Graceful

Out of the Wind {day twenty-four}

2012-02-24T03:00:00.002-06:00

We took a trip to the Como Conservatory in St. Paul when we were in Minnesota over the Christmas holiday. It was the last real outing we enjoyed with my father-in-law, although we didn’t know it as such at the time. I remember that as the boys dashed ahead into the tropical lush, giddy to be out of Minnesota’s biting wind, Jon walked a few steps behind us, breathing in the damp, warm air, hands in his jacket pockets as he gazed at the enormous fronds swaying above our heads.

We rested a bit on a concrete bench near a trickling foundation. The boys emptied my wallet, tossing pennies into the water and wishing for Mario Bros. Wii games. I wished for much more as I flung my penny into the copper basin burnished green. Turns out, wishes don't always come true, and prayers aren't always answered exactly the way we want them to be. And now I wish I’d snapped a couple pictures of Jon that day, but I was too enamored with the foliage and the flowers to aim my camera at the people by my side. We think they'll always be there, right there at our sides.

Still, I feel some comfort scrolling through these images, remembering the afternoon we spent strolling through the greenhouses, surrounded by verdant life, protected from the blustering wind for a while.

We are celebrating Jon's life today with a beautiful memorial service filled with his family, friends and colleagues and giving thanks for the tremendous blessing he was in our lives.

A Quiet Gesture...and a Not-So-Quiet (in) Real Life Invitation! {day twenty-three}

2012-02-23T03:00:00.000-06:00

"Who in the world's at the door at this hour?" I wonder aloud when the doorbell rings at 7:30 p.m., because, after all, 7:30 is late for doorbell ringing at our house.

I'm in my pajamas, because it is 7:30 on a Friday night, so I crack the door just an inch or so and peer into the cold darkness. The Hyvee Florist van rumbles in the driveway, and on my doorstep stands the delivery lady, a box bursting pink and green in her hands.

I hold the glass door open wider, and that's when I smell the lush scent of spring wafting up from the cardboard box.

At the kitchen counter I take the card from its tiny envelope and read it aloud to Brad: "Love you, praying with you -- Deidra and Harry." Tears spring to my eyes, and I bury my nose deep into delicate petals spread open wide.

All week long the house breathes the essence of spring. When I push open the front door and stumble into the foyer, arms laden with backpacks and lunch bags, a grocery sack and the mail, the heady scent of hyacinth hits me, and my heart beats with hope.

: :

(in) Real Life...Nebraska-Style!

Some of you might know that I first met met Deidra online. Even though her house is less than two miles from mine, I came across her blog, Jumping Tandem first, and then, miraculously ran into her in a Lincoln coffee shop one cold winter night two years ago. We recognized each other from our tiny profile pictures on our blogs. I just love, love, love that we have become real-life friends, and am so grateful for the encouragement and support she lavishes on me, not just during this time of grief for my family, but always!

You know what's even more amazing? Deidra's not the only woman I've come to know and love in these two years I've been blogging. It's been the most beautiful and unexpected blessing -- that these online relationships and friendships are real and rich and fulfilling…just like in “real life.”

So…maybe some of you are familiar with the (in) courage community and have heard about the upcoming (in) Real Life meet-ups that are taking place in cities and towns around the nation and the world?

Well I have good news for you – Deidra, our Lincoln super cute blogger friend Erin (who is 39 weeks pregnant and still super cute!) from Home with the Boys and I are hosting a real live meet-up right here in Lincoln, Nebraska – at my house, I might add! {maybe I should mention this to my husband sometime soon?! Ah, honey...are you reading this?!}

That’s right! And we are inviting YOU to attend. Come hang out with us and eat scones (because you know there will be scones if I’m hosting) on Saturday, April 28, at 11 a.m. here in Lincoln, Nebraska! [click here to see who's signed up for the Lincoln meet-up so far].

Also, hop over to Deidra’s and Erin’s today, too – all three of us are writing about the Lincoln (in) RL meet-up. This is so fun! Come on, register...you totally know you want to! And stay tuned for more...

Five Minutes {day twenty-two}

2012-02-22T03:00:00.001-06:00

I recently left a comment on a blog post by my friend Amy. She wrote about rest and where and how we find it, and I realized as I read her post [and I'm sorry I can't find the exact post to link to!] that although I don’t have large expanses of quality “rest time” in my life, I have learned to snatch snippets of it when I can.

I used to leave my office at the very last second before racing across town to pick up my kids from school. It was always about dashing off one more email, or writing two more lines of ad copy or running the proof back down to the graphics department on my way out the door. Then I’d speed across town and arrive at the school doors breathless and frenzied and sweating in my parka.

