Been There, Done That

They met me the same night I met Vance.  They have known him longer, but last night I think they loved me more.  I knew they would laugh with me and nod their heads in complete understanding.  Not that I was right, but agreeing we have all been there.  Been there, done that.  The funny thing is, few of us will ever admit it.  I am not sure why.  I think we believe it lessens us.  Actually by admitting our failures, admitting we behave like jerks, (and I do this on a regular basis), admitting we are pretending to be perfect, admitting we really don't know what to "have and to hold" means either, we find ourselves.  We find our true selves.  I am not sure why we waste so much energy on being someone we are not, but we do. We base so much of ourselves and our marriages on what we think others will say. In Tales of Hasidim, Martin Buber says,
"In the coming world, they will not ask why were you not Moses.  They will ask why you were not you?"
So it is best to be you.  That is why I decided to tell them what happened Friday night.  I knew they would understand and still love me.  I decided to share with my reader friends because it is just plain funny and I know we have all been there, done that. 
I was exhausted Friday night.  I had cleaned house, worked in the yard, cooked, worked on a paper for school, grocery shopped, etc.  General everyday mom and wife stuff.  Work on Thursday had been trying to say the least.  I was anxious to finish my semester up.  My nerves were on edge to say the least.  We went to Davis' ballgame.  At this point, I can not remember if they won or lost or even where it was.  We didn't eat till 9 pm.  I just do not function well not eating.  I get cranky and Vance won't admit this, but he does too.  We came home.  I was putting dirty uniforms in the laundry.  And he said it.  He fussed at me for leaving a candle burning.  I do have this very bad habit.  I don't think I am a pyromaniac, but who knows.  It was the way he said and then what he said.  Not the worst thing in the world but bad enough.  And I snapped.  And I did something I had never done in 17 years of marriage and swore I would never do.  Just a small piece of marriage advice....Never say never.  And most marriage counselors reading this would say I tore at the fabric of my marriage and created unhealable wounds.  Doubt it. Don't have high regard for marriage experts, every one I have ever met has a crazier marriage than mine and they have either been divorced or are thinking about divorce.  I think when it comes to the been there, done that moments, you are better off talking to friends.  And when you do, you find you are not so silly after all and everything will be ok.   Everyone I know has done this or thought about it, but just won't admit it.  And true be told, if it isn't a habit, it is probably very healthy.  I was so mad at him, I grabbed my purse, got Davis and went to my mamma's.  I would have gone to Shirley's because it was closer, but William was in town and I didn't know where  I would sleep.  I am not sure who I scared more, Davis, Vance or my mamma.  So at 930 pm, there I stood on her doorstep with my bewildered son, my purse, and my tear stained faced.  I just wanted to go to bed.  My daddy took Davis and calmed him down, my mamma ran upstairs, brought me some pjs', soap, toothbrush and moisturizer and a bottle of Ativan.  I didn't take the Ativan, but I did take four Tylenol pm, washed my face and crawld into bed.  I slept till 9 the next morning.
When I told them, they just laughed and laughed.  Yeah, they had been there and done that.  He wanted to know why Vance just didn't give me the silence treatment.  He said that's what he did to him. He said Vance has been mad at him too.  I said I don't know, but I bet he doesn't do this again.  And I bet Davis never calls his wife stupid.  I guess that was the lesson in it all.  Other than you can always go home again and you can always make up...Davis won't call his wife stupid.  They also both said with laughter in their voices, the next time I can come to their house.  They also told Vance he could come too, but he would have to sleep in the barn with their horse.  That's when I knew they loved me more.

All is grace even when you fight...

Kathleen

Borrowed Prayer-How to pray during trouble political times

If God speaks to us at all and I believe he does, it is strange, often repetitive ways.  I like to think of it as being hit over the head with a 2X4.  This happens to me on a weekly basis.  Not God speaking to me, but being hit over the head with a 2X4. The problem is I usually don't listen just have a terrific headache.  I like to call these events whispers, snickers and sneezes.  Those thin moments when heaven steps into earth or your present moment and you know that the Creator loves you.   Jesus rarely commented on politics as much as he commented on the social injustice caused by politics.  We have  conveniently made Jesus look and think like we do and have the same political agendas and opinions that we do and he doesn't and didn't.  Jesus was very clear as to what living a holy life meant and looked like.  Jesus was very clear about what God expected.  And Jesus made it so simple even a child could get it.  He knew that humans are basically a disagreeable lot and on any given occasion prone to buying into their own delusions about what right is and would defend that with literal swords if they have to.  But, Jesus was radical enough to state this:  Love God with all your heart, soul and might AND Love your neighbor exactly as you love God.  Exactly.  And when asked who is you neighbor, Jesus basically said your neighbor is whoever is most NOT like you and in many cases your enemy.  Funny thing about enemies.  Very, very few carry swords.  And Jesus was pretty clear about what we are to do with our enemies (besides forgive them), we were to pray and love them.  He asked us to pray for them because you can not love someone you can't pray for.  It doesn't work that way.  That was Jesus' message.  Love people enough that you want for them and will give to them what you have  and want for yourselves.  And that could be anything from socks and shoes, to shirts, coats, clean water, food, shelter, a chance at an education, equal medical care, comfort, prayer, kindness, acceptance, freedom from fear, oppression, freedom from bullying, freedom from having to hide who you really are and the freedom to have a good life in whatever manner that good life looks like.  Freedom to love whom they want to love.  Another funny thing about Jesus...his favorite people were: the downtrodden, the oppressed, the broken, the marginalized, the criminals, the lonely, the sick, the poor.  That is who he hung out.  I am learning to be humble enough to realize that more than likely in the first century, all things being equal, I would not have made the cut,(being a woman might have gotten me in, but I would have had to been a fallen or demon possessed woman-ok some days I do act demon possessed), bcause I am not one of those favorite people.  BUT GRACE and it is all about GRACE says you and I do.  BY GRACE we all get to sit at the table and it is not our job to decide who gets to come and when.  God does the inviting.  We don't.  It is God's banquet,  not ours and we are not in charge of the table.  God is.  What ever it is that you want for you...you should want for your neighbor.  Whatever gracious gift you receive from God you should want you neighbor to have it.  And this prayer I read  three times in three different places this week and I thought I would share because it was the last line that hit me and made me wake up that this is what I should pray for everyone...even those who don't look, act like me. 






O God,
I bless thee for the happy moment
when I first saw thy law fulfilled in Christ,
wrath appeased, death destroyed, sin forgiven,
my soul saved….

I want no other rock to build upon than that I have,
desire no other hope than that of gospel truth,
need no other look than that which gazes
on the cross…

May my cry be always, Only Jesus! only Jesus!

In Him I have all that I can hold;
enlarge me to take in more…

If I am tempted, and have no wit,
give me strength enough to trust in Him…

If in extremity,
let me feel that He can deliver me;

If driven to the verge of hope
and to the pit of despair,
grant me grace to fall into His arms.

O God, hear me,
do for me more
than I ask, think, or dream.”

~ excerpted from Valley of Vision: A Collection of Puritan Prayers and Devotions

All is grace,

Grateful for realizing that I never have to defend my position in God...it already had been bought and paid for...Grateful for realizing I don't have to defend God's law...he's already got that covered...Grateful that I realize that but for the Grace of God there go I...and grateful for learning to wish for my enemies what I have for myself....and grateful for learning who the enemy is...

