Check out new blog!

42 days until I begin my seminary classes and life starts to change around here! I've got a new blog up and running to track the journey at:

onewomaninseminary.blogspot.com

I hope you'll visit and post on the new blog--and please be aware that posting on this blog will be infrequent. But frequent enough to keep you posted on what's going on in our lives.

Cheers!

(There's a fun "women of the Bible" poll on the new blog, and we could use your vote. Please?)

My new bike and The Gift of the Magi

You have heard this tale by O. Henry (aka William Sydney Porter), right? Where a poor couple, Della and Jim, give sacrificially to each other. They have no money, and it is Christmastime. So she cuts off her long, beautiful hair, to buy a platinum fob chain for Jim's family watch. He, in turn, sells the watch to buy her beautiful tortoise-shell combs she has long admired. 

Tripping over each other, they present their gifts, their hearts overflowing with love. And, of course, the gifts they sacrificed for seem practically useless then--yet they cement and grow their love. All of this being compared to the gifts of the magi who came to worship Christ.

full story here

And so my own magi story has unfolded over the last 3 months. My husband, David, had two nice bikes of his own--one he used on bike trips, the other a mountain bike he used for everything else. I had no bike of my own, and so we started thinking about purchasing one. Except that David was laid off, and even though we made two trips to the bike store, we didn't want to dip into our savings to purchase a bike. I drooled over a Trek and a Globe model, to be exact, but tried to make peace with the fact that there was not going to be a bike in my near future.

Over the last few months, I also suggested a few money-saving ideas to my husband. Why not cancel the Y membership for the summer and downgrade the cable to basic. He agreed, and so I have been walking outdoors. He rode his bike, but he also took walks with his wife. And so the summer unfolded.

Except that last week, one week before David headed back to work, he said that he was thinking about selling the Bianchi road bike. "Are you sure, honey?" I said. "What if you decide you want to start making road trips again." And he said, "No, I don't see that happening. I'm ready to get rid of the bike."

And what I didn't realize at the time was that David figured by selling his road bike he could purchase me a new comfort bike. And that is exactly what he did. Last night, before we left for prayer meeting at church, he informed me that he wanted to stop by the bike shop to purchase a bike for me, before church.

I literally yelled "yippee!" and jumped a few inches into the air. He was rewarded with a kiss.

And we were off to the bike shop. As he drove my new champagne-colored Globe Carmel out to the car, I smiled from ear to ear. I felt like a kid in a candy shop. And all I wanted was open road and my new comfort bike--a gentle ride for my 36-year-old rear.

When prayer meeting was over, I started to push the husband toward the door. Let's go home and take a ride. Although the sun was close to setting, we pulled out our bikes, raced around the park trail, in rhythm to the live music there, then circling a small pond. And finally, home.

There is a wonderful feeling of joy and contentment in riding through the neighborhoods with my husband on this new bike. A bike he planned for and sacrificed for. A gift he gave willingly, wanting to share this activity with me.

Instant gratification is overrated, my friends. It's the gifts of thoughtfulness and heart that get me every time. Long live the story of The Gift of the Magi, and may all of us experience the joy of giving through sacrifice.

The O. Henry story ends with the author/narrator comparing the pair's mutually sacrificial gifts of love with those of the Biblical Magi:

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 5

I have to tell you the udder truth. 

I once stepped outside after an evening church service and found myself staring into the eyes of a large heifer. And she was chewing her cud. I'm sorry if you don't believe me, but sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. Needless to say, I almost screamed, but soon realized she had simply escaped from the farm next door and was surprisingly harmless. 

When my dad took the call to a country church just before I turned 13, everything changed for us. We moved from a small town to a country church and parsonage--which, though separated by a few miles--were both, quite literally, surrounded by farms and fields. I also had the eerie privilege of walking out of the front of the church on another occasion after nightfall; looking up, I saw an owl perched on the building's small spire.

Anyhoo, when my dad became a country preacher it made for some interesting predicaments. There was the obvious: the parsonage was downwind from cows and pigs, and if the wind started blowing in the wrong direction, things got smelly quick. We lived on the corner of a dirt road and a highway, where every parishioner who passed could keep a good eye on us.

Especially some of the most faithful members of the church. It was Oren and Beulah who first welcomed us into their home and offered us their love and friendship. Hearty and warm, they farmed their fields until Oren was into his 80s. In fact, dear Oren only recently passed away when he was well into his 90s. They were the kind of folks who you instantly claimed as grandparent-like figures; it was impossible not to cherish them.

Beulah had grown up in the rundown home across the dirt road where they now lived. And, although the story is a bit fuzzy in my memory, Oren had courted her young. They must have been married for over 70 years. And all along, they knew what was important: faith and service, generosity, family, and working with the land to produce crops. 

Oren's son's family also lived across the highway from us and provided us with many warm memories and years of friendship, too.

But, to tell you the truth, some of the first memories I have of Beulah is that her window gave her a birds-eye view of our activities, from a 1/4 mile down the dirt road. She noticed when the old brown station wagon left our driveway, and many a time, she could tell you when it came home. This might have bothered us if we didn't love her so; but as it was, we realized she cared enough about us to keep tabs on us--and inevitably she needed to know we were home so she could deliver fresh green beans or still-warm baked goods. As you can tell, the arrangement had its advantages!

But we didn't know all of this when we first moved into the country parsonage. We just knew that life had a different rhythm there, and it seemed like people were warmer, friendlier, and more hospitable. There was many a wonderful barn party for the youth group, with bonfires and smores and outdoor games under the stars. 

There was our freezer, filled regularly with 1/2 a cow from a local deacon who also happened to be a dairy farmer.  (I believe he missed Sunday School to get the milking done, before he could get cleaned up enough to slip in for church.) And if you want my opinion, country folks know how to do a potluck better than city folks. Those were grand events, and the cleaning up was just as much fun as the eating. It goes without saying that EVERYTHING was homemade.

There was an earthiness and a graciousness about the ministry of the church. I think people were more grounded, more connected to the land and to animals, and it made a difference in how they carried themselves. No one ever said running a farm isn't stressful; but there is a measure of repose in caring for the elemental things that can't be found in a factory or an office.

The teaching in Sunday School was usually simple and preached with the Bible in hand. Folks seemed to have a better grasp on right and wrong; what pleased God and what didn't. All of the people were imperfect with quirks and ingrained habits and all, but most of them did their best, and I loved them for their honest living.

It was important to my father to be honest and hardworking, too, which led him to insist on mowing his own lawn, which was in full view of the highway. Apparently he became one of them, because I remember the day the call came for the men of the church to go wrassle some escaped cattle. Dad must have done what he could, although if he helped in the end, it was only  because he was good at following directions.

A city preacher turned country preacher. I think the move was good for dad's blood pressure. I know it was good for the little brown church we came to love. And although 20 years have past now, and I'm far removed from that life, I still yearn for both the quietness of the country and the noisiness of the fellowship. 

Summer evenings with the ice cream freezer cranking out treats. Visiting and caring and an abundance of hugs and encouragement. When folks would rather give a hand up than take a handout. I carry these memories still close in my heart--and some of my best dreams bring back the smells, and the smiles, and the sunny nature of that old country church. Cows and all.