Now I leave my office five minutes earlier. Just five minutes. I pull the mini-van to the curb in front of the school, shift into park and then sit with the engine idling and the heat blasting.

I don’t listen to the radio or text or chat on the phone or write a grocery list. I just sit. Sometimes I close my eyes. Occasionally I pray. Mostly I gaze out the window and breathe.

It’s just five minutes. But it’s amazing what a difference those minutes make.

Where do you snatch your five minutes of rest?

And linking with Laura, because rest is a form of playing, too:

Mama Zen, you are the winner of yesterday's drawing for Sarah Young's Jesus Calling children's devotional! I need your mailing address so I can send out the book. Congratulations!!

Medieval Dining...and a {Quiet} Giveaway {day twenty-one}

2012-02-21T03:00:00.000-06:00

I don't know about you, but dinner at my house can be a less than savory experience. My boys are now 7 and 10...need I say more? Think cutlery clattering to the floor, inane conversation mostly centering around Mario Bros. with a frequent foray into bodily functions, raucous noise, flailing limbs, and the occasional body tumbling from the chair. I suspect a medieval peasant and perhaps even a caveman would be quite at home at our table.

In an attempt to create a less barbaric, slightly quieter dinner hour, I decided recently to begin reading a daily devotion each night while we ate. In the past, we've done this during both Advent and Lent, and while every night wasn't always perfect, the devotions did occasionally spark a few minutes of calm, meaningful conversation.

I've been reading Sarah Young's devotional Jesus Calling every day since the beginning of January (which I absolutely love), so when I saw a version for kids on Amazon, I snapped it up.

All went well. For two weeks.

And then the mutiny began.

"It says the same exact thing every day," Noah complained. "'I am with you, I am with you. I go before you, I come behind you.' I'm tired of the same message."

Rowan nodded, eager to agree with whatever his older brother said.

Noah had a point. Both the kid's and the adult version of Young's devotional do repeat similar themes, but I, for one, am a slow learner, especially when it comes to all things related to faith. Repetition works for me.

"Well, honey, I think that's because God knows we need to hear the same message repeated over and over," I said to Noah. "We need to be reminded because sometimes we forget that God is with us."

"Well I don't forget," said Noah matter-of-factly, fork poised in the air.

"Me either," echoed Rowan.

It seemed I'd been outvoted, and for once, I decided not to push issue. Medieval dining has resumed at my house once again.

So what’s the dinner hour like at your house? Any tips for creating a quieter, more civilized mealtime around here?

Want to read other posts in the 29 Days of Quiet series? Click here.

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Is a Glimpse Enough?

2012-02-20T00:00:00.000-06:00

My first thought when I heard yesterday’s reading (Deuteronomy 34:1-12) was this: Moses got ripped off.

We all know what a tremendous leader Moses was, right? He bravely confronted Pharaoh, leading his people out of plague-ridden Egypt, across the Red Sea and through 40 long years in the wilderness, never once losing faith, always serving as an inspiration and source of strength for his whiney, discouraged people, consistently buoying their spirits and setting them on a straight path.

Yet when he finally gets to the edge of the long-sought promised land, what happens? God leads him to the top of Pisgah Peak and allows Moses just a glimpse of the land. Moses, after all his travails, is not allowed to enter. In fact, he comes all that way to die on the very cusp of the promised land:

Like I said: a major rip-off.

The text doesn’t indicate that Moses was disappointed, but I certainly know how I’d feel if I faithfully led my people all that way, only to miss out on the final reward. It seems like an awful lot of hardship for nothing.

Since the reading on Sunday, though, I’ve been thinking about this. I wonder, are Moses circumstances at the end of his life much different than ours? And is that glimpse of what’s to come after we're gone necessarily a disappointment, a failure, or can we understand it, instead, as a gift?

At the end of our lives God offers each one of us such a gift: a glimpse of all that we have accomplished on our journey, reflected in the lives of those who will go on ahead without us. I’m thinking of my father-in-law as I write this – the joy and satisfaction he had in the last months and weeks of his life as he considered his two devoted, successful sons; his four beautiful, thriving grandchildren and the hundreds of relatives, friends and colleagues that walked alongside him in his lifetime. What an incredible gift to know that these loved ones will continue forward, fortified by his blessings and buoyed by his love and the example of his leadership.

We don't get to continue onward with our loved ones forever, but like Moses, we get a glimpse of the good things to come. I’d say that glimpse of the promised land is a gift. And that glimpse is more than enough indeed.

What about you? How have you interpreted the story of Moses’ death and the fact that he didn’t travel into the promised land in his lifetime?

