From 1 to 2, Wilbur planned to sleep. From 2 to 3, he planned to scratch itchy places by rubbing against the fence. From 3 to 4, he planned to stand perfectly still and think of what it was like to be alive, and to wait for Fern. At four would come supper. Wilbur had gone to sleep thinking about these plans. He awoke at six and saw the rain, and it seemed as though he couldn’t bear it. “I get everything all beautifully planned out and it has to go and rain,” he said. (Charlotte’s Web, E.B. White)I know you’ve been waiting with bated breath to hear more spiritual ramblings. I won’t keep you in suspense. Lately, I’ve been pondering PLANS. I’m quite skilled at making plans, ask me, I’ll tell ya. I have always had a plan for my life. ALWAYS. For as long as I can remember, I’ve known what needed to be done that particular day, week, month, year. And that’s not all, the far future was mapped out too. Let’s just say I could always knock ‘em dead at interviews during the dreaded, “Where do you see yourself in 5 years? 10 years?” questions. Why? Because I had the answer. I mean, I KNEW where I would be, it was all in my plan.
Certainly, I’ve always believed God has a master plan. I just figured I was lucky that MY PLAN matched so well with HIS plan for my life. In fact, how wonderful (extra crown jewel for me!) I was making things so easy on God! You know, already having everything mapped out in advance. Then He wouldn’t have to spend so much time orchestrating the events of my life. Because, HELLO, I’d already done such a nice job figuring out what ought to happen… God just needed to bless my plans!
I’m administratively gifted. (Read into this: obsessive, neurotic, anal.) I am the type of person who has lists of her lists, typed out on Excel spreadsheets, backed up on external hard-drives. It’s how I’m wired. I suppose, sub-consciously, if I write down things in a systematic manner, and keep my surroundings orderly, that some sense of control is maintained in the midst of the unknown. In my mind, plans = control.
Along with plans, I’ve been pondering FAITH. Why the two? The other day a thought hit me like a ton of bricks: faith is the polar opposite of plans. I have been so busy making plans that I’ve kicked faith completely out of the picture. Upon realization, I begged forgiveness for my arrogance and hypocrisy. Seriously, how much vanity does it take to tell God I’m not interested in His plans? To assure Him my plans will work just fine, ask for His blessing, and think no more about the matter. And to top it all off, I’m very good at acting as if I have it “all together” spiritually. I know a lot of the right answers, I’m sure it appears I rely solely on faith for guidance. But this hasn’t been the case. At all. And the sad part is that I have been blissfully unaware of my lack of faith.
(Now, let me digress a bit, don’t confuse plans and preparations. I’m envisioning a reader showing up to class, without having done a bit of homework, claiming, “But Leigh said I should have faith! That having my own plans was wrong. That my homework will magically appear complete and correct!” I believe God calls us to prepare, and always work as if for God and not for man.)
Anyhow, God and I are working on this whole living by faith gig. And the crazy part (well, not so crazy…) is that it’s a WHOLE lot easier than trying to work everything out for myself. My responsibility is to immerse myself in scripture, and in prayer, and then to WAIT (and oh, I’m so bad at waiting, I want everything done yesterday!) for Him to point me in the right direction. But, you know what? I’ve gotta tell you I’ve never been filled with such peace.
I will ponder more later….
Monday, August 30, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Shameless Love Story in Waffle House Paradise
The joint was decidedly not jumping, but that’s the way I wanted. All to ourselves on a Saturday night. The sky was a slate gray, threatening rain like a carrot in front of a donkey. The kids slid up onto chrome bar stools with bright red seats and looked down the laminated menus. We grabbed several sections of newspaper and the two seats beside the girls. Pretty rough looking customers, the four of us. Literally just having changed out of pajamas into shorts, shirt and flip flops. Bed head hair after a glorious afternoon of napping and reading. Hot chocolate, hot tea, Hi-C, sweet tea. Scrambled eggs, hash browns, everything on ‘em.
Our very pregnant waitress waddled toward the short order cook hollering: “I’m gonna need these scattered, smothered, capped, peppered….” The Bug and the Pea’s attention drifts to the Kids’ Page word search and heads bent together, they began to work.
“Honey, you gonna need some whipped cream on that chocolate?”
“Yeah” says the Pea as she circles a word, acting like she owns the joint.
“Yes MA'AM,” I correct, with an apologetic look in my eye.
The waitress grins, “Don’t worry, got three of my own at home.”
Despite the fact we’ve done nothing productive on this Saturday, the food we devoured would have satisfied an army of hungry soldiers.
The quiet is broken, the jukebox pipes in with a song. Startled, the Bug’s head pops up from her plate, in time to see a teenage boy stroll back to his booth.
“Just the jukebox, sweetie,” I say, mouth full of salsa covered hash browns.
“The what?” she asks.
