Cathedral

She dresses just for me, in yellow stripes, a 3 year old niece's way of saying, "I love you". A little sunray of joy, waltzing about my messy house, so proud her message came across clear and beloved.

I've been thinking about my writing, and the life that it reflects, and I think there needs to be more yellow stripes written about here. I learned about a concept a few weeks ago that made little sense to me. So, ever the scientist, I decided to test the theory. The concept is called "mindfulness" and it means fully doing what you're doing without trying to multitask...in your brain or with your body. I know it's necessary for raising children. If you have a fussy child and you try to keep typing while comforting him, or keep stirring lunch on the stove instead of meting out consequences to the group of twisted sisters claiming the same toy, you'll do a poor job at both. However, in other areas of my life, I felt that I was a master of multitasking and that it greatly enhanced my effectiveness.

I tested it, and I was wrong. When I work on one thing at a time, I am faster, more thorough, and more joyful. I never expected the joyful part. There is something about throwing yourself 100% at a problem, at writing a paper, at preparing a meal, that enhances the pleasure in the task and the completion of it.

I realize, slowly, that I've been rushing my whole life. This realization has been dawning on my slowly over a year's time. I wrote about it last year. Rushing to the next entertainment before I hardly finish the first. Rushing from one sorrow to the next, until they pile up in such a stack that they overwhelm me as they teeter in my consciousness, threatening to tumble down. Rushing from one crisis to the next, feeling the next crisis coming long before it begins.

God gives me the weirdest trials. I spent my teenage years fainting, my college years in heart failure, almost died at 22 from a random heart event, spent the last of my 20's on cancer, 31 on more heart problems and a pacemaker, and this year on PTSD, depression, anxiety, "losing" even more weeks to the hospital. And that's just me.

My husband and children have been through all kinds of horrific infections, and always seem to react worse to them than the average person. In the midst of Amy's year of encephalitis and epilepsy, God doubled up our trials and I suffered a traumatic ectopic pregnancy loss in the two weeks she wasn't in the hospital. Then infection upon infection and surgery after surgery.

I've come to accept that my trials often aren't the average ones. I've come to accept that we all seem to have giant targets on our backs when it comes to our health. But I fear I've leaned too hard into martyrdom, leaned into the shocked reactions of others as validation for my sadness, fear, and loneliness through these trials.

God's best for me is not sadness, fear and loneliness when I face trials.

It is easy to get trapped by suffering. It is tempting to throw out half of the Bible and believe promises don't apply to you and yours. Even in the minutiae of life, it's easy to focus on the child who fussed, disrespected, and disobeyed all morning, so that your eyes are so busy seeing through the scars of the morning you are blind to the same child who is cuddly and cute in the afternoon. The memory of a grandma gone all wrapped up in a beautiful moment in the afternoon sun, boy cuddling great-aunt, their laughing like music fills the front room and I watch and I am filled with joy.

In recognizing the cathedral in the moment, the temple in the experience, the feast set out before me by my Father, Lover, Friend and King, the scales are falling off my eyes and His love is breaking through like the morning sun.

Every evening I sit in the dark, listening to the cricket song, and feeling the breeze. It soaks in for a minute, and then thoughts crowd in and I shake off the blessings like raindrops from a wet, shaggy dog, only a moment on my skin and never finding the path deep into my soul.

Today, I am shaking off martyrdom. I am sick of focusing on the trouble. Although I can't pretend my life is completely normal, I want to quit shaking off blessings to care for burdens. Doesn't He say cast ALL your cares upon Him, for He careth for you? (I Peter 5:7)

A series of verses, very dear to my troubled heart over the past 3 1/2 years of cancer, is written in permanent ink on a card on my windowsill:

Rejoice in the Lord always -delight, gladden yourselves in Him; again I say, Rejoice! Let all men know and perceive and recognize your unselfishness, your considerateness, your forbearing spirit. The Lord is near - He is coming soon. Do not fret or have any anxiety about anything, but in every circumstance and in everything, by prayer and petition (definite requests), with thanksgiving, continue to make your wants known to God. And God's peace shall be yours, that tranquil state of a soul assured of its salvation through Christ, and so fearing nothing from God and being content with its earthly lot of whatever sort that is, that peace which transcends all understanding shall garrison and mount guard over your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. And my God will liberally supply - fill to the full - your every need according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus. (from Philippians 4 Amplified version)

I sit in my bed, typing this, looking out the window at the yellow birches among the green maples and oaks, catching sunrays, grass dripping with dew now burning off in the sunlight, ground mist casting rainbows on wheat. I am content with my earthly lot, of whatever sort that is, and peace transcends all understanding and garrisons my heart and mind.

