bare, brown horizon
give me ugly days, the way
to see through forests
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
gifts we made
Between two handmade shows (which I completely failed to photograph) and a slew of handmade gifts, my Bernina saw a lot of thread this holiday. Although I scheme and cut and piece weeks in advance, I never seem to be able to sit down at my machine until midnight before the item is needed. But somehow it all gets done and, hmmm, now I guess I know why I slept almost the entire Christmas Day. Here's what I've been doing in the wee hours of the morning:
:: A couple of days before Christmas Eve, when we planned to exchange stocking gifts with my siblings, I saw this modern take on the coaster and pulled out my stash of felt. Each sister received a custom color palette and, for perhaps the first time in my handmade career, I kept a set for myself.
:: Homemade bread is a familiar smell in this home, particularly when gifts are in order. Our everyday oatmeal bread sees the oven most often, and flies out of here. I have a hard time deviating. This month I've been flattening out the dough after the first rise, spreading it with cinnamon, brown sugar and raisins, and rolling it back up. The cinnamon-raisin trick would probably work great with our flax seed bread, too.
:: Over the last two months, I have made more than two dozen sweater texting gloves and sold and gifted nearly all of them. So, if you wonder who is snatching up all the wool and cashmere sweaters at Goodwill, now you know. And if you want a pair, let me know. I'm working on a new stash.
:: What does a girl do with all the leftover thrifted wool and cashmere sweaters? Why, make a fabulous sweater blanket, of course. Piecing 12" squares, this two-sided upcycled blanket became a gift for my brother and his wife. It was kind of hard to part with, but since I sewed the blanket together 12 hours before I gave it to them, I didn't have a lot of time to covet it. Plus, I think they liked it.
:: Finally, to satisfy my desire to be a bootlegger, I concocted a little limoncello. I warn anyone who receives this potent beverage, it goes down easy. Take it like medicine: Do not drink (other) alcohol. Do not operate heavy machinery. It may cause extreme drowsiness or personality changes. Hopefully good ones.
We also made a lot of these Chocolate Peppermint Bark Cookies, which were delicious, and Chewy Chocolate Gingerbread Cookies. And although I'd love to make the Chocolate Nutella Cookies my cousin posted about this week, I may have to wait until next December. Quite frankly, I am cookied out.
If you made any gifts this Christmas, please share. New ideas always welcome.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
a merry christmas
:: a house decked with a beloved grandma's favorite Christmas things
:: the magical train beneath the magical tree (from the 4 year old's perspective, at least)
:: cousins on Christmas eve (minus one cute little napper)
:: elaborate notes to Santa (he still believes)
:: Christmas morning at 5 a.m. (from the blurry-eyed mom's point of view)
:: the one and only family photo our camera captured in 2011
Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
deliberate acts of kindness
This Advent season, more than any other, I have been awed by the stories I've heard of people giving gifts to strangers.
A friend from church mobilized her co-workers at a local restaurant to adopt a family of illegal immigrants (a mom and five kids) for Christmas. She collected $460. The money came from people who are struggling to make ends meet, making the generosity all the more amazing.
And then there's this incredible story I read last night of people paying off strangers' Kmart layaways and a family who lost a young daughter to cancer asking for kindnesses to be done in her honor this week. Not only are people giving in beautiful ways this season, they are motivating others to follow suit.
Last night I was able to participate in one of these breathtaking acts of generosity. I will never forget it.
A woman who practices Tae Kwon Do with my husband gave Andrew two sealed envelopes a couple weeks ago. She told him that she likes to practice random acts of kindness over the holidays. She didn't know a lot of people in need but she thought we might be able to give the envelopes to people at our church's next free community supper. Andrew mentioned to me that the envelopes each had a gift card inside.
So last night I took the envelopes with me to the Third Tuesday Supper. I had the envelopes in my apron pocket and forgot about them until halfway through the dinner when I saw a young couple with five little kids under the age of six who come to the supper every month. Although they don't look destitute, I know from brief conversations that they live on the edge and greatly appreciate the free monthly meal. I immediately thought to give them one of the gifts in my pocket.
I gave the envelope to the dad and explained that it came from a friend and I didn't know what was in it exactly, probably not much, but I'm sure with five little ones every bit counts. He was very appreciative.
About 30 minutes later I saw the mom packing up to leave and I told her the same thing.
"It could just be a $5 Starbucks card," I said apologetically.
She looked at me, her eyes awash in tears and whispered, "It had a $100 bill in it."
I sat down next to her, stunned and teary.
"You have no idea how much we needed that," she said. "It could not have come on a better day."
I told her I was so happy but I really didn't have anything to do with it. The gift was from my husband's incredibly generous friend.
She looked at me wide-eyed and said with a crack in her voice, "But you chose us."
This Christmas season when we have so little material wealth to share, we have had a couple of opportunities to pass on monetary gifts that have come to us through other sources. Both times we could have kept the gifts for ourselves (oh, yes, I was momentarily tempted to open the envelopes myself) and, really, no one would blame us. (A fellow Redbud writer has had a similar experience this holiday.)
Instead, we chose to be the vessel. And simply passed on the gift.
Because the less we have, the more we're seeing what really matters: to be an instrument of God's love and be able to witness the awesome impact a gift has on someone who is desperate for a miracle.
As a result, we are not only celebrating the incarnation of love this Christmas, we are sharing in the incarnation of love this Christmas. Nothing beats it. Nothing.
A friend from church mobilized her co-workers at a local restaurant to adopt a family of illegal immigrants (a mom and five kids) for Christmas. She collected $460. The money came from people who are struggling to make ends meet, making the generosity all the more amazing.
And then there's this incredible story I read last night of people paying off strangers' Kmart layaways and a family who lost a young daughter to cancer asking for kindnesses to be done in her honor this week. Not only are people giving in beautiful ways this season, they are motivating others to follow suit.
Last night I was able to participate in one of these breathtaking acts of generosity. I will never forget it.
A woman who practices Tae Kwon Do with my husband gave Andrew two sealed envelopes a couple weeks ago. She told him that she likes to practice random acts of kindness over the holidays. She didn't know a lot of people in need but she thought we might be able to give the envelopes to people at our church's next free community supper. Andrew mentioned to me that the envelopes each had a gift card inside.
So last night I took the envelopes with me to the Third Tuesday Supper. I had the envelopes in my apron pocket and forgot about them until halfway through the dinner when I saw a young couple with five little kids under the age of six who come to the supper every month. Although they don't look destitute, I know from brief conversations that they live on the edge and greatly appreciate the free monthly meal. I immediately thought to give them one of the gifts in my pocket.
I gave the envelope to the dad and explained that it came from a friend and I didn't know what was in it exactly, probably not much, but I'm sure with five little ones every bit counts. He was very appreciative.
About 30 minutes later I saw the mom packing up to leave and I told her the same thing.
"It could just be a $5 Starbucks card," I said apologetically.
She looked at me, her eyes awash in tears and whispered, "It had a $100 bill in it."
I sat down next to her, stunned and teary.
"You have no idea how much we needed that," she said. "It could not have come on a better day."
I told her I was so happy but I really didn't have anything to do with it. The gift was from my husband's incredibly generous friend.
She looked at me wide-eyed and said with a crack in her voice, "But you chose us."