I see the blank look in her eyes and I set down the fork. I. Am. Unfit. There are no other words that fit this moment. I look over at the husband who looks as stunned as me. How, in the name of all that is good, do our children NOT know what a jukebox is? Clearly, our parenting skills are slipping. I mean, seriously.
I slide off the bar stool, toting the kids along with me by the scruff of their little necks. I stood them in front of the jukebox and did some explaining...long overdue apparently. They gazed in bedazzled wonderment. I pressed the white buttons to scroll through the selection of choices. The Pea’s forehead leaned against the glass and the Bug’s jaw dropped near the floor.
See? You can pick from any of these songs! Oh look, they have Jimmy Buffet, “Cheeseburger in Paradise! I like mine with lettuce and tomatoes, Heinz 57 and French Fried Potatoes…” I grooved to the imaginary beat.
The Bug put her hand on my elbow, “Mama, please do not sing.”
Undeterred, I pointed to the Beach Boys, “Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s surfin’ now…” I added a little pizazz to the demonstration while balancing on an invisible surfboard. The Pea rolled her eyes.
I said, “You put in a quarter, choose the song you’d like, and then the whole restaurant hears it.”
The two 49 inch tall creatures shot like bullets over to their Daddy, a.k.a. The Keeper of The Money. Returning with quarters, the quest began for the Perfect Song. The Bug scrolled through the lists forward, then backward, then forward. The Pea shoved her out of the way and scrolled through the lists forward, then backward, then forward. This process repeated itself for several minutes while I drank my second cup of hot tea.
I walked back over to the jukebox, put in a quarter and typed in 3-0-0-6. I sauntered back to the husband and in true Milli Vanilli fashion, pantomimed Garth Brooks’ rendition of Shameless. The kids were not impressed. (Our waitress was…)
However, we knew the girls had struck gold when they shouted, “THEY HAVE TAYLOR SWIFT!” The two looked at each other in a moment of reverence for the singer “whose name shall be spoken a lot” at our house. The quarter clinked in, the buttons were pushed, Love Story blared. The Bug and the Pea sang like Rock Stars complete with air guitars. (There was even a bit of head-banging, which I thought a little peculiar for this particular occasion, but anyhoooooo.)
An older gentleman sitting alone, squelched a laugh and made a stellar effort NOT to shoot coffee out his nose as he absorbed the scene.
The cook headed for a well deserved smoke break.
Our waitress shared some mango flavored bubble gum, grabbed a menu, and danced over to the lone customer.
“Now, what can I get ya to eat?” she asked between chomps.
He replied: “I believe I’ll have what they’re having….”
Our very pregnant waitress waddled toward the short order cook hollering: “I’m gonna need these scattered, smothered, capped, peppered….” The Bug and the Pea’s attention drifts to the Kids’ Page word search and heads bent together, they began to work.
“Honey, you gonna need some whipped cream on that chocolate?”
“Yeah” says the Pea as she circles a word, acting like she owns the joint.
“Yes MA'AM,” I correct, with an apologetic look in my eye.
The waitress grins, “Don’t worry, got three of my own at home.”
Despite the fact we’ve done nothing productive on this Saturday, the food we devoured would have satisfied an army of hungry soldiers.
The quiet is broken, the jukebox pipes in with a song. Startled, the Bug’s head pops up from her plate, in time to see a teenage boy stroll back to his booth.
“Just the jukebox, sweetie,” I say, mouth full of salsa covered hash browns.
“The what?” she asks.
I see the blank look in her eyes and I set down the fork. I. Am. Unfit. There are no other words that fit this moment. I look over at the husband who looks as stunned as me. How, in the name of all that is good, do our children NOT know what a jukebox is? Clearly, our parenting skills are slipping. I mean, seriously.
I slide off the bar stool, toting the kids along with me by the scruff of their little necks. I stood them in front of the jukebox and did some explaining...long overdue apparently. They gazed in bedazzled wonderment. I pressed the white buttons to scroll through the selection of choices. The Pea’s forehead leaned against the glass and the Bug’s jaw dropped near the floor.
See? You can pick from any of these songs! Oh look, they have Jimmy Buffet, “Cheeseburger in Paradise! I like mine with lettuce and tomatoes, Heinz 57 and French Fried Potatoes…” I grooved to the imaginary beat.
The Bug put her hand on my elbow, “Mama, please do not sing.”
Undeterred, I pointed to the Beach Boys, “Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s surfin’ now…” I added a little pizazz to the demonstration while balancing on an invisible surfboard. The Pea rolled her eyes.
I said, “You put in a quarter, choose the song you’d like, and then the whole restaurant hears it.”
The two 49 inch tall creatures shot like bullets over to their Daddy, a.k.a. The Keeper of The Money. Returning with quarters, the quest began for the Perfect Song. The Bug scrolled through the lists forward, then backward, then forward. The Pea shoved her out of the way and scrolled through the lists forward, then backward, then forward. This process repeated itself for several minutes while I drank my second cup of hot tea.
