in the oddest of places, after church, sharing of food drawers, watching out for each others’ children, encouragement and accountability shared.

Home. I am thankful for this place I live—these walls and the contents. I am thankful for the three other people who live here. Thankful for the piano room and all the music that comes from it. Thankful for the kitchen—the heart of the house—my favorite space. Thankful that when I walk in and close the door behind me I enter a haven. A perfect one? No. A warm and safe one? Yes.

Prayer. Short cries for help. Long, pleading prayers for wisdom. Breaths and sighings for what I don’t even understand. Frustrated jabs of angst. Weary moans of being at the end of my strength, angry snaps of expectation. He hears and translates them. He answers them all. Yes, I said all. How I always want or ask? No. How I expect? No.

Contentment. Underrated and overlooked. I am content, and it is a delicious place.

Peace. Not as the world gives. Not the absence of trouble or struggle or conflict, but an inner steadiness in spite of these.

Hunger. Both spiritual and physical. I have been both in recent days. I have made myself wait until truly hungry before eating. Food, then, tastes so good. I have been spiritually hungry because I have forgotten and neglected to come to the table. Spiritual hunger is by far the keenest.

Intimacy. I have someone who knows me. Steve anticipates my thoughts and actions. He looks to me and says, “I see you; I love you.” And the statements are powerfully synonymous.

Change. It reminds us we are alive. Keeps us flexible. Enables us to work the muscle of our faith—otherwise, it would atrophy. Change produces a sharp and persistent edge in prayer. Change keeps us awake and alert. Change reduces the possibility of stagnancy.

My list could go on, but I will stop here. My heart is full.

My heart is full.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.

May our Father pour out his richest blessings on you and yours—and may you recognize and acknowledge that all you have and are is a result of his grace and the abundance of his hands.

Rainy Morning

2010-11-24T11:17:00.000-08:00

I woke to the rain yesterday morning—falling steadily on the roof. At first I didn’t know what it was because it hasn’t rained in a long, long time. I relaxed, sinking deeper and deeper into the softness and warmth of my bed. I didn’t fall back asleep, but the rain soothed me. Listening intently I tried to separate the sounds. The rain hit the roof in a hard, rhythmic pattern. It gushed through the gutters and rushed down the drain spout—pouring out onto the edge of the porch below. Lulled by the sound I hovered in a sleepy awareness. I had forgotten what an absolutely incredible place a dark, rainy morning can be.

I wondered what time it was; I really didn’t want to know because I certainly wasn’t interested in rising. I listened more and began to pray.

And the prayers became like rain, coming naturally, forming patterns and gushing and rushing, quietly whooshing as a whisper on the other side of my voice. It was like my breath. Perhaps that is exactly what was happening—breathing in and breathing out—praying is that simple and yet that complex. We don’t need to understand the biological details to know we must breathe.

We just breathe.

Prayer is the same. We don’t have to understand how prayer works, how it reaches the Father’s ears amid millions of others being uttered at the same time, in order to pray.

We just pray.

For a few moments yesterday morning I entered a sanctuary—a holy place. For just a moment I could smell the incense burning and smoldering. For just a brief interlude I could see the smoke rise—curling and wafting upward. (Psalm 141:2)

Then I heard the rain again. I listened to it move down the shingles of the porch roof. My bed was even warmer, the covers and blankets were heavy. Then the alarm sounded; I came out of my sleepy awareness to drowsy alertness and reached for my phone on the nightstand…

Somehow those few brief moments were more real than the cold, wooden floor as I stood to get ready for the day.

50 Questions

2010-11-18T17:46:00.000-08:00

I gave my Humanities students an assignment: create fifty questions. They can be serious and silly—just write. Rarely do I make my students do an assignment that I would not do myself.

Here are my fifty questions.

1. What if I wasn’t afraid of myself?
2. What if I truly didn’t allow what others think of me to sway my choices or
my behavior?
3. What if my love for Jesus actually became flesh?
4. What if I could sing?
5. Why can’t I move mountains? Is my faith too shallow?
6. If I were wealthy would I be generous?
7. Do I really trust God? Really?
8. Why does Ireland call my name?
9. Why can’t I be more disciplined?
10. Is the randomness of my mind an indicator of something amiss?
11. Will I ever learn to say no?
12. What would happen if I stopped second-guessing myself?
13. How would Alzheimer’s affect my family and me?
14. Would I be a completely different person if I had grown up with my dad?
15. What would happen if I told Go he could do whatever he wanted to do in my
life and I actually allowed him to do it?
16. I wonder what would happen if I actually sent a manuscript to a publisher?
17. Will I leave a legacy behind?
18. Why in the world do I have three dogs?
19. Why am I so scatterbrained?
20. Will I be a good grandmother?
21. Will I ever learn to speak the right words at the right time?
22. Will I ever learn to rightly measure success?
23. Is history and time linear, circular or both?
24. How do you decide that you are old?
25. Why are there only three primary colors?
26. Why do I love tomatoes so much?
27. How many times will I fail before I learn?
28. What causes an addiction?
29. Why do dogs turn around and around before they lie down?
30. Will I be able to continue learning?
31. Why do I almost always fall asleep during movies at home?
32. What holds me in bondage?
33. Why do I turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to global pain?
34. I only drink water; why do I love water so much?
35. Will I ever get to the point where I move to a deeper spiritual maturity?
36. Why am I a procrastinator?
37. Why do I drink only out of glass glasses?
38. Why can’t I be more technologically savvy?
39. Why can’t I memorize Scripture?
40. Why do I like the color red?
41. Why am I such a voracious reader?
42. Why do people judge books by their covers?
43. Why do I eat Chinese food only with a plastic fork?
44. How did my daughters get to be so beautiful?
45. Why do I write with ONLY black pens?
46. Why can’t I dance? ALL my daughters can!
47. Why am I mesmerized with thin places?
48. Why do I like peonies better than roses?
49. What if I actually followed through with everything I intended?
50. I am almost 45 years old, what does God have planned for me now?