Light Living

One of my dear, dear reader friends  (I have about a dozen and it humbles me that people actually read what I write and think it worth reading and I am blessed and grateful), and her other gift of prayer is unwavering cheer leading, thinks I should write for the Upper Room.  Again, this makes me laugh I almost wet my pants.  My theology is a bit off for  Cokesbury, I imagine.  It is not quite polished enough and I am sure I would write about some things that if I were in the early church, the Apostle Paul would feel it necessary to write me a letter or rebuke.  He was good at that.  Rebuking letters.  Another issue I have with Paul.  Been in a argument about that too with a Duke seminary graduate.  (And, no those readers who know me very well, I was not arguing just because he went to Duke.  I did seriously question his basketball allegiance but that was not why I was arguing).   He misunderstood my point and was too busy defending the ink on the page to hear me, but then that is another blog all together.  
But then John the Baptist scares me too.  Particularly what he was yelling in the wilderness that day.  The office this morning has the Church reading one of John the Baptist's sermons recorded in Matthew.  He was a scary dude.  I mean the kind that if we saw on the street today, we would grab our kids hands tight and tell them firmly, get in the car.  Now.  I  would walk on the other side of the street and I would wonder if he had a gun.  He would probably be considered mentally unstable.  I mean he dressed weird.  Camel hair.  And not those nice jackets from Brooks Brothers or Joseph Banks either.  He basically shot a camel, gutted it and skinned it and wore the hide naturally with just a belt.  He ate bugs and honey.  Locust to be exact, which I am told taste just like chicken.  Not planning on ever challenging that statement either.   He didn't bathe except periodically in the Jordon River when he baptizing all the vipers.  He lived in the desert.  He screamed alot.  He was Jesus' cousin but apparently was not quite sure who Jesus was either.  He knew the world had gone crazy and needed to change.  He was preparing the way for Jesus but I am not sure he understood all that and then who did?  Who really understood Jesus at all?  And do we now? 
And today, the Church is reading the letter written to the poor, misguided Colossians reminding them who Jesus was, what he did and what he meant.  Paul is considered to be the author, but many scholars disagree.  I am not sure it matters much who wrote the letter to the Colossians as much as what they wrote and the writer said some pretty powerful stuff.  I take great comfort that a mere 20 to 30 years after Jesus died, the early followers still struggling as I still do with Jesus being enough.  Jesus and his message was enough.  It was enough.  And to really love something you have to lose it first. 

Paul writes and it is timely today as it was then:

May you be made strong with all the strength that comes from his glorious power, and may you be prepared to endure everything with patience, while joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has enabled you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.

We miss the point of sin I think.  We miss the point on being rescued from darkness.  We miss the point of kingdom living.  We miss the power of the redemption.  We miss the point on enduring everything with patience while giving joyful thanks.  And it is this I think.

Sin is not just wrong doing.   Being rescued from darkness is not just fire insurance from hell.  The power Jesus talked about, that is life giving power, was the power of love.  Real love. And it feeds everything.  Faith produces love, love produces hope, hope gives strength,  and in the midst of it all is joy.  It is knowing this one thing..this one thing..the secret to joyful living is giving thanks for everything.  That was the sin that Jesus was trying to save us from.  Numbness.

When you wake up and realize you will lose someone...only then can you start to love them.  When you realize that everything you have you will lose...you can then start to be joyful.  You can then give thanks for everything.  You can then start living in the kingdom.  It is only when you realize that everyone you love will one day leave you that you can then begin to really love them.  Cherish them.  Give thanks for them.  The way to live fully into the moment is to imagine not having the moment to begin with.  Then you will know joy.  It is the great paradox.  We must lose this life to have real life.  To know life.  To experience life, we must imagine not having it...and that is the sin for lack of a better word we have been redeemed from...living numb.

All is grace,

Kathleen

Joys from yesterday:  CARROT CAKE that would have made Paula Deen slap her momma, surprise winter, laying under quilts, hour long naps, friends who share the journey and cheer you on,  friends who celebrate the uniqueness of you, peonies that smell sweet,  purple iris that never forget to bloom, robins tapping on the window, seeing the entire raindrop roll down the window, pansies bowing their purple heads to the sun, knowing that one day this will all be gone and loving it now, friends that give you the grace and the priviledge to walk holy, sacred ground with them,  knowing the closest you ever get to God is when you lose..and being willing to lose everything to gain everything,

Because you say so

Sometimes the only motivation for doing anything is that Jesus says so. Otherwise, we’re bankrupt. We simply can’t muster up the vision or energy to try one more time, to care for one more second. The only resolve we can make is to quit. In our eyes, this thing – this calling, this marriage, this family, this friendship, this job, this thing – has come to a shuddering halt. It is over. It is dead. It is a black hole. All our efforts to change it have failed.

It’s those times when all that can keep us keeping on is that Jesus says so.
Jesus said to Simon, “Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch.”
Simon answered, “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything. But because you say so, I will let down the nets” (Luke 5:4-5).
But because you say so. That moment can stand for so many of my own. I tell Jesus sometimes that I've worked hard all night, all week, all year, all this decade and haven't accomplished a thing.  I am still a mess.  My temper still flares.  I am still too busy.  My faith is flimsy.  My friendships are still shallow.  My prayers are lackluster.  I still bear grudges.  I still can not forgive.  I’ve worked hard all night, all week, all year, all this decade, and haven’t caught a thing. Jesus, this isn’t working.
And everything in me wants to walk away.
Weariness floods me. Frustration grips me. Anger overwhelms me. Instantly in my mind, rising quickly to my lips, is bitter complaint: “Are you kidding? Do you know how hard I’ve tried?  Why would you even ask?”
“And I give in, thankfully. Alright. Alright. Okay. This is useless. This is futile. But because you say so, I will.”
You know how this story goes: suddenly, the effort is not futile. At long last, and all at once,  effort produces results, abundantly:
But they’d never have experienced that success except, against all instinct, they did what Jesus said.
Have you given up on something? Maybe you’ve invested heroic, repeated effort, but have nothing to show for it. Does the thought of trying again fill you with weariness? Does it just seem easier to admit defeat and move on?
But what if Jesus is asking you to try again? Try to make this marriage work one more time. Try to reconcile with your father one more time. Try to connect with your daughter one more time. Try trusting one more time. Try forgiving one more time?
Because he says so, will you? What if this is the time the nets actually fill?

Because he says so.

Girlfriends are prayer incarnate

I think about 4 people read my blog everyday.  And this ok with me, because I write for me.  Writing is prayer for me.  It is a spiritual discipline.  And just about every mental health professional I know always recommends writing as some type of intervention.  What type, I am not sure.  When I worked for a hospice, management was trying to come up with something to keep us sane, so, we had a jouranling workshop. I am not sure how far it goes in the sanity prevention department given some of the writers I know, and a time or two, my sanity has been questioned.  And certainly if one has read the book of Psalms, David and the other writers felt it was prayer, a spiritual discipline and cathartic as well. And if you have ever read anything the apostle Paul wrote, well, need I say more. I had someone tell me once it was difficult for him to read Paul's letters without his therapist hat on.  I am not sure what he meant, (to be real honest he said a plethora of things that were obtuse at best),  except perhaps that Paul had issues.  Personally I find Paul a bit hard to take too, (probably not for the same reasons he did),  but then we all have issues.  We all have stuff.  
One faithful reader, I wish my son was old enough to marry.  I would love to have her as a daughter in law.  My other faithful reader is my sister in law.  To be honest, just knowing she is reading makes me nervous.  She majored in one of the fine arts and I just hope my writing passes. I majored in nursing, something far less artsy. And deep inside I know she is not critiquing me.  If you are going to blog the first thing you have to give up is perfection and not to let all the annoying comments that really amount to perfectionism bother you.  Perfection is highly overrated.
Another reader is a girlfriend. She texts me almost every blog and tells me something wonderful.  I can not remember how I met her.  I think she went to high school with my youngest brother and I know she went to high school with my youngest brother in law who is married to the fine arts major.  She will text me and remind me. I think I met her at church.   I don't why this is so, but some of my dearest friends come from church.  I also have had to divorce a few friends from church too, but that is another blog all together.
She has three beautiful, little girls with adorable, southern names.  I envy her sense of style and she has the best hair. Absolutely the best hair. She could hair model. She is good for me because she is the extrovert to my introvert and she reminds me how very important is to care.  Just care.  Girlfriends are good for that.  Showing you stuff about yourself that you need to work on and somehow it doesn't hurt your feelings. Girlfriends also point out the stuff you are really great at but have probably forgotten or maybe even never you knew.   Husbands not so much.  For whatever reason when they point stuff out it always hurts our feelings.  Again, another blog all together. 
She takes the initiative to check on people just because she cares.  I suspect this is how she prays too.  Caring and calling to check on someone is her prayer.  All too often we make prayer too complicated.  Prayer is living.  It is how you choose to live your life and connect to people. Prayer is practiced in the everyday.  Just breathing and recognizing you are breathing is prayer. She has kept me connected to some very important people when the rope broke.  She also taught me how to divorce a friend.  I remember the day she told me, "Girl..she has broken up with you twice.  What's it gonna take?"  She was right too.  I laugh hard when I think about that comment.  She had listened about million times to that little pointless drama in my life and finally pointed out to me it was time to divorce.   Not an easy thing to do.  Point it out to me and divorce a friend.
Right now given where we are in our respective lives, we stay in touch by text, email and the funeral home.  When you begin to socialize at the funeral home, you have officially approached middle age.  Just saying, in case you were wondering. 
So, when she texted me last night, I shouldn't have been surprised.  And her texting was a prayer.  She thinks I would make a great writer and a great chaplain.  Both ideas make me laugh hard for many reasons.  I do like to write and would like to be a writer, but I would starve.  And I like eating way too much ever to give up my day job.  The chaplain idea, well once I toyed with that,  and then I figured out I would last about a week in divinity school before they threw me out, so I gave that up too.  I also struggle with the whole ordination thing.  I find it very hard to commit to one particular denomination.   I have read some of those vows and given that  I would break them in about a month, I better not choose that career path.  But her comments did give me pause and I did take them both as compliments.
My girlfriend asked me how I knew so much about the bible and I am not sure that I do, but it got me to thinking.  Another dangerous endeavor I pursue.  Thinking too much.  Instead of feeling or being. So, what exactly would my theology be if pressed to answer?. I told someone once (the person with Paul issues), that I had a Catholic heart with a Protestant theology.  He didn't get it.  In fact, he tried to argue with me as to why I was thoroughly Protestant.  He didn't win.  The argument, I mean.
 I love to go to Catholic retreat centers.   Mainly for the soup.  In case you don't know, monks make the best soup and bread.  Absolutely the best.   I also happen to love a good mass.  I love the liturgy and the ritual.  I guess you would call me the smells and bells type.  And I usually go by myself.   Mainly because I don't know any friends that would take the adventure with me.  And also I really do like to be alone.   I really don't make very good company.  I try way too hard. 
I am usually the only Protestant there.  This particular time I was not the only Protestant.  There was one other.  I knew this because she was clutching her very large pink Scofield bible to her chest. She carried it everywhere. And she looked scared to death. I sat next to her at dinner and she admitted she was Baptist and had never done anything like this before.  She said she thought we would study the Bible more.  I smiled.  I told her that we were here to pray.  She asked, "is that all?"  Yep. That's it.  I confessed I wasn't Catholic either and she said, "you are kidding me?!?  You know all the motions."  I tried not to wet my pants and told her she was safe and she could leave her Bible in her room, we would not be using it that weekend. We would be praying. I have often said the Catholics taught me how to pray and the Protestants taught me how to read my Bible.  Both skills on any given day will save your life.
Reading the Bible is prayer too really and the narrative is compelling.  I have a friend who really knows her Bible.  I mean really knows it.  She read it through three times once when she 18.  She said she stopped the second time around at Isaiah because the prophet convicted her too much and she was not ready to change.  That is powerful stuff when you think about it.  Ink on a page can change your life if you let it.
Back to my friend's question.  What do I beleive exactly?  Not sure really except I am convinced of this and this I would stake my life on...
   