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 4

The good book says you will reap what you sow. Perhaps that explains why so many who crossed our path gave generously to us, without expecting anything in return. I can't count the number of times an unexpected check appeared in the mailbox, a Christmas fruitcake appeared on the doorstep, or a half of a cow made its way to our chest freezer. We were far from rich, but I never remember going without.

One of my first memories of this generosity materialized each Christmas on the porch of our light green parsonage. Throughout the year, Mr. Loomis, a faithful man from our church, delivered our Borden milk in a tin box on said porch. (Yes, I am that old.) He delivered our dairy each week like clockwork, which was equally true around the holidays. Except that the Christmas season brought the gift of eggnog and perhaps sour cream, maybe even some buttermilk and ice cream? Dad taught us to appreciate the fine taste of the eggnog at a young age, always with nutmeg gently sprinkled on top.  

Later, at our country church, a new seasonal gift emerged: the local funeral parlor delivered a box of pickles each Christmas, including several strange varieties. We always opened the box with our eyes wide, wondering at the kind of person who would send so many unusual pickles. Truly, that was one of the gifts that kept on giving. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the canned jars were yet unopened when the next Christmas suddenly arrived--and a new batch of pickled cucumbers appeared on our doorstep. I give the funeral director high marks for memorability.

Along the way, as we three girls grew up, we saw doctors and dentists who sometimes charged us a reduced fee, and on occasion, no fee at all. The dairy farmer from the country church filled our freezer with beef, including steaks, on a regular basis. And I remember most of us soundly rejecting the liver that was waiting in the freezer. In fact, I only remember eating liver once--I didn't understand why we had to eat it at the time, but I realize now it may  have been all we had at the time. No matter how little we had, we never went hungry.

In addition to all the gifts of food, my parents received money each Christmas from dear friends and from an offering collected by church members. It allowed us to receive presents and enjoy special meals and traditions we might have gone without otherwise. 

With all the generosity coming our way, I remember my parents being equally generous. We frequently had people over for dinner, mom baked cinnamon rolls and bread that were distributed around the neighborhood, and my parents regularly gave their tithe to the church and to other people or projects, no matter how little they had to begin with. 

We learned that not only does God love a cheerful giver--but that said giving brings joy back to the giver a hundredfold. It really is better to give than receive. Although receiving has its place, and allows both the giver and recipient to benefit. 

Fast forward to my freshmen year in college, when I was desperately in need of a winter coat, but didn't have extra cash to buy one. An anonymous card with money in it found its way to my dorm room, and I swallowed my pride and thanked God for this provision. I'm not sure how someone knew I needed that coat--maybe they didn't. It doesn't really matter--what mattered is that God provided the clothing I needed when I needed it.

Pickles and ice cream, steaks and fruitcake, cash and the absence of a doctor bill. Proof positive that God was watching out for us. Somehow the needs we had were often met just in time. "That was a close call," we could say. But that's not how we rolled. I remember bowing our heads around the dinner table and saying "Thank you, Lord. Thank you for meeting all of our needs, just like you promised."

It's a true gift to be forced to depend on God for basic needs and provisions. This preacher's kid wouldn't trade that opportunity for the world. 

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 3

Imagination. Make-believe. Adventure.

I don't know about the rest of you, but this preacher's kid had plenty of each. My two sisters and I played school, house and church, of course. But what really stretched our make-believe muscles was our association with the senior pastor's three boys. 

We three sisters inhabited the light green parsonage on one side of the brick church building; the three brothers inhabited the yellow parsonage on the flip side. Thankfully, there was a playground in between, a perfect place for brewing up imaginary adventures. And to tell the truth, I think our make-believe had roots in the only TV show all six of us were allowed to watch consistently: Little House on the Prairie. Oddly enough, our imaginings also involved kings, queens, princes and princesses, which were no doubt contrived from the well-loved Chronicles of Narnia book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. (And to think I never realized these coincidences until I started writing this post!)

Anyway, the strange saga we kept returning to was something called The Prairie Family--we lived on the wild frontier, but we played the part of royalty, and somehow this made perfect sense to us. As I was the oldest girl, I was accorded the honor of being "Queen Elizabeth," a name we no doubt nabbed from British royalty. Andy, the oldest, was "King Edward"--the others were princes and princesses. 

Every episode involved a battle, a chase, and a bit of arguing over who got to do what and to save whom. We dodged arrows, hid from warriors, ate imaginary picnics and very possibly slayed the enemy each and every time. All I truly remember for certain is that we were always victorious. There was magic in our make-believe, making us feel as though we were saving the day and conquering the world each time we played. The forces of good and evil were alive and well and good always triumphed in the end.

The story we played out time and again was really a shadow of the truer story we each held in our hearts. In real life, we preachers' kids came to understand that there is light, represented by God, and dark, represented by the devil. That is, there is always a battle going on around us and in us, but if we know God through His Son, we know the final battle will be won. Hands down. Good will save the day. And evil will get what is coming to him. 

We couldn't have verbalized this to you as we slashed and dashed our way through the latest episode of The Prairie family. But our hearts embraced this story. And that is what made our make-believe so thrilling and enchanting.

Three boys, three girls. Inevitably, because each of us were so close in age, there were jokes about all of us marrying one day, which only further advanced our fantasy world. We dreamed of kings and queens marrying, princes and princesses setting up house together while ruling over the world in their spare time.  At very tender ages, we laughed and imagined and wondered at what it meant to be a grownup.

As is wont to happen with a preacher's family, the senior pastor and his wife, known as Pastor Bill and Aunt Gloria to us, felt called to a new church in West Virginia of all places. Being in Michigan, it sounded like it was on the other side of the world to us. And so The Prairie Family disbanded, with fond memories still intact.

I remember our dear friends leaving because my dad arrived at the door of our light green parsonage, and for the first time I can remember, he had tears in his eyes. As the senior pastor moved his family and ministry on, dad felt as though he was losing his best friend. In truth, I think we all cried at least a little.  In those precious years, our families spent countless moments together--I witnessed the death of their dog as we were walking it downtown, we awoke one night to their knock on the door for a medical emergency, and it was Aunt Gloria who prepared me to be a flower girl at a wedding while my mom birthed my youngest sister in the hospital. We shared food and fun, laughter and make-believe.

And, honestly, it was a great comfort to feel normal in the presence of other preachers' kids. All of us have grown up, moved on, and for the most part, lost touch. But it was Pastor Bill who delivered my dad's eulogy at his memorial service two years ago, reflecting on the good times they spent together. And it was Pastor Bill and Aunt Gloria who showed up at my wedding last year, after dad was gone, reminding me of the rich heritage he and mom have given us.

And as for our memories of The Prairie family, we are all older and wiser now, but in my heart the premise holds true. Our stories are not finished--but good will, hands down, overcome evil in the end. And that is the truest story I know. 

Come back for part four...

 

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 2

Normal is only a setting on the dishwasher. Still, every kid thinks her life embodies that word: normal is whatever surrounds oneself, day after day.

For this particular preacher's kid, the norm easily consisted of being at church eight times a week, usually sporting a polyester dress that came down to mid-knee and very possibly white vinyl strappie shoes (given my father's limited preacher's salary). This feat was admittedly made easier by the fact that our old light green parsonage, or our small strawberry patch, to be specific, butted up to the church's cement driveway. And our Christian school took over various portions of the church building Monday through Friday.