Let Go.

2010-11-15T05:29:00.000-08:00

In worship this weekend we sang about God’s strength. This is a common theme on Sunday mornings and we tend to glide right over the words. We know they are true, but we forget the power of the reality of them. We hope they are true—all the time wondering deep inside why this strength isn’t being lent to us.

As the words began to move out of my mouth other words moved in my heart—into the secret place of me that only the Spirit accesses. He had my attention and I began to hear.

You are depending on your own strength—you are depending on your own abilities to accomplish and achieve what you believe to be spiritual and miraculous. Your abilities and strengths, however, are futile. They are frail and fragile; they can be compromised by circumstances and situations.

You strain and strive in an attempt to repair and fix your and others’ brokenness, and when your efforts fail you either blame yourself or you blame me. You allow yourself to get busier—filling your time with good things, but even the good things will rob you, can distract you. Then you withdraw and retreat. You avoid friends and you avoid me. You are afraid someone will see through your façade of busyness you have built.

Eventually you begin to feel numb. You struggle because you have no place to breathe. Deeply-seated guilt rises as dross to the surface. And no matter how much you skim the residue remains.

Let go. My strength is not dependent on you. My strength and the offer of it are not calculated by your strength’s index or capacity.

Let go. You are afraid to let go. You are afraid to freefall—fearful of whether I will catch you if you just simply let go. Letting go is a surrender of control.

Let go. Let go of all your attempts to fill the silence. Stop avoiding me. Stop ducking around corners when you feel me coming. Stop.

Let go. Open you hands and allow everything in them to slide off into my hands. Don’t curl your fingers in an attempt to catch them. I won’t take them from you. You must decide to give them to me.

Let go and allow me to give you the strength to do what I have called you to do.

Let go and let me love you.

Evening Prayer 3

2010-11-03T20:02:00.000-07:00

Thank you for answered prayers.

Today you moved mountains.

Thank you.

The mountains sometimes daunt me. There are moments that the bend in the road ahead causes me to pause.

Thank you tonight that you stay so far ahead of me.
And you reach around and grab my head and pull me along with you.
I am slow, Lord. I stumble over my own feet.

You tell me through Isaiah to watch the signs and to take note of the road I am on, but I forget; I get distracted. Suddenly I look up and I have missed a turn somewhere. One turn becomes two. And I keep trying to make rights to get back to where I started.

Don’t let me go. Don’t let go of my hand.

I can’t navigate this road by myself. I don’t read maps very well.

But you are faithful.

And I am trusting in your faithfulness to get me home.

Evening Prayer 2

2010-11-02T19:55:00.000-07:00

My God, you are worthy. Worthy of my full attention. Paul tells us we are to think about that which is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable and excellent. The Hebrew writer tells us to fix our eyes on you.

You are these things, Father.

And yet, I approach you not in the confidence that the Hebrew writer exhorts us, but I talk at you—and my prayers become a rote litany of words. Artificial.

I did this tonight. Someone asked me to pray for them, and I talked at you. I hurled words into the air with little thought to where they were going or to whom I was speaking. And my spirit shrunk and shriveled because I realized the truth of the old adage “familiarity breeds contempt”.

To approach the throne with boldness does not mean to enter in arrogance. Arrogance causes me to approach the throne room on my own faulty merit, my own inflated sense of goodness. I enter using my own name.

And because I come in my arrogance my prayers feel hollow. The disconnect is sudden. I sense the space that looms between us. I feel the awkwardness—and then I am aware of how foolish I am.

Oh God, I am foolish. I. Am. Foolish. Foolish for being too familiar with you. I have mistaken familiarity with intimacy. My contempt is subtle—fed by self-deception.

Forgive me.

Forgive my foolishness and my arrogance. There is no place in your kingdom for either.

Oh my God, teach me to approach your throne.

Evening Prayer

2010-11-01T19:09:00.000-07:00

Oh Come, Father.
Come to us.
Hover over us.
Let your great wings move the wind mightily in our direction. May it blow away our complacency and our apathy.

Oh Come, Father.
Come to us.
Expose us.
Let your great light shine in and through us. May it burn away the dross of our self-deception.

