The Best Medicine

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When you’re close to running on empty, there are beautiful things that can fill you back up again. When you’re sleep deprived and brain-frazzled, there are experiences that can comfort the soul.

There are tables of chili and cornbread waiting for you. There are new friends with open hands and hearts anxious to hear your story. You’ll sit by a wall of books and tell those little anecdotes that make life real and livable, while you drink sweet tea that’s everything wonderful.

You’ll find people that remind you of people you love, and the world will become a tiny place again, a warm spot before a glowing hearth. 

There are little hobbit shires made of Legos for your toddler to explore, mini pumpkins for your one year old to throw across the room because he thinks it’s a ball.

There are laughs to echo across the table, secrets to share, souls to lay bare in the infancy of community.

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 It’s all beautiful, but perhaps the most beautiful thing about it is how undeniably needed those few hours are. How a prayer before the meal can bring pools of tears, how the human heart, the human marriage, the human family, the human life, all need the simplicity of shared community.

We were filled up again. We were reminded, ushered into the presence of a history long lived and longer told, of people and food and table and sharing; of the comfort of couches and the playfulness of a puppy who fetches the orange pumpkin that the infant throws.

It seems magical, and maybe it is. But last night, for us, it was simply medicine for our weary bones, some of the best medicine the world has ever known.

 

A Lesson in Sickness: And You Were Here All Along

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We’re attempting to get over about 4 days of sickness.

It began with Eliot and worked its way through Travis and into Isaiah in fever form.
— A fevered baby is a sad sight to behold, and my arms were kept full all day and night.

When all my boys were sick, I consulted those holistic mommy blogs, the ones that brag on detox baths and honey-garlic concoctions.

I added triple garlic to every meal, veggies and fruit for every snack.

No one shared bites. No one shared kisses. I was anti-germ, and those germs knew it.

I sat down on Thursday in the midst of it and thought about all the physical ways I cared for our bodies–
the herbal tea popsicles;
the chest rubs;
the honey-lemon water;

and then I sat back and asked how our hearts were being cared for, all of them.

Sickness is a cloudy mess, everyone lost in a haze for days on end.

And when we finally all get back out into the sunlight, we breathe fresh again.

But today the sickness still lingers, and even though it’s been 80 degrees on FALL break, it’s been more of a time of quarantine for us.

I read a friend’s blog this morning, tears pooling my eyes, nearly drowning my vision completely.

– today I dearly miss the Ozark Fall.

This place is still new to us, and we’re still learning our way and exploring new coffee shops and finding community.

And when our tired bodies recover and Isaiah’s chest stops rattling with coughs—

Well, what then?

It’s a lie to say that living can’t happen here, now, in this germy place. No, peace abounds, indeed, and God’s voice is not muffled by our stuffed ears. He cannot be blurred by our tired eyes.

And we’ don’t just find Him when all is clear and all is “normal”– no, He’s actually so visible when life and routine are shifted upside down and sideways and absolutely backwards, when whole seasons of life are new and unknown and downright scary. He’s so visible when we’re unsure and feeling unsafe in the realization that we can’t always just trust ourselves.

So let us ask our hearts to seek Him, even when our bodies are frail. If we must, we gather knees to chest on the floor and rest like babies in His presence. We close our eyes and savor His voice in the stillness, in the sickness. We look out the window and see that life abounds in all ways, in all seasons.

And when we plunge back into story time at the library, when we welcome dear friends from Arkansas into our home this weekend–

Oh, then we see His presence in so many kindnesses, and we remember that He’s been here all along.

In Death’s Hovering

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I don’t understand much about Death. In fact, I barely know his face or the smell of his breath. I’ve never experienced him close enough to feel the constant hover of his shadow, but this week he’s been nearer. A friend’s mother died suddenly; my parents lost one friend to a failed heart, and another breathed irregularly in the comfort of hospice until he quietly went home.

I am swimming, flailing, really, in overwhelming empathy, and it feels uncontrollable. And I wonder how God possibly handles the grief of the world, how He collects our tears when they are so, so many.
Here in this household we have life. In this bed I lay by warm bodies and I hear breath and I watch chest rise, fall, rise, fall. A dream-wimper. A twitching finger. Life.

One day, though, it will all be gone and it will all be quiet in the shadow for a moment, until great light takes us and we see breathing turn stagnant in lungs. We fear the day, but we think on it. Of the last moments, we think, “What will we think? What will we say and promise and do? For how long will our eyes meet and how tender will our embrace become?”

I grieve with these friends, pray over them from the Georgia border, and trust that peace spans all boundaries- especially fleshy ones. A friend said that in the face of this Death, she holds her loved ones a little bit tighter to remember the life that passes between them.