No one ever bothered to tell us that we virtually lived in the large brick church building, and for some reason, it never occurred to us. Here are just some of the activities we engaged in at church:

Probably up until age three or so you could find us in one of the nurseries, doing what every child did: sucking on plastic toys, running away from nursery workers, and falling asleep on the floor, graham crackers drooling out of our mouths.

There were a good deal of potlucks in the gym/multipurpose room, and it was there that we learned to appreciate fried chicken, the unidentified contents of fluffy jello whatchamacalit, and weak kool-aid. And it only took us a few years to discover the first rule of said smorgasboards: grab your dessert while you can, on your first pass through, or you might find yourself gazing longingly at leftover brownie crumbs.

AWANA, or the Wednesday night kids' program, had us running circles and relays in the gymnasium, reciting Scripture verses till we were blue in the face in the basement, and receiving coveted trophies with little people on them in the auditorium.

We listened to missionaries who came from places as far away as Japan and Australia and Africa, and thrilled to experience their slide shows, staring, fascinated at people who looked nothing like us or anyone we knew personally. They were colorful and full of adventure, and as far as I can remember, they all ended about the same: "The fields are white unto harvest, God is calling forth laborers, will you say: here am I, Lord? Send me?" All of this was perfectly biblical, of course, according to The Great Commission in Matthew 28 to go into all the world. (But we Baptists weren't quite so good at reaching out to those different from us in our own country. Apparently we hadn't yet found chapter and verse.)

Still, sometimes these "strange" people wandered into our lives through no fault of our own. One of them was a homeless fellow who must have come to the church building and elicited my father's compassion. I'm sure this was not an unusual occurrence, as people always need help and my father's heart was tender and generous. The spotty memories I have of this event are this: the man sat at our oval table, rough-and-tumble but trying to remember his manners, and eating cooked corn. I'm sure there was also meat on the table, but I can't picture it. I just seem to remember he was grateful and that observing his situation somehow made us more grateful for what we had.

And though I can't be sure this part is true, which means it could be just a dream, I recall sitting in the back of our brown Oldsmobile, with the man on one side, and me and my sister scooching as far as possible to the opposing side. I am not sure where he was headed or why we were transporting him.

Probably sometime after this event, I dressed as a hobo for halloween, which at the time seemed perfectly acceptable but makes me cringe now. Today I wonder if I didn't think that being a homeless wanderer was somewhat exotic and adventurous. At the very least, it was still foreign and mysterious to me.

And that is but a small part of the tale of my two childhood homes. The light green parsonage filled with frequent visitors, decadent June strawberries and mother's freshly baked bread, and warm memories. Parallel to the light brick church building, of course, with a smattering of stained glass, perpetual potlucks, and countless admonitions to go ye into all the world (King James Version, of course).

Nothing could seem more normal to a preacher's kid. Stranger yet, after years of my father receiving odd middle-of-the-night calls and the occasional charge to find a missing child or a herd of lost cattle, almost nothing would surprise me.

Stay tuned for part three...

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 1

Each Sunday morning, come 11 am, you could find our whole family camped out in row two, opposite the gospel side, listening to the prelude and smiling at the preacher sitting up on the platform.

We were parked there, I think, mainly because my mother, armed with her stylish tortoise shell glasses, usually played the great brown organ located approximately six steps away from our pew. It's also possible that my dad, the assistant pastor who usually gave the announcements--those things he eventually renamed "opportunities"--wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible when ascending and descending off that stage. Then there's the best reason of all for making three Baptist pastor's daughters sit in the second row: there was little chance they would get distracted and a much greater probability they would sit still during the sermon. 

But if you visited our church one Sunday morning, you probably wouldn't even notice us sitting up there, not at first. Although the rest of the Baptist congregation preferred to be seated about halfway back, where the fire of the sermon would not leave them scorched, where they could be comfortable, while still moving forward in the process of sanctification. 

Here is the reason you wouldn't see us, and you have to trust me on this.

The carpet in this grand auditorium with its lofty ceiling and nifty drop down lighting, was gold. The pews? Vibrant purple and brilliant red. A fact we children did notice and comment upon early on, at which time we were told: "The decorations in this sanctuary were selected to mirror some of the elements of the tabernacle of the Lord." And that was sufficient for us, really. Soon they appeared absolutely normal, even mundane. (Though I would be curious to know what the casual visitor thought of the decor.) We were just grateful, I think, that they were padded. That's all that mattered to our backsides during the hour and a half service.

The bulletins announcing the order of service were a very blase tan with a brown drawing of the church building itself on the cover. "First Baptist Church," it read. And honestly I can't remember the slogan that accompanied it. The only thing that bulletin was good for was telling me that "A Mighty Fortress" was the next hymn and on which page in the book it was located. I sucked in my breath a little while waiting for the song leader to tell us if we would be singing verses 1, 3, and five. Or just two and four. I followed his conducting, as his arms waved toward the congregation,  and tried to hit every note like I was a professional.

I was only five, I think, when my voice got loud in church. I would sing those hymns with abandon and verve, and I think I got lost in the music every Sunday. Those rich lyrics sunk down into my marrow, and when I sit down to my piano today, I still remember them. Baptists back then never raised their hands in worship that I remember, but they were allowed to raise their voices and their hearts. And many of them did.

As many fundamental Baptist churches were wont to do back in the 70s and early 80s, each service included "special music." It was special because one person or two or three people would rehearse it especially to perform it in church. Except they wouldn't call it a performance. Oh, no. They would say "sister so and so will now minister to us in music," and then whichever pastor announced it would sit behind the woman while she approached the big pulpit, leaning forward toward the microphone, poised to croon her heart out to the congregation.

Many times it would be my father who announced this special music. As he sat down on the platform bench, we would look up at him and try to see what he really thought of this morning's special music by reading the look on his face.

Pastor Dick, as our father was called, would sit there, often in his polyester rust and burnt orange suit, with a pleasant smile on his face. And every few months or so, things really got interesting for us. 

I don't know who she was, except to say that she must have been trained in the operatic style. She seemed to wear blousy clothing to cover her ample frame, and she hit notes most of us could only dream about. Of all the special music performed in that church, I think my dad appreciated that style the least. And so we three girls would glance over at his facial features while the sister ascended into the high notes, with trills and frills. 

My father, to his credit, created a deadpan look that involved his mouth inching up slightly at the corners while his eyes slowly glazed over. I'm not sure if he was also gripping the binding of his dark Bible. But I like to think his inner monologue kept reminding him that special music could only last for about four minutes--five minutes, tops.

Perhaps, as those four minutes stretched on for what seemed like ten or fifteen, my father was daydreaming about the roast, potatoes, and carrots in the oven and how lovely it would be to top them with gravy. Perhaps he was thinking about the possibilities of a new outreach that would bring more people to the church. Perhaps he was asking God for forbearance. 

Whatever the case, special music always comes to an end. And the sermon begins.

Come back for part two...

The hard work of being still

Me thinks I doth protest too much.

When it comes to blogging, that is. I don't really like to blog except when wonderful things are happening around me. Or I am feeling wonderful. Or I have something exciting to announce. I tend to blog when I am losing something or gaining the love of my life, or happening on discoveries for the first time. I blog when I have an angle. 

And truth be told, even though I have a few angles lately, they are controversial and sometimes feel convoluted. To top that off, I just haven't had the energy or the want-to. How's that for honesty?