Cancer, treatment, new depression meds and the fire red hair from a box all collide and my hair falls out in great handfuls, my scalp is raw. My hair has been my crown, truly - the only feature I really believe is beautiful. Now I wonder if it will all fall out, or if it will just be thin, if it will grow back? No one has an answer.

Instead of another calamity, I am wearing my hats and thanking God that I'd started collecting them again in the last six months, for no particular reason. God winks at me and I know there was a purpose in my hat search. I marvel at the magenta pile in my hand every morning, brushed from my pillow. But for once, instead of wondering if He'll heal me, I'm wondering what He's up to. It's a curiosity filled with joy, instead of dread.

Pray help me, Christ, to take my cup and drink it without drowning in it's dregs. Help me be a light, a beacon of one-mindedness, always focusing on your giving and leaving the taking to You to solve.

Cathedral 

Arches of reaching limbs 

Crickets sing secret hymns 

Over all of us 

Fireflies 

Tickle across our palms 

Lit up like diamonds drawn 

From the black above 

Awake my soul to live this moment 

Awake my soul, give thanks and hold it 

Dear now 

God is here now 

Awake my soul 

Day ends 

And brown eyes smile back at me 

She wipes my kiss from her cheek 

After last “Amen” 

Hush away the hurry 

Put to rest the worry 

Come to quell and quiet me 

In this moment given 

Slow and fully live it 

Drink up all the passing peace 

~Awake My Soul, Shaun Groves~

A collection on work

Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might, for in the grave, where you are going, there is neither working nor planning nor knowledge nor wisdom. 

 (Ecclesiastes 9:10)

...in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given us.

Romans 12

God has combined the members of the church and has given greater honor to the parts that lacked it.

I Corinthians 12

The man who plants and the man who waters have one purpose, and each will be rewarded according to his own labor.

I Corinthians 3

...walk in the light, as he is in the light...have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin.

I John 1

Show proper respect to everyone: Love the brotherhood of believers, fear God, honor the king.

I Peter 2:17

We shape our self to fit this world
and by the world are shaped again.
The visible and the invisible working
together in common cause,
to produce the miraculous.
I am thinking of the way the intangible
air passed at speed round a shaped wing
easily holds our weight.
So may we, in this life trust
to those elements we have yet to see or imagine,
and look for the true shape of our own self,
by forming it well to the great
Intangible about us.
~David Whyte~

Broken china is still china

"In the darkness of despair and the prison of pain, we often say things that we later regret, but God understands all about it and lovingly turns a deaf ear to our words but a tender eye to our wounds." ~ Pause for Power, Warren W. Wiersbe

My mother brought me a china plate for my collection of mismatched china (we eat off beauty every day) and I promptly broke it.  The very next day.  My first reaction, unfortunately, is still to throw a tantrum.  I remember her warning me, as a teenager, that I if I chose that agitated state of heart in the quiet of my room and privacy of my brain, it would settle in and become a habit that was nearly impossible to break.  And, I regret to say, I went on heedlessly...nay, obstinately...and let it settle in.  Now I struggle with those flailings about of the soul that are so tenacious and capture me at my weakest moments, spiritually and emotionally, and derail the train of my servitude and joy and prayer life and duty to husband and children.  And so it was with this china plate, and with the job offer withdrawn, and the comprehensive exam failed.

I don't understand a God who rescinds gifts as quickly as He doles them out.  I believe in an extravagant God, and I've had glimpses of proof that He is that type of God.  Lately, though, my spirit response to His brief shows of glory and extravagance is the impression instead of a miserly God to whom justice is far more important than blessing, joy, or relationship.