I walked back over to the jukebox, put in a quarter and typed in 3-0-0-6. I sauntered back to the husband and in true Milli Vanilli fashion, pantomimed Garth Brooks’ rendition of Shameless. The kids were not impressed. (Our waitress was…)
However, we knew the girls had struck gold when they shouted, “THEY HAVE TAYLOR SWIFT!” The two looked at each other in a moment of reverence for the singer “whose name shall be spoken a lot” at our house. The quarter clinked in, the buttons were pushed, Love Story blared. The Bug and the Pea sang like Rock Stars complete with air guitars. (There was even a bit of head-banging, which I thought a little peculiar for this particular occasion, but anyhoooooo.)
An older gentleman sitting alone, squelched a laugh and made a stellar effort NOT to shoot coffee out his nose as he absorbed the scene.
The cook headed for a well deserved smoke break.
Our waitress shared some mango flavored bubble gum, grabbed a menu, and danced over to the lone customer.
“Now, what can I get ya to eat?” she asked between chomps.
He replied: “I believe I’ll have what they’re having….”
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Blue Bikes & Bumblebees
There’s something about a bike.
Your very own get-away vehicle even when getting away means pedaling faster than your little brother down the Avenue you call home.
To the end of the road where they are building a tiny new street with 3 houses.
No one lives there yet. The houses aren’t ready. One arrived on the back of a truck.
No one is ever home on this end of the street.
Or maybe they are and they just never come outside. Maybe they watch from inside.
One time someone walked down the Avenue and said, “Good afternoon young man!” to me.
But I am not a boy. Mama cut my hair, while I sat on a folding chair, under the acorn tree out back.
My secret hide out is behind the evergreen hedge.
(The pretty flowery bushes have huge fuzzy bumblebees, I’ve been stung before).
This blue bike looks like my first bike. It makes me smile.
The girls ride in front and lead the way, pedaling like pony-tailed Olympians.
CAR! I shout so they can hear with their helmets strapped on tight. Stay close to the side!
There is no real end to this street. It cuts through to the main bypass.
Construction workers zoom past on huge dump trucks and usually don’t stop at the stop sign.
I wonder who can buy all these new houses. Going up beside the deserted one. With papers taped on the door and waist high grass.
I wish they could bike down the Avenue. Right down the middle, arms in the air, safe and sound.
But this will have to suffice. I’m not taking this freedom away.
There’s something about a bike…
Saturday, July 31, 2010
In Which I Tackle The Hedges & The House...
A few years ago, on a weekend when my family was out of town, my Dad surprised us with an astonishing gift. He drove down from Lexington, truck bed full of stones and rocks and landscaping cloth. Unbeknownst to us, he created lovely gardens stemming out from our patio. Flat, rectangular shaped stones form a serpentine border that leads from the back corner edge of the house to one edge of the patio, and then from the opposite edge of the patio to the other corresponding edge of the house. A layer of landscape cloth slows the growth of grass and weeds. Different colored rocks – lava rock, pebbles, white quartz-y gravel, round black stones, creek rock – adorn the gardens in patterns. The garden is pieced together rather like a stained glass window, but in a loose mosaic of color and texture. And it is stunning. The work of a master landscape designer.
What makes this particular garden extra special, in a “perfect for me” kind of way, is the fact I cannot possibly destroy the contents. Unfortunately, I did not inherit my father’s green thumb. To his dismay and bewilderment, I have more of a “black thumb of death” when it comes to plants. (Let’s just say, if I had a dime for every time someone whispered under their breath: “But I didn’t even think it was POSSIBLE to kill – insert name of plant said person is staring at in disbelief, shriveled and brown and crispy” then I would be a wealthy woman).
While the botanical gardens surrounding my parents’ house have been aptly described as ‘The Eighth Wonder of The World’, plants under my care wither and die. Nevertheless, the rock garden was particularly touching as the rocks are indestructible. And therefore, completely safe in the hands of a black thumb gardener, like myself. Daddy created the masterpiece, and entrusted me with maintenance. I can do that.
You see, despite the landscape cloth, there are indefatigable (which is really the only appropriate description…and a word I love to say three times fast) weeds, grasses and ground covers that take root -on top of the cloth- and weave among the stones. In the blink of an eye, the mosaic masterpiece is hidden by unruly leaves and vines.
Today was a self-proclaimed “rock garden maintenance” day. I donned my dollar store gloves, a hand-held three pronged rake thing-y (I believe that’s the technical agricultural term), grabbed a thermos of water and headed out to the jungle. The fact that it was a billion degrees outside just prodded me to increase my weeding efficiency.