But today as I sit on our back patio with the sun generously beating down on me, filling me with warmth as the air carries the chatter of birds and the smell of lilacs, I think I actually want to blog. Or so I tell myself.

Lately, my energy levels have been quite low, due to the failure of my adrenal glands. And I don't even like to talk about this, to be honest. I'd rather be happy and healthy and ready for anything. Right now. Right this minute. I know that I still need to take it easy for a few weeks, but I'd much rather be parasailing or writing five hours a day or cramming some pre-seminary studies in. 

People quote a really important verse to me lately--"Be still and know that I am God." And it makes me want to grit my teeth and about half the time I want to tell them to buzz off. But in the next moment, I sigh and let the truth sink in:  we humans don't hear much of what God is saying because we can't be still; in truth, we hardly give God a chance to speak. I want to do better at this and my Creator is giving me a prime opportunity. 

The other day I hopped into the Sunbird, stopped to grab a sandwich, and headed for a blanket under a tree, next to a stream at a local park. I just wanted to enjoy the sun and to quiet the noisy voices that compete for our attention and to just be.

And I brought a book called Monk Habits for Everyday People that was quite fascinating to me---and I realize this sentence alone reveals something about me that makes me stand out from the crowd. I'm OK with that.

You see, monks tend to spend long stretches of time in silence, and they recite prayers from the Daily Office at least five times a day. They work each day doing menial tasks as well, and their work is part of their worship. They are celibate and chaste but they drink wine in moderation. They are known for their serious vows before God, but they are actually quite inclined to laughter. But that wasn't what interested me the most.

What stuck with me is that Benedictine monks believe that in this very moment, according to the gifts given to you by God, you ARE who God created you to be. It doesn't matter if you have a job title, if you lost your career or your ministry, your house or your spouse. There are two things the world looks to for success: fame and wealth, and as the monks profess, neither of these matter in God's economy. Strip your life bare, and you are a valued child of God with unique gifts for his service. And that is your true identity. The truest truth of all.

So here I was, lying on this blanket in the sun, and wishing that I felt 100%. It was hard to even calm myself to be OK sitting still for an hour or two. I know things are going on in the world and it feels like I should always be doing something. Except that I know not doing something creates a space for the attributes of peace, and charity, and mercy to be developed in me. "I really do want those good things in me, Lord," I pray. "But can't you hand them over instantly?"

Microwave spirituality really does not exist. Trust me--I've done my own research! And so I sit and ask God to move in my spirit and to show me how to receive his love and in turn, to love well.

If I am a daughter of God, uniquely gifted and called for service in His Kingdom, I am complete now, in this moment. Even if I don't have the energy to do 10 things today...even if I must put off a few tasks for a few weeks. Even if I see a need and I cannot presently fill it. Even when I get passed over or my gifts are not appreciated. No matter to God. His agenda for me is moving forward. Probably more so when I am completely still before Him.

And so, my calling will not be complete when I finish my seminary degree or get ordained as a chaplain or fill an official job opening. It will be complete when I yield to God in the present moment, asking Him to direct my paths for the next hour, the next 24 hours, or the next week. 

Sometimes God says rest, my friends. And when  he does, obedience is always the best option. And if right now, you are reading this with a smug smile on your face, telling yourself that God doesn't have anything to say to you on this topic, the truth is you are probably not listening. Not finding enough quiet time to hear His voice.

If you care at all about your relationship to your Creator and the process of becoming more like Him, I'd like to encourage you to do three things:

1. search His Word for the value God places on you and your gifts, regardless of your circumstance
2. review what the world/your boss/your best friend says about your value and your priorities and realign with the truth from God's Word
3. embrace a life where you learn you are valued just as you are--not for your productivity, not for your shrewdness, and not for your supermom, or superdad, or superemployee abilities

And if you really want to get serious make a list like this:

the world's opinions God's truth

-I am valued only for my productivity -God created me in His image and values me for who I am as His child, not what I do

etc.

Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)

 ^28-30"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

Anniversary #1: "I Do" Again and Again

One year ago today, David and I faced about 90 guests and pledged to do the impossible. To consistently love and cherish each other, forgive easily when we are offended, to submit to and serve each other, until death parts us.

Impossible, of course, without divine intervention. Blessedly, as I threw out to two Jehovah Witness missionaries passing us on the sidewalk a few weeks back, "We're good. We're covered."

Only because of God's grace. 

On April 26, 2008, it felt like I purposely decided to jump off a cliff. But with love oozing out of my pores, filling me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, I took a chance. I decided to love David to the best of my ability for more than a few months or even a few years. Truthfully, I decided to love him in a permanent fashion. I decided to love him especially in those times I knew I would not feel like loving him, and he pledged the same. I have lived 36 years now, but aside from my decision to become a Jesus-follower, I have never embarked on anything bigger.

I put all my eggs into one basket. Went for broke. And came back smiling. What a ride.

Marriage has always been a mystery to me; it remains so today. Except for this: I have never seen myself so clearly except through the mirror of David's eyes. Never have I been more vulnerable, yet confident. So altered, while at the same time becoming more and more true to the person God created me to be. It is a life of paradoxes, as author Mike Mason notes in The Mystery of Marriage:

And so it is in marriage that when the Lord draws a man and a woman together in the most intimate of human associations, He does so by giving them his love, which is all that can shield them through the searing experience of self-revelation they are to undergo. This is an experience that all people both crave and fear, with a fear that is conquerable only by love. Only love can drive out the constant threat of condemnation and rejection that otherwise haunts and spoils all experiences of intimacy. People cannot seem to refrain from judging one another, and in the crucible of marriage the judgment can be so intense and oppressive that the only recourse is the loving forgiveness of the other's wrongs, and in turn a courageous willingness to see one's own sinfulness exposed, conquered, and actually replaced by the other's love. In such a relationship, a true transfusion and transformation of characters may take place as each puts on the good qualities of the other and forgives the bad. Each is armor to the other, each is the other's strength and worth.

We are lovers, David and I, not just when we are intimate or affectionate. We are lovers when one of us forgets to do something and we overlook the slight. Lovers also use the force of their personality and strengths to show favor to the object of their love. I love David when I make his favorite granola or mint iced tea without being requested to do so; he pours out his love when he gets excited about all the things I will learn and discover in seminary. His love prompts him to think ahead, planning the best ways for me to travel or the perfect gluten-free meal for me to eat. I take down his thirsty brown towel and replace it with a fresh one, and no one but me is the wiser. He takes out the recycling, I replenish the cupboards. Sometimes he cooks; sometimes it is I who shoves the enchiladas into the oven. 

But each act is a contribution to a partnership. Each thing is a statement about our intentions and our commitment. Self-revelation, indeed. And when the reflection in the other's eyes holds up a truth that is ugly, that smells, that reveals our base self-centeredness, the reaction we strive for and move toward is the gradual light of forgiveness dawning in those same eyes. We embrace the truth of our sin and imperfection. We accept the forgiveness of God through our lover's heart. We decide to say "I do" to God and to each other over and over again.

I'll close with some Irving Berlin lyrics, carefully selected for my one and only:

I've got a great big amount
Saved up in my love account
Honey
And I've decided
Love divided
In two
Won't do

So
I'm putting all my eggs in one basket
I'm betting everything I've got on you

Here's to all the "backwards" folks

Apparently it is no longer reasonable to expect a newlywed man not to cheat in his first year, according to an interview I watched on abcnews.com. More and more men (and women) step outside of their marriage bounds long before they get to the "seven-year-itch."