This Christmas season when we have so little material wealth to share, we have had a couple of opportunities to pass on monetary gifts that have come to us through other sources. Both times we could have kept the gifts for ourselves (oh, yes, I was momentarily tempted to open the envelopes myself) and, really, no one would blame us. (A fellow Redbud writer has had a similar experience this holiday.)
Instead, we chose to be the vessel. And simply passed on the gift.
Because the less we have, the more we're seeing what really matters: to be an instrument of God's love and be able to witness the awesome impact a gift has on someone who is desperate for a miracle.
As a result, we are not only celebrating the incarnation of love this Christmas, we are sharing in the incarnation of love this Christmas. Nothing beats it. Nothing.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
why we should be talking about George Whitman
Two literary icons died this week and the Internet is all abuzz. But just about one.
Although he was brilliant man, much discussed and debated, Christopher Hitchens won't be the focus of this post. The social media and news outlets have his legacy covered today. And, quite frankly, I'm tired of the smug and pitying comments. There has to be more to a great man's life.
And so this post is about the other icon, the unassuming one. The one whose death should be stealing bandwidth. The one whose name you probably won't recognize.
George Whitman, an American journalist, veteran and traveler, moved to Paris in 1948 and opened a little bookstore on the left bank. Packed floor to ceiling with books, Shakespeare & Company quickly became a haven for roaming writers and book lovers and a literary landmark in La Ville-Lumière.
As a study-abroad student, massively infatuated with my new home away from home, I frequented Whitman's famous bookstore and spent hours grazing the stacks, curled up in cushioned corners and practicing my broken French on Whitman himself. To this day, I can smell the musty pages, hear the creaking floorboards and remember the warm welcome. Even before I discovered the significance of the place, I knew there was something special about that store and the man who owned it.
According to the Shakespeare & Company website, before Whitman moved to Paris, he traveled to an isolated part of the Yucatan, fell ill and was nursed back to health by a remote Mayan tribe. He was so impressed by the generosity and friendliness of these people who lived in such extreme poverty, their philosophy of "give what you can, take what you need" shaped his life forever.
Living in a little apartment above the store until he died this week at 98, Whitman managed to create a home for the homesick and be a friend to the friendless. It was simply his way of doing business.
He didn't write controversial books. He didn't try to unlock the secrets of the universe or debate the meaning (or meaninglessness) of life. He never went on a talk show or wrote an op ed piece for The New York Times. But to thousands of people, many lonely, many lost, he was a brilliant man.
Whitman showed his greatness by welcoming strangers. He left his door unlocked - all the time - so anyone who needed a place to sleep could come in and do so. He shared great books. He shared meals. He shared ideas. He shared love.
He was a beloved man in a city that doesn't really care for Americans. His bright mind, his big heart and his eccentric little shop were known among authors, readers and vagabonds around the world.
On the wall of Shakespeare & Company, these words from Yeats are penned, "Be not inhospitable to strangers / Lest they be angels in disguise."
We would all be wise to stop filling our social media spaces with pitying comments about the dead and fill them instead with Whitman's philosophy. We would then be brilliant to live by it.
Although he was brilliant man, much discussed and debated, Christopher Hitchens won't be the focus of this post. The social media and news outlets have his legacy covered today. And, quite frankly, I'm tired of the smug and pitying comments. There has to be more to a great man's life.
And so this post is about the other icon, the unassuming one. The one whose death should be stealing bandwidth. The one whose name you probably won't recognize.
George Whitman, an American journalist, veteran and traveler, moved to Paris in 1948 and opened a little bookstore on the left bank. Packed floor to ceiling with books, Shakespeare & Company quickly became a haven for roaming writers and book lovers and a literary landmark in La Ville-Lumière.
As a study-abroad student, massively infatuated with my new home away from home, I frequented Whitman's famous bookstore and spent hours grazing the stacks, curled up in cushioned corners and practicing my broken French on Whitman himself. To this day, I can smell the musty pages, hear the creaking floorboards and remember the warm welcome. Even before I discovered the significance of the place, I knew there was something special about that store and the man who owned it.
According to the Shakespeare & Company website, before Whitman moved to Paris, he traveled to an isolated part of the Yucatan, fell ill and was nursed back to health by a remote Mayan tribe. He was so impressed by the generosity and friendliness of these people who lived in such extreme poverty, their philosophy of "give what you can, take what you need" shaped his life forever.
Living in a little apartment above the store until he died this week at 98, Whitman managed to create a home for the homesick and be a friend to the friendless. It was simply his way of doing business.
He didn't write controversial books. He didn't try to unlock the secrets of the universe or debate the meaning (or meaninglessness) of life. He never went on a talk show or wrote an op ed piece for The New York Times. But to thousands of people, many lonely, many lost, he was a brilliant man.
Whitman showed his greatness by welcoming strangers. He left his door unlocked - all the time - so anyone who needed a place to sleep could come in and do so. He shared great books. He shared meals. He shared ideas. He shared love.
He was a beloved man in a city that doesn't really care for Americans. His bright mind, his big heart and his eccentric little shop were known among authors, readers and vagabonds around the world.
On the wall of Shakespeare & Company, these words from Yeats are penned, "Be not inhospitable to strangers / Lest they be angels in disguise."
We would all be wise to stop filling our social media spaces with pitying comments about the dead and fill them instead with Whitman's philosophy. We would then be brilliant to live by it.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
tape, paper, scissors
My son is on a mission. This weekend Liam wanted something to "do," so I gave him a stack of old Christmas cards, tape and scissors and told him to make an ornament. Instead, he set off to make gifts, for everyone.
If you are on Liam's gift list, please don't let on that you know about his cutting and taping. Lots and lots of taping. I promise you will be delighted with your gift.
He couldn't wait to give me mine. He pressed me to open it the night before I was to speak at the Advent Service, and I'm glad he did. I needed his sweet and surprising words.
Now, lest you think my son is all wonderfully angelic, I found a piece of card used for an entirely different purpose yesterday.
Not even the baby Jesus is safe from a LEGO ambush.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
already and not yet
“That’ll be $28.62.”
The Aldi cashier looked expectantly at the woman in line ahead of me. He had efficiently rung up and tossed her 20 or so items into the waiting basket—coffee cake, chips, ice cream, caramel apples.
The young woman, sporting a tight glittery t-shirt over her swelling belly, handed her debit card to the cashier.
He swiped it.
“Denied,” he said, holding out the card.
The woman pursed her lips.
“Try it again.”
“Sorry,” he said swiping it a second time.
The woman pulled six dollars out of her wallet, then stuffed the bills back in.
“Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll put the things back.”
During the 90 seconds of this exchange, I felt my heart speed up as I contemplated what I could do. I considered the $30 cash I had in my wallet. For a second or two I thought of handing it to her. Or just telling her not to worry, I had it covered.
But I wondered how strange that would look or how I would respond if she refused my offer. I considered the fact that we don’t really have extra money to be throwing around these days. And, truth be told, I didn’t like what she was buying.
Even though I knew the awful embarrassment of having a card rejected at the point of purchase, I did nothing more than attempt to smile at the woman as she steered her cart back into the store.
Now, two months later, I can’t get this encounter out of my mind.
