Poem In My Pocket

Written on a napkin in my pocket:

My Lord, I find that nothing else will do,
But follow where thou goest, sit at thy feet,
And where I have thee not, still run to meet.
Roses are scentless, hopeless are the morns,
Rest is but weakness, laughter crackling thorns,
If thou, the Truth, do not make them the true:
Thou art my life, O Christ, and nothing else will do.

-George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul

Word of the Day

bumptious: crudely, presumptuously, or noisily self-assertive

I just like this word. I will find opportunity to use it in context tonight at dinner. That should not be difficult.

Happiness is...

...a day that smells like rain, wet dirt, and earthworms.

Daily Dose of Conviction

"There is one whose rash words are like sword thrusts,

but the tongue of the wise brings healing."
- Proverbs 12:18

Well. That's a butt-kicker. Lord, let my words bring healing and life!

Betrayal

People will let you down sometimes.

This is nothing new. Surely I've heard those exact words from the lips of a sage older woman in a movie. "Honey, that's just a part of life," Sage Older Woman says to the forlorn beauty sitting at her kitchen table. "People ain't perfect, and they will let you down sometimes." She's wearing an apron, of course, bustling about her carefully middle-class kitchen. She proceeds with an object lesson based on something she's baking, while Forlorn Beauty drinks in the coffee and the unconditional love. "People will let you down, it's true," Sage Older Woman finishes, sliding a plate of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies across the table, "But you've still got to try." Forlorn Beauty hesitantly takes one, and somehow we feel that what she's biting into is not just a cookie but a fresh start. Sage Older Woman pats her hand. The music soars.

People will let you down, and not just in the movies. I've experienced enough failed friendships and broken trust to know that. Still, unpleasant surprises can leave me reeling with questions: is nothing sacred? is no one trustworthy? can anyone remain faithful? Underneath them all is the question I'm really asking: is it worth the risk?

So I look pragmatically at the examples around me - men and women of character, full of faithfulness, integrity, and passion. And I'm unconvinced. I've been surprised before, after all. The answer to my questions, then, is "yes and no." Yes, some people are trustworthy, but they're still capable of letting me down. Yes, many are faithful, but they are not without fault, and there is no guarantee.

Then I think about my Lord and realize that He is the resounding "yes" while I am the resounding "no." He, the sacred, faithful One will never betray my trust, and He considered my life worth the risk - not exactly a risk, since my eventual unfaithfulness was not a possibility but a sure thing. And I realize that there is as much cause to fear that I'll betray another - and worse, betray Him! - as there is cause to fear that I'll be betrayed.

The warning, "So if you think you are standing, watch out that you do not fall," plays tug-of-war with the promise, "[He] is able to keep you from falling, and to make you stand without blemish in the presence of his glory with rejoicing." I fall again on the grace of the One who will never let me down.

Defining Atheism

atheist: one who has never seen the mountains

Happiness is...

...sundresses, and the right kind of weather for wearing them.

Today in Haiku

Friendships in conflict
Forgiveness sought and granted
Repentance, God’s gift

Happiness is...

...quarts of vegetable stock in the freezer, all the laundry in the wash, and this body getting to bed at a decent hour.

But true contentment lies in knowing that I could stay up all night reading trashy novels and eating fast food and my Father would not love me less. It lies in knowing that had I cleaned out my car, gone running as planned, and skipped that brownie, He would not love me more. I'm feeling good about a productive day, but it doesn't change my need for His grace.

"In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength."
- Isaiah 30:15

Indeed

We never hunted Easter eggs as kids. Mom and Dad hid jelly beans instead, and it still makes perfect sense to me - who wants an egg? Hardboiled eggs are only good in moderation, but hiding fried eggs would be impractical, and plastic eggs are just silly.

So Easter egg hunts are a new experience and usually make me miss jelly beans tucked between the black keys of a piano, jelly beans hidden amidst the cobwebs of a candlestick or a pottery vase, jelly beans frantically tossed into my basket before the selfish siblings could get them.

My community split up in different homes for “family meals” and then gathered at an open field for a (mostly) grown-up Easter egg hunt. Having no sense of nostalgia over scooping up garish little not eggs containing what I’m trying not to eat, I was unmotivated. But I didn’t want to be a bad sport, so I ventured into the field and before long began a different sort of search.

Our field was generously sprinkled with violets. Soon I was so engrossed in picking them that a green plastic egg hidden in the grass startled me. Violets are significant to me, after all, and on a day like today when we celebrate new life in Christ nothing could be more appropriate to hunt.