To the lady's credit, she did tell people that living together before marriage increases the chances of cheating. However, she also told women to "just join 'em" when their man wants to view pornography. She says this will spice up their sex life and hopefully prevent the man from seeking sex outside of marriage.

Sorry, but viewing porn together is not the answer!!

Yesterday, I also watched part of an Oprah program where a couple of 14-year-olds were discussing whether or not they would have sex together. I was glad they were talking about it and that their parents were there. But I was SICK about the fact that the boy's mom bought him condoms. I don't want you to do it, but just in case. Talk about a double message. Keep talking to your kids about sex, for pete's sake, but give them a reason NOT to go there until marriage. The  most these particular parents seemed to be hoping for was to delay the sex, at least for another 6 months to a year. 

There is a better answer!

And lastly, my heart has been stirred by the delightful performance of Susan Boyle on Britain's Got Talent. But why in the world does the media keep identifying her as "the woman who's never been kissed." As if she is less of a person. As if she is not everything God created her to be as a woman!

Now I'm the last one to put down sex. God created it in all its glory--and since my new husband and I waited for marriage, red-hot monogamy has been better than I could have ever imagined. No STDs to wonder about. No trust issues about whether my spouse is capable of being faithful. No limits on enjoying the gift that's championed in the Song of Solomon, when doing so with a pure heart.

God created this amazing bond between a husband and a wife to cement them together, to carry their love the distance. But, just as we owe our very lives to the God who lovingly created us and seeks to redeem us from our sin, I'd like to propose that we owe our sex lives to God as well.

I've noticed that much of the pain and heartache in our lives stem from bad choices in our romantic relationships. "I contracted herpes at age 15 because I didn't know my girlfriend was infected." "I thought sex would keep us together forever, but my boyfriend just used me for a few months before moving on to the next girl." "I thought pornography would make me feel like a man, but all my life it kept me from ever pursuing a healthy relationship with a woman." 

Satisfying our sexual urges is a tough path, I'll admit: but life can be tough in general. When we make a decision to present our bodies and our minds to God, and to ask for His help when we make mistakes, to get back on track, to try to keep ourselves pure, wonderful things happen and tragedy is avoided. It turns out these "backward rules" God outlined in the Bible really do work.

I can testify as a single for 35 years and a married woman for one, that God knows us well enough to know exactly what we need to be whole people. Sex can be more amazing than most people realize--when it blossoms in the right place (marriage) with the right person (your spouse), it's the real deal. No regrets. No justifications. Just pure enjoyment. 

Here's to all the "backwards" folks.

Oh, and one last thing...Susan Boyle, I hope you win the prize!

What now, what next

Each day, opportunity awaits. Just about 12 months ago I gained a husband, left a job and a life, and moved a state away. This was no small thing for a 35-year-old, but I knew it was completely right. It even felt inevitable.

We're still madly in love, although the oxytocin bonding hormone has cooled a bit. You can't sit staring googly-eyed at each other forever. At some point, you carry your love outward, channeling it into meaningful pursuits. It is that time.

I couldn't have envisioned this place at all a year ago. I had to find my way, for sure. But now, a new frontier stretches before me. I am ready to stretch my wings, to find the place God has for me. To use my gifts of teaching, encouragement, writing, and leadership to the fullest. No holding back. It feels as if there are no restraints or reservations, just a blank slate stretching before us, beckoning us to trust that God will show us the way.

He's already steered us toward seminary for me, providing some scholarship money, building the excitement in my heart. This Sunday I become a member of our Nazarene congregation--something entirely new for me, but something that feels perfectly natural and right.

In five months, I'll be plopped down in seminary classes, inhaling the knowledge that comes from studying on a deeper level, discovering more about God and his purposes for us. Along the way, I'll continue to teach and to encourage as opportunity presents itself. I'd love to write more and to speak about all of the amazing things God continues to reveal to me on my journey.

I'm so thankful for this life, so thankful for David, so thankful for whatever this future ministry holds. I can't wait to get started, to move forward, to be obedient.

But before I can do that, I have to pause. I have to thank God for more blessings than I count. First, I stand grateful for the direction God has given us. I want to thank the husband for his full support and encouragement as I seek God's calling on my life. A few years ago on this blog, I wondered in writing what it would be like to be "one of two." There was longing in my heart--a longing that has been satisfied. Now I long for whatever God has for me as I stretch my wings. Onward . . .

"Hope" by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul, 
And sings the tune--without the words, 
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard; 
And sore must be the storm 
That could abash the little bird 
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land, 
And on the strangest sea; 
Yet, never, in extremity, 
It asked a crumb of me.

Surely He is the Son of God

And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and the rocks split. The tombs broke open and the bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. They came out of the tombs, and after Jesus' resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many people. When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, "Surely he was the Son of God!"

(gospel of Matthew, chapter 27, verses 50-54)

Remember, Sunday's coming!

a week in the life

If words and phrases could describe the last week, they would pile up, in no particular order. And they would look something like this:

poopy diaper

breadsticks

seminary scholarship

mcdonald's drive-thru

ladies' tea

slumdog millionnaire

ecclesiastes

annie dillard

pesto

facebook

fresh-baked granola

conference call

mary of nazareth

chris rice hymns

Easter ham

sports-crazed toddler

helping hand

dave ramsey

snow

spa night

nieces

consignment shop

pink sweats

untasty brownies

call with first-grade friend

love note from hubbie

hymnsing with 95-year-old friend

wedding pictures up

"House" on

...gotta run.

I'm going to cemetery...er, seminary

It's a bad joke. But everyone immediately gets the irony. Those who nitpick and whip their faith to death through too much analysis and study end up withering on the vine. More than one person has lost their faith, or at least their passion, while inside the seminary walls.

I have no interest in cemetery. 

Seminary, on the other hand, gets me excited. I spent 12 hours at the preview day yesterday, and it made me want to start classes today. Even though I am exhausted. And I have a chaplaincy call a state away this afternoon. Even then.

The professors and the students at this particular seminary (sorry, I'm not going to identify it) were full of grace, humility, and passion. I wanted to hang around them; I felt that by osmosis alone I would soak up a great deal. Then there is the promise of challenging coursework and a stimulating environment--I know seminary will be difficult at times. I also feel confident that I will be treated with respect and care and understanding.

For too long, I have coasted, skimming the surface, but not studying or understanding on a deeper level. I am no longer content to remain this way. Bring it on! Now if I can just wait five long months for classes to start. 

You can't judge a book by its cover

I'm not fond of using trite phrases for blog titles. It makes me itchy. Plus, I had to pause over the infernal use of "it's" in this case, for proper grammatical clarification. But now that we've got that out of the way, let's chat.

Sunday afternoon, my eight-year-old niece and I took a 20-minute stroll in warm, springlike weather. She pontificated; I shook my head in wonder. She philosophized and theologized; I asked myself what this little blonde creature had done with my firstborn niece. (All this from the little peanut whose diaper I changed in the hospital merely eight years ago.)

I have not the time to tell you of all of her musings, though I wished silently at the time that I had a tape recorder. She was waxing eloquent on the ways that good really does trump evil in our daily lives: for instance, my dad (her grandpa) died of cancer, but God was already providing another man in my life in the form of her Uncle David. Too true.