::
A couple years before I met my husband, he had moved to Scotland from a small town in Italy, with barely a penny in his pocket. His first day in Edinburgh, Andrew found a job washing dishes at a pub. After a week, Alice, the pub manager called him into her office and asked him how it was going and where he was living. He told her (proudly, I imagine, and without any sense that it should have been otherwise) that he had a tent and was camping at a nearby campground. Alice looked surprised and then shook her head "no," reached into her purse and pulled out her checkbook. Before Andrew could protest, she wrote out a check for 800 pounds and told him to go find an apartment and he could pay her back later.
Although Alice knew Andrew for another two years and saw not only her loan paid back but also his promotion to cook and assistant bar manager and his courtship and engagement to this nice-enough American girl, I don't think she could ever know the tremendous impact her split-second decision had on my husband. Andrew was a stranger and yet she risked losing a large sum of money, not to mention trust in another person's ability and desire to do the right thing, by helping him.
What Alice did was risky and extravagant. As a result, my husband views her as one of the few people in his life who has ever truly loved him.
This story humbles me. In general, I think I’m pretty great at showering people with love. But I’m no Alice. My split-second decisions are usually peppered with worry and judgment.
This Christmas season, I have been thinking about what Alice did for my husband, and what I failed to do for the woman in Aldi. And I am being reminded that the One we wait for at Advent, the Christ child, was also a risky and extravagant gift given to strangers.
If I could go back to my Aldi encounter, I’d pay for the pregnant woman’s groceries. And I’d give her a hug, if she’d let me. And talk with her. About her impending birth experience, where she was living and what kind of support she had for a growing family. If I was really being risky I’d ask her if her hunger was being satisfied. I’d engage her on a level that an awkward smile wouldn’t allow for but a generous gift might.
More than 2000 years ago, God gave us the most generous of gifts when He brought His kingdom to earth. And every time we love each other—family, friend and, yes, stranger—with his risky, extravagant love, we bring it back again.
But it’s not easy. Although Jesus has already come—we’re reminded of it every Christmas—we still need him to show up again. It’s a crazy, messed up world. Full of hurts and worries. Distrust and dishonesty. Rejection and loneliness. And that’s why I love remembering Alice.
Alice shined God's love in a dark corner where it had not yet been. And for one person, that made all the difference.
May we all be like Alice, brave and bold, filled by the awesome, gracious presence of the God who is already here and the joyful anticipation of the God we wait for, and take a few generous risks for those who have not yet seen Him.
::
I had the privilege of sharing this reflection at the Women's Advent Service at our church yesterday. A couple days after I wrote it, I ran across a story on NPR about a man who was mugged in New York City and responded in a risky and extravagant way. I am sure that I would never have the presence of mind to respond as he did but the story is inspiring and is evidence (in my mind) that even in a messed up, crazy world desperately in need of the peace and reconciliation we sing about this Advent, God continues to work through us to bring his kingdom to earth.
The Aldi cashier looked expectantly at the woman in line ahead of me. He had efficiently rung up and tossed her 20 or so items into the waiting basket—coffee cake, chips, ice cream, caramel apples.
The young woman, sporting a tight glittery t-shirt over her swelling belly, handed her debit card to the cashier.
He swiped it.
“Denied,” he said, holding out the card.
The woman pursed her lips.
“Try it again.”
“Sorry,” he said swiping it a second time.
The woman pulled six dollars out of her wallet, then stuffed the bills back in.
“Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll put the things back.”
During the 90 seconds of this exchange, I felt my heart speed up as I contemplated what I could do. I considered the $30 cash I had in my wallet. For a second or two I thought of handing it to her. Or just telling her not to worry, I had it covered.
But I wondered how strange that would look or how I would respond if she refused my offer. I considered the fact that we don’t really have extra money to be throwing around these days. And, truth be told, I didn’t like what she was buying.
Even though I knew the awful embarrassment of having a card rejected at the point of purchase, I did nothing more than attempt to smile at the woman as she steered her cart back into the store.
Now, two months later, I can’t get this encounter out of my mind.
::
A couple years before I met my husband, he had moved to Scotland from a small town in Italy, with barely a penny in his pocket. His first day in Edinburgh, Andrew found a job washing dishes at a pub. After a week, Alice, the pub manager called him into her office and asked him how it was going and where he was living. He told her (proudly, I imagine, and without any sense that it should have been otherwise) that he had a tent and was camping at a nearby campground. Alice looked surprised and then shook her head "no," reached into her purse and pulled out her checkbook. Before Andrew could protest, she wrote out a check for 800 pounds and told him to go find an apartment and he could pay her back later.
Although Alice knew Andrew for another two years and saw not only her loan paid back but also his promotion to cook and assistant bar manager and his courtship and engagement to this nice-enough American girl, I don't think she could ever know the tremendous impact her split-second decision had on my husband. Andrew was a stranger and yet she risked losing a large sum of money, not to mention trust in another person's ability and desire to do the right thing, by helping him.
What Alice did was risky and extravagant. As a result, my husband views her as one of the few people in his life who has ever truly loved him.
This story humbles me. In general, I think I’m pretty great at showering people with love. But I’m no Alice. My split-second decisions are usually peppered with worry and judgment.
This Christmas season, I have been thinking about what Alice did for my husband, and what I failed to do for the woman in Aldi. And I am being reminded that the One we wait for at Advent, the Christ child, was also a risky and extravagant gift given to strangers.
If I could go back to my Aldi encounter, I’d pay for the pregnant woman’s groceries. And I’d give her a hug, if she’d let me. And talk with her. About her impending birth experience, where she was living and what kind of support she had for a growing family. If I was really being risky I’d ask her if her hunger was being satisfied. I’d engage her on a level that an awkward smile wouldn’t allow for but a generous gift might.
More than 2000 years ago, God gave us the most generous of gifts when He brought His kingdom to earth. And every time we love each other—family, friend and, yes, stranger—with his risky, extravagant love, we bring it back again.
But it’s not easy. Although Jesus has already come—we’re reminded of it every Christmas—we still need him to show up again. It’s a crazy, messed up world. Full of hurts and worries. Distrust and dishonesty. Rejection and loneliness. And that’s why I love remembering Alice.
Alice shined God's love in a dark corner where it had not yet been. And for one person, that made all the difference.
May we all be like Alice, brave and bold, filled by the awesome, gracious presence of the God who is already here and the joyful anticipation of the God we wait for, and take a few generous risks for those who have not yet seen Him.
::
I had the privilege of sharing this reflection at the Women's Advent Service at our church yesterday. A couple days after I wrote it, I ran across a story on NPR about a man who was mugged in New York City and responded in a risky and extravagant way. I am sure that I would never have the presence of mind to respond as he did but the story is inspiring and is evidence (in my mind) that even in a messed up, crazy world desperately in need of the peace and reconciliation we sing about this Advent, God continues to work through us to bring his kingdom to earth.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
a little pumpkin
This post isn't about Elliott, although he is a little pumpkin (especially when sleeping), and I couldn't resist showing this sweet photo of him cuddled with his uncle Tim post-Thanksgiving Day dinner.
This post, however, is about the real sort of pumpkin. The sort that I love in just about every concoction except traditional pumpkin pie. Weird, I know.
Pumpkin muffins, however . . . well, let's just say I shudder to think how many I've eaten over the last five days. But when a girl is perfecting her recipe, many batches must be tried. Bellyaches aside, I am pleased to say that have landed on the moistest, tastiest and, yes, perhaps healthiest pumpkin muffin recipe ever.