And since we're talking about gifts...with Ann Voskamp today:

900 Sun-dazzled icicles
901 Reading quietly with Noah and Meme in the evening
902 Rowan's tooth on the pillow
903 Valentine from Wendi
904 Finding my lost wedding ring!
905 WOF finalist
906 Best Valentine's dinner ever
907 Writing a tribute to Jon
908 Cotton candy sunset
909 Cardinal singing to me from the elm tree on the morning Jon died
910 Meme helping out

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Sunday Meditation: At Rest {day nineteen}

2012-02-19T03:00:00.000-06:00

I love this quiet space...have you visited Deidra's Sunday community yet?

Painting {day eighteen}

2012-02-18T03:00:00.000-06:00

I spent the last month or so painting crisp white over dark wood. Nothing fancy – just the trim in the bathroom and the hallway upstairs.

After the boys were in bed and the house was quiet I’d glide the roller up and down the bathroom door, the sound of paint sticking wet against wood blending with the rhythm of little boys breathing. Bedroom doors cracked, the glare of the work lamp cast a sliver of light like a motionless lighthouse strobe across their wood floors.

When Brad was home for a few days he peeked around the bathroom door, watching as I inched along the baseboard, paintbrush in hand.

“I’m not sure this is the best time for this project,” he observed. It was true. He was gone most of January and early February, sitting hour after hour next to his dad’s bed in the hospice. Yet, there was also something exactly right about painting right then, even after a long day of work and kid-shuttling, dinner dishes and laundry and errands.

“Well,” I answered, straightening to my knees and gesturing to the can of paint, the half-finished baseboard, “all I know is that this I can control. I know exactly how this will turn out.”

And so I painted, late into the quiet night.

Do you have an unusual activity that brings you solace and the opportunity for contemplation?

The Storyteller

2012-02-17T03:00:00.000-06:00

Anyone who met my father-in-law, Jon Johnson, even briefly knew almost immediately that he loved to tell a good story. Those of us who knew Jon well probably heard most of his stories – many of us heard his favorites multiple times. After a while we didn’t bother trying to interrupt him to mention that we’d heard a particular one before. We learned: If Jon wanted to tell a story, the story would be told.

No one loved Jon’s stories more than his grandkids, and they never tired of them, not even the repeats. From the time they could talk, Noah and Rowan would plant themselves in Papa’s lap – one boy on the left knee, one boy on the right – lean against his chest and beg for a story, sometimes even two or three times a day. I don’t know how he did it, one fantastical yarn after another, but Papa never declined the opportunity to spin a tale. Snuggled into the wing chair or piled onto the hammock, the boys would listen with rapt attention, oblivious to everything else around them.

Eager for a few minutes of free time, I usually didn’t linger to catch more than a snippet or two, so I can’t tell you exactly what Jon’s stories were about. I do recall a frequent mention of pirates and the occasional mummy, and once or twice we did suggest he go a little easy at bedtime, even if the boys begged for the “scariest one ever.”

The last time the boys and I saw Jon in late December, he was too ill to participate in most of his typical shenanigans: chase games and tickling, couch pillow forts, '50s dance parties and root beer floats. At one point, though, when neither Papa nor the boys could be found, we finally discovered them tucked into the walk-in closet.

“Shhhh! Go away!” Rowan admonished when I peered into the dark.

“Just wondering what you guys are doing in here,” I said, stepping one foot into the closet. In the dimness I glimpsed three bodies buried beneath a mound of pillows and blankets near the back.

“We’re fine, Mommy, we’re fine,” Noah said. “Papa’s just telling us a story.”

We’ll sure miss you and your stories, Jon, even the ones we’ve heard before…. especially the ones we’ve heard before. Most of all, we are so very grateful to have been a part of your story.

{29 Days of Quiet will resume tomorrow. Thank you for grace...and prayers. Jon passed away yesterday. We will miss him dearly - he was the light of my kids' lives.}

Grace Changes Everything: A Lenten Gift for You {day sixteen}

2012-02-16T03:00:00.000-06:00

Lent offers us a period of quiet during the six-week journey to Easter. The past couple of years I've begun each of the 47 days of Lent with a few minutes of reflection and prayer and a reading from a devotional booklet.

If you, too, are looking for a quiet, contemplative way to connect with God on a daily basis during this coming Lent, may I offer you Grace Changes Everything?

I collaborated with my church and with Lincoln artist Deb Paden to create this devotional booklet, and I'm so glad to be able to offer it here at Graceful, too, as a small gift in gratitude for you. Will you join me in walking together through Lent this year?

The booklet includes:

A short Bible reading, with suggestions for a longer Scripture reading if you have the time.
One short devotional for each day of the six weeks of Lent, beginning on Ash Wednesday and concluding on Easter Sunday.
A prayer or action item for the day that may help you live out God's word in your everyday.