Christianity does not require, thankfully, perfection. It simply requires commitment and humility. Grace stands in the gaps.

Love needs few words, only will.  The words that matter most are the one’s we live.

Be grateful for your life even before you know how it turns out.

Find common ground among your individual brokenness for what more is there to this life than to reflect the love of Christ to each other. Truthfully there just are not any better options.

 

Trust in the provision of the moment.  Grace knows what we need.  Grace works in a world that has rams in thickets and always baskets of bread left over.

 

Nail pierced grace will never let you go and Christianity is a lifetime of becoming who you really are.

 

And don’t forget to pray. 

Grateful for friends who stay in touch and remind us who we are and could be, prayer incarnate...sunshine that will not stop, mulch, weeds, shovels, backs that ache from moving mulch...

All really is grace....it all really is...
Kathleen

When Comfort doesn't look like comfort

I must admit I struggle with the gospel passage today and to be very, very, very honest, I always have.  The gospel narrative seems to imply Jesus did not understand the purpose of the Passion until it was upon him and then he prayed to have it removed.  In today's reading Jesus is telling his disciples it is a good thing that  he goes away.  Because in his place will come the Advocate.  I don't know about you but that would have been a mighty hard story to sell to me and on most days it still is.  He was asking his disciples to have faith.

"The desire for faith to shape my life promises too much risk, too much loss of control, too much pain, too much doubt about the materialistic world. We would prefer to continue to speak about faith, sometimes in hallowed terms, but actually to retire faith to a palm tree corner of our brain. " Vance Wilson

What endears me to the Bible narrative is that it is not linear.  And my, oh, my do we love our stories to be linear. We believe that a good person is one who sins and suffers, realizes God's grace, reforms and then lives happily and rightly forever.  But they or we don't.  From Abraham Sarah to Moses to David to Bathsheba to Rachel  to Mary and Martha to Peter to Paul, the bible heroes make massive mistakes all of their lives as if they do not learn ever one thing about the mercy of God.  And that is alot like me.  And that is why I believe we forever struggle with our faith, our work, our relationships, no matter how much we believe we understand. 

Depending on what literature you read, it appears that most Americans think they work too hard.  Most Americans do not feel they have enough leisure time.  I would like to suggest that we work too hard but at the wrong things.  We don't struggle or dive headfirst into our faith.  We prefer to dive headfirst into our work.  And I think we may have it upside down.   Most metaphors are more gentle when they speak of the struggle for faith.  But it I don't think the struggle is gentle.  First you have to pray for courage.  Courage combats fear.  And fear keeps us from acting.  You can't pray, meditate, study, and do all the other more gentle approaches to faith if you don't have the courage to act.  Dostoevsky saw faith as something that matters above all else and that it is a gamble.  I must gamble on faith because its presence or absence shapes my life.  It is not irrelevant.

John Bunyan's Pilgrim sets off on the road to the new Jerusalem, God's truth comes to him not as he courageously keeps the straight and narrow way, but as he falls off the road.  And only when he falls off the road.  I don't know about you friends but that is not very comforting. And if I have learned or not learned one very important truth...it does work that way.  God's truth only comes when you are broken, when you are bent to the ground, when you have given up, when you lost your way, when grief overwhelms you...

 In life, linear thinking does not work when we impose it on reality.  We must daily come face to face with the fact that any linear thinking we impose on reality must then come face-to-face with what we can't control, what we didn't anticipate, what we once thought was perfect and now think foolish. Some people call the unexpected "contingencies we must plan for. "

 "That response, to me, only illustrates our refusal to abandon our way of seeing, our refusal to understand that no planning is sufficient unto the day. We must have faith in God's angels, God's anger, God's serendipitous sense of humor, and God's mercy. Surely it is God who saves us." Vance Wilson

And I don't know about you but that does not bring me alot of comfort and on days like yesterday, none at all.  When she asked, "Are you crying?"  I told her, "Yep, the dead baby pushed me over the edge this morning."  What I don't think she knew and maybe she did was at that very moment I could have layed my head on that table and sobbed.  And then I remembered. what Elie Wiesel said, "Whatever you say about God, you better be able to say over a pit of dead babies."

Faith is a struggle.  It is not comforting in the way we expect.  Peace does not come to rescue us from the storm, peace comes when we recognize we have adequate resources.  Faith is the strength by which a shattered world will emerge into the light.  And it is the shattering I struggle with.  And why must it always be so. 

And so I must  have faith in this comforter that will come.  Notice Jesus didn't say when, where or how...just that it will...and that it will come with struggle...

All is grace even the days we don't understand and want to cry,

Kathleen

Better than a Hallejuah

I cried at work today three times. Make that four.  At one point I thought I was going to have to resort to hiding in the bathroom stall for a moment to sob.  Life is hard.  Nursing is hard work but there are certain areas that are considered high loss settings and it changes you if you let it.  She is 23 and lovely and kind and full of promise and hope and she is dying.  The hole left in  her parents hearts will not close when she leaves, but their love will grow stronger.  She said it wasn't her room.  We thought she was confused but after I laid down to think about it...I remembered...it is not her room. She is going to another room.  She has already seen the room but we haven't.  She knows she is going but doesn't know how to get there or when to go but she is going and she is trying to tell us she is going to a different room.  When I worked in hospice, we saw this frequently, this getting ready to move, this leaving.  One foot in this world and one in the next and one day they walk through the door and don't return.  It is hard but also comforting if you can sit with it an talk about it and learn what the journey is like.  I hope they have sock monkeys. 