If you, too, are a fan of pumpkin, I suggest you roast a pumpkin or open a can and give it a try. Or, if you are not a fan, check out these recipes for Pumpkin Caramel Gingersnap Cheesecake and Pumpkin Caramel Bars with Bacon. Warning: They are not healthy. But they may cure you of an aversion to pumpkin. I mean, really, how can you go wrong with caramel, or bacon? And since we are now looking at unhealthy pumpkin recipes, be sure not to miss one of my favorite autumn treats: Southwestern Pumpkin Soup. I made it last night, in fact. Needed some heavy cream to wash all those muffins down.
Now, onto our healthy pumpkin recipe. . .
The Best Pumpkin Muffins
Mix together:
1 cup pumpkin puree or 1/2 can pumpkin
1/3 cup melted coconut oil (if you don't have it, you can use butter)
2 eggs
3/4 honey and/or pure maple syrup
Whisk together and add to mixture above:
2 cups flour (I like the Ultragrain flour or use a mix of multipurpose and whole wheat pastry flour if you can)
1 tsp baking powder
1 1/2 t pumpkin pie spice (or 1/2 cinnamon, 1/4 nutmeg, 1/4 allspice, 1/4 clove, 1/4 ginger)
1/2 t baking soda
1/2 t salt
Add 1/2 cup chopped walnuts or pecans (optional).
Spoon into a greased muffin tin and bake at 350 for 20 minutes. Makes a dozen.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
grace that comes before
One thing I love about Methodism is the belief in prevenient grace. The beautiful idea that divine love precedes any and all of our conscious decisions. The steadfast hope that God always goes before us, making a way before we even know that we need one.
Two weekends ago my dearest friend from college flew me out to Durham. We try to see each other once a year if possible and my birthday was as good excuse as any to get a visit in. Lauren and I ate great meals, chaperoned a 12-year-old boy's sleepover, hiked along the Eno, cheered as the underdog Duke women's volleyball game upset the undefeated conference champs, threw a little party and laughed and talked and laughed and talked.
The week before I left, Andrew and I both had ended up in bed with Elliott on two separate nights and both accidentally fell asleep after soothing his bad dream or whatever wakened him. And we both were awoken around 4 a.m. to Elliott having a seizure.
We know that Elliott has had seizures in his sleep in the past. This summer we saw a neurologist who took him through a whole battery of awful tests to try to determine the specifics of these episodes. But the results were inconclusive. Although he had a 20-minute seizure while enduring an EEG, nothing abnormal showed up. The best the neurologist could offer was a drug trial. For many reasons, we decided to wait. My gut said that testing anticonvulsants on our son was not the answer.
For months, after upping his B6 intake and making some other small changes to his diet, we thought perhaps the four seizures we had seen in a 3-month period over the summer were a fluke. The week we slept with our son, however, alerted us that the episodes were probably happening a lot more often than we imagined. But we had no idea how to find a neurologist who would be able to look at Elliott's condition any differently, and who wouldn't subject him to the same barbaric EEG testing regimen, only to come up empty-handed again.
So, I went to Durham, looking forward to the break and some quiet time to both think and forget.
During my visit, Lauren had invited a bunch of women from work and church to come over for a party on Saturday night. Although I knew a few of her friends, most were new to me. One woman was very quiet. It seemed clear that she didn't know many people either. So I started talking to her. She told me her friend had invited her to come along and she didn't know anyone there, including Lauren. Somehow we got onto the topic of work and she told me that she was a clinical dietician for an epilepsy center. That she worked for one of the top pediatric neurologists at Duke.
As we talked, I shared about Elliott, his condition and his seizures, and our uncertainty about what to do next. She told me to give me her email address and she would ask the neurologist who we should see in Chicago. And I knew that this moment—where I fly halfway across the country to meet a woman at a party who wasn't even known by the hostess—was a moment divinely arranged long before I could have ever known I needed it.
The party woman emailed me a couple days after I returned home with the name of a neurologist at the University of Chicago who specializes in both cerebellum issues and seizure disorder. After looking him up online, I discovered that the U of C Children's Hospital is one of the few in the world with non-invasive EEG technology that pinpoints even the peskiest seizure disorders. And, miraculously, I connected to the department in one ring and was able to get an appointment the first week of January with a specialist who normally schedules new patient appointments 6-8 months out. Even the scheduler was surprised.
Some may call it coincidence, serendipity or simply good luck. But more and more I am seeing that God goes before us, making a way before we even know we need it. Prevenient grace. Divine love. Whatever it's called, I just see one more amazing gift to be thankful for.
Two weekends ago my dearest friend from college flew me out to Durham. We try to see each other once a year if possible and my birthday was as good excuse as any to get a visit in. Lauren and I ate great meals, chaperoned a 12-year-old boy's sleepover, hiked along the Eno, cheered as the underdog Duke women's volleyball game upset the undefeated conference champs, threw a little party and laughed and talked and laughed and talked.
The week before I left, Andrew and I both had ended up in bed with Elliott on two separate nights and both accidentally fell asleep after soothing his bad dream or whatever wakened him. And we both were awoken around 4 a.m. to Elliott having a seizure.
We know that Elliott has had seizures in his sleep in the past. This summer we saw a neurologist who took him through a whole battery of awful tests to try to determine the specifics of these episodes. But the results were inconclusive. Although he had a 20-minute seizure while enduring an EEG, nothing abnormal showed up. The best the neurologist could offer was a drug trial. For many reasons, we decided to wait. My gut said that testing anticonvulsants on our son was not the answer.
For months, after upping his B6 intake and making some other small changes to his diet, we thought perhaps the four seizures we had seen in a 3-month period over the summer were a fluke. The week we slept with our son, however, alerted us that the episodes were probably happening a lot more often than we imagined. But we had no idea how to find a neurologist who would be able to look at Elliott's condition any differently, and who wouldn't subject him to the same barbaric EEG testing regimen, only to come up empty-handed again.
So, I went to Durham, looking forward to the break and some quiet time to both think and forget.
During my visit, Lauren had invited a bunch of women from work and church to come over for a party on Saturday night. Although I knew a few of her friends, most were new to me. One woman was very quiet. It seemed clear that she didn't know many people either. So I started talking to her. She told me her friend had invited her to come along and she didn't know anyone there, including Lauren. Somehow we got onto the topic of work and she told me that she was a clinical dietician for an epilepsy center. That she worked for one of the top pediatric neurologists at Duke.
As we talked, I shared about Elliott, his condition and his seizures, and our uncertainty about what to do next. She told me to give me her email address and she would ask the neurologist who we should see in Chicago. And I knew that this moment—where I fly halfway across the country to meet a woman at a party who wasn't even known by the hostess—was a moment divinely arranged long before I could have ever known I needed it.
The party woman emailed me a couple days after I returned home with the name of a neurologist at the University of Chicago who specializes in both cerebellum issues and seizure disorder. After looking him up online, I discovered that the U of C Children's Hospital is one of the few in the world with non-invasive EEG technology that pinpoints even the peskiest seizure disorders. And, miraculously, I connected to the department in one ring and was able to get an appointment the first week of January with a specialist who normally schedules new patient appointments 6-8 months out. Even the scheduler was surprised.
