Morning Music

We've been working in recent days on new habits for a new year, and my favorite starts early with the two little ones.  Little Women is by far the best morning soundtrack, a way to set the tone for the day.  I plug it into the DVD player, light the candles, and we share a gentle waking to a new day.  And on the days I "get it right" we gather around the Word.  A small celebration of redemption.  A reminder before the hard tools of sanctification chistle away at all that is not Jesus that the promise remains.  All things new.  All things new! And then those tools take on a different feel, a whole new meaning.
 

Sancta Simplicitas

Fireworks

Timing.   It's everything.  Releasing one explosion of vibrant color at just the right moment, just after the one before makes all the difference.  I've watched him over the years perfect the timing of fuse lighting, turning it into an art.  Brief moments of delay with anticipatory silence before the next, whoosh, bang, Wow!  Wonder splashes itself across the darkness.

Family, bought with the same blood, found themselves in the midst of a fire this week.  Lightening hit with such force it knocked her off the sofa and took out a wall.  Forced out of their home for a few weeks...can you see it, too?  Perfect timing.  Our home is free to be theirs while we are gone.  When I caught a glimpse of it, that moment of connection of the fuses, my heart whispered, "Wow!"



These are the seasons of life when God's glory floods the expanse of your heart in such great measure that you don't think He can possibly trump Himself, display more.  And at the very moment you are convinced the show is over, as the last sparkle dies down,  the next wave begins, leaving you breathless, completely awestruck at the Beauty exploding before you.   His blasts blow out the walls, creating room to receive more of who He is.
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This week I celebrate seventeen years with the man who continually makes me see fireworks.  What an adventure, a joy, a treasure these years have been!  No matter how far apart we are home is always where he is.   I can't wait to see what the rest of our life holds.

The High Calling

If you haven't already discovered them, stop by The High Calling today.   THC is an online magazine and incredible network of writers and bloggers (you can join us, too!) in which "Honoring God in our daily work is much more than mere evangelism. Our work itself should be a testimony to our creator. That is why we encourage each other to remember the high calling of our daily work." 

The kind folks at The High Calling are featuring my blog among nine others today.  You will be blessed as you visit each one and perhaps even find a few kindred spirits in the mix.

Full to the Brim

That room was full to the brim of something beautiful, and Betsy knew what it was.  Its name was Happiness.
~Understood Betsy, one of the most delightful books I've ever read

Within a week's time, our Father has graced us with a move from counting down the days until we would take my husband to the airport for a three month job in Iraq to counting down the days until we hop in the car and head to a small place where we can all be together with him on a short job.  We are indeed full to the brim with the Beauty to which all these little strands point.  Even in our temporary blurred vision, we can trace along the lines, fingering each one, and feel His face in the darkness.

Flying

Continuing to celebrate the end of the season as the day approaches where we mark the Ascension with a poem by George Herbert, my favorite seventeenth century man.  May you find your greatest joy in flying upon the wing of His victory this day and all the days ever, my friends.

Easter Wings

                          Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
                               Though foolishly he lost the same
                                  Decaying more and more
                                      Till he became
                                         Most poor:
                                         With Thee
                                      O, let me rise
                                   As larks, harmoniously,
                                 And sing this day Thy victories:
                            Then shall the fall further flight in me.

                           My tender age in sorrow did begin:
                                And still with sickness and shame
                                  Thou didst so punish sin
                                       That I became
                                          Most thin
                                          With Thee
                                        Let me combine,
                                    And feel this day Thy victory;
                                  For if I imp my wing on Thine,
                            Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

*imp=a falconry term meaning to mend a damaged wing of a hawk by grafting to it feathers from another bird. (source: Warnke and Witherspoon)
                                        

The Surprising Twist of Beauty

Ah, our Weaver has been at His delightful work these past twenty-four hours, tucking and pulling through our story these surprising little strands of pure, vibrant grace.   His attention to the detail of perfect timing created this abiding sense of wonder that has yet to leave us.  I think part of the lingering awe comes with every retelling.  

The greatest twist came yesterday while my husband sat in a clinic at the start of a physical required for his next job overseas.  The Lord opened wide the door for him to remain in the southeast for work!   My heart drinks in relief and excitement that when he drives off to work it won't be for months this time.

Chasing Eden

My stomach is in knots.  He was just a week out from leaving for an extended job, a return to a war torn land, and what does he do but throw himself full force into hard labor.  From the window I watch him, beat red and dripping salt into the resistant earth.  He strains hard against the curse that sent us guilt ridden out of Eden.

He says I will bear the more difficult job in his absence, but I beg to differ.  I know what lies ahead for him.  The unbearable heat.  The sand  in his teeth long after work is over- every bite of supper crunchy with grit.  The small metal connex box with a room no bigger than my luxurious closet.  The danger that naturally comes with his job not to mention that which comes from a country ill at rest with itself.  The lack of communication or the rising hours before the sun just to get a call out to me.  And all right there between the Tigris and Euphrates.  A far cry from paradise.  And all his thoughts are on creating one for me, an Eden. 

That evening when all the work is done he pulls me in close, and we survey a job well done.  He leans in to quietly speak purpose, "I wanted to make something for you so that every time you saw it you thought of me, how much I love you."

Paradise.

But he just reflects the Lover of our souls and turns my eyes to the One who labors His love out into the open, declaring His deepest heart for us in every blossoming gift.  Some scream, others whisper the sweetest, softening words into our hardened hearts,

I love you.  See how much I love you.

They rain down, the words and gifts.  He tends the soil, for He has broken the curse that keeps us out.  And Eden springs forth.

The Beauty of Giving Up

As I opened the car door this morning, there it sat.  An empty reminder of a full experience.