I looked at the pictures of her dead grand baby and heard the raw grief at the bottom of her heart.  It is was raw and real.  She showed me the pictures over and over.  I didn't want to see but I had to.  I had to show her he was real to me to.  That for his brief moment on earth he was a life of value.  She is scattered and looking for lost things in her room.  This what the grieving do...look for lost things....hoping to find the one they lost.  They wander in a fog and look and can't remember where the things are and then they realized they are lost.  And this breaks them.   When the lost can not be found.  And it broke me today.  The baby who didn't have a life but is captured on  his grandmother's iPhone and she looks at it everyday while getting chemo.  She said, why am I here and he isn't?  Why didn't God take me and leave him to grow?  I said, I don't know but I think it is important with God to continue the conversation and show the pictures.
And I thought of Abigail, Lily, Seanta, Trey and many names....of children and babies I have watched die....and I cried....
And then at lunch I cried again.  I remembered him.  He was 8.  He died on a Thursday night.  I had seen him Thursday afternoon and he was eating a frosty and fries from Wendy's, playing xbox.  He loved baseball.  He played third base.  He loved transformers.  He looked good. We talked about baseball and his game.  He said he was hungry.  We knew he was dying we just didn't know it was then.  But he told us too, we just didn't hear.  He said, "I am a little afraid to go home, I think I stay here for the weekend."  Kids do that.  Choose when they will die.  He knew.  He just wanted to stay in the hospital.  He was protecting his mother.  His last act of love, like Jesus, was to protect his mother.   I will never forget him.

So tonight, all my ghosts come out to visit and remind me how they were loved, how they lived and how they changed me into a better person.  It will be a sad night but I have learned to cope with them. 

It makes me a better person because I know love trumps,  life is to be savored and tasted slow, and every bite is precious and hugs are important.  It makes me better because I am not afraid of my own tears or anyone elses.  It makes me a better person because I know one day it will be otherwise for me.  One day I will be the one.

It's Complicated

We have been around the sun almost 14 times now...and he will only be in my house for 4 more.

And I try to remember it all. And I try to remember it is not about the laundry, the dinner, the grades, the clothes, the crumbs...and if I really look I can see him actually shine.  Last night, I tried to capture his smile, his joy, his energy in a photo and I could not...but I remember it.  I have a friend who does not take photos because she wants to savor and feel every moment...and she is right...you can not live your life from behind a camera...

My heart aches when he doesn't want me to hug him in public.  My heart aches because he doesn't need me to tuck him in.  My heart aches because he would rather talk to his friends than me.  My heart aches because he is big and he will never be a little boy again...

"We’re a flash in the pan, all of us are, but once we are a mother, we never stop reflecting God, mother love, the way we go to them when they call, the way we pass it down."  ann voskamp


"Only God's love and the child knowing God's love will ever shape them into whole and holy persons..."

And isn't that my greatest challenge...

To invite him to know God's love and how will he know it if I don't reflect it?

How will he know if I focus on harsh discipline and always saying no because I am afraid he will be spoiled?

How will he know if all I ever say is yes because I am afraid he will not grow up secure and loved? 

How will he know if I protect him from every disappointment, every harsh word, every bad day?

How will he  know that God will always catch him no matter how far he falls if I never let him fall?

How will he know to live on his knees if he doesn't see me living there?

How will he know that the words written in red are true if I don't live them?

How will he know there is more if I live in fear?

How will he know that courage is best lived in humility?

How will he know that he is loved no matter what if I never let his heart break?

How will he know that he is never abandoned if I never leave him alone?

How will he know that there is always a light on if I never let him see the dark?

How will he know he can get back up eight times  if I never let him fall down seven?

How will he know that it does not matter what you wear, how you look, it  matters how you live, if I fret for him over these senseless things?

How will he know that life is not an emergency if I am always rushing?

How will he know how to breathe if I never do?

How will he know that worry never gains you anything if I always fret and worry?

How will he know how to love healthily if I do not love him in a healthy way?

And that a life lived in love, honor and compassion is worth dying for...because you have to die to self to live...

Because I know this

My love will fail because it is not perfect...
I will leave one day because one day I will die...
I can not protect him from heartbreak, loss, grief, the pain of living in a fallen world...
My decisions will sometimes be wrong...
He will fail as I will fail many, many times...
He will fall and break his heart...

And I so want to protect him, to shield  him, to defend him but I can not and even if I could and did...then he would never, every know this...

Grace always leads...and he will never be farther than grace can reach...

Grateful beyond measure for the complicated, glorious mess of mothering...it is an art...celebrate it...savor it all...the good, the bad, the ugly, the messy, the beautiful, the triumphs, the defeats because it is all so very, very good...thankful for red clay and washing uniforms, thankful for the smell of cleats, grateful for cutting up kiwi when I would rather sleep in, the dirty towels, the socks on the floor, the empty Gatorade bottles in his room, the sunflower seeds in my car... grateful he allows me to take him to school and that's when he will talk to me if I just shut up and listen....grateful for the 14 trips around the sun...
because I know this all too well...it could be otherwise...

Praying for all my friends who are the artists better known as mothers...praying they have courage, humility and above all the grace to lead their children to the source of it all...the love of God...

How to Live

Have not had much time to write lately....I am in a bit of a mess.   Well, more than a mess.  Too many baseball games this week.  My yard is in desperate need of attention.  My house is a wreck.  Of course, it has been a wreck since Christmas, so I should probably let this go.  This last week of school is more than I bargained for and I still do not have a topic for my paper due on Friday.  I have an exam.  Blackboard discussions are driving me insane because the topic is professional boundaries.  This is a more than a hot button for me, it is more like a nuclear bomb.  I am very opinionated, passionate and intense about the subject of boundaries.  And I am speechless at  how few professionals understand much less have them. I am not sure what is needed more in this world, boundaries or critical thinking.  We seem to be lacking in both.    I suppose I could write about that but I fear that would bore the average reader.  I could write a novel on unresolved anger and how we fail to constructively express it.  I could write two novels on how to cope with abandonment.  And  I could write a how to manual on how to divorce a friend.  A skill every woman should possess.  I also could write very passionately about why you just can not say anything you want to to your friends.  It will hurt them and they probably won't forget.  But the messes we find ourselves in are not the point.  It is what we do with the messes that determine how we will live or not.

So, as you can see, I am in not a very good place this week.  It is funny how we will wrestle with our own demons and project them onto everyone else.  Second on my list of things to hate is the blame game.   I do promise to write more on this later when I am not so self absorbed.  But I will share a story from this weekend that did help me gain some perspective and perhaps will remind us all to practice gratitude in the midst of our messes...

He fled Uganda in 1978 with two children and daughter.  (The operative word here is fled).  His wife didn't survive.  He raised the two daughters as a single parent, taught, and a year after retirement, learns he has a very, very life limiting diagnosis.   I watch people face life limiting illness and chronic illness everyday and there are only three types of people.  Which type you are determines how you will live or not figuratively and literally. 

He still smiles, still says thank you, still reads his prayer book everyday and still says...All is grace and all is well...no matter what. He still finds space in his heart to give.  He is grateful for the day.  He is joy.  He is the first type and he will live well no matter what.  Of that I am convinced.  This illness may be difficult and shorten his remarkable life,  but he will live well in the face of it and continue to see the miracle in the everyday.

The second man lies in a dark room.  He is angry, which is understandable.  He is not pleasant, which is understandable.  He complains about everything and he has much to complain about.  He sees no good.  And some would say given his illness, he is correct.  And on one level he is.  He is alive but he is not living and probably never will.  I suspect he wasn't living before he became ill.  He will miss out on his life no matter how long or short.

There is the third type.  He is young, he was living his life fully, he was grateful and he smiled.  And he was dealt a horrible diagnosis.  He fought.  He became so angry he broke a wall.  And then, he used his anger positively.  He gathered himself.  He remembered that life was gift and he had alot of living to do even if he had to do it in a year, even if he had to leave small children and a wife...He determined to be grateful in the midst of it.  He was determined to leave a legacy of love and he would not waste a single minute of it absorbed in self pity, bitterness, anger or ingratitude. 

If I was a guessing woman, I would guess the second man will live the longest.   But he really will have never lived a life.  And that is sad.  And it made me think of a song.  And it made me think of a friend who told me once she hated this song because she was angry at life.  And I think that sad.  And in the middle of my messy, less than perfect days, I remember this song and I remember the friend who hated it and I feel sad for her.   Just remember dear friends it is how you live and that is your choice.