Some may call it coincidence, serendipity or simply good luck. But more and more I am seeing that God goes before us, making a way before we even know we need it. Prevenient grace. Divine love. Whatever it's called, I just see one more amazing gift to be thankful for.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
why he does it
"For Andrew Bordoni, a private guitar teacher in St. Charles, music is more than just entertainment. It's a tool that can help better the world."
So begins an article in today's paper on my husband's student concert and fundraiser for the community of Taurage, Lithuania. I couldn't have written a better lead.
Last weekend Andrew pulled off a concert/recital that featured a dozen of his guitar students strumming, picking and shredding their well-practiced tunes with a full backing band. Playing everything from the Beatles and the Blues Brothers to Led Zeppelin and Nirvana, these kids (and a few adults) rocked the house (or our church's fellowship hall, as it were). The concert also included a silent auction to benefit our sister church and orphanage in Taurage, which raised about $2,000.
My husband had never been on a "missions trip," but a couple of years ago, he was (gently) coerced by our associate pastor at the time to go and visit the orphanage and see firsthand the work of the Taurage UMC, dubbed "The Little Church That Helps" by locals and government officials. Andrew was so moved by the beauty of the children coupled with the absolute hopelessness they face. And he can't get them out of his heart.
Lithuania currently has the highest rate of suicides in the world. Most children in the orphanages have at least one living parent and are, thus, unavailable for adoption. In many cases, the extremely poor economy has made it impossible for parents to keep their children, or the parents have left the country in search of work and left their children behind. It's devastating. And Andrew is all about nurturing whatever hope these kids have left.
Because he overcame an incredibly difficult and painful childhood, my husband believes in the impossible. The kids (and adults) on his student roster get the benefit of his passion as well. He teaches students with developmental delays, social disorders and autism. One mom told me, with tears in her eyes, that her son's response to lessons with Andrew has been a complete miracle.
A former student, now studying music in college, recently wrote about Andrew, "Some people are blessed with talent. Others are blessed with the ability to teach. Andrew is blessed with both."
My husband could probably find a salaried job somewhere. Or he could be out on the road with a band 300 days a year (as he's quite the genius guitar player himself). Instead, he uses his gifts and channels his passions to change lives. In my humble opinion, nothing could be better.
{photos by Tom Nicol}
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
standing in the gap
I am a natural-born giver. If I see a need, I long to fulfill it. If someone is in trouble, I want to help. Some might say that this desire isn't so much innate as it is the result of coming from a broken home and falling into the role of caretaker at a very young age. However I've come to it, I love to serve.
On the flip side, I am not a good receiver. I feel funny when people give me gifts. I don't ask for help. I'm not needy. This could be the way I protected myself as a child so I wouldn't be disappointed when the things I longed for most weren't fulfilled. I just decided not to want anything.
When I wrote the post last week that highlighted our financial situation, I knew I was taking a risk by being so transparent, but I didn't think about the fact that I was opening myself up to being a receiver. Many people reached out with encouragement, sympathy and difficult stories of their own. A couple people gave us gifts. One was monetary.
When money was offered my immediate impulse was to refuse. But the offer was presented so winsomely. This couple, who we haven't known particularly long but who we deeply admire and love, told us that they needed us to help them live out their baptismal covenant, that they made vows that involved our family. That they had agreed to surround our family with a community of love and forgiveness, that we might grow in our trust of God, and be found faithful in our service to others. That they had accepted the freedom and power God gives to resist evil, injustice and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves. And this was all reason enough, even as a family with little extra to share, to offer to help us pay our bills.
"It is not right for you to face this alone," they wrote to us, "and it would be even more wrong for us to turn away from you as if we were not your family."
It was hard to say no to the offer. So, overwhelmed, we humbly, appreciatively, and somewhat awkwardly, accepted, and unknowingly gave God a foothold to do something unexpected in our lives.
Several weeks ago, I went to my grandparents' alma mater to participate in a homecoming celebration that honored their legacy. During the weekend, my uncle Dan spoke at the college chapel service. He shared a passage in the gospel of Mark about some people who brought a deaf and mute friend to Jesus for healing. Dan talked about the unnamed "they" who brought the man as being the hero of the story. "They" were advocates. "They" were the voice for a man who had none. "They" pleaded on his behalf. "They" stood in the gap.
I loved the message. As a giver, it excited and inspired me. Yes, I thought, I do this. I make meals for people in need. I hang out with lonely people at our church's Third Tuesday Suppers. As a family, we have long-term plans to foster and possibly adopt. And I want to do more advocating, more giving, on a global scale. A friend to the friendless. A voice for the voiceless. Never once did it occur to me that I could be the mute man.
And, yet, here we are. In trouble. In need. Receiving from others who are standing in the gap for our sake. It's strange and humbling and beautiful. It takes my breath away. It's not at all what I expected being a receiver would be like.
Two days after I put up my post I learned that a new friend was going to be evicted from his apartment. Interestingly, or perhaps ironically, this man truly is deaf and mute. I sit with him every month at Third Tuesday Suppers using what very little sign language I know, and speaking the universal language of smiles and hugs. No one lights up a room like Keith. And the fact that this lovely, hard-working, college-educated man would be put out on the street because he lost his overtime at a job he's held for 20 years and can't make enough regular wage to make his very modest ends meet made my heart ache. I felt furious at the injustice and humbled that his immediate situation was so much worse than ours.
Within 24 hours, a family had formed to stand in the gap for Keith and help him stay in his apartment. And, because of the gift we were given, we could give some of the money back and be part of this family. But this time, I wasn't giving because I was born to or because my past was dictating my behavior. I wasn't patting myself on the back for being the hero of the story.
We gave simply because we had an idea of what desperate feels like, and what grace could do. We knew that our friends weren't standing in the gap for us so we could see how awesome they were or so that they could rescue us from all our troubles. They were doing it so we could be touched by Jesus. So that we could get a glimpse of something holy. And, no matter what, we had to help give Keith a glimpse, too.
I am finally learning that giving isn't about us doing good. At its best, giving is an uncontrollable pouring out simply because we've been poured on. It's about being a family, about living in holy community. It's about being the mute man and getting a glimpse of true forgiveness, sacrifice and love.
Because, in the end, we are all the mute man. We all have soul-crushing needs and awful truths about our lives, and when we stand in the gap for each other we are setting off a chain reaction, breaking through the veil to give each other a beautiful glimpse of God's kingdom that truly is among us.
On the flip side, I am not a good receiver. I feel funny when people give me gifts. I don't ask for help. I'm not needy. This could be the way I protected myself as a child so I wouldn't be disappointed when the things I longed for most weren't fulfilled. I just decided not to want anything.
When I wrote the post last week that highlighted our financial situation, I knew I was taking a risk by being so transparent, but I didn't think about the fact that I was opening myself up to being a receiver. Many people reached out with encouragement, sympathy and difficult stories of their own. A couple people gave us gifts. One was monetary.
When money was offered my immediate impulse was to refuse. But the offer was presented so winsomely. This couple, who we haven't known particularly long but who we deeply admire and love, told us that they needed us to help them live out their baptismal covenant, that they made vows that involved our family. That they had agreed to surround our family with a community of love and forgiveness, that we might grow in our trust of God, and be found faithful in our service to others. That they had accepted the freedom and power God gives to resist evil, injustice and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves. And this was all reason enough, even as a family with little extra to share, to offer to help us pay our bills.
"It is not right for you to face this alone," they wrote to us, "and it would be even more wrong for us to turn away from you as if we were not your family."