To Receive the Link for the Free Lenten Devotional:

If you already subscribe to Graceful via e-mail or via RSS feed in a reader (and if you do, thank you!), the link to the Lenten Devotional is included in the footer of each post. Just look at the very bottom of this post, and you should see the link right there (and each day from now until the end of Lent). If you don't see it, email me and I will send it to you (I am not a high-tech queen, so I can't guarantee I've done this correctly!).

If you are not already a subscriber, I invite you to become one! You can sign up to receive posts via email or via an RSS feed to your reader, and in each post, you will see the link to the free Lenten Devotional (down at the bottom, in the footer).

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Feel free to share the link to this post with anyone else who might perhaps benefit from a daily Lenten devotional this year (or on Facebook, Twitter and elsewhere). The gift is ours to share, and I am just so happy to be able to do that.

Thank you for your readership, your loving comments, emails, prayers and thoughts all year long, and the gift of you! This is just one small way I hope to be able to share my appreciation for you, because you are a gift to me, every day. It's an absolute joy to walk this journey with you.

Jesus Said {day fifteen}

2012-02-15T04:00:00.000-06:00

A slight departure from the typical Quiet post today, as I am guest blogging over at Michael Perkins' place. You'll see that Michael has a unique and compelling approach to blogging -- few words, loud and clear message. I discovered his blog a few weeks ago and was completely hooked from the get-go -- I spent the greater part of an evening reading posts and enjoying his non-traditional approach. And then I decided to try my hand at it, too (which was a real technological challenge for me, if you must know!).

Will you join me over at Michael's place for the shortest post this wordy girl has ever written? And while you're there, please do spend some time browsing around. You'll like what you find.

Morning Has Broken {day fourteen}

2012-02-14T03:00:00.000-06:00

My favorite moment of the day is the two seconds it takes every morning to raise each of my two bedroom shades. I stand at the window, blinds cords in one hand, silky sheers held back with the other, and draw the matchstick blinds to the world.

I greet blue dawn as owls call final greetings from the white pines and the rising sun washes brushstrokes on the slate horizon.

Our neighborhood sleeps still. The feeder sways tranquil in the breeze, early birds not yet unwrapped from cozy nests. A hum buzzes from the boulevard, muffled by golf course green draped in bridal tulle white. A morning dove perches plump on the bough.

Morning glory amazes. New dawn births fresh hope. The day begins.

A repost from last January, but fitting for this Quiet series and still my favoite ritual of the day.

Do you have a favorite moment of the day?

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Do You Accept Grace?

2012-02-13T00:00:00.000-06:00

I stole a necklance whenI I was in the third grade. It glinted from the inside corner of Kim's desk across the aisle – an exotic choker with a black velvet strap an a single, brilliant faux sapphire. While Mrs. Chase bent over Kim's shoulder, I quickly reached over and slid my fingers into the open desk, grabbed the velvet strand and balled it into the front pocket of my corduroys.

According to my Catholic faith, stealing was a mortal sin – the worst kind, made especially egregious because I knew when I stole the necklace that it was wrong. Stealing was a ticket straight to Hell, unless I chose to confess the theft to my priest.

The problem was, I couldn’t bring myself to confess the sin. I tried, believe me.

I’d slip behind the red, velvet curtain of the confessional box and crouch on the plush kneeler, but when the window slid open and the quiet voice of the priest on the other side urged me to begin my confession, I froze. I’d rattle off my standard list of sins – disobeying my parents, antagonizing my sister – but I always swallowed any mention of the big one.

I lived with that sin hanging over my head for years, convinced and terrified that I would burn in Hell, yet even more terrified to confess the sin. After all, I was a good girl – someone who got good grades, delivered newspapers after school, always did her chores and visited Aunt Belle in the nursing home without complaint. I was polite and had polite, good girl friends. I wasn’t the type of girl who stole. That kind of sin, the hellacious mortal sin, didn’t fit into my good girl world. That kind of sin was too bad; it was the kind of sin committed by “other people,” very bad people.

It took me a couple of decades, but I finally got over the guilt of the stolen necklace. Yet I didn’t quite dismiss the notion that some sins are worse than others, and that the people who commit those worse sins are worse off than me. I couldn’t shake the assumption that some people – say those imprisoned for theft or murder or pedophilia – seemed more sinful than me…and less deserving of forgiveness. I had a whole hierarchy of sins worked out, and I figured if I stayed ahead of most of those sinners on the bottom rungs, then hey, I was doing okay, right?