Kathleen

Easter on Thursday

Not a lot of detail is given about the post resurrection, certainly not in comparison to his death and ministry.  Just read the Office this week and you will find yourself re reading accounts of the resurrection and I think I know why the church fathers and mothers did this.  They knew we would forget by Friday or if you are like me by Tuesday morning.  We know he ate fish sandwiches with Peter, we know he walked through a wall or two, we know he met Mary in the garden, (and if I were Mary I would be a little annoyed that he didn't come home with me), we know he walked along a road for quite some time with two people from Emmaus and had toast with them, (and we have drawn so many allegories and metaphors and even developed a whole spiritual renewal program based on that event), we know he appeared to about 400, and we know some saw him take off to heaven.  I did try one of those walks to Emmaus events once and I must confess Jesus did not come up and eat toast with me.  In fact, I was very much alone the entire weekend.  Everyone else was having toast, but I was still trying to recognize Jesus.  That is another blog series completely all together.  I do take great comfort in the fact that I have a minister friend who said he would  have been without toast too.

Humans tend to do that with extraordinary events.  Forget them, water them down.  We tend to move very quickly to the next "big" thing.  We tend to minimize the holy in our lives.  I am not sure why, except that we do.  What usually ends up happening is by the following Friday, we have completely forgotten Sunday.  We are bogged down in "ourselves" again. 

Personally, I forgot about Sunday by Tuesday.   And by Wednesday, it might as well as been Saturday again.   But on Thursday, I was reminded of Sunday again.  And I was struck how quickly I forgot. 

It was this small gift of kindness.  She unwrapped carefully.  It was wrapped up in paper towels and sealed in a Ruth's chicken salad container.  I tried to guess what it was, I was so excited. I was screaming out guesses..like it must be chocolate...it must be cake...it must be peanut butter cookies...well, you get my point.  I obviously was hungry.   It was an Easter egg!  It had been blown out, (every time I try to do this, I end up with a pseudo aneurysm), and had decorated with zenderlings.  It was the most beautiful egg I had ever seen.  I know I did not express my thanks or surprise or delight enough, mainly because I was too bogged down with "me".  But I did cry on the way home and I did place it on my mantle.  I do not think I will pack it up with all my other Easter "stuff".  I think I will keep it out all year.  To remind me that it is Easter everyday.

Resurrection moments fill our lives and mostly we do not see them.  And this is so sad.  Because this is the message of the resurrection...this is the message...

"I have come so you may have life abundantly..."

Everyday.

Life abundantly in the midst of...

death

worry

taxes

hunger

thirst

abandonment

betrayal

when no one understands

exhaustion

when you do not know what to do

when you wonder if you got it all right

when you are standing in the check out line

when you fill your tank with gas

when you are lonely

when  you are depressed and anxious

when you don't think you can

LIFE is there abundantly....Life is there...it is the promise...you just have to look for it...and sometimes it is just a egg wrapped in paper towels in a plastic Ruth's chicken salad container....
And thankfully she gave me that egg...because I am the one who needs to be reminded daily that I am a Christian and not spend so much time reminding everyone else that I am Christian.

Grateful for
eggs on Thursdays
memory lessons
golden finches
cold April mornings
sweaters
Irish spring soap
hot orange tea
toast even if I eat it by myself
butter

and Mandissa

Flowers really do say I love you but so does a can opener

This is not going to go down as the highlight month of our married life.  Definitely not.  I have a much, much younger and obviously wiser friend who already knows you never marry the right one.  Because that is not the point.  Marriage is to make you the "right one."  And it is here that I wish I had the link to that article my friend shared, but I don't.   But I bet you could google it and find it out.  And I bet you could google how to save a marriage and not one time would can openers come up.  Not once. 

And I would think by now (year 17), I would get it and obviously I hope he does.  But I am not sure if either one ever gets it.  Even after 50 years.  Marriage is about becoming who you were meant to be and hopefully undoing who you were or were about to be.  Hopefully. 

So it is April something.  That is how out of sorts I am.  I can not even remember today's date.  That is also how overly stressed I am.  And to be honest, when I write it all down, it causes me to pause.  And to say to myself, "Really?  Get  over your self."  But life is crazy at times and we are human and we do become overwhelmed and forget who we are and  at least on better days are trying to be. 

April something and he would know exactly how many baseball games we have played already.  To me, it seems like July already, but it is not.  We are just getting started.  And I can at least be thankful for the first time since my son picked up a bat, my trunk is baseball ready and so is my back porch.  And I am stocked up on sunscreen, sunflower seeds and Gatorade.  This is a huge accomplishment for me.

My garbage disposal is broken.  It is driving me crazy.  But it will be repaired early next week.  My bathtub does not hold water and it has not for about five years now and for reasons beyond my comprehension this has pushed me over the edge this week.
My cat is on a vindictive pooping spree. She is also stalking me at night but that is another problem all together.  

Middle schoolers just will not talk to you about really important stuff.  Like that they have decided to quit wearing cups to baseball games because their cup underwear doesn't fit.  Like that their regular underwear doesn't fit.  Like that none of their shorts fit either.  My son will ask me deep theological questions but will never tell me he needs new cup underwear...nope...not until it is a crisis.And no, middle school boys do not understand that protecting the family jewels is of paramount importance. Somehow, I the mom am suppose to receive this information via visions at night or something.

 His cell phone was stolen last week and much to my surprise...that insurance they try to talk you into at the cell phone pirate store is really worth it...The cell phone pirates are in control of our mass communication ability, and yes it is highway robbery, and I really believe they are violating some monopoly laws, and I can not believe we as consumers are allowing this...but they do own the all ships...And here's the thing, I yelled at the cell phone pirate today and told him to his face I really thought he was lying to me and I could not believe that his company could even keep customers...and I hoped I never had to be his nurse.  His response, he just smiled even bigger.  And the replacement phone was still going to cost me 400 dollars.  He didn't even bat an eye.  So I call Vance and yelled at him for not buying cell phone insurance.  Who knew?  Obviously, not us.  I did learn one thing...most reasonable people always back down when I rant...always.  I have even been told after one of my rants was witnessed in a small town in Georgia over a smoking vs non smoking room...that they hoped never to be on my bad side.  I am that bad when I rant.  That bad.  But obviously not bad enough for the cell phone pirate. 

Saturday I was beyond mad at my husband for trying to tell me, who works in Winston Salem, and has already been to every sporting goods store in Winston Salem, looking for adult small white without a stripe baseball pants, that he who works in Greensboro and drives past Grahams everyday has not had time to stop in and buy pants.  I hung up on him.  Davis even said in a hushed voice, "Did you just hang up on Dad?" Yep. By the way, the pants were picked up today.

And I almost completely lost it when he implied I had more time than him because I have days off during the week.  Word to the wise here.  Never tell a nurse who works at any hospital on any shift and covers holidays just how much time and how nice it is that she has days off in the week.  Never tell her that unless you want to pull back a nub.  Nurses, next to nurse aides and residents and our military, are the most exhausted professionals I know, hands down.  No contest.  Period.

Tomorrow at 9 am I get to visit my dentist again and here I am at 10 pm already plotting several reasonable excuses as to why I could live with a temporary crown for the rest of my natural life. 

My kitchen floor resembles home plate after 9 batters have been up.  It is that dirty.  And I, unlike the plate umpire, do not have a brush strapped around my waist to brush all the dirt away. 

The only thing edible in my refrigerator is milk, carrots, four strawberries, coleslaw and hot dog chili.  Oh, I do have some cheese that is growing penicillin and butter. 

I have poison ivy.  Every spring I get it.  Every single one.  Before I see the dentist tomorrow, I will be sitting at the CVS mini clinic getting a dose pack.  And no, this will not improve my stress level.

We tried to have a date night Friday but the movie was so horrible we both went to bed mad that we actually spent 1.20 on it and had to return to Redbox.  It belonged in the trash and Redbox should pay us to watch it.

The mildew on my shower now has its own complex pattern this is beginning to resemble zenderlings.

School is driving me crazy and I do not recommend returning at mid life to anyone is about to get the best of me. 

My DAD thinks my yard is out of control.  That is bad.

My hip is killing me.  And when I will I realize I am not 20 anymore?  And my stomach is hurting because I am chewing up that much ibuprofen.

And I feel like because we are so busy, that at best Vance and I are distant roomates.

I know part of the reason for my distress and I know the solution.  And it is here I am not participating in my own recovery.  And I would think by now in my adult life I would have memorized the definition for insanity....Repeating the same behavior hoping for different results.  I have not learned yet that over committed, over planned, over scheduled, over extended lives never, ever work and are not conducive to relationships.  Ever.  Period.

And this is why we are fighting  and I still don't get it...after all this time....we are not taking 5 minutes a day to connect. 