I am thankful that He turns a deaf ear to my rantings.  However, I don't want to be someone who rants any longer!  I went through the day yesterday, first with tears, then with anger, and finally with resignation...the let-down as the job offer was withdrawn, the frustrating phone calls to the Board of Nursing and the professor in charge of hiring at the university, and finally the quiet of the day as I realized there was nothing more to be done.  Why would God hang a carrot in front of my nose, have me celebrating with my father over the possibility of teaching together, and then so painfully jerk it away, leaving me staring, once again, down a black hole of debt and poor job prospects?

At the end of the day, I went outdoors to take some photos of the amazing storm clouds boiling up in Michelangelo proportions just past our house, the light of the sun glinting in the middle of the thunderhead, so high off the ground that it caught the light long after the sun had dipped below the horizon.  Under the blanket of this awesome sky, I was humbled.  The tantrums grew weak in the visible presence of the power of God.  Who am I to question today's events and worry about how we will provide for our family?  The very God who formed this storm and swept it past our roof before it let loose is the God who sees my future and has blessings and pain planned out for all my days, to shape me and change me until I am indeed - like it or not - renewed by the regenerating spirit He planted in my soul at age 5.

In the weird yellow light of the gathering storm, the china plate I thrust into my garden caught a glimmer and I noticed.  Noticed that broken china is still beautiful. That plate is still a beloved gift my mother gave me out of love.  I could have thrown it in the trash, never to be seen again.  In a moment of genius, I stuck the two halves in the soil of my favorite rock garden, and there they sit, like the half-moon of a serene smile, catching light and glinting beauty even though they were split and broken and cried over.  So, too, the job offer: a harbinger of future joy, perhaps?  Just because it was taken away, and I don't have the job - does that reduce those two days of happiness to nothing?  Are they negated by the consequent suffering?  As a nurse for dying children, I know the answer, deep, deep within: of course not!  Does the pain at the end destroy the joy of the thousands of days of being that preceded it?  Do you throw the whole bag of memories into your mental trash file, because the pain is too great?  Some do, I know.  But the wise don't.  The wise know that broken china is still china.  The wise know that a gift is a gift, whether permanent or temporary.

I don't know about tomorrow;
It may bring me poverty.
But the one who feeds the sparrow,
Is the one who stands by me.
And the path that is my portion
May be through the flame or flood;
But His presence goes before me
And I'm covered with His blood.
~ I Know Who Holds Tomorrow, sung here by Alison Krauss ~

Astigmatism: reveals

The shape of my eye changed because of a physical hardship: I hit a toilet with my head, with my eyes open, and my eyeball got smashed.  I don't know yet if the effects are permanent, but I do know one thing: it has changed my focus.  Literally.  I focus my camera just as I always have, but because the "perspective" in my eye itself has changed, what I see looks...different.  There is more blur.  Almost like I am less attached to the subject.  Yet more art?

I've admired a few photographers for years: the one I love most is Amy Glover, first a professional alliance, then friend, then the woman who discipled me, and now fellow artist.  The allegory between art and soul is so complete, it's almost too good to be true.  Just as I've followed the "perspective" of her soul, that complete lack of anchor to the here and now, the throwing of herself completely toward heaven, laying up treasure only there...now I also follow her art, and see things in her photos I try to emulate, to this point very unsuccessfully.

Just as her life conformed to Christ through searing loss, so Christ draws me closer through all these trials that He says to count as joy.  My eye changes shape, and headaches persist, and I am brought to my knees.  But here, on my knees through the very results of this painful event - hitting that toilet with my skull - I am changed and the treasures I lay up here are less, and the treasures I lay up there are more.  It even shows in my photos: a blurriness, lightness, whiteness, that wasn't there before.  It's not something I could do by myself.  I tried and tried.

Here, on this terra firma, toilets collide with heads and eyes are smashed and blood vessels explode; brains are infected, and electricity goes wild, and seizures steal synapses (moth and rust destroys, and thieves break in and steal).  Even on this cursed clod, I see His redemption as He shows me beauty through the smashed eye and in the seizing girl and the life of chaos and calamity.  Yet, in heaven, with each day of bent knee and bowed head, with each day of silently acquiescing and calmly submitting, the rubies there in heaven pile up (where moth and rust do not destroy, and thieves cannot break in and steal).  Whether it is

not cursing the pharmacist who dispensed the wrong medication and caused my blood pressure to drop and my head to hit that enameled toilet tank; 


admitting I failed my comprehensive exam because I didn't write well enough and refusing to resent a committee that did me justice; 


praising God for each of the 1,000+ days I've had with Amelia as I scoop vomit from her throat and beg that she be spared, refusing to curse Him for allowing this seizure, this pain...