A couple of years after we gave up television I gave up coffee (the devil's brew, as the Navigator calls it).  I switched briefly to decaf before going cold turkey, which apparently is the only way I can give up an addiction.  But, I lost my taste for it.  Completely.  And then my freedom from my addiction became a cause for pride.    For being stubborn and impassable.

The Dancer, on the other hand, has developed a taste for the drink, and because of my weakness, I rarely give in to her request for coffee.

Last night, it was time to pick her up from dance.  It was late.  The two little ones were heavy eyed.  But, what a lovely time to surprise her.  To make a move to share something with her that no one else in the family will. 

I pulled into the parking lot, walked through the door to order two cups of decaf,  and gave up my resolve to not drink for the sake of something better: just a few quiet driving moments over a shared cup of fellowship.  A good measure.  Pressed down.  Shaken together.  Running over.

The Beauty School Drop Out

I must admit it.  Here, as publically as possible: I'm a beauty school drop out. 

This book~

The Word

   Bread

  Water

Sword

  Mirror

 

~is the tool in His beauty school, where He labors to make me not me.  To tug and pull out the tangled mess.  To purify clogged pores.  To straighten the twisted.  To burn away the unwanted weight.  To open sealed eyes, closed ears.  To pump blood into dead hearts.

Here, He doesn't brush on a cosmetic solution, creating a false, temporary beauty.  He does the real work, the hard work we want to avoid.  The work that makes us, honestly, run for the ease of blush and hair color.

So, why do I drop out continually?  Push the Word aside and grab for others through my day?  Allow my failures at memorization to create a bondage from returning, trying again and again and again?

Could it be that I really don't understand after 35 years as His what His school really offers me?

But, I read about its importance anew.  And I am challenged and enlivened as I read, am reminded that the goal really is about wanting Him more.  Falling in love.  Finding Him the most satisfying joy.  And I can see now that as one that belongs to Him it isn't so much about pointing out my flaws and imperfections and lack of measuring up (though at times there is some of that) but training me to see His beauty.  And maybe something even more amazing.

He invites me to sit in the chair then pumps it high for me to see and turns me to face the mirror.  And there I can ever so faintly begin to see the reflection.

Wearing Easter Clothes Year Round

I started this post two nights ago, and when it was all said and done, I hated it.  Too cliche.  But, I'm battling the need to write and post in spite of my misgivings.  Just get it done versus making it just right.  Risk creating the mediocre until something more extraordinary comes along.

With a crack of hardened flesh they awaken from their short slumber, unfurl and stretch.  Then rest comes for a while, waiting for wings to form just the right arch for flight.

We discovered them huddled together on common ground in their brilliant new clothes.  Dull asphalt  transformed into canvas for a most extraordinary art.  We were caught up in wonder by their design.  By their presence.  By their flight that defies the earthbound life they knew only days, hours before.

How I ache for beauty.  To be beauty.  To be the end product of His fashioning me into His likeness. But, there are days that I can only see the grave clothes, the twisted, hardened shell of the flesh.  And I let my old dead image govern my living until I go to the mirror and read that the hope of restoration, of my remaking isn't just for my tomorrow, some far off revealing.  It is for my today.  He walked out of that tomb, leaving behind the grave clothes so that I may live wearing His glorious Easter attire year round.   So that I can leave my dead weight behind, can defy my flesh bound life of old, and fly into His arms.

Delicious Rowdiness

The walls echo with a delicious rowdiness.  Some days feel like those walls might not hold, and the girls and I wonder what kind of world we have been transported into. A world of tumbles and hard knocks and deep guttural laughter and cries of "Uncle!".  A world where stinkiness is a sign of manhood and fire and guns and arrows and tools hold an unearthly mesmerizing quality.  A world where danger, risks, and circling just this side of death itself is the only way to live.  And though a tomboy myself, I never really learned in our house of girls the secret life of boys.  I admit I am lost.

So, I send them outside to the place where the clouds accept their noise without question and give them a soft cushion for all their explosive energy.  There is no better sounding board than nature who hoots and hollers alongside, beckoning them to go on ahead and kick it up a notch.   Here they are free, without civilized walls closing in on their impending manhood. 

I am still learning this mothering of boys with all its letting go and giving more rolled into one package.  And I have a piercing ache that longs to be this kind of a place for them...and weeps for the times I haven't.  But, I love that I have been given the privilege of a front row seat to each metamorphosis because there is great delight in watching a boy grow into all he was made to be.

Where Beauty Lives

I was completely enamored.  Somewhere around 8 or 9 was my first visit.  It was a special trip, not something we did often.  We could still drive right up to the house and park.  Oh, to get out of the car, throw my head far back, and let the wonder of it all wash over. 

My mom and I were just two of a handful of visitors.  No big crowds or hype.  Very few barricades and ropes.  No coffee shops or winery or barnyard or outdoor center.   Just this house that would forever ruin me for the ordinary. 

Every room held some new delight, another cause for wonder. And, as we wandered through the heavily curtained rooms, I remember how my fingers danced along the ropes itching to touch those objects so strategically placed just out of reach.  I felt as though one little contact might transport me into another life. 

Most of us live like my childhood self.  We walk through this new life in Christ with our hands behind our backs, fearful of touching what we believe isn't ours.  We dance along outside, itching to cross that line into the beauty that feels confined to the extraordinary.  Roped off.  Meant for special occasions, special people.  Just beyond the reach of our ordinary existence. 

But the promise, the point of Easter is that Beauty Himself tore through the curtain, reached across and led us by the hand into the wonder of His life.  Everyday.  In the ordinary and not just for special occasion.