That formula worked perfectly until I read Romans 3:23:

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”

It seems God doesn’t have the same hierarchy I do. According to God, all of us sin, and all of us fall short of the glory of God. God doesn’t say that the murderer falls further; he simply lumps all of together as sinners.

This means, of course, that if the murderer repents his sin, he gets the same grace I get. Part of me protests, “No fair! How can the murderer get the same grace as me? Shouldn’t the murderer get at least a little less grace?” But that’s the whole point, of course. It’s not fair, because none of us, no matter how egregious or inconsequential we consider our sins, deserves grace.

God doesn’t choose one repentant sinner over another. In fact, he chooses all of us, time and time again. In the end, the question is whether we choose to accept that grace.

With Jen and Soli Deo Gloria:

"Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday" is one year old! I am so excited by how this community has grown, and so blessed by how much you have all ministered to me personally. Thank you so much!!

If you're here for the first time, click here for more information. And if you are a new participant, would you leave me a comment or send me an email to tell me it's your first time here, so I can be sure to stop by and say hello at your place?

Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code over in the sidebar) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in -- thank you!

Please also try to visit and leave some friendly encouragement in the comment box of at least one other Hear It, Use It participant.

And if you want to tweet about the community, please use the #HearItUseIt hashtag. Thank you -- I am so grateful to have you here!

Sunday Meditation {day twelve}

2012-02-12T03:00:00.000-06:00

This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel says:
"Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved.
In quietness and confidence is your strength."
(Isaiah: 30:15)

When Words Fall Short {day eleven}

2012-02-11T03:00:00.000-06:00

I’ve had a hard time praying lately. When someone you love is dying, I think it’s difficult sometimes to figure out what to pray for. It feels wrong to pray for a swift death, although that’s what Jon wants right now. Yet it also feels selfish and a little bit like a cop-out to pray for anything else, like peace or comfort. So I’m left not praying at all, which leaves me feeling restless and agitated…and a little bit guilty.

Last week I stumbled across these words from Romans 8:26:

In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.

I am comforted by the knowledge that the Holy Spirit prays on my behalf when I cannot. We groan together in this time when words fall short.

Ruby {day nine}

2012-02-10T03:00:00.000-06:00

He visits every day, this feathered friend with the zebra-striped back and scarlet head. The red-belly woodpecker – misnamed, if you ask me.

The wily squirrels steal what red belly comes for: the suet that hangs in a cage from the river birch tree. No matter how tightly I clasp the cage, or from which branch I suspend it, the squirrels outsmart me. I bang on the window and crack the back door to yell into the cold like a crazy lady. I may or may not reach down with one hand as I stand on the threshold, clench a fistful of snow from the back step and lob it at a particularly obstinate rodent. I don’t do this when the kids are home. They are protective of their squirrel friends.

I try for days to catch the red belly woodpecker with my camera, but he is skittish, an introvert. One cautious turn of the doorknob and he’s gone, careening toward the protective canopy beneath the white pine. Finally I smarten up and snap his picture right through the glass, as the snow tumbles around him in fat, lazy flakes.

I wait for him every day, glancing over my shoulder as I scan Facebook or reply to emails. As I write at my grandmother’s antique desk in the sunroom, I turn my laptop at an angle, so I can glimpse the backyard through the French doors. I don’t want to miss him.

That flash of ruby against steel grey sky is just enough to steady me through another day.

What are you glimpsing lately that's given you a jolt of joy?

Puzzling {day nine}

2012-02-09T03:00:00.000-06:00

Rowan and I are puzzling in the evenings. We’ve already finished one of a European harbor scene, and we've started on the next – an image of two hummingbirds darting toward a magenta blossom. Lots of green in this one; I suspect it will be more challenging.

We spread out the 500 pieces picture side up on the coffee table, and after dinner is finished and the dishes are done, before bath and books, we huddle over the pieces for a few minutes. My spirited child is surprisingly focused and mellow during puzzling, a benefit I appreciate, especially as I grow less spirited as the clock ticks toward 8 p.m.

I gravitate toward the puzzle table even when Rowan's not around -- if I have a few minutes before I leave to pick the kids up from school, or in the middle of a Saturday afternoon when I should be dusting or folding laundry. There is something so peaceful about puzzling.

It's a peace I need right now.

I tell my friend Sarah that they key to effective puzzling is to walk away from the table for a bit. I tend to get a little OCD, wanting to zero in on the right piece and frustrated when I go for long periods without making any progress. "If I step away from it, I'm able to see more easily how all the pieces fit into place when I come back to it,” I mention one night in the car as we head for dinner at Macaroni Grill.

"Now that sounds like a blog post right there," Sarah observes.