I send my heart to heaven along with the treasure I lay up there.  I loose my hold on earth and eyesight, dreams and jobs, children entrusted for now to my care,  and children I dream of someday caring for.  He knows, and He knows best.  I only see darkly, as through glass.  I thank God for the times He gently changes my perspective through days and weeks spent quiet in study; and for the times He sends change abruptly, through emergencies and sudden events.




::
I completely realize that I was wrong yesterday.  Apparently, I still need to write, even in a week packed with academic work.  :-)

Pretty in pink

As far as I know, there haven't been twins in our family for a very long time.  My brother and sister-in-law have struggled with infertility, and were blessed with news of twins quite out of the blue.  Right about the time they had made an appointment, after much trepidation, with a fertility specialist.  We had a wonderful day Saturday showering Jamie with gifts and well wishes as she enters the final, most difficult part of her pregnancy.

My mom, the consummate hostess, put together a stunning Heritage Menu that reflected all the ancestral ties these two little baby girls will share: French, German, English, Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, Native American, Irish.  The most delicious had to be the homemade Devonshire cream, with it's nutty aroma and cool creaminess.  Melissa, just a few weeks from delivering her son Robbie, aided in the preparations.

It seems rather ironic that my brother Scott - the macho, police officer, hunter, snowmobiler among my brothers - is preparing for two little pink-clad girls.  I simply cannot wait to see how it changes him and brings out the hidden strengths that have lain dormant for years.  He is going to be a great dad.

Please make room on your prayer list for Scott and Jamie, and especially their sweet twins, Kaitlyn Lee and Jessica Jean.  They aren't "due" until October, but will likely be induced sometime in late August or early September because they share a placenta and amniotic sac, putting them at higher risk for late-pregnancy complications.

Bouquets never picked

My husband, like my father, isn't the type to shout love from the rooftops. For some reason, after the intensity of our whirlwind 3-month courtship, replete with love letters, weird packages from Seattle, and phone conversations that lasted for hours, I found it hard to adjust to the whispers my new husband proffered.

And then one spring, my yard burst into flames.

The orange, red, yellow of the tulips blazed all across my front lawn, and I wrote about what it meant to me. Those blooms exploded the box I had put love into, and the shrapnel is still somewhat disturbing, every spring.

"Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens". Yellow crocuses holding rain like a promise or a prayer. Unexpected shoots of tended love cropping up in the most unusual places.

I hear it in the dishes being loaded late at night. The bedtime story being read - through corrections - to children who should have long ago been in bed. I see it in the callouses of hands at Christmas, bearing something wrought of oak and discipline and love. I know it when he calls me to bed too early, and wakes me up before the sun. I hear it in the stress over work unfinished, and in the pride in work well done.

He invited me in, to share this life. Side by side, shouldering burdens and pushing away grief. Every yellow crocus in the middle of my front lawn is the jewel in my crown, as beloved, cherished, lavished upon.

My burning bush

Blessed is the man

who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly,

nor stands in the path of sinners,

nor sits in the seat of the scornful;

but his delight is in the law of the Lord,

and in His law he meditates day and night.

He shall be like a tree

planted by the rivers of water,

hat brings forth its fruit in its season,

whose leaf also shall not wither;

and whatever he does shall prosper.

~ Psalm 1 ~

Across the road, down the valley, where the trees grow tall next the little silver thread of Big Elk Creek, there is one lone birch that shimmers every evening in the sunset. Through March and April, this tree of diamonds delights my soul every day as I go through the hard work of keeping children content and cooking dinner, all at the same time. It is by far the most difficult hour of the day for me as a young mother. Yet, in these muddy months where there is little of beauty or refreshment on the spring horizon, God has lit up one tree like a jewel to bring me joy.