I pulled weeds, both full grown and merely sprouting. I tackled ants, several types of beetles, a fledgling yellow jacket’s nest (Ewwwwwwww…), spiders of several sizes. I dug under stones to make sure roots were destroyed. I sweated, and grunted, and gripped, and pushed until the metal end of my three pronged rake-y thing broke in two. (I’m telling you, INDEFATIGABLE weeds…) I believe I frightened my daughters when I burst through the door and collapsed into a chair while sweat gathered in a pool at my feet. “W…a…t…e…r,” I gasped and held out my empty thermos. The Bug and the Pea flew to the rescue and then followed me outside to help. They gathered up the piles of leaves, grasses, weeds, and bound them up in giant garbage bags.
Next I tackled the hedges. Quite literally. Me, garden gloves, electric hedge clippers. In front of our porch is a small garden, a few holly bushes, a lilac bush, an evergreen, some burning bushes, fountains of monkey grass. (“Mama,” asks the Bug, “Is it OK if I cut back these monkeys?”) Quite recently this little plot of space beside the sidewalk up to our porch steps has morphed into a bit of a jungle. (Fine, fine, it’s been that way for awhile, there’s no ‘quite recently’ about it…) My husband quite dutifully mowed the lawn. So the grass is well manicured, but the hedges are taking over.
Why? You are undoubtedly asking. What could possibly possess a person to do hours of yard work on a blisteringly hot Kentucky day in the middle of the summer? Is she crazy? Does she not realize the pool is open? Well, there is a method to my madness, I must say. You see, my father and mother are coming here to visit. I know they are, because the visit is another of my parents’ gifts to me. They are coming to take care of my family so I may head to a writer’s workshop.
Now I know it would not matter to my parents if they had to scythe a trail through the messiness that is generally my den. But first on my list was a thorough house cleaning. For those of you who know my mother, you realize her home is the warmest, most inviting home you’ve ever seen. You want to curl up on a window seat with a book and a blanket and a cup of hot tea and stay forever. The pantry is overflowing, as are the bookshelves, and everything is neat and tidy. But not in a museum, ‘don’t touch!’ kind of way. In a “I thought you might be in the mood to watercolor, so I went ahead and got some supplies and put them in a storage box with some fresh sketch paper. Here, have a homemade chocolate chip cookie while you paint…”
She could care less if the pantry is stocked, or the clothes already washed when she arrives. Dad, as I’ve mentioned, is well aware of my (how shall we say?) lack of landscaping genius. Even though they wouldn’t mind a bit if I leave the place in shambles on my rush out the door, I want everything to be ready. As a matter of respect, and honor, I want them to stay in a clean house, with a presentable yard, with food in the pantry. I want the kids’ clothes to be washed and laid out for school so that Mom and Dad can enjoy their return visit.
Dad would not think twice about setting down his suitcase and then immediately mowing the lawn, if that’s what I needed. Mom would set down her bags and run to the grocery to fill my refrigerator with fresh fruits and vegetables. They are continually in the mode of servanthood with love. It wouldn’t matter to them if the home was NOT ready for their return. However, it matters to me. It matters to me that when Daddy arrives, the yard is mowed and the hedges trimmed. It matters to me that the house is spotless, sheets washed, fresh towels laid out. It matters to me that the rock garden is weeded. If the garden were not properly taken care of, then it would appear that I had rejected the gift. That I didn’t care enough to maintain the masterpiece, to continue the good work, whether or not he was right there over my shoulder.
A neighbor and friend from college noticed my fierce garage cleaning out activity after dark the other night as she was driving by. She rolled down her window and commented jokingly: “So, I’m guessing your Dad is coming for a visit? Wouldn’t it be easier if you were always ready? Instead of this gung-ho craziness right before the arrival?”
And the parallel hit me like a ton of bricks. She’s absolutely right. I should ALWAYS be in a state of readiness. Not only for my earthly father, but my Heavenly Father for the return of Jesus. I know when my parents are arriving, I know how much time I have to prepare. But I do NOT know when Jesus will return, so the thought of His return must constantly be on my mind.
“Watch therefore, for you do not know what hour your Lord is coming. But know this, that if the master of the house had known what hour the thief would come, he would have watched and not allowed his house to be broken into. Therefore you also be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect. “ Matthew 24:44I must continue always in my service – my servanthood in love -
“Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.” 1 Corinthians 15:58So that I will be ready to meet Christ at any moment: “Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour in which the Son of Man is coming.” Matthew 25:13As has become the recent norm, my spiritual epiphanies have come as I scrub the shower floor with a toothbrush. And it may sound crazy, but I look forward to the work because when I am quiet, and it is just me listening as I scrub, my mind begins to make connections not easily made when chauffeuring the kids to and from activities. So I am quite content to know that a day of straightening is ahead of me. Because this will be a day when God speaks to me again, as I get ready, for the return….