And toward the end of the walk, the literal met the symbolic as she chattered on about how she recently learned "you can't judge a book by its cover." Without thinking that she was talking to an aunt who used to market books for a living, she shared that she picked up a book from school with an ugly front cover. Still, she proceeded to read said book and it was really great; so, Aunt Suzie, she said, "See, you can't judge a book by its cover."

I can only hope, deep in the recesses of my heart, that this message, possibly shared by her schoolteacher, will continue to reach deeper, until it wipes away prejudice and allows her glimpses of true beauty in ways she would not expect. I hope that when she continues to search for the good God is working out of bad situations, she develops laser vision to see His hand protecting and guiding her, shaping her life message, refining her heart, making her fit to serve God and others in ways we can only dream about now.

The conclusion of said conversation went like this, as we evaluated the potential for good in things happening all around us.

"Like this walk, for instance," said the blonde eight-year-old. "We really needed some exercise. But we got more. We also got in some social time, too."

Just two years ago, I would hold her hand when we walked. Today, she swings her arms on her own. She's self-contained and loving, inquisitive and questioning, a helper and a friend to many. And I am glad, at the tender age of eight, that she's already developing a theology that allows for bad things to happen to good people. I'm glad, because until we get that right, we wrestle and rant, growing anxious and angry. 

But our God gives and takes away.  He also loves us more than we can measure, forgives and grants new mercies and fresh starts every morning, and is closer than close to the brokenhearted. He's a friend to the weary, and a righter of wrongs. 

And he loves a particular, precocious eight-year-old I know. I'm so glad she loves him back.

Puttering

It's hopeless. Just when I sit down to do important work, a study I've been procrastinating on pretty much all week, technology calls.

First, I had to type in my "thumbs down" to the new facebook layout.

Then I had to visit one of my favorite blogs.

There was an email from my mother that required a two-word response.

And now there is the sacred page.

Blast.

I must stop my silly procrastination exercises before I turn 37. If I'm still using surfing the web as a convenient excuse to put off work by the time I'm 40, I'm turning in my badge. 

I'll be moving on to my Biblestudy of Hannah now. Technically, I've already moved past her infertility struggle, so I may be 1/4 of the way finished. Time to...stop puttering. 

Giving thanks when thanks is due

I developed an important habit I've gotten away from. It involves the pages of my journal and the regular giving of thanks. Lately, I've been busy enough to let Thanksgiving land at the bottom of the to-do list. But this morning, I hope to remedy the situation. Join me, if you will, as I elaborate on the striking goodness of my Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer:

I'm thankful to my heavenly Father for:

• the long walk with my eight-year-old niece yesterday; her philosophical musings and what she taught me about looking for the good God brings out of even very bad situations.
• the recession: it might seem counter-intuitive, but I believe people's hearts are most sensitive to the leadings of God and to seeking him when things are tough in their external world. Plus, we've all been learning that having a job and a nice home are not our rights; these are gifts, and we should treat them as such.
• my husband, David: I walked this earth for 35 years as a single woman, and I'm grateful for that. My journey made me even more excited to find the love of my life, someone who sacrifices for me and seeks out the best ways to show he cares for me. It is the water bottle he filled up on the counter; it is the way he insists on getting my oil changed; it is his support and excitement about me attending seminary; it is the way we hold hands, facing everything together. It is the way he works at giving me the verbal affirmation I crave, even though it doesn't come naturally to him.
• dear friends: It has not been easy for me to move away from life as I knew it. Still, I cherish the strong ties I left behind, while being grateful for the new ties forming here. When someone extends kindness or understanding, my spirit soars. I am grateful for several new people in my life who have offered their friendship: Jerry and Doris, including our whole S.S. class; Diann; Pastor Carla; Jayne; the book club; new family members; and the ladies of our Thursday Biblestudy.
• a healthy year: David and I have made some big changes in our diet and have done well at exercising regularly. Because of this, we have more energy and in general, we feel better than we did before.
• new opportunity: It's hard for me to believe I applied to seminary last week. God's been leading us, surely, but it just seems so big, yet so wonderful. If God wills, I hope to be sitting in class this fall, soaking up His Word and His Wisdom. Yeah!
• Thursday Biblestudy: What hasn't God taught me in the last year about his heart for women? I praise God we are made as "ezers," fashioned after Eve. That is, we are strong helpers, warriors, and rescuers, even when we don't realize God's original intentions. But when those intentions are revealed, watch out! I can't wait to see what God does in the lives of the women in our study as a result of us finally learning why he created us in the first place.
• writing: I don't know what opportunities will arise this year, but I'm thankful to have my new freelance writing site up and running, and I'm waiting on God to bring just the right opportunities. (suzanneburden.com)
• delight: I am reading in Ecclesiastes right now, and it strikes me that we are called to take joy in eating, drinking, and the work God has given us here on earth. I'm grateful for the ability to delight in God's provisions, and I also love to delight in what he's doing in the lives of those around me.
• What about you? Are you thankful for anything in particular? Give thanks right now by posting below, and encourage others by your giving of thanks.
  

When death isn't fair

No. No. A thousand times, no.

"It's not supposed to be this way." "She had a full life ahead of her." "Her husband and her children needed her." "Why couldn't it have been someone else?"

Today, a former coworker in Michigan buried his wife. She was only 35 years old, but after a freak accident a few months ago, she was incapacitated due to a brain injury. Well-loved and known for her warmth and friendliness, she left behind the husband she adored and two young children with autistic symptoms. I am not even sure they know she is gone--that they have any way to come to grips with the loss.

Several weeks ago, I sat across from my coworker, Dan, in the hospital. It had been less than a week since the injury. The shock still hung in the air, along with a question mark about the future. Would she make it? Did she have any brain function? He wanted to plan things out, to recover some measure of control over their circumstances, but he told us there was only the present moment. His brain wanted to explore possibilities and find solutions, but there were none, really.

At one point he posted something on facebook that said God was not in favor of axonal brain injuries, and my heart lurched. All of us wish we could rewind the clock and make things turn out differently; but Dan's hand has been dealt, and he now faces circumstances he could have never dreamed of. 

I am not sure what his ears heard today at the service and what his heart could bear to dwell on, but I hope and pray that amidst the pain, an underlying peace grounds and holds him.

Everybody goes sometime. But in our admittedly limited understanding and our minds, it was not Ann's time. Unthinkable loss has a way of creating a horrible feeling in the pit of our stomachs; of making our eyes water and our heads sag; of carving out the place inside of us we turned to for a feeling of control of our lives. We are numb, dumbfounded. 

And while it's hard to reconcile competing emotions, at the same time we are grateful.

A friend posted this quote today:

"One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die."

-John Donne

The paradox of Christianity is this: at the very moment the spirit of a loved one who knows Christ flees from this earth, the person appears in heaven. We mourn; they dance. We wonder; they worship. We try to readjust to the loss; they welcome all they have longed for, as the curtain rises to unveil the powerful presence of their Creator.

Perhaps the one thing we do in tandem is this--I imagine that both those left and the one who arrives lie prostrate. Crushing loss gives way to the most brilliant life imaginable. 

Death, thou shalt die. A comfort and a promise: at the end of life as we know it, for those who love God, abundant life wins.