O Come, Father.
Come to us.
Divide us rightly.
Let your great sword slice through our very joints to the marrow. May your word point out the discrepancies between our thoughts and our intentions. May your word cut away the excess of our flesh---rightly called selfishness.

O Come, Father.
Come to us.
Abide in us.
Stake the pegs of your tent deep in the soil of our inner terrain. May your Spirit dwell in these limited, finite places.

O Come, Father.
Come to me.
Transform me.
Bend my reflection to match every contour of your beautiful face. Overlap your image on mine so that others see you.

O Come, Father.
Please come to me.

17 Things

2010-09-12T19:45:00.000-07:00

Today is my third daughter’s 17th birthday. She got her driving license on Friday; where did time go? She is beautiful and lovely all at the same time. She is a balm and salve to the wounded and the hurting and the weary. And she is good medicine; she causes ripples of laughter wherever she goes.

Happy birthday, dear Olivia.

17 things I love about Olivia:

Her ability to recognize almost any musician and any song—her version of “name that tune.”

Her eclectic sense of style—she has a recognizable signature.

Her charm—it’s genuine.

Her ability to move from one generation to another with honest ease. She can have a real conversation with a 93 year old Nanny and a 2 year old little boy.

Her ability to feel, interpret and translate music to piano keys.

Her love for her sisters.

Her physical comedy and hilarious character voices.

Her ability to see beauty in unexpected places and people.

Her scissor-happy habits.

The deep clarity in her eyes.

Her wisdom—it moves far beyond experience.

Her laughter—from a theatrical giggle to an outright belly chuckle.

Her intense, penetrating prayers.

Her ability to love the unlovable.

Her growing ability to step back and assess a situation.

Her ability to laugh at herself.

Her innate gentleness.

2010-08-04T21:57:00.000-07:00

It’s late.

I have tried to fall asleep, but there is too much noise in my head. My body is tired and my eyes are heavy, but my mind is in a gear that is not shifting down.

Noise.

There’s a hundred voices shouting, yelling and murmuring in my head. I have tried to shut them down—one by one like you would the lights in the house as it goes to sleep.

I keep remembering that Jesus said we are not to worry, we are not to be anxious and we are not to fear. I keep remembering there is no one to please, but Him. So, I keep attempting to shut down the voices until there is only one.

One voice in the midst of the noise.

Each voice, each agitated worry, each careful concern and each niggling anxiety I bag and lay at his feet.

Bag after bag. I watch my little self carry the bags and dump them at his feet.

His voice is different. There is no manipulation. No guilt. No coercion. No wheeling. No demanding. His voice pierces through and speaks my name:

Tamera, Tamera.

Just as he did with Martha long ago.

I am doing it again. Acting like Martha. Wondering what I am supposed to be doing rather than what I am supposed to be being.

And the doing causes the noise in my head.

You see, thinking I have to be doing something to please Him is not the way of the Kingdom. Doing sets up demands that keep you awake at night. Doing creates the clamoring of voices.

Jesus told Martha Mary had chosen the better way. She chose being over doing. There were a hundred chores Mary could have been doing. There were dishes to clean and clothes to wash. There was a to-do list and there was a litany of preparations, but Jesus was present and Mary chose to sit down at his feet and simply be. She chose to sit down and bask in his love.

I think it was hard for Martha to sit down. Hard for her to stop and push the urgency of demands aside for a little while. She wanted to serve Jesus. Her heart was right, but during that visit she missed what was valuable—time with Jesus. Instead she allowed the noise to drown out the sweetness of his voice.

Martha, I understand. Right now I resonate with your behavior. For months I have been asking Jesus what I need to be doing to serve him. What do I need to be doing to use my gifts for him? I have been in the kitchen, in the midst of chaos and noise, trying to prepare a meal to feed Him.

Martha, you and I have the audacity to think we can feed Jesus. How funny is that? Jesus just wanted and wants to feed us. He prepared a quiet place for us to eat the feast he prepared. And he just simply wanted and wants us to sit down and eat with him.

He asked me to turn off the noise.

He asked me to just come and be with him.

Years ago I often sat where Mary did. I understood the concept of being. In the course of attempting to please and impress people I started doing more and being less.

The past two nights the noise has been deafening, but his voice has pierced the roar.

Tonight I heard him.

“Tamera, Tamera. I love you. I have a crazy love for you. And this love is not wrapped up in what you do well and what you do poorly. My love is not fed by your abilities and talents. My love is not fueled by your performance. My love is not motivated by the accolades you receive or the awards you obtain or the ones you do not. My love is not fashioned or tempered by what others think of you. My love is not shaped by the tasks you fail to accomplish. I love you because that is who I Am.

So, lay down this way of doing. You cannot impress me. You can please me. You can discover my good and perfect will. You can make me smile; you can even make me laugh. These things are not accomplished by what you do. You forget this so easily. You have been deceived. You have been told you are not using your gifts and you have felt resentment and frustration—but I have allowed your field to lay fallow for a season. I want your soil rich—ready for the seed of my love. Ready to produce a harvest sixty-fold. But first, come and sit at my feet and simply be. Choose the better way."