What makes this particular garden extra special, in a “perfect for me” kind of way, is the fact I cannot possibly destroy the contents. Unfortunately, I did not inherit my father’s green thumb. To his dismay and bewilderment, I have more of a “black thumb of death” when it comes to plants. (Let’s just say, if I had a dime for every time someone whispered under their breath: “But I didn’t even think it was POSSIBLE to kill – insert name of plant said person is staring at in disbelief, shriveled and brown and crispy” then I would be a wealthy woman).
While the botanical gardens surrounding my parents’ house have been aptly described as ‘The Eighth Wonder of The World’, plants under my care wither and die. Nevertheless, the rock garden was particularly touching as the rocks are indestructible. And therefore, completely safe in the hands of a black thumb gardener, like myself. Daddy created the masterpiece, and entrusted me with maintenance. I can do that.
You see, despite the landscape cloth, there are indefatigable (which is really the only appropriate description…and a word I love to say three times fast) weeds, grasses and ground covers that take root -on top of the cloth- and weave among the stones. In the blink of an eye, the mosaic masterpiece is hidden by unruly leaves and vines.
Today was a self-proclaimed “rock garden maintenance” day. I donned my dollar store gloves, a hand-held three pronged rake thing-y (I believe that’s the technical agricultural term), grabbed a thermos of water and headed out to the jungle. The fact that it was a billion degrees outside just prodded me to increase my weeding efficiency.
I pulled weeds, both full grown and merely sprouting. I tackled ants, several types of beetles, a fledgling yellow jacket’s nest (Ewwwwwwww…), spiders of several sizes. I dug under stones to make sure roots were destroyed. I sweated, and grunted, and gripped, and pushed until the metal end of my three pronged rake-y thing broke in two. (I’m telling you, INDEFATIGABLE weeds…) I believe I frightened my daughters when I burst through the door and collapsed into a chair while sweat gathered in a pool at my feet. “W…a…t…e…r,” I gasped and held out my empty thermos. The Bug and the Pea flew to the rescue and then followed me outside to help. They gathered up the piles of leaves, grasses, weeds, and bound them up in giant garbage bags.
Next I tackled the hedges. Quite literally. Me, garden gloves, electric hedge clippers. In front of our porch is a small garden, a few holly bushes, a lilac bush, an evergreen, some burning bushes, fountains of monkey grass. (“Mama,” asks the Bug, “Is it OK if I cut back these monkeys?”) Quite recently this little plot of space beside the sidewalk up to our porch steps has morphed into a bit of a jungle. (Fine, fine, it’s been that way for awhile, there’s no ‘quite recently’ about it…) My husband quite dutifully mowed the lawn. So the grass is well manicured, but the hedges are taking over.
Why? You are undoubtedly asking. What could possibly possess a person to do hours of yard work on a blisteringly hot Kentucky day in the middle of the summer? Is she crazy? Does she not realize the pool is open? Well, there is a method to my madness, I must say. You see, my father and mother are coming here to visit. I know they are, because the visit is another of my parents’ gifts to me. They are coming to take care of my family so I may head to a writer’s workshop.
Now I know it would not matter to my parents if they had to scythe a trail through the messiness that is generally my den. But first on my list was a thorough house cleaning. For those of you who know my mother, you realize her home is the warmest, most inviting home you’ve ever seen. You want to curl up on a window seat with a book and a blanket and a cup of hot tea and stay forever. The pantry is overflowing, as are the bookshelves, and everything is neat and tidy. But not in a museum, ‘don’t touch!’ kind of way. In a “I thought you might be in the mood to watercolor, so I went ahead and got some supplies and put them in a storage box with some fresh sketch paper. Here, have a homemade chocolate chip cookie while you paint…”
She could care less if the pantry is stocked, or the clothes already washed when she arrives. Dad, as I’ve mentioned, is well aware of my (how shall we say?) lack of landscaping genius. Even though they wouldn’t mind a bit if I leave the place in shambles on my rush out the door, I want everything to be ready. As a matter of respect, and honor, I want them to stay in a clean house, with a presentable yard, with food in the pantry. I want the kids’ clothes to be washed and laid out for school so that Mom and Dad can enjoy their return visit.
Dad would not think twice about setting down his suitcase and then immediately mowing the lawn, if that’s what I needed. Mom would set down her bags and run to the grocery to fill my refrigerator with fresh fruits and vegetables. They are continually in the mode of servanthood with love. It wouldn’t matter to them if the home was NOT ready for their return. However, it matters to me. It matters to me that when Daddy arrives, the yard is mowed and the hedges trimmed. It matters to me that the house is spotless, sheets washed, fresh towels laid out. It matters to me that the rock garden is weeded. If the garden were not properly taken care of, then it would appear that I had rejected the gift. That I didn’t care enough to maintain the masterpiece, to continue the good work, whether or not he was right there over my shoulder.
A neighbor and friend from college noticed my fierce garage cleaning out activity after dark the other night as she was driving by. She rolled down her window and commented jokingly: “So, I’m guessing your Dad is coming for a visit? Wouldn’t it be easier if you were always ready? Instead of this gung-ho craziness right before the arrival?”