She's right, of course. My puzzling strategy is the perfect metaphor for problem-solving, too. As my dad always says, "When in conflict, do nothing." Sometimes a problem simply needs a little space, a little time to percolate. When I step away and rest on it a bit, the answer is often clearer when I come back.

Time and space allow the pieces to click into place.

Might you be puzzling over a conflict in your life right now? If you're comfortable doing so, let me know in the comment box (or send me a personal email) -- I would love to pray for you, either for something specific, or generally for peace and clarity as you percolate.

Christmas Lights in February {day eight}

2012-02-08T03:00:00.000-06:00

It’s February, and my neighbors still have their Christmas lights lit.

Ordinarily this would irritate me. I have boundaries, you know -- rules that determine when holiday decorations go up and when they ought to come down. The tree and lights and garland come down by New Year’s Day. The scarlet heart that dangles from a suction cup on the front window pane is hung by February 1.

But this year is different.

This year, as I sit under the fleece blanket on my red velvet couch, the glow of the laptop screen bright on my face, I gaze out the window at the neighbor’s Christmas lights in February. Upstairs the boys sleep, and the hallway floor crackles its 10 p.m. creak right on time. The kitchen wall clock ticks. The owl calls from the white pine.

I watch the neighbor’s lights flicker from behind the blowing boughs. And I am comforted.

Anything unusual bringing you comfort and peace these days?

{After I wrote this post but before it went live, my neighbors turned off their Christmas lights. I am disappointed!}

If you want to catch up on the 29 Days of Quiet series, please click here.

Backyard Eden {day seven}

2012-02-07T03:00:00.001-06:00

I step onto the back patio in snow boots and pajamas as the sun glints rose through snow blanketed branches.

It's Sunday morning, and the world is hushed, wrapped thick and still. I pull my parka closed with one hand, and with the other click my camera as I duck under boughs bowed heavy. The remnants of yesterday's snowball war are still visible in the scuffed and trampled snow, where bodies tumbled and snow was shaken free from collars and cuffs. But all is quiet now. The birds still sleep in their nests as the new day dawns in expectant wonder.

Later I can't help myself. I'm back outdoors again, and this time as the sun dips low it's warm enough to shuffle through melting backyard snow without a coat. Rowan leaps at the pine tree, stick in hand, dislodging clumps of snow in radiant showers while I bend close to a single glistening pine needle pirouretting like a dancer in the breeze. We are both happy, each doing our own thing beneath the jeweled boughs.

After the sun slips below the roof I retreat indoors and watch shadows slide over the backyard. Melted snow pools on the tile under my boots as blue dusk descends over a backyard Eden. I stand in my damp socks at the window and watch.

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: The Forest through the Trees

2012-02-06T00:00:00.000-06:00

I am a complainer. I’ll put it right out there. I complain. And I whine, too. And I’m prone to disgruntled crabbiness. I am, as my boss once called me, “a glass half-empty.” It’s true.

I think my glass-half-emptiness often stems from my inability, or rather, my unwillingness, to see the big picture, to see the forest through the trees, as the age-old saying goes. In the midst of hardship, I typically get caught up in the burden of the moment. I can’t see beyond it. And I forget, of course, about all the moments in the past in which God has come through for me already.

In this way I am very much like the Israelites who complain and moan and groan to Moses, and to God himself, during much of their time in the wilderness. For instance, yesterday’s reading (Exodus 16: 9-21) began with God’s response to the Israelites who had relentlessly complained about their hunger and thirst:

The Lord said to Moses, “I have heard the Israelites’ complaints. Now tell them, ‘In the evening you will have meat to eat, and in the morning you will have all the bread you want. Then you will know that I am the Lord your God.’” (Exodus 16:11-12).
We roll our eyes at the Israelites, muttering to ourselves, “I can’t believe that they distrusted God after everything he’d already done for them! Weren’t the plagues enough? Wasn’t the Passover enough? Wasn’t the Red Sea enough? Didn’t they know he would come through for them again? Didn’t they know he would never abandon them and leave them to starve in the wilderness?”

It’s so easy for me to criticize the Israelites. It’s so easy for me to identify their flaws. It's so easy for me to see their bigger picture.

But yet I can't see my own.

I am every bit as distrustful, every bit as blind. I lose myself in the hardship of the moment, unable to see that everything will be okay, just as it has always been okay.

In the last few weeks as my family has walked this familiar road of illness and grief, I’ve said to my husband more than once, “I don’t think we’re going to make it. It doesn’t feel like we are going to make it. It’s too hard.”

And Brad has pointed out, more than once, that we will indeed make it, that we have in fact made it through a similar period of grief and anguish before. Brad reminds me that life does indeed resume again. Joy is found and laughter returns and normalcy – a different normal, but “normal” all the same – comes around again.