It was hard to say no to the offer. So, overwhelmed, we humbly, appreciatively, and somewhat awkwardly, accepted, and unknowingly gave God a foothold to do something unexpected in our lives.
Several weeks ago, I went to my grandparents' alma mater to participate in a homecoming celebration that honored their legacy. During the weekend, my uncle Dan spoke at the college chapel service. He shared a passage in the gospel of Mark about some people who brought a deaf and mute friend to Jesus for healing. Dan talked about the unnamed "they" who brought the man as being the hero of the story. "They" were advocates. "They" were the voice for a man who had none. "They" pleaded on his behalf. "They" stood in the gap.
I loved the message. As a giver, it excited and inspired me. Yes, I thought, I do this. I make meals for people in need. I hang out with lonely people at our church's Third Tuesday Suppers. As a family, we have long-term plans to foster and possibly adopt. And I want to do more advocating, more giving, on a global scale. A friend to the friendless. A voice for the voiceless. Never once did it occur to me that I could be the mute man.
And, yet, here we are. In trouble. In need. Receiving from others who are standing in the gap for our sake. It's strange and humbling and beautiful. It takes my breath away. It's not at all what I expected being a receiver would be like.
Two days after I put up my post I learned that a new friend was going to be evicted from his apartment. Interestingly, or perhaps ironically, this man truly is deaf and mute. I sit with him every month at Third Tuesday Suppers using what very little sign language I know, and speaking the universal language of smiles and hugs. No one lights up a room like Keith. And the fact that this lovely, hard-working, college-educated man would be put out on the street because he lost his overtime at a job he's held for 20 years and can't make enough regular wage to make his very modest ends meet made my heart ache. I felt furious at the injustice and humbled that his immediate situation was so much worse than ours.
Within 24 hours, a family had formed to stand in the gap for Keith and help him stay in his apartment. And, because of the gift we were given, we could give some of the money back and be part of this family. But this time, I wasn't giving because I was born to or because my past was dictating my behavior. I wasn't patting myself on the back for being the hero of the story.
We gave simply because we had an idea of what desperate feels like, and what grace could do. We knew that our friends weren't standing in the gap for us so we could see how awesome they were or so that they could rescue us from all our troubles. They were doing it so we could be touched by Jesus. So that we could get a glimpse of something holy. And, no matter what, we had to help give Keith a glimpse, too.
I am finally learning that giving isn't about us doing good. At its best, giving is an uncontrollable pouring out simply because we've been poured on. It's about being a family, about living in holy community. It's about being the mute man and getting a glimpse of true forgiveness, sacrifice and love.
Because, in the end, we are all the mute man. We all have soul-crushing needs and awful truths about our lives, and when we stand in the gap for each other we are setting off a chain reaction, breaking through the veil to give each other a beautiful glimpse of God's kingdom that truly is among us.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
the tooth fairy responds
So, this morning we learned that the tooth fairy's given name is Evensong (since she only comes out in the evening and some say her voice sounds like music). She lives in an uncharted land (although, by her writing style, I'm guessing a British colony). She is happy not to be asked her age, and what she does with all those teeth remains a mystery. (Be sure to read Liam's letter if you haven't.)
Oh, and the tooth fairy writes in cursive. Those wanting to banish this skill from school curriculums take note. Future generations of tooth fairies will be crippled if we eliminate fluid handwriting from our children's skill set.
Although he doesn't look like it (but serious face was the only way to get a clear photo), Liam was thrilled to receive her hand-written note (sprinkled with fairy dust, no less). And apparently, he spotted her on the stairs this morning, disappearing in a flash of light.
On the walk to school, he told me that if he had wanted to, he could have reached out and grabbed the tooth fairy before she vanished.
"Why didn't you?" I asked.
"Because, mom," he answered with grave seriousness. "Arthur Spiderwick's Field Guide says that fairies have very sharp teeth. You don't want to mess with them."
May he please believe forever.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
a note found next to a sleeping boy
Liam went to bed with a paper and pencil tonight. He felt a note to the tooth fairy was in order. I thought it would be a one-liner not an inquisition.
::
Dear tooth-fairy,
At school to day, we had suckers for a late Halloween treet, and wile I bit into the sucker I acsedetly swolod my tooth, because I had a loose tooth! By the way, my name is Liam. (Lee-um) What is your name besides tooth-fairy? Where do you live? And what do you do with all thows teeth? 1. Do you collect them? 2. Do you put them in new born baby's? Or 3. Do you put them in a mishene that makes them into one big tooth? What do you do with them? Also, are you a he or a she? I am seven year's old. I know it is not polite to ask older people how old thay are, so I will not ask you.
From Liam Bordoni
::
Dear tooth-fairy,
At school to day, we had suckers for a late Halloween treet, and wile I bit into the sucker I acsedetly swolod my tooth, because I had a loose tooth! By the way, my name is Liam. (Lee-um) What is your name besides tooth-fairy? Where do you live? And what do you do with all thows teeth? 1. Do you collect them? 2. Do you put them in new born baby's? Or 3. Do you put them in a mishene that makes them into one big tooth? What do you do with them? Also, are you a he or a she? I am seven year's old. I know it is not polite to ask older people how old thay are, so I will not ask you.
From Liam Bordoni
Friday, October 28, 2011
friday haiku {and a recipe}
alchemy of soup
carrots, lentils, rice and broth
says all will be well
::
Lentil and Brown Rice Soup
I looked back through all my recipe posts, and I can't believe I've never shared this. When the weather turns, I make this soup. All. The. Time. Love that it uses pantry staples and inexpensive veggies and, other than a little chopping, takes almost zero effort. Plus, you can adapt it and add other root veggies you have on hand. Today I threw in some golden beets. Cheap, easy, healthy comfort food at its best.
1 cup lentils
1/2 cup brown rice
3 cups broth
4 cups water
2 t. salt
1/2 t. oregano
1/4 t. thyme
1/4 t. fresh ground pepper
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 small onion, chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
2 carrots, sliced
1 can diced or whole tomatoes
1 T. cider vinegar
Put all ingredients except tomatoes and vinegar in a pot. Heat to boiling, reduce to simmer and cover; 45 minutes. Stir in tomatoes (break up if using whole) and vinegar. Simmer another 10-15 minutes. Ladle in bowls and sprinkle with parmesan.
Monday, October 24, 2011
grumble hallelujah
We are in a financial mess. Creditors call us daily. I don’t even open the medical bills anymore. Our mortgage is late again, and I don't know how we're going to pay it. And I can’t believe I’m writing this for anyone to see. But if I’ve learned anything from reading Caryn Dahlstrand Rivadeneira’s book Grumble Hallelujah: Learning to Love Your Life Even When It Lets You Down, it’s that my honesty just might help someone else feel less alone.
Now knowing firsthand how it feels to be released from the terrible prison of embarrassed isolation (which involved, I’m not embarrassed to say, a lot of tears), I’m willing to accept the ridicule and pity for telling you this awful news about our life. But somehow I doubt it’s coming. Because I bet you have awful news about your life, too.
Your situation may not look like mine, but it’s probably equally distressing and painful, or maybe even worse. It might be something that keeps you up at night or causes you to cry yourself to sleep. Or maybe you’re just working really, really hard to ignore it. As Caryn’s book so poignantly points out, none of us get the lives we thought we were supposed to have.