And the parallel hit me like a ton of bricks. She’s absolutely right. I should ALWAYS be in a state of readiness. Not only for my earthly father, but my Heavenly Father for the return of Jesus. I know when my parents are arriving, I know how much time I have to prepare. But I do NOT know when Jesus will return, so the thought of His return must constantly be on my mind.
“Watch therefore, for you do not know what hour your Lord is coming. But know this, that if the master of the house had known what hour the thief would come, he would have watched and not allowed his house to be broken into. Therefore you also be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect. “ Matthew 24:44I must continue always in my service – my servanthood in love -
“Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.” 1 Corinthians 15:58So that I will be ready to meet Christ at any moment: “Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour in which the Son of Man is coming.” Matthew 25:13As has become the recent norm, my spiritual epiphanies have come as I scrub the shower floor with a toothbrush. And it may sound crazy, but I look forward to the work because when I am quiet, and it is just me listening as I scrub, my mind begins to make connections not easily made when chauffeuring the kids to and from activities. So I am quite content to know that a day of straightening is ahead of me. Because this will be a day when God speaks to me again, as I get ready, for the return….
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Hide and Seek and Find
Yesterday, the Pea decided we absolutely had to play ‘hide and go seek’ before I left to run errands. She’s a very literal child, and I knew that one game of hide and go seek, in her mind, would equal an hour’s worth of the game. I was meeting someone, and in a bit of a hurry. I told the Pea to go ahead and start counting and I would hide. I chose the wall (car keys in hand, beside the back door, no less) to be my secret spot. She found me in no time, was happy as a clam, and I went on my merry way.
Despite the fact that I know intellectually that God desires to have a close connection with me, for whatever reason, I often picture our relationship as a “hide and seek” arrangement. But this makes no sense at all! God wants to be found. He tells us – many times with those very words -- over and over again in the Bible that He wants to be found.
Those who seek me diligently find me. Proverbs 8:17As I mentioned previously, I’ve been in a “prophets” kind of reading kick lately:
For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you. You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you, declares the LORD. Jeremiah 29: 11-14I’m not sure why I turn our bond into an Indiana Jones movie. I often act as though I need to scale the pyramid walls to find the clue that will lead me to the next clue where I will use my double secret rose colored glasses to decipher which direction to turn. For whatever reason, my lesson this week from God has been (resoundingly): “I want to be found. I am not hiding from you. I’m in control. I have a plan – and you play a big part in it. So quit creating your own role, and listen to me explain this first section of my great and mighty blueprints – because, honestly, that’s all you can handle right now. If you saw the whole blueprint, it would blow your mind.”Look among the nations! Observe! Be astonished! Wonder! Because I am doing something I your days—You would not believe if you were told. Habakkuk 1:5Which reminds me of a week in the life of a parent. I know our family’s calendar. I can orchestrate the symphony of meals, homework, meetings, appointments, practices that comprise that time period. The kiddos rely on me to guide them from one day to the next. Pick ups, drop offs, bus stops…we concentrate on the present. Things go smoothly when they follow my instructions, things tend to get a little rocky when they go off in their own direction.
A few years ago, at a conference, I heard a speaker talk about how he would begin each morning…and then continue throughout the day, saying, “Lord, reveal yourself to me.” My initial instinct was that this was a surefire way of testing God, and I didn’t want to be a part of that action! Wasn’t that like daring God to show himself? (And in my mind, if we were playing “hide and seek”, why in the world would I want to taunt God?) But recently, it has occurred to me that asking God to reveal himself makes complete and utter sense. Saying – praying- this phrase, IS the very act of seeking God. And, as I’ve discovered, He WANTS to be found. So I’ve begun asking God to reveal Himself to me, every morning, every hour, every moment.
In the morning, O LORD, You will hear my voice; In the morning I will order my prayer to You and eagerly watch. Psalm 5:3And if you’ve been in contact with me, I’ve probably encouraged you to do the same. Because, the crazy – yet completely rational – truth is: God replies. When you ask God to reveal Himself, and then EXPECT to hear from Him, you begin to FIND Him, well…everywhere. And you begin to realize that what you formerly explained away as coincidences, maybe aren’t coincidences at all. But divine interventions, from God revealing Himself to you – the object of His love – because you began to seek Him, and discovered that He isn’t hiding after all.
Ask and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. Matthew 7:7
Despite the fact that I know intellectually that God desires to have a close connection with me, for whatever reason, I often picture our relationship as a “hide and seek” arrangement. But this makes no sense at all! God wants to be found. He tells us – many times with those very words -- over and over again in the Bible that He wants to be found.