He’s right, of course. Not much more than a year ago we walked this same road with my mother-in-law, Janice, as she slowly succumbed to cancer. And although it was extraordinarily painful, and we still miss her deeply, we did recover from that place of hopelessness and fear. And life did return to a new normal.

I know now that God was with us all along on that difficult journey. And that knowledge, along with Brad’s comforting reassurances, are enough to help me broaden my gaze from the difficult moments in the present to the bigger picture at hand. On some days, I can even see the whole forest.

Do you easily get caught up in griping about present discomforts, or are you pretty good at being able to see the bigger picture?

{29 Days of Quiet resumes here tomorrow}

Welcome to the "Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday" community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word.

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Thank you -- I am so grateful to have you here!

Weekend Meditation: Rest {day five}

2012-02-05T13:26:00.000-06:00

God has told his people, "Here is a place of rest; let the weary rest here.
This is a place of quiet rest." (Isaiah 28:12)

Are you listening?

With Deidra...

Rescue {day four}

2012-02-04T03:00:00.001-06:00

Deceptively quiet-looking, aren't they?

It's ironic that I'm writing a 29 Days of Quiet series because honestly, it's not very quiet over here. Ever. Anyone who has parented two young boys or spent any amount of time with the young male species knows they are not a quiet bunch.

The thing about boys that I've always known -- and the thing that's become much, much clearer in the last few weeks as Brad's been out of town with his dad and I've been the only adult in the house -- is that they thrive on inane chatter, obnoxious noises and silliness. It can make one feel just a hair crazy, you know? Like I live in some kind of cheerily decorated asylum. An adult human can only take so much talk about Mario brothers and only so many screeches, squawks, bellows and burps.

That's why I was over-the-moon happy when my phone rang at 7:30 a.m. earlier this week and I heard my dad announce in his tell-it-like-it-is way that my mom would be arriving on Delta at 12:42 p.m. Friday afternoon. A retired Sergeant Major, my dad is a take-action kind of guy, and when he detected the loneliness and fatigue in my voice from 1,500 miles away, he logged on to Travelocity and bought a plane ticket for my mom to come visit the boys and me for the next 10 days.

As I have learned these last few weeks, you're never too old to need your mom...or to be rescued by your dad.

When was the last time you were rescued?

Want to catch up on the 29 Days of Quiet series? Click here.

On the Front Step {day three}

2012-02-03T03:00:00.000-06:00

A couple days ago I sat on the front step for a good long time. The sun was out and it was warm – near 70 – too warm for February in Nebraska. I know I should be worried about global warming and the end of the Earth and all that, but I can’t help but delight in these strangely balmy days when the sun glares bright-white and my jeans get hot to the touch.

Noah sat with me on the step for a while.

We sipped our tea, and he munched Red Hot Blues from the plastic robin’s egg bowl that his dad had snacked from as a kid.

We spotted a red-tailed hawk soaring above the bare elm trees, and tried to figure out whether it was a white-breasted nuthatch or a chickadee calling from deep in the pine boughs. We pondered if the two mourning doves cooing on the telephone wire were married and decided probably not, maybe only friends since they were sitting so far apart.

After a while Noah wandered into the backyard to pound rocks with Cade the neighbor boy and Rowan, because that’s what boys do.

And I laid back on the cool cement, protected from the breeze by the arborvitae tree. I listened to the echoing clink of hammer against stone and watched bare branches wave at the blue sky.

Have you been able to grab any quiet moments outside lately? What have you been seeing out there?

You can catch up on the 29 Days of Quiet series by clicking here.

There {day two}

2012-02-02T03:00:00.000-06:00

Maybe she heard the crazy in my voice. Or the twinge of despair. Or maybe it was when I mentioned to her on the phone that I'd cried while running on the treadmill that morning (And crying while running on the treadmill is definitive red flag behavior, isn't it?). Whatever the reason, and despite all the work she had to get done, and all the deadlines she had to meet that day, Deidra insisted that I hang out with her at Bagels and Joe where she'd stationed herself for the afternoon. "Bring your laptop," she urged. "We'll just sit here and get our work done together."

So I did.

We sat across from one another at the table by the window, my laptop backed up to hers. And every now and then we'd peek over our screens and chat a bit, and then we’d go back to typing.

I ate turkey, lettuce and tomato with chipotle mayo on an asiago bagel (I'd sworn off bagels just two days before, after I'd watched The Last 10 Pounds Bootcamp, but who cares, because even though I'd cried on the treadmill, I was running while crying, so that counts for something, right?), and she had roasted red pepper soup and salad. We laughed and chatted while we ate, and then we went back to more typing.