While reading, it occurred to me that every person I know has something in their past, present or (sorry to say) future that they never asked for, something that leads (or will lead) them to say, “This isn’t the life I signed up for.” An unhappy marriage, a spouse with depression or addiction, infertility or miscarriage, the death of a child or a husband, divorce, a disabled or mentally ill child, a career in the tank, bankruptcy, broken relationships, abuse, cancer. I don’t know one single person who has a perfect life. Do you?
And, yet, how hard we work to make it appear otherwise.
Most people who know me would probably say that I’m a pretty happy person. I find the positive in most any situation. I care for people. I love my family dearly. I follow Jesus. But what most people don’t know is that I live with this big pile of ick.
I try to keep all the yucky stuff—the debt, the bills, the worry, the fear—stuffed in a can, but it keeps sloshing over, seeping into the beautiful parts of my life. And it makes me angry and scared and really embarrassed.
I once told a close friend who knows the ugly truth about my life that one of my greatest fears is dying and knowing that people I love will discover the depth of our financial mess. How sad is that? But something in me wants to hide at all costs. Somehow we’ll come out of this and regain the life I’ve always wanted, I think. No one needs to know.
And yet, as I sat blurry-eyed, reading Caryn’s book, I realized this approach benefits no one, especially the one trying to hold the lid on the can.
In the pages of her book, Caryn shares the bitter truth—this brokenness is your life. But, thankfully, that’s just Chapter One. The other fourteen chapters are helping me learn what to do with my struggle and see how my life was meant to be lived, and loved. I am discovering that I need to grieve the fact that this was not the way my life was supposed to be, to release my expectations about how my life should look, to spit out my envy and anger at the ease with which others seem to live, to stop worrying that my shameful-feeling secret is going to influence others’ opinion of me, to die to this “should be” life I’ve imagined and, instead, to allow God’s light to shine through my imperfections and struggle.
If I could, I would give this book to all of my friends and family members who need to grieve over the fact that their lives aren’t turning out as planned. Loved ones who are experiencing distressing circumstances or painful losses. People who need to know they are not alone and that God wants their hallelujahs, even if they’re grumbled. Because when we’re courageous enough to cry out and give thanks even in our lowest times, God’s in the business of turning our lives into something beautiful. And that is reason enough to find our voice and stop pretending.
Now knowing firsthand how it feels to be released from the terrible prison of embarrassed isolation (which involved, I’m not embarrassed to say, a lot of tears), I’m willing to accept the ridicule and pity for telling you this awful news about our life. But somehow I doubt it’s coming. Because I bet you have awful news about your life, too.
Your situation may not look like mine, but it’s probably equally distressing and painful, or maybe even worse. It might be something that keeps you up at night or causes you to cry yourself to sleep. Or maybe you’re just working really, really hard to ignore it. As Caryn’s book so poignantly points out, none of us get the lives we thought we were supposed to have.
While reading, it occurred to me that every person I know has something in their past, present or (sorry to say) future that they never asked for, something that leads (or will lead) them to say, “This isn’t the life I signed up for.” An unhappy marriage, a spouse with depression or addiction, infertility or miscarriage, the death of a child or a husband, divorce, a disabled or mentally ill child, a career in the tank, bankruptcy, broken relationships, abuse, cancer. I don’t know one single person who has a perfect life. Do you?
And, yet, how hard we work to make it appear otherwise.
Most people who know me would probably say that I’m a pretty happy person. I find the positive in most any situation. I care for people. I love my family dearly. I follow Jesus. But what most people don’t know is that I live with this big pile of ick.
I try to keep all the yucky stuff—the debt, the bills, the worry, the fear—stuffed in a can, but it keeps sloshing over, seeping into the beautiful parts of my life. And it makes me angry and scared and really embarrassed.
I once told a close friend who knows the ugly truth about my life that one of my greatest fears is dying and knowing that people I love will discover the depth of our financial mess. How sad is that? But something in me wants to hide at all costs. Somehow we’ll come out of this and regain the life I’ve always wanted, I think. No one needs to know.
And yet, as I sat blurry-eyed, reading Caryn’s book, I realized this approach benefits no one, especially the one trying to hold the lid on the can.
In the pages of her book, Caryn shares the bitter truth—this brokenness is your life. But, thankfully, that’s just Chapter One. The other fourteen chapters are helping me learn what to do with my struggle and see how my life was meant to be lived, and loved. I am discovering that I need to grieve the fact that this was not the way my life was supposed to be, to release my expectations about how my life should look, to spit out my envy and anger at the ease with which others seem to live, to stop worrying that my shameful-feeling secret is going to influence others’ opinion of me, to die to this “should be” life I’ve imagined and, instead, to allow God’s light to shine through my imperfections and struggle.
If I could, I would give this book to all of my friends and family members who need to grieve over the fact that their lives aren’t turning out as planned. Loved ones who are experiencing distressing circumstances or painful losses. People who need to know they are not alone and that God wants their hallelujahs, even if they’re grumbled. Because when we’re courageous enough to cry out and give thanks even in our lowest times, God’s in the business of turning our lives into something beautiful. And that is reason enough to find our voice and stop pretending.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
friday haiku {for an anniversary}
this girl knew nothing
of the two made one, just joy
how being loved feels
::
Today, a decade later, this girl knows a little bit more than nothing, and still joy. Grateful for a man who shares my dreams, pursues his passions, makes me feel incredibly beautiful and has to be one of the best dads alive. What I wrote at year 7 and year 9 still stands. Happy anniversary, honey!
{photo by Carols Vergara}
Monday, October 17, 2011
what if we knew we were beloved in every fiber of our being?
Recently I was approached about contributing an artwork to an exhibit at church. The exhibit was focusing on persecution and artists were being asked to respond. My first thought was that I am not an artist. In the traditional sense, it's true. I don't draw or paint or sculpt. But the woman coordinating the exhibit warmly suggested I use my sewing machine to create something. I told her I'd think about it.
I sat on it for weeks. I am not well acquainted with persecution. Although we have our struggles, we live a pretty cushy life. Occasionally the awful realities of life outside will pop up on my computer screen and I'll be moved to sign a petition, engage others or say a quick prayer. But in order to maintain the freedom and safety of my family, I don't have to do much. I can exercise my beliefs, use my voice and show my face everywhere I go. Living in the western suburbs of Chicago has its perks.
I figured I would not be participating in this exhibit.
A couple of days before the contributions were due, I remembered a conversation I had had years ago with the director of Youth for Christ in Lebanon. He shared about the difficult situations he and his family had experienced over the past months: death threats, bomb scares, etc.
“It must be really hard to be a Christian in Lebanon right now,” I said to him.
He gave me a funny look and shook his head.
“Not really,” he responded. “I imagine the most difficult place in the world to be a Christian would be in America.”
I'm not sure I said anything after that. I was stunned, but I knew he was right. We are self-sufficient in America. We really don't know anything about persecution. Most of us don’t have an urgent daily need to cling to God or his Word.
Thinking about my friend in Lebanon reminded me of the story of Corrie Ten Boom surviving the Nazi concentration camps. The efforts she went through to hide her little Bible on her person so she wouldn’t have to give it up impressed me greatly as a child.
A few seasons of life have led me to open my Bible on a daily basis. But never with the urgency of a desperate person clinging to every word.