But today instead of flowers he brought me a can opener.  A can opener.  My can opener has been broken for about 3 weeks now and when I sent him to the store at 9 pm tonight, he brought back besides everything we needed....A CAN OPENER...

And this is why, even at worst, marriage is always worth it.  Even when you feel they don't hear you, even when you feel they are responsible for your happiness (and they are not), even when you feel they are acting like a total creep, even when they do not respond to your every whim (and who does), even when they leave their socks on the floor, even when they don't make the bed, even when they forget to thank you for dinner, 

it is always worth it...

because nothing says I love you like a can opener...

Always remember to see the best in your partner, not the worst, always remember why you loved them in the first place, always say you are sorry...and always remember the day he bought you a can opener.

Grateful for husbands, can openers, wind, baseball pants, new bats finally arriving and stolen cell phones.

The Silence of Saturday

I should not be surprised at all that he asks questions.  That is what kids do.  They ask questions that parents struggle to answer.  

He usually wants to know when he will hit his growth spurt.  He really wants to know when he will be an "adult."  He wants to know who he will marry and how will he know she is the right one.  He wants to know what he should do as an adult.  He really wants to know how he will figure all this out.  His mamma does not know.  His mamma on her best days can not answer these questions for herself. 

But Saturday he wanted to know two things.  And his mamma didn't know the answer to those questions either.  He wanted to know what the disciples did on Saturday.  And he wanted to know when we would find out about the resurrection. 

I told him as we dug in the dirt and pulled weeds and cleaned up the garden, I don't know what they did.  The gospels were remarkably silent about Holy Saturday.  But I suspect they told the story.  I suspect as all grieving people do they told the story of their loved one over and over and over again until it became real. They told the story so they would remember.  They told the story so everyone else remembered too and didn't forget the importance of the one gone.  I suspect that it was here the gospels began.  But I told him I really don't know.  But it was a good question to think about.  What do you do when hope is gone?  How do you choose to respond when it appears to be over?  How do you go on?  What do you cling to when what you were clinging to is no longer?  What do you do when you don't know what to do?  How do you get back up when it appears you are defeated?  What do you do when the worst thing has happened?  I told him I hope he remembers this...For each week of his life...there is only one Saturday...AND there is only one Sunday. And I told him he gets to choose which day he will remember.  I told him which day he chooses to live in determines whether or not he lives in joy or despair.  I told him he gets to write the story.  I told him that I hope he gives no credence to the Saturdays of his life...that he views the Fridays as Good...and in the spirit of the gospels...focus on Sunday...focus on Sunday...don't make Saturday the highlight.  And the gospel writers could have...they could have told the story differently....The gospel writers could have focused on the silence of Saturday and not the applause of  Sunday...It would have been easy to do...It would have been easy to take that awful story of Friday, live in Saturday and never see the truth of Sunday...and had they chosen to focus on the silence of Saturday instead of the thunder of Sunday...then the truth of the resurrection would have never left that garden.

I laughed at his second question.  Laughed hard.  And reminded him that when he was 5 and he ate all of his chocolate Easter bunny (all three of them), by 9 am in his church clothes and unbeknownst to me, and he was covered in chocolate and I was struggling just to get him clean enough for church (as if), and I was frustrated that his Easter shirt was a chocolate mess, and his shoes looked like he had played 9 innings of baseball in them, and I was in tears, and my ham was not glazed and my table wasn't set and I had 15 coming to dinner, and my cake was less than perfect,  he said this...."Don't worry Mom...they will tell the same story next year." They will tell the same story next year.

So I said to him,  I guess we find out about 11 am.  About the time the choir sings the first note Charles Wesley's most famous hymn (or at least I think so, but then he wrote about 1000 or more so, who really knows)....Christ the Lord is Risen Today...Alleluia...  But I also said, isn't it sad that we can't remember from one year to the next much less one week to the next...the joy in the story...that death is no more...that hope is alive and well...and isn't it really sad that for the most part we only sing that very famous hymn only on one day of the year...and isn't sad that we behave on most days as if we have nothing at all to be joyous about...when we have everything in the world to be joyous about...everything...and isn't it sad that we live as if the silence of Saturday says it all.  It is a choice. We choose which day will be the highlight reel of our own stories.  Do not live as if Saturday says it all and is if  you have never heard the story of Sunday.   Live as if it were 11 am Easter Morning every day of your life...

And when I read her blog this morning, I think she was right. And I read it through tears.  It is the best way to live on Easter Monday or any Monday for that matter.  And I think she is right, we all live through Fridays and Saturdays and wonder is it really worth it...and it comes down to this......will we focus on the silence of Saturday or will we live in the thunder of Sunday on Monday?

Choosing joy all my dear friends because all is grace...


For the rest of the story on how to live on Easter Monday..www.aholyexperience.com

Word Up

Good Friday.  At no other time of the year do so many of us sit in church in such uncomfortable silence.  The Eastern Church declares it Great Friday.  And he was right when he asked, "Why do we call it good, shouldn't it be called bad Friday since Jesus was crucified?"  I agreed with him but on a larger level...Many a heinous crime has been committed on Good Friday in the name of the one crucified and on some level I think that should give us more pause. You can test anyway you like but Jesus was dead.  I know many people who only go to church on Good Friday and do not come back on Sunday.  They feel it is a better match for their souls.  Sunday they feel is too cleaned up, too pretty.  And on many levels I agree with them too.  I really do love a Good Friday service.  I like the silence,  I like the darkness.  I like the stripping of the church.  It reminds us of the cost.  

One of my most favorite pieces of music is Seven  Last Words by Dubois.  Actually my favorite part is the benediction.  I will sit through that piece of dark, dramatic real music just to hear the benediction.  I love that benediction.  It almost doesn't fit the rest of the piece.  Stuck at the end almost as an afterthought is this lovely, peaceful benediction.  Christ We Do All Adore Thee..

I took my son to church Friday.  He has seen more various Good Friday services than the average 13 year old.  He has sat through Dubois four times now.  He has seen a Cruxifiction service.  He has seen low Protestant to high Protestant tradition on Good Friday.  And he is always full of questions.  I had high expectations of this choir Friday night.  I knew that it would be beautiful.  And it was. We were on word five.  

"I thirst.", when it began.  When my son began giggling so hard the church pew shook.  I probably would not have been nearly as embarrassed if we had not been sitting next to the senior pastor's wife.  Vance started it.  As always.  At times I think I need to sit in between the two of them so they will behave.  Vance loves to draw on bulletins. He loves to take one moment of the services and draw a cartoon and sometimes he just wants to know what we are having for lunch. Tonight he underlined letters.  W O R D  U  P.  And Davis began laughing so hard.  I began hear Cameo singing Word Up in my head right alongside of "I thirst."  Word Up was singing right along in my head as candle five, six and seven were extinguished and  it was still chanting in my head as the choir sang the benediction.  Christ We do All Adore Thee.  My most favorite benediction of all.  I want it sung at my funeral.  But not WORD UP.  Davis finally stopped laughing, he said he just had to get a laugh out.  I think Miriam my sit with us again if my two boys can behave.  I personally will never hear Dubois again without hearing WORD UP.  But it makes a good point.  The seven last words spoken from the one who was the WORD...The seven last words that completed his destiny.   WORD UP.  It was finished.  The teacher was now a teaching. He had shown them into the depths of God that caused some to see through and some could not.  He had demolished the rock around their hearts.  He had shown then dangerous ways to live.  His part was done.  WORD UP.  I had so wanted to open this post with the WORD UP video playing but my gadget is broken.  so sorry.

Would you like one egg or two with that pancake?

The gospel writers are remarkably quiet today.  The Passion narrative does not include Wednesday.  I don't know why.  I don't believe for a minute Jesus and company were staying in that day.  But if one is to believe the narrative, nothing gospel worthy happened.  (The Church fathers were so lost as to what to include in the Daily Office during Wednesday of Holy Week, that we actually flip all the way to Acts and we read about John Mark.  Talk about ruining the ending,  here it is approaching the climax of the story and we jump ahead to read about the early church, which was all about Easter).   But I think Jesus and his buddies were dyeing eggs.  He would have loved doing that.  And just having to referee the turf wars as to what color the eggs were going to be, would have given Jesus pause.  And I can just hear Judas telling Jesus that there was only enough money for 1 dozen.  That was one egg a piece.  When I was little, (there were three of us kids,) my mom only boiled a dozen eggs and we each got 4.  This was very distressing to me because I never got to dye an egg in every color.  And I think it was this early childhood trauma that is the root of my egg decorating compulsion. How was I ever going to work that through in therapy?  Guess what?  We never celebrated Palm Sunday either.