Everybody goes sometime

At the risk of offending a few readers, I'm going to mention a book that many two-year-olds review on a regular basis. It's called Everyone Poops. A reference to one of those facts of life we become accustomed to at an early age.

And while the book describes one of our highly necessary biological functions, it's not a bestseller for those in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, or 60s. Unless they are parents or grandparents. Been there, know that. The end.

But if someone wrote a non-fiction book titled Everybody Dies (and btw, it is a mass market paperback mystery), I wonder how many might decide to peruse its pages. Too depressing for most, to be sure.

Yet, it happens. Recover from cancer or live with diabetes or survive a liver transplant or a car crash, and your fate is certain. You will one day die; it's just a matter of time. I'm not trying to be depressing, I'm just posting this little reality check.

Today I visited with a number of people as a backup chaplain, and I was struck by how many of them were talking about death. A death of a loved one, or death that seems to be all around them, or how some live to be 104 years old, while others die young. There was melancholy and grief in the air, and I felt it, I saw the looks on their faces, the sadness in their eyes.

About the most I could tell them was that God feels their pain and grieves with them; I didn't have the time or the permission to give them more than that. But I wanted to. How I wanted them to see past death to the glorious life that awaits us. To understand that we are made for more than this, and that death is just an entryway into the best life imaginable. That we can be confident of this if we make a choice to receive God's rescue plan on our behalf.

Then death begins to look entirely different. It still stings, of course--the separation from loved ones breaks our heart, because we are not made for separation. Still, it also entices us, with the hope that we will one day leave the cares of this present world behind, to be joined with our Creator and those who have gone before us.

Death is not a thing to be feared, but for those who know where they are going, it is something to be anticipated. It's true, as the Bible says:

Death has been swallowed up in victory! (I Cor. 15:54)

If anything, when a loved one passes on, our ache for the future intensifies. We were made for more than this--than this sin, and pain, and uncertainty, and turmoil--oh, yes, there is something more. When we close our eyes, we try to imagine it, we try to anticipate the removal of struggle and heartache; our hearts yearn for something we can't completely identify. For some odd reason, when I think of heaven, I sometimes get a clear picture of this really perfect afternoon I spent at the Pentwater, Michigan beach, where the sun was bright and the temperature was perfect and my soul and body felt completely at ease, completely comfortable. Perhaps it was the absence of any strife at all.

We just know we will be in the presence of God. And that in His presence, fears and hesitation and ambivalence and soul-searing pain will vanish. That'll be the day!

Everybody goes sometime. It's the knowing where you're headed that changes everything in the here and now. (John 3:16) You come to grips with death as an inevitability--but you know it is not the end of the story. You start to live your life with eternity in your rearview mirror. It will catch up to you soon, but for now, every smile, every act done in love, every sacrifice and joy you experience here matters more than it did before.

And, honestly, this is why Jesus called it abundant life, to the full. Because when you know that leaving here means you are arriving in the presence of the God of the Universe, there's a deep-seated confidence that makes an average day better than good.

Everybody goes sometime. And I, for one, am glad.

To blog or not to blog, that is the question

It's not that I have nothing to say these days. Far from it. You wouldn't believe the questions I'm asking myself. They are big questions about where I should be investing my time and what my calling in life should look like, based on the giftings given to me and the experiences God, graciously, has allowed so far.

All of this thinking and processing has somehow rendered me speechless. Or, in the case of this blog, wordless.

I don't honestly think I am spinning my wheels, that I am completely directionless. But it is safe to say I am living "in-between." That is, I'm investigating possibilities, putting a little pressure up against a door or a window, asking God if this is the direction He might have me travel. Many days, I am wishing I could speed things up; occasionally, I wish I could slow my thought process down.

Lest you are confused, let me just say that something is happening in me internally, growing and expanding, that makes me believe I am meant to do one-on-one ministry with people who hurt and face challenges of many kinds. I am also becoming aware that when God doled out my spiritual giftings, in the areas of encouragement and teaching, then made this clear to me, he meant that I should use them. Not haphazardly or accidentally--but intentionally. And I think I can say this quite honestly: I am willing to be used, even if it costs me something. Which it most definitely will.

If this ministry happens to be chaplaincy, I have some work to do. I need to attend seminary, and possibly to be ordained within my denomination, to seek a job where I can serve outside the church in a workplace, university, hospital, or hospice setting--or a combination thereof. So you see, the stakes are high. This isn't a small endeavor or a haphazard, "well, if it ever works out." This requires thought, money, and planning. Then it requires that God provide an opening in an institution where I can serve.

This is too big for me to comprehend on some days, but here is the deal. Today a hospital chaplain whom I greatly respect told me she has been praying about my seminary decision, that God will give me discretion and a clear calling. And although I have prayed about this on several occasions, I've decided to begin asking God for more clarity daily. I am asking him to confirm this for me. And I have to tell you, I'm confident He'll come through. He's got an excellent track record.

I'm also asking that He'll give me courage to change things up in my life, and to listen carefully to His voice for direction. Then to follow it.

Honestly, it might mean giving up this blog and several other things in order to work my way toward the goal He is creating in my heart. But those are small potatoes, when I think about how trusthworthy He is, and the fact that I don't want to waste this short life of mine, not even for a minute.

Today, I attended a volunteer training program at the local hospital. I am one of 50 local volunteers chosen to serve in the No One Dies Alone program. That is, volunteers will literally be present with someone who doesn't have any available friends or relatives available while they are actively dying. As the program was presented, the chaplain spoke of the many patients who lift their arm out and speak someone's name as they are passing on, as they reach forward to eternity. And I have to tell you, I know more than ever that heaven is a real place, and that through my faith in Christ, I am going there someday. For whatever reason, God has given me a peace about participating in this program and being present with people during this Sacred time.

I don't know how to describe what God is doing in my heart, except to say that a gradual awareness of my ability to be present in difficult situations is emerging. I have talked with those in the chaplaincy vocation about the emotional realities they face, and I know they are great. But God is greater.

Thanks for listening to the wheels as they turn in my mind and heart. I am wishing and hoping and praying for just enough light for the next step. Stay tuned.

Valentine's Day, Schmalentine's Day

Last week, Hallmark most likely made half their annual sales. The floral industry and the teddy-bear factories got their usual business boom, even though the sales were probably down a bit.

Candy hearts, chocolate kisses, sentimental wishes.

After high school, I began to dread Valentine's Day. No other day that I know of provokes more tears from the unattached who wish they were firmly attached to someone, anyone. Even worse for those whose marriages just turned sour or whose budding romance wilted before the big day arrived. Oh, the drama.

Over my single years, I received a few gifts from the very occasional boyfriend, but I couldn't keep any of them permanently. When the relationship dissolved, it hurt too deeply to stare at the aftermath. I'm a romantic at heart, and broken romances in my past are in some ways still tender to the touch. (Yes, even after experiencing a wonderful marriage.) I can't explain why--except to say that when I invest myself in someone, I throw my heart and soul into the bargain. When it came to my affections, I went for broke a few times and got my heart tangled and mangled in the process.

But let's move on, shall we? This post is not just about all the sorrows I plowed through when the calendar inevitably turned to February 14. This year, my Valentine could be found sitting across my table, watching TV in my living room, and even cuddling up next to me in bed.