What would it look like if the Bible were that important to us? If it were—worn and tattered—all that we clung to? If we gave up our debates and arguments about the finer points of theology and inerrancy? If we stopped looking at the Bible as a book of rules and judgment, or a weapon of persecution in itself?
What if, instead, we simply clung to its promises? What if we wore the truth of who we are—beloved children of God—like our lives depended on it?
And, so, I cut out pages of those promises from a little Bible and made something for the exhibit after all.
No matter what happens to us in this life, I am certain that there is a greater purpose and a God of love we can cling to. A God who doesn't demand retribution but who encourages forgiveness. A God who doesn't promise prosperity but who asks for sacrifice. A God who doesn't leave anyone out but who loves lavishly and unconditionally.
Persecuted believers know it with every fiber of their being. May we as well.
For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39
Friday, October 14, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
30 beautiful hours in wisconsin
My fabulous sister Liz turned 30 last week and her husband flew her halfway across the country so she could celebrate with her immediate family this weekend. The sixteen of us spent two unseasonably mild October days on the lake, catching frogs, wading in the water, carving pumpkins, walking in the woods, playing cards, eating great meals and simply relishing each other's company.
Had anyone told my nine-year-old self, enduring the saddest days of my life in the wake of my parent's breakup, that my family would someday be an exceptionally beautiful, loving, life-giving home, I never would have believed it. Now I know. There are gifts that far outweigh the losses. And, despite what you may think in a time of grief, anything can be redeemed.
Friday, October 7, 2011
friday haiku
So, friends, every day
do something that won't compute.
Love God. Love the world.
{thanks to Wendell Berry}
Monday, October 3, 2011
the bliss of innocence
My son is in love with the girl across the street. And, for the most part, she returns his undivided attention and devotion. We parents laugh at how cute and silly they are, screaming repeated hellos from the windows, giggling with glee whenever they are in each other's company. But this mom also worries.
At 4 1/2, my son does not play with any neighborhood peers his age. He prefers to spend time with kids who are 12 to 24 months his junior, kids who are still learning to speak in complete sentences and who ride their bikes with training wheels. Yet as the months go by, I see the gap widening.
My son mixes up his pronouns, commanding me to "Carry you!" or asking "I tired?" when I stifle a yawn. He has not yet mastered any wheeled ride-on. He struggles to answer unfamiliar questions. He still resists the potty. Even his youngest friends seem to be passing him by.
One sunny afternoon last week, Elliott and I went walking. We ended up at the neighborhood schoolyard where his girlfriend Mia happened to be playing with friends. Elliott screamed her name from the sidewalk and then rushed onto the blacktop to greet her. Mia was riding her scooter and paid no attention to her suitor. My stomach lurched. It's beginning, I thought. The months of mutual affection are coming to an end.
I watched as Elliott followed scootering Mia around the basketball court. His persistence never wavered. Neither did his joy. He kept laughing and calling her name. She kept riding and ignoring him.
Eventually Elliott left Mia for the slide. Then, he happily trudged home.
Our neurologist cannot give us any prediction about how Elliott will progress or where he'll end up intellectually. His condition is rare, complex and completely individual. So as a mom, I provide as many opportunities for him to develop as possible. I watch and pray. And, although I try not to, I worry.
I've always known that Mia would tire of Elliott's advances long before he'd be ready to step back. That she would begin to surpass him in conversation and intellect and activities. That she would eventually move on.
What I didn't know is that my son doesn't seem to mind. He is an "all in" kind of guy. At the schoolyard he seemed blissfully unaware that the object of his affection had stopped participating. He just continued to love her.
I am discovering that what my son lacks in development he makes up for in contentment. He never compares. He just is. And although I worry that he could experience many disappointments and rejections in his lifetime, I'm not sure he'll view them as such. If his first 4 1/2 years are any indication, he'll see opportunities and, strangely, happiness. He'll love without condition or demand. And he'll keep teaching us a better way to live.
When it comes to love, St. Paul said that we see through a glass darkly. Some days I am convinced that my boy already sees the other side.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
poetry found
Digging up old poetry journals has caused me to both cringe and wonder why I don't make the time to write verse anymore. For much of my life poetry was cathartic. Let's just say I released a lot of hurts onto the page, and because said poems involve people I still love dearly, they probably won't find their way onto this blog.
Since I've had kids, I've only written a handful of poems. I guess motherhood took hold and my brain scattered so far and wide, and any chance for coherent thought was lost to me.
One poem I found yesterday was written while I was trying, hoping, longing to get pregnant for the first time. I still like it.
Waiting for Grace
Three minutes—
I try not to look.
Instead I unravel a string on my sleeve
and think about the other woman
praying
for a different outcome.
Plastic oracle flat on white porcelain
transforming a stream of urine
into an answer.
Since I've had kids, I've only written a handful of poems. I guess motherhood took hold and my brain scattered so far and wide, and any chance for coherent thought was lost to me.
One poem I found yesterday was written while I was trying, hoping, longing to get pregnant for the first time. I still like it.
Waiting for Grace
Three minutes—
I try not to look.
Instead I unravel a string on my sleeve
and think about the other woman
praying
for a different outcome.
Plastic oracle flat on white porcelain
transforming a stream of urine
into an answer.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
good intentions
Last New Year's Eve I wrote a post with my intentions for the year. One of them was to start writing a book.
I feel the pit growing in my stomach when I even suggest that I am going to do this. I fear failure. I fear that I have nothing new to say. I fear getting stuck and not being able to get unstuck. I fear bad reviews.
A couple weeks ago, I was invited to join the Redbud Writer's Guild. Being among these amazing women writers I feel a little like the awkward new girl at the lunch table, but I know the encouragement and accountability will give me the kick in the butt I need to get to work. And, with my newfound confidence, I pitched my idea to an agent (full disclosure: my cousin) and he told me to get started. Gulp.
Not knowing exactly how to begin something that's longer than a blog post, I've been digging up my old journals and poetry notebooks. Amidst hundreds of broken lines of scribbled poetry and prose I found this advice I copied from Jane Kenyon:
I think my younger self knew that if I lived this poet's life, whatever I wrote would come from a place that mattered. It would be beautiful, whether anyone else read it or not. Book or no book, I am going to start, and hope my younger self was right.
I feel the pit growing in my stomach when I even suggest that I am going to do this. I fear failure. I fear that I have nothing new to say. I fear getting stuck and not being able to get unstuck. I fear bad reviews.
A couple weeks ago, I was invited to join the Redbud Writer's Guild. Being among these amazing women writers I feel a little like the awkward new girl at the lunch table, but I know the encouragement and accountability will give me the kick in the butt I need to get to work. And, with my newfound confidence, I pitched my idea to an agent (full disclosure: my cousin) and he told me to get started. Gulp.
Not knowing exactly how to begin something that's longer than a blog post, I've been digging up my old journals and poetry notebooks. Amidst hundreds of broken lines of scribbled poetry and prose I found this advice I copied from Jane Kenyon:
Protect your time. Feed your inner life. Avoid too much noise. Read good books, have good sentences in your ears. Be yourself as often as you can. Walk. Take the phone off the hook. Work regular hours.
I think my younger self knew that if I lived this poet's life, whatever I wrote would come from a place that mattered. It would be beautiful, whether anyone else read it or not. Book or no book, I am going to start, and hope my younger self was right.
Friday, September 23, 2011
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