The first year I bought 2 dozen.   I  held Davis' hand (he was 6 months old) and dropped them in the cups. I know, by now, everyone is thinking I am one very neurotic mother when it comes to creating childhood memories for my child. At 6 months, I am forcing him to dye eggs.  Forcing. I learned today that most sane people, and I never claimed to be, think 6 months old is a wee bit early to dye Easter eggs.  It is not like the dye is toxic.  But probably sane mothers don't do this because babies have not unclenched their fists yet. But not me.  Since I was not going to have a palm branch experience or Kodak moment, by golly we were going to dye eggs.   The next year he was 18 months old and we dyed 9 dozen.  Yep. 9 dozen.  I have a very special egg holder that gently slides the egg into the cups of dye. And much to my very grateful surprise, he loves to dye eggs too. Still.  We dyed eggs in every color and no matter how you hard you try...dipping the egg in all the colors still makes brown. I am not sure my heart would have recovered if he had hated decorating Easter eggs.  That would have probably been therapy worthy.  The palm branch disaster was about all the momma disappointment over Easter I could take.

Discovering Pinterest this year has opened my world to the many, many ways to decorate Easter eggs. My egg decorating is pretty simple.   I have tried "blowing" the egg out, but have only succeeded in breaking the eggs and causing a horrific migraine.  I have used waxed to make designs.  One year I made  polka dot eggs.  One year they were all monogrammed.  I included the cat, the fish, every Tele Tubbie, and every friend Thomas the Tank had. Davis did have 108 eggs to dye.  I have a friend at work whose daughter decorated the most amazing eggs this week.   The technique was called zenderling. (I think.)  They were stunning. Look it up on Pinterest.  So I was amazed to learn this year of Greek Easter eggs.  In the Orthodox tradition the eggs are dyed blood red.  And I had to try it.  THIS YEAR. 

The English word for "Easter" comes for the word "Eostre".  An Anglo-Saxon legend tells how the Saxon goddess Eostre found a wounded bird and transformed it into a hare, so that it could survive the Winter. The hare found it could lay eggs, so it decorated these each Spring and left them as offering to the goddess. 
Rituals related to the goddess Eostre focus on new beginnings, symbolized by the Easter egg, and fertility, which is symbolized by the hare (or Easter bunny).  Who knew?  Originally bird eggs were dyed and somewhere it changed to chicken eggs.  Which makes me think of last night.

 I had dinner with my mother in law, and we ate at one of those all you can eat buffets with a Japanese theme, if you can imagine, which by the way, until last night I could not.  I hate buffets.  Besides the obvious health risks, the food sucks.  This little adventure last night caused nightmares. I now have developed buffet PTSD.  The first buffet station had octopus and I could actually see the suction cups.  It had squid and I think that last tray was eel.  I skipped all of that and went straight to the salad bar and bread.  My mother in law sits down and says, "Look, I found fried frog legs.  Try one, Kathleen, they taste just like chicken."  You would have to know my mother in law to appreciate the next 10 minutes.  She is one of those southern ladies who wants to try everything on your plate and insists that you taste everything on hers.  Insists.  Once, Davis called me on his cell phone lamenting that Grammy had force fed him hush puppies.  Grammy kept telling me how delicious they were and they were the best ever.  This concerned me greatly because apparently she had eaten enough frog in her life to declare these the best ever.  This also implies that there is a worst ever fried frog leg.  After swallowing a hurl, I began to wonder, where do you buy restaurant grade frog?  And what cookbook do you find that recipe?  And they do so closely resemble chicken legs, that never, never, never again will I order chicken out. And I am seriously rethinking the whole vegan thing.  Ok, now my narrative has seriously wandered off track...back to Greek Easter Eggs.

During Lent, eggs are forbidden.  Who knew?  I certainly did not.  In the Greek tradition the eggs are dyed blood red to symbolize the blood of Christ and each family member only gets 1 egg, which they break open and eat one Easter Sunday to symbolize the resurrection.  Actually the tradition is more complicated than this, but you get the point.   So, in theory, I only had to boil three eggs, four if you include my cat.  Davis and I decided to do 3 dozen.  Vance kindly lets us dye his eggs. He always does.   Apparently there is very special Greek Easter egg dye for this.  I could not find it.  The alternative plan is to boil the skins of 15 (yes 15), Spanish onion skins, add vinegar and water and this will become a red dye.  I could not find Spanish onions either.  So I used a whole bottle of red food coloring.  Unfortunately, I did not think this through.  I mixed the food coloring in my favorite 12 cup Tupperware spouted bowl.  It is now red.  But our eggs are lovely. 

Greek Easter Eggs...just one year try it...

Maybe the gospel writers took a break today for this one simple reason...in the middle of the drama of life...in the middle of all the tension of daily living...in the middle of conflict ridden relationships...in the middle of  what looks to be a mess..when you are so ready for Spring to arrive and it has been dark for so long...when you are looking for hope at the bottom of a dark hole.. when you can not see past the Fridays of life...when you know Thursday is coming...and you can not avoid it...in the middle of the stress ...in the middle of it all...make space for the growing of your soul...and spend time becoming who you really are...and always welcome the needy, the sick, the poor...because there will always be enough and baskets will be left over...


And you just have to count daily graces:  Easter eggs, dirt under fingernails, McCormick red food coloring, afternoon movies with teenagers, fried frog legs that you do not have to eat, lightning fireworks, hard spring rain, pulling weeds, two strong legs, the smell of pot roast at the end of a long work day, Sangria, luscious red strawberries, flaming Azaleas blooming two weeks early and the yard looks like Augusta National, returning verbena, lavender blossoms,dust bunnies, looking at courage in some one's eyes, hearing the unfurling of an other's dreams, hugs,tears...

Remember that Grace always leads...
Kathleen

If I close my eyes, I can hear him singing it.  I really can.  And I don't know why I thought of it today of all days, I just did.  And I will never forget that chapter.  And I think only Mahalia Jackson sang it better. 

It was tough. His passing left a gaping hole in their hearts and they didn't know how they were going to fill it.  I must have sat around that kitchen table every Tuesday at 1100 am for three months.  He had the biggest hands I ever saw.  Ever.  I can only imagine how many babies he blessed, people he baptized, bread he broke with those hands.   I can only imagine how often he closed them in prayer. He had been a local pastor for over 40 years.  He said his knees bothered him alot.  He was well over 6 feet tall.  I wondered was it from all his hard work or from praying.  Both I suspect.  He could not name a favorite verse but he guessed it might be..."God so loved..." and he stopped with that.  "God so loved..."  He thought the best way to live was by absolute dependence on God...This is what his family told me every Tuesday at that kitchen table over tea and whatever cookies had been sent...Their grief was palpable...

So on that Friday morning I knew when I got the call it would be tough.  Some passings just are.  Some just leave larger holes than others.   I suspect the size of the hole equates with the depth of one's loves for his fellow humans.  I suspect that to be true.  He lived long, he had lived right, he had lived well and he died well too...

He walked in and started singing.  He started singing.  Precious Lord.  That is what he sang. (And yes, he nailed it.)   And after I picked my heart off the floor and wiped my tears and held back a sob...and after he prayed and after he comforted and after he consoled and after he blessed...he walked over to me...

And he said...

This must be hard for you too...you have taken care of him for so long...and you must feel it too...And you must be very tired...And I was all of those things...every single one of them...BUT it was the only time...the first time...that anyone had ever consoled me at work...He and I both did hard work.  I suspect he felt called...  He still does the work.  I have had to take a break for awhile.  He did the work better than anyone I ever saw...and I wish I could bottle it and pass it out to everyone...I wish he could teach that...but you can't...

Being a  man after God's own heart...you just don't see it everyday...you just don't...and I will never forget...how he sang the  man home...and how he took care of everyone in the room that day and saw that they were comforted...including the nurse...and it has left an impression on me...if you stand still long enough on any given day...

Jesus walks up..if you open your heart on any given day...Jesus walks up...and I am glad I stood still enough that day to see...

All is grace,

Kathleen

Spring Cleaning

I have a new addiction.  Pinterest.  I have not completely figured it all out yet, but I am hooked.  Today, I found this really cute idea for a pedicure.  Color blocking.  Fuchsia, orange, and red.  It was so cool. Much to my dismay, I learned that the Easter bunny I am sporting on my big toe is not the Easter bunny at all.  It is more like a Playboy bunny.   And that carrot in his hand, well it is not a carrot.  That might be what they call it in their country, but in our country we call it something very different.  Just saying.  So, I am kind of desperate to find a new design.