And I discovered something. This year, when the calendar flipped to V-Day, it was mostly another day. A wonderful, enjoyable day, yes. But another day with my loving husband. I didn't have outrageous expectations that couldn't be met. It wasn't all romance and googly-eyed sappiness. It just was.

It turns out, after all, that Valentine's Day is really no big deal.

Now I'm not trying to tell you "it's not a real holiday" and I certainly wasn't wearing black (as do some whose names are irrelevant). I bought the card and the chocolates, too, people. I'm not immune. And the inspiring card from my husband will remain on my dresser for a week at least. He did a bang-up job, and as far as I'm concerned, the card is a keeper.

But, when we reduce loving sentiments to a one-day-a-year proposition, everyone loses. Husbands and wives let themselves "off the hook" until their anniversary, children and parents sometimes feel good about expressing their love just once a year, coworkers might turn mean again on February 15 . . . well, you get the idea.

Tonight, it's the dailyness of life that seems to mean the most to me. Especially when marriages around me seem to be crumbling. And all my prayers for healing don't seem to stop the tide of years of unexpressed angst, unthoughtful treatment, unsaid words that needed so desperately to be heard.

For now, I will keep on praying. I turned to I Corinthians 13 about an hour ago, and I prayed verses four through seven for some friends of mine. I prayed that God would show them how to love, that he would show them how to heal. How to rebuild. How to hope again.

And as I was reading these verses, over and over again, the words hit with fresh force. These words are a guarantee of how God feels about the love between he and me. He's really crazy about us, folks. Unconditionally. Irrevocably. Undeniably. And if Valentine's Day would be about anything at all, I wish it would be about this:

Suzie (insert your name here), my love is patient and kind.

I don't know if you've noticed, but it's not jealous or boastful or proud or rude.

Turns out, my love does not demand its own way.

Even when you're selfish, my love is not irritable, and I don't keep a record of when I have been wronged.

I've been there through every moment of your history, and my love is never glad about injustice, but it rejoices whenever the truth wins out.

Suzie, today I hope you know that...

my love (for you) never gives up,
I never lose faith in you,
my love always hopes for you,
and most importantly, my love endures through every circumstance in your life.

This is the kind of love I'd always hoped for. And it was there all along. When I felt and knew it, deeply. When I wasn't sure. When I hurt. When I rejoiced. When I won, and at the times when I felt I lost everything.

I can testify, this is one love that never fails. A love for me, and a love I hope and pray you will realize, too. (I Corinthians 13:4-7)

When Life Says Pause

I watch the TV show House. Hugh Laurie's character is crazy and witty, but now that I've watched virtually every episode available by way of reruns, I'm growing a bit tired of this egotistical genius of a doctor. I'd like for him to be a little less crazy and to get his painkiller addiction under control. I'd like for him to grow up and to make even a small step toward a healthy relationship with someone, anyone. 

I imagine that in my dreams, I'd like him to find his "new normal," to get sober, to believe that relationships matter, and that life is not about his own comfort. Then again, as of this last weekend, I understand him better than I ever did. I wish I didn't, but...

Last Friday morning, I awoke with a start around 5 am and started calling for my husband. Something was very wrong, and in my semi-conscious state, I knew it. Something hurt. And it was me. "David!" He came running in, as he was up getting ready for work, and asked what was wrong. I told him I hurt, and he asked me to roll over so he could massage my neck. When I did, I screamed. 

I'm a little fuzzy on how I got from the bedroom to sitting on the chair in our living room. But when David reviewed some options for getting my neck checked out, tears started to flow. "I don't think you realize how much this is hurting me," I said. "I've had neck pain before, but this is way different."

And so David did what any protective husband would do. He drove me to the Dr.'s office when it opened at 8:30 am and informed the front desk that I needed help as soon as possible. I was never so grateful to see a Dr. in my life. Dr. H didn't know what I had done to myself, but she felt the neck area and proclaimed it a "neck spasm." One shot of muscle relaxer, and two prescriptions later, I walked out. I took the drugs as soon as I could, but there was no relief. 

To make matters worse, the flexaril muscle relaxer made me want to lie down like a puddle on the carpet. But when David tried to help me into bed, the pain of descending to the mattress and laying there made me cry and scream. The pain was just as bad when he helped me to sit up. Something was seriously wrong. 

David stayed home from work and proceeded to do everything in his power to help me get comfortable. He called a pain management Dr./friend of ours and asked him what to do. The doc scheduled us for physical therapy, which meant I had to lay down again. Which led to some crying and yelling, which was embarrassing, but unavoidable. It was not a pinched nerve, the therapist said. Which was only slightly comforting.

Next, we drove awhile to get to our chiropractor. He adjusted me so I could move a little more freely, but the pain was still consistent, no matter how I moved. It was then that my wonderful doctor who issued the prescriptions had mercy on my predicament: the nurse called to say I could take vicodin since the other options weren't working. And I have to tell you, peeps: from Friday night-Monday night vicodin became my friend. 

Because in the end, I had a dreadful case of a neck spasm, and the best I could do to remedy the situation was to take the drugs and rest. Eventually, it would calm down. Today it is behaving like a slightly troublesome ache and pain should. Quelled only by advil, the spasms are less frequent and much less intense. I went for a walk today. I worked on my computer. I am reemerging from my haze. 

My immobility over the weekend got me thinking about how we push ourselves to do more, even when our bodies are telling us to rest. It also got me thinking about God's expectations of us when we are hurting. The Bible says God is close to the brokenhearted, and that he binds up our wounds.

I once had a youth group leader who told me that we are usually much harder on ourselves than God is. Think about it for a minute. Very profound. Because while I was doped up this weekend, trying to alleviate the pain, my life was not truly on hold. God was there, desiring only that I lean into his strength, cry out to him in my pain, and to rest my ailing body so I could recover.

I'd prefer to accomplish a few projects, clean the house, call a few friends, mail some letters, and be in church. But that was not to be this weekend. That was not what God expected. The "pauses" in our life are allowed--and I think, sometimes directed by God--to help us look to him for our worth and value. To sit and listen to him and to soak in his love for us. It's true what the author Brennan Manning says in his books: he really is trying to call us "beloved." 

But we are too busy, too driven, too afraid of stillness, to hear that still, small voice. And our Abba-Father is a gentleman. He will not force his love on us, though he knows how it will heal our hearts.

Stop. Today, I want to ask God why he loves me, and listen to his response.

Still. I want to sit quietly without an agenda and have him show me how to order my day.

Start. When the pain leaves, I want to focus on relationship with him. Asking him to pour his love through me so it will splash over on others. I want him to teach me how to love others with abandon.

I'm glad our lives occasionally force us to pause.  

"Blessed are the single-hearted, for they shall enjoy much peace. If you refuse to be hurried and pressed, if you stay your soul on God, nothing can keep you from that clearness of spirit which is life and peace. In that stillness you will know what His will is."

-Amy Carmichael, missionary

Pictures to Ooo and Aahhh Over

You have spoken, and here are the wedding photos from our recent photo shoot. Enjoy! (I even caved and posted a kissing pic...)

Thanks to our photographer, Sarah Musselman: photography.sarahmusselman.com

The Big Tease

Y'all, if you really want to see these wedding pictures, we need at least one more "comment" left saying so...if I do say so myself.

And here's a little tease.

Thanks to our brilliant photographer, Sarah Musselman. Plenty more where that came from. You know what to do.