The scent of a violet is elusive - I have a distinct memory of being a kid of five or six, perched atop the slide in the backyard with my nose buried in a bloom, trying to take in as much of its perfume as I could. Maybe my sense of smell is aging, or maybe Kentucky violets are shyer than their Yankee cousins, but this spring it seems I can’t catch a whiff of anything.

The collective fragrance of today’s bunch, however, is filling my room. They smell like childhood days spent in a Wisconsin backyard, my imagination my playmate. They smell like happiness and hope.

Which reminds me of how much I enjoyed gathering with various expressions of family today.

• At this morning’s service my joy was increased by celebrating my risen Savior surrounded by others whose hearts hold the same hope - hearts that have become linked to mine.

• Shortly afterwards I marveled at the Gospel story as seen through the eyes of three-year-olds. (When talking to one wide-eyed little girl about Jesus dying on the cross, she asked, “When? Last week?”)

• Then I joined with a slice of community made up of friends old and new, savoring the mutual hospitality of a potluck meal, lingering in conversation long after we’d eaten our fill, sharing the burden of cleaning up when we were done.

• And Resurrection Sunday will culminate with a long-awaited Skype date with one of my dearest heart-friends. We’re separated by land and sea and time zones but share a similar quest to display His splendor as we keep His hope alive.

Together truly is better.

Two Minutes to Resurrection Sunday

Two dozen eggs boiling on the stove, some for deviling, some for decorating. Nine ungodly pounds of ham already in the slow cooker, waiting for the fixin's (that's next), ready to be plugged in tomorrow morning to [slow] cook while I'm at my morning services (attending one, serving one, as they say). A loaf of bread rising in a warm oven. Strawberries ready to be washed and served with sour cream and brown sugar; peppermint tea waiting to be brewed, sweetened, and chilled; a tablecloth needing to be ironed. Tokens of hospitality, fitting for the day we celebrate the greatest hospitality ever offered to undeserving - often unwilling - guests.

I did my shopping last minute, as usual, and drove home a moment ago, anticipating tomorrow's celebration and all it represents. Since Thursday I've been mulling over the weightiness of the cross, with snippets of song the soundtrack for my meditation: "It was my sin that held Him there until it was accomplished...Oh, praise the One who paid my debt...Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"

I was there, and I ought to tremble, and not just sometimes. Friday's story should be familiar to me, but never common.

On tonight's drive, Damien Rice happened to be the soundtrack, and his praise was certainly not directed to the One who paid his debt. But just at the moment that I noticed how big and full the moon is tonight, hanging low and silvery and tempting me to stop and admire instead of go home and cook...just at that moment came the words of praise: "Can't take my eyes off of you!" The words resonated and my heart sang along - and not to the moon!

Oh, Creator of beauty, Giver of life, I often take my eyes off of You. I want to be so captivated by who You are that I cannot look away. Did I say that I want to leave it all behind? Because I do - I want to forsake this body of death! I am the crowd calling for a criminal instead of clinging to You. I am the Pharisees, seeking their own glory instead of Yours. I am the disciples, falling asleep when You asked them to pray. I am Pilate, fearing man instead of trusting You. I have betrayed You and denied You; I have run away from the cost. But Your dying breath bought me life and the veil is torn in two. I am forgiven. It is finished. You paid it all. I am Yours.

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer.
But this I know with all my heart:
His wounds have paid my ransom.

Handiwork

I sit in bed doing some hand sewing by lamplight. I don't often sew by hand, but an uncooperative machine made me want to utter unladylike words, so I've resorted to needle and thread.

I never noticed how soothing the swish of thread through fabric can be. I'd forgotten the hurry-up-slow-down look of a handmade seam - long, impatient stitches followed by nice even ones, as though my mother were watching and reminding me that it's best to do it right the first time. I recall Beezus Quimby reciting her aunt's mantra: "Make your knots a secret!"

My fingers shape something out of nothing and I become one with the women of the past, whose homes and families were as well-dressed as their own diligence and creativity allowed. I am Caroline Ingalls beside a kerosene lamp, humming hymns and mending my green delane. I am her daughter Laura, stitching for pay to buy a piano for my sister. I am Diana Barry, feverishly crocheting doilies so as not to be outdone by the Gillises. I am Hester Prynne, turning shame into an opportunity for beauty.

Happiness is...

...a Tennessee country road, the air thick with honeysuckle in the spring, tobacco in the fall.

Ceaseless Praise

I will hope continually
and will praise you yet more and more.
My mouth will tell of your righteous acts,
of your deeds of salvation all the day,
for their number is past my knowledge.
With the mighty deeds of the Lord God I will come;
I will remind them of your righteousness, yours alone.

-Psalm 71:14-16

"Their number is past my knowledge." How true that is! I could never run out of reasons to praise my God.