Deidra saved me last Friday. She reached out, grabbed my sinking hand and quietly pulled me right back into living again. And she did it simply by being there.

Has anyone quietly reached a hand out to you lately? Or perhaps you know someone who needs a hand right this very minute?

Sharing thoughts about real life community with Bonnie Gray and her Thursday Jam...

29 Days of Quiet {day one}

2012-02-01T03:00:00.000-06:00

I used to dread this time of year: the dark days of mid-winter descending like a heavy fog after the crescendo of the holidays.

But this year is different.

I think it started in December, when we first learned about my father-in-law’s cancer. Just two weeks before Christmas, and suddenly all I wanted to do was curl up under the down comforter. Most of our typical holiday activities screeched to a halt. Instead, we concentrated on the regular routine – just getting through every day was enough.

While Brad was in Minnesota visiting doctors with his dad, I’d put the kids to bed, turn out all the lamps except the tiny white lights on the mantel and the ones wrapped around the bannister and the tree. Then I'd light a vanilla votive in the glass hurricane and lie back on the couch, fleece socks on my feet, comforter pulled up to my chin.

I didn't watch TV. I didn't read or blog or tweet. I simply lay with my head on the striped pillow and was quiet.

"It sounds kind of depressing," Brad said, when he called from Minneapolis and I told him about my nightly ritual.

But it wasn't. It was comforting.

I can’t even tell you what I thought about, or what I prayed, or even if I thought or prayed at all. All I know is that those nights under the comforter, the candle flickering shadows across the coffee table, the house creaking into the silence, those nights were solace for me.

That's when I first thought, why not embrace the quiet for a while?

And so, as we stand at the doorway of February, a leap year February, I invite you not to leap but to step gently into a month of quiet with me. Together let’s embrace this hushed, mid-winter pause. I’m not sure at all where this might lead us, or what this series will look like, or even if I will be able to maintain it uninterrupted for the full 29 days, but I invite you to walk into 29 Days of Quiet with me.

Will you come along?

{a note: I will *try* to post all 29 days of February, but Mondays will still be reserved for the "Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday" community link-up. So please don't hesitate to come on by and link up for that, as noisily as you wish!}

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: For the Times You are Afraid...and Obey Anyway

2012-01-30T00:00:00.000-06:00

The day I knew I would have to say goodbye to my mother-in-law was one of the hardest, most terrifying moments I’ve ever faced. You see, until then, I’d never been around a dying person before. I didn’t know what a dying person looked like. Or how I should act or what I should say. I’d never walked into a “deathbed” scene; I’d never had to say goodbye to someone I loved, knowing I would never see that person again. And I’d never watched my children do the same.

As we drove from Nebraska to Minnesota that Labor Day Weekend, I was gripped by a paralyzing fear, and I scrambled for an excuse that would release me from the dreaded event that lay ahead. Just a mile from his parents’ house, I turned to Brad and blurted, “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. I’m afraid.”

I thought of that moment yesterday morning in church as I listened to the reading from Exodus, about the preparations the Israelites made before they fled Egypt. As I heard God’s solemn words to them, I understood the fear and dread they must have experienced as they heeded his dire instructions:

“Wear your traveling clothes as you eat this meal, as though prepared for a long journey. Wear your sandals, and carry your walking sticks in your hands. Eat the food quickly, for this is the Lord’s Passover. On that night I will pass through the land of Egypt and kill all the firstborn sons and firstborn male animals in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 12:11-12).

Can you imagine the terror the Israelites must have felt? Can you imagine sitting with the knowledge that hundreds of young, first-born children would soon die? Can you imagine the dread? The apprehension?

The Israelites were faithful and obedient, sure, but I suspect they were also deeply afraid.

And the truth is, I think that’s okay.

Most of us assume that fear automatically signals distrust; but I think there are also times in life in which fear can and does go hand-in-hand with obedience. Let’s face it: life offers a lot of experiences we don’t particularly like and plenty of moments we’d prefer to skip.

God gets this. He knows us. He knows when we are weak. He knows when we are afraid. He knows that sometimes we have to force ourselves to obey him even when we’d rather run the other way.

God knows that on some days, dread-filled, fearful, tentative obedience is just about all we can muster, and he accepts it for what it is: not a sign of distrust, but rather, a testament of our faith.

Have you ever been deeply afraid of something, yet still went ahead and did it out of sense of obedience or respect?

With Jen's Soli Deo Gloria:

Welcome to the "Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday" community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word.

Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code over in the sidebar) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in -- thank you!

And if you want to tweet about the community, please use the #HearItUseIt hashtag.

Thank you -- I am so grateful to have you here!