He says that His mercies never fail. By His mercy, we are not consumed. (Lamentations 3:22) To the ancient Jews, this probably meant something wholly different than it does to me today: then, it meant deliverance from armed enemies, food provided to the family table during a drought, safe passage to new grazing grounds. Because I have food on my table, a fully-equipped medical world at my disposal, a large house in which to live, no enemies at my doorstep...many would argue that I am no danger of being consumed by anything. But every day that danger lurks...through the difficult dinner hour, when I would much rather blunt my children's senses with a movie instead of conversing with them in their tired and hungry state. Depression, complacence, despair, irritation, over-scheduling, drifting through life, lowering my expectations. Those are the enemies that threaten to consume me as a 21st century Christian housewife and mother.

Many years have passed since those summer days

Among the fields of barley

See the children run as the sun goes down

Among the fields of gold

You'll remember me when the west wind moves

Upon the fields of barley

You can tell the sun in his jealous sky

That we walked in fields of gold

~ Fields of Gold, Sting ~

The whole field of corn husks in front of my birch tree sparkle as if you dropped nuggets of gold there. Just husks. Lit by sun. Somehow strangely beautiful. This is one of those visions of glory in our everyday world vista that plucks the heartstrings, and they vibrate to a bittersweet melody of joy that is so sweet it aches. Somehow this vision condenses for me all that has happened in my life:

friendships ruined,

heart failing, somehow healing,

hugging children who were dying,

feeling their last months soak into my soul like honey;

marrying my best friend,

birthing babies,

that painful, joyful metamorphosis of body and soul;

cancer, the cutting of surgery,

the years of living with it's specter;

baby girl slipping away,

baby girl coming home,

baby girl forever different;

another spring.

A glittering field.

A thousand sorrows;

a million joys.

Through it all, serving a Savior who takes my husks and turns them into glittering gold. A God who takes the last bit of my strength, energy, willingness, and infuses me with this sudden, thundering thing of beauty that lights up my kitchen night after night. The God who speaks through a burning bush, and tells me He is still there...and no, He is never silent.

2 years in a blink of an eye

Oh, how they delight to serve and celebrate those they love! How easy it is to train them in big life lessons by simply taking them by the hand and leading them along with me in my work. When my day has been busy and long, it is so easy to push them out into the margins, banish them to the most distant playroom, and hustle about my work. But how large the dividend when I beg strength from the Father who so generously bestows, and spend an hour cleaning, baking and decorating with these dear ones.

The older takes the younger alongside and teaches her, the younger sister so intent on every move the elder makes. Raymond and Dorothy Moore (books passed down from my wise mother) taught me it is much easier to teach something once than four times over. And that the best gift you can give your learner is to make her a teacher herself.

He sits like a king in his castle, watching his sisters bake his birthday cake. Sweet boy - just a blink of an eye, and two years gone! I walk the tightrope of time with you, as you lead on into the horizon that is your young life. Take me by the hand, son, and remind me how precious these years are!

Delighted babyhood on the cusp of childhood. The chubby fists just learning dexterity, the cheeks still reminiscent of those that nursed for seven short months. This boy-child will stand like a sentinel in the sands of time, marking off the years God has allowed me to survive cancer.

Discipline your son, and he will give you rest;

he will give delight to your heart.

(Proverbs 29:17)

The finale, which he was almost too exhausted to enjoy. Crazy cake crafted by three sisters and an adoring cousin-twin. Homemade whipped cream from sweet farm milk. Candles, cake, and lots of Thomas the Tank Engine.

Happy second birthday, Mr. C!

Grandma Fern's Crazy Cake

3 cups flour

2 cups sugar

1/3 cup cocoa

2 teaspoons soda

1 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup oil

2 Tablespoons vinegar

2 teaspoons vanilla

2 cups water

Mix dry ingredients directly in a 9x13" pan. Make two wells in dry ingredients, and pour in wet ingredients one at a time. Mix until well combined, using a fork. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Go by time - don't test! Goes exceptionally well with a chocolate & coffee buttercream frosting, or served with farm fresh whipped cream with just a hint of vanilla.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone,
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said

Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

~ The Three Kings, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~

Merry Christmas! We had our reunion on Monday, and then opened presents as a family Monday night. The kids could barely go to sleep, and will be up with the birds, I'm sure - to play with all their new toys!