If Pinterest is to be believed, (and who doesn't believe everything on social media?)  the fresh, new ingredient for the spring is figs.   Figs.  Fig and goat cheese pizza.  Fig burschetta.  Fig and walnut salad.  Figs.  And he hated figs.  Absolutely hated figs.  At least that is how Mark saw it.

What really happened and when, that final week, is up for debate.  But the gospel writers agree on a few common things.  He rode triumphantly into Jerusalem.  He wept over Jerusalem. He talked alot.  They ate supper.  He prayed in the garden.  He cleaned house, literally and figuratively.  There was a trial.  He was crucified.

But Mark is the only one who tells us he hated figs.  Mark also tells shares with us, that Jesus could become testy when hungry.  Me too.  I become extremely testy. Just ask Vance.  Unfortunately, wailing out loud is not sociably acceptable behavior for adults.  At this is one of the things I wish we would never outgrow. Crying when we are tired and hungry.   I also think we should never outgrow crayons and paste.  But, apparently Jesus thinks it is ok.  To become angry when hungry, I mean. And this comforts me more than you will ever know.  And I know he would never give up crayons, given his love for writing in the dirt. 

He hated that fig tree so much it withered up and died.  I am not sure why this is not listed as a miracle.  The O'Briens have this fig tree at the beach that they have been trying to kill for 20 years and it just won't die.  So, I kind of consider killing a fig tree to be a miracle. 

It is not clear if he ever got anything to eat that day or not.  Judging by the whole incident in the Temple later on, I am guessing not.  And apparently right up there on his favorite list of things to do was cleaning.  Clearly he loved to clean.  After killing that fig tree, we get a lesson on how to clean house.  I am by know means a domestic goddess.  And I firmly believe that dust is a protective covering and it really won't kill anyone to see your dirty bathroom.  Those dishes in the sink can always wait.  Always.  And it really does not matter that you have to clear a path to find your bed at  night.  And I promise, you will sleep just as well in that unmade bed as that made one. And please keep all those little, tiny fingerprints on the doors and mirrors.  Before you know it those little, chubby hands will be waving goodbye to you at college. And one other thing and this is very, very important...your girlfriends keep house just like you do.  Promise.  So go ahead and give yourself a break and lower the bar.  And if you keep good snacks and a bottle of wine on hand, no matter what your house looks like...people will think you are Martha Stewart.  Promise.

We like to think that if Jesus walked into our houses he would not turn anything over, throw anything out the window, raise an eyebrow or even a voice.  We like to think our house is more like Mary and Martha's.  But probably our house is more like the Temple than we care to think. 

He really only had one message for us that day.  Just one.  And it was a biggie.  And on most days we forget.  One can argue with words...but deeds are beyond argument.  WOW.  We can talk all day long about how much we love, how we don't hate, how strong our moral center is, what we think is absolute truth or not (as if any of us really know), what we believe we are called to do, how much we care, how far we will go to help our brother...but Jesus said the bottom line is this...

Jesus said if your deeds are not matching your words...then clean house.  Throw out indifference and care about everyone.  Turn the table that you sit around complaining upside down and replace it with the table of gratitude. Block the doorway to negativity.  Make your house a house of prayer and praise. Dust doubt off the counter and sweep it right out the door and never, never let it visit again.   Believe and then just do it. 

"Preach the gospel at all times, use words if necessary."  St. Francis.

Asking for grace to keep my house clean....

Kathleen

Live an epic

I have been thinking about this post all week. I mean obsessing.  Believe or not except for the Easter Egg and church date story, I don't give much forethought to what I am going to blog about.  I don't plan them. But those two stories just begged to be told.  I mean just had to be told.  Stories are like that.  They are meant to be told. 
Today's gospel reading is my favorite of Passion Week.  My absolute favorite.  I love Palm Sunday.  It is my favorite Sunday of the entire church calendar.  It is epic.  And I just love using my new word.  Just love it.  Any who, I had given up by 5 am,  of having anything blog worthy on Palm Sunday.  Yep, I had given up by 5 am.

It is the making of an epic.  You have a borrowed donkey or two (depending on which version you read), a King, a parade, kids doing Kodak moment cute things that just  make you tear up, an Oscar worthy musical score, a Messiah who is an absolute hoot, breathtaking scenery and everyone has to admit, Jerusalem is pretty show stopping especially with that Temple in the background, a supporting cast that just can't be outdone and engaging dialogue. 

But I have been disappointed on more than one Palm Sunday.  First, there is the whole temptation to wear your Easter frock early. Palm Sunday is just always so beautiful and  more often than not, seven days later on Easter,  we sink back into winter and it is too cold to wear our Easter frocks. One of my reasons for having a child and (I am serious as a heart attack), was so I could watch my child process on Palm Sunday.  I had dreams about this.  I tried to teach Davis to walk early so he could process at the age of 14 months. I sang him "All Glory Laud and Honor" as a lullaby. A palm tree was the first tree he could identify.  We practiced at home. I tried to teach him at 13 months of age to say HOSANNA. Really. As if.   When he was an infant, I would tuck palm branches in his baby bucket during Lent.  Seriously.  We practiced "the wave."  I actually bought him Palm Sunday clothes not Easter clothes, Palm Sunday clothes. So you can imagine my profound disappointment at the age of 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 he refused to walk down the aisle with the other children on Palm Sunday waving palm branches singing hosanna.   You can only imagine. When he was  two, we stood in the vestibule together.  He was permanently attached to my leg, sobbing, "NO, NO, NO."  He had thrown his palm branch on the floor and clutched his chubby hands into fists.  People were staring. He was having no part of it that day.  The senior pastor at the time kindly suggested the nursery that morning. I think he was planning on taking him there himself.   We repeated this at age 3 and 4.  At age 4, he leapt into my arms in the church parking lot that morning and rapped his arms so tight around my neck, I struggled to breathe. By age 5, he began asking at Ash Wednesday was he going to have to walk down the aisle?  By age 8, he had nightmares the week before.  I gave up finally at age 8.  The drama. The drama. 

I really have no explanation for my love of Palm Sunday.  None, except it is a Kodak moment.  And I love that hymn.  And I love palm trees.  I love donkeys.  And it is so dramatic for church processionals.  I mean it is high drama for church liturgy.  High drama.

There are many ways Jesus could have chosen to live his last week.  Many.  There are many ways Jesus could have chosen to live his life.  Many.   He could have skipped the whole dramatic entry and the story would have still been good.  He could have skipped the whole dinner with his friends (Mary and Martha) the night before and the story would have been good.  He could have told her not to wash his feet the night before and walked into Jerusalem with dirty feet. It really wouldn't have changed the whole of the story.  He could have done many things but he chose the epic way.  He chose living large and living out loud.  And maybe that is why I like the story...BUT I think the reason I love it is what SHE said this afternoon...and it made me think..
She is a twenty something who has literally walked to hell and back, almost died, and really didn't know until this week if she would see her next birthday.
She said to me as I was walking out...and I don't know why she said it except it was my best Palm Sunday sermon ever...I mean ever...It was epic..
"I have been thinking...you can live your life one of two ways...you can just fade out of this life quietly...you can just not engage life  OR

You can live an epic...You can live an epic...

That is what I am going to do...I am going to live an epic...I don't want to just fade out...I don't want not to have sucked every last drop of goodness out of each and everyday...I don't want to be numb...I don't want to miss any single moment of any single day...
I am going to live an epic..."

and her story just had to be told...just had to be...

Epic living that is what he said we could have.  He said we could life.  He said we could live the epic life.

We all are going to die.  We are going to have a last week.  We are going to have last dinners with friends.  We are going to fall and break our hearts.  We are going to pray and beg God...please no.  We are going to know days where we feel like God has abandoned us.  We are going to know pain.  We are going to have sleepless nights. Our friends were run away and disappoint.  We will know loneliness.  We will know despair. Grief will be an unwelcome companion.  Tears are going to fall. We will be betrayed by those who love us most.  We will be humiliated.  We will be mocked.    But we have a choice...we have a choice...

We can just fade away or we can live an epic.  We can live an epic.  

May all my kind friends live fully into their epic,  may all by friends know that life the whole of it is worth living,  may none of us just fade away but live an epic...Live an epic. 

All is grace,

Kathleen