Those who seek me diligently find me. Proverbs 8:17As I mentioned previously, I’ve been in a “prophets” kind of reading kick lately:
For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you. You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you, declares the LORD. Jeremiah 29: 11-14I’m not sure why I turn our bond into an Indiana Jones movie. I often act as though I need to scale the pyramid walls to find the clue that will lead me to the next clue where I will use my double secret rose colored glasses to decipher which direction to turn. For whatever reason, my lesson this week from God has been (resoundingly): “I want to be found. I am not hiding from you. I’m in control. I have a plan – and you play a big part in it. So quit creating your own role, and listen to me explain this first section of my great and mighty blueprints – because, honestly, that’s all you can handle right now. If you saw the whole blueprint, it would blow your mind.”Look among the nations! Observe! Be astonished! Wonder! Because I am doing something I your days—You would not believe if you were told. Habakkuk 1:5Which reminds me of a week in the life of a parent. I know our family’s calendar. I can orchestrate the symphony of meals, homework, meetings, appointments, practices that comprise that time period. The kiddos rely on me to guide them from one day to the next. Pick ups, drop offs, bus stops…we concentrate on the present. Things go smoothly when they follow my instructions, things tend to get a little rocky when they go off in their own direction.
A few years ago, at a conference, I heard a speaker talk about how he would begin each morning…and then continue throughout the day, saying, “Lord, reveal yourself to me.” My initial instinct was that this was a surefire way of testing God, and I didn’t want to be a part of that action! Wasn’t that like daring God to show himself? (And in my mind, if we were playing “hide and seek”, why in the world would I want to taunt God?) But recently, it has occurred to me that asking God to reveal himself makes complete and utter sense. Saying – praying- this phrase, IS the very act of seeking God. And, as I’ve discovered, He WANTS to be found. So I’ve begun asking God to reveal Himself to me, every morning, every hour, every moment.
In the morning, O LORD, You will hear my voice; In the morning I will order my prayer to You and eagerly watch. Psalm 5:3And if you’ve been in contact with me, I’ve probably encouraged you to do the same. Because, the crazy – yet completely rational – truth is: God replies. When you ask God to reveal Himself, and then EXPECT to hear from Him, you begin to FIND Him, well…everywhere. And you begin to realize that what you formerly explained away as coincidences, maybe aren’t coincidences at all. But divine interventions, from God revealing Himself to you – the object of His love – because you began to seek Him, and discovered that He isn’t hiding after all.
Ask and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. Matthew 7:7
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Highways, Hymns, and Him...
While most folks’ kiddos are listening to the Jonas Brothers (whom I personally adore), The Bug and the Pea prefer John Denver. Also great. Love me some John Denver. But EVERY single time we’re in the car is becoming a bit much as we head into the second year of our adoration. The other day, the Pea pondered, “Mama, Daddy must be a ‘country boy’ because he’s got himself ‘a fine wife’ too, huh?” (Love that child.)
The other day I purchased a new CD. Which is not something I do often. (Let’s just say that I’m still playing Amy Grant cassettes in my 1998 Nissan’s tape player). The newly purchased album includes 30 different contemporary Christian artists singing hymns... a bit jazzed up. And I have fallen head over heels in love with it. I’ve always loved hymns, playing them on the piano (well, hunting for the keys and playing slowly), singing to the girls as lullabies, listening to the stories behind the songs, what the lyricists were personally experiencing when they wrote the haunting words.
I was changing the sheets on our bed Saturday morning, and Take My Life, and Let It Be (Frances R. Havergal 1836-1879) was playing in the background. It’s a fine song, but I’ve never been particularly partial to it. But I gotta tell ya, as I was singing along, the phrases came alive in a way I had never known. In my minds eye the words were written as if a sparkler was tracing the letters in front of me. And they were burning on to my heart in a new way, each phrase a confirmation of things I had experienced/felt/wondered about the week before. “Take my hands and let them move at the IMPULSE of Thy love…” “Take my MOMENTS and my DAYS, Let them flow in CEASELESS praise…” “Take my will and make it Thine, It shall be NO LONGER MINE…” “Take my heart it is THINE OWN, It shall be Thy royal THRONE…” Had never taken too much time to think about the word ‘consecrated.’ But of course! Holy, sacred, sanctified, hallowed, set apart, blessed, revered. (As the villain Gru says in Despicable Me: “Light bulb”!)
I’ve also been struck recently that this journey is not a sprinting process. Much to my chagrin, as I’ve mentioned I’m a “let’s get everything done yesterday!” kind of gal. Let’s just say the word WALK and DAILY appear a lot in the scripture and in hymns. You never hear a verse instructing you to “construct your own plans and then make them happen immediately and then ask God to bless them because you’ve already taken care of everything in your own way…”
I’m learning that it’s a ‘little bit at a time’ kind of instruction. Follow in His leading each moment and then the next instructions will be revealed for the next moment. We have to be dependent on Him DAILY which is why we need to WALK with Him, FOLLOW Him. Two hymns immediately come to mind as I’m pondering this ‘little bit at a time’ direction.
“When we WALK with the Lord, in the LIGHT of His Word, what a glory He sheds on our way!” Trust and Obey (John H. Sammis 1846-1919)
“ALL to Jesus I surrender, ALL to Him I freely give; I will ever love and trust Him, In His presence DAILY live.” I Surrender All (Judson W. Van DeVenter 1855-1939)
I’ve heard an example given of a car traveling down the road on a foggy night. And I must say, I was traveling one evening from Lexington to Owensboro in fog so deep I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I was driving only a few miles per hour as visibility was zero. The car would inch forward and the headlights would only provide enough guidance to see a foot ahead. So I would inch along that foot, and then the lights would reveal the next foot, and I would inch along. I couldn’t see what was ½ mile down the road, I could only see what I absolutely needed to see at that very moment to move forward on the path I needed to travel, without running off the road into a ditch. I had to go slowly, follow the light, a little bit at a time, to stay on the road. Which is a practical metaphor for how I need to trust in the Light (Jesus) as He reveals to me the next few moments of the Road (His Plan for Me) I need to follow in order to reach the intended destination (My Purpose, My Part in His Perfect Plan, My Role in His Glorification).
Or, in the immortal words of John Denver, “Country Road, Take Me Home, To The Place, I Belong…”
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Porch-Step-Sitting-Stance
I will take my stand at my watch post and station myself on the tower, and look out to see what He will say to me. Habakkuk 2:1So if you’ve been anywhere near me within the past few weeks, you know I’ve been crazy about Habakkuk. In fact, I’ve probably shared this verse with you via Facebook or e-mail or “snail-mail” letter. It has been so encouraging to me. Generally, I avoid the prophecy books of the Bible like the plague. I skip over them as if they are much too difficult for simple me to understand. The word itself, prophecy, conjures up images (in my mind) of fortune-tellers who lived a long time ago, and what does that have to do with me and two kids and a stack of loaded laundry baskets cascading down my washer? So, as I said, I usually flip past those books and head for something I can sink my teeth into…a meaty chapter of Romans, for example.
My Bible study girls know that this verse stuck out to me. The image of this man, literally standing watch, listening to hear God’s response to his complaint. (Which was, by the way: “God, if you’re so fair… then why are you letting this horribly wicked nation punish this kind-of wicked nation?) The part that I find compelling is not that he is spilling out his accusations and anguish… because my God is big enough to handle all questions and feelings. But the part that gets me, is that there is no doubt in Habakkuk’s mind that God will respond. Habakkuk is so very sure, that he has stationed himself at the town’s guard post so that as soon as God speaks, he will be there to receive the message. He knows instructions are coming, it’s just a matter of God’s time, so Habakkuk is going to wait, to make himself completely available to hear. I LOVE that!
I’ve felt very convicted about my prayer life lately. Oh, I’m great about spilling out my heart’s wishes and others’ needs and my desire to be a servant. But I’m not so great about discerning God’s response as to how He would like me to proceed. I usually pour out my worries, doubts, thanks, praises, confessions, supplications, and then immediately make my own plans. (I’m decidedly a people-pleaser and a fixer and an “I want everything to be done yesterday” kind of gal.) God and I are working on that, on this whole “surrender” gig of placing everything in His very capable hands and then waiting…. listening… praying… immersing myself in the Bible… and then proceeding once I discern His voice.
So, the Bug and the Pea love guests. LOVE them. Few days go by where kiddos from the neighborhood, or school aren’t playing in our house or yard. But it’s not just children my girls love, they love visitors of all kinds. The mail carrier, the paper delivery guy, the pizza delivery boy, grown ups stopping by, relatives passing through town. The Bug and the Pea are porch sitters. When they have advanced notice that someone will be popping over, they station themselves on the porch steps and wait.
It doesn’t matter if we know that Grandma and Granddad just left their house and it will take them a few hours to get here, the Bug and the Pea are stationed and waiting. They don’t want to miss out. They want to be there the very moment the car pulls in the driveway. No doubt in the kids’ minds that Grandma and Granddad will arrive, it’s just a question of when. (Of course this gets a little trickier in the winter time when the girls want to wait on the ice covered porch and I must coerce them into sitting beside the window and only making periodic checks outside in the blistery wind to see if guests are in sight.) And heaven help Grandma and Granddad when the car door opens and they are tackled with hugs and kisses by two very cute, but ornery little girls.
Nevertheless, I’ve decided I want to adopt a porch-step-sitting-stance as I wait upon God to speak. I want to be so certain that He will respond, to me personally, that I will station myself as if on the porch awaiting a guest I know – with certainty- will arrive, it’s just a question of when. And I want to have such a sense of urgency to hear God’s voice, that not even one moment will slip past unaware. And the bit about tackling with hugs? Somehow I think genuine praise and worship equates…
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