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The light of the sun beamed over Isaiah and me, and we felt the warmth on the cool, breezy day. We walked the chilled paths of grass and poked at each other with weeds. We smiled and he cooed “BALL!” and all was cherished.

We choose to pass life back and forth between us, and we make all of this living brighter and kinder, even as Death hovers, and we prepare for all of it.

We prepare for all of it by living now, our hearts and flesh joined together in embraces unending.

I don’t understand much about Death. But life’s been pretty sweet. I’m hanging onto that nectar a while longer.

The Pursuit of Seeing: the surrounding living

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Once a month, we’re pursuing sight and viewing the dailyness of our lives with fresh vision and fresh spirit.

Join me by posting the link to your journey of seeing in the comments section below…

 

 

Today I looked around our apartment and saw things differently.

I saw toys. Lots of toys strewn in every direction. I held the army green truck in my hand and realized that lots of toys means lots of play, and two joyful boys.

I saw four grapes in a bowl. That means a full belly.

I saw wipes in bags: clean bottoms, clean water.

I saw piles of laundry, and remembered the piles of gifts we’ve been given by older boy cousins and friends.

I saw the husky hair scattered on wood floor and smashed into cream carpet– a place where he can rest and be loved.

It’s all perspective, isn’t it?

Oh, I’ve been given much…

I’m prone to sighing without even realizing I do it.

So today, I’d like to smile instead of sigh.

To recognize instead of becoming flustered.

Let us gain the gifts of joyful play and full bellies, clean water and safe places. Let us recognize the blessedness of life as it manifests itself in daily routine, as it fills every tiny space we call home.

This is pursuit.

This is seeing.

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What do you see?

 

 

A Prayer of Ache: from the wordless hurting

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Jesus, Forever Friend,

A world of pain surrounds us–

open wounds and raised scars, shortness of breath.

Children are not children and parents lose their steps and we all fall, fall, fall.

Death takes our heartbeats and flings open the floodgates of “We should have” and “I never forgave…”

We are paralyzed in the kneeling position, because nothing else makes sense and words can’t even fail because they weren’t there in the first place.

Our grief is a blanket around us, and we cannot uncloak ourselves.

We break our bones and mistrust our hearts.

We mock each other’s grief and lose ourselves in our wildernesses.

Our blood doesn’t clot, or it clots in all the wrong places at all the wrong times…

And we are undone.

Humanity beckons for You.

Lean nearer.

Lean nearer and hear with the deepest part of Your love.

Answer us with the presence of Your flesh, as tangibly as You can hold us with air and space and spirit and warm peace.

We light the candles and the flames throw themselves in our hearts, and we sit in holy remembrance of all that’s been, in holy hope of all that will be.

We ache.

Relieve us, we pray.

Amen.

 

A Lesson In The Tempest: seeking calmer seas

Murchinson Falls, By Travis Curtice
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Jesus, Savior, pilot me…

This past week has been rough. It’s been, perhaps, trying in more realms than I’ve yet understood.

The phrase treacherous waters has been in my head.

Not just here in my tiny cockleshell of a world, but out there, too, in all the trembling hearts and hands and brokenness of this land-ocean covered world.

I first heard the song “Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me” at International Justice Mission’s Global Prayer Gathering. I’d never heard it, and I was absolutely moved to stillness.

And this week, it’s come up again, these phrases in my head and this picture of the sea and the Savior covering all of it with a stride of His peaceful hand.

I found out this week that a “cockleshell” isn’t just a shell, but also a “flimsy boat”. Well, aren’t we all riding violent seas in a wobbly and unsafe vessel?

So in my own emotional turmoil, I trust.

Chart and compass come from Thee…

We’re singing it at church Sunday, and you could make big bets on me crying a little when I help lead it.

Last night, I drove the boys to the grocery store about an hour before sundown. It was blaringly bright, the brilliance of the yellow-white.  I couldn’t see the cars, the color of stoplight, where I ended and everyone else began. It covered all of us and no one could escape it.

If I ride tempestuous seas and flail in the blackened water, my hope is that the bright light will guide.

When Eliot is screaming himself out of a nap and I’m crying  my way into his room, there are calm waters somewhere nearby.

When we admit we’re broken and find the truth between us once again, we calm our seas, and bright skies shine.

May we continue to trust.

When we went to Uganda in 2009, we stayed a few days on the Nile River. Moments passed when I couldn’t even believe I was there, that the calm and still of the water was actually right under my feet and surrounding every part of me. It was every calm that I needed in a place of hurt I couldn’t understand and a people I deeply loved.

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Today, that river reminds me, and I choose to be piloted. I choose to be lead, and I choose peace.

 

When Waste Awakens Me

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I’ve had this strange relationship with waste lately.

And not just the noun, but the verb.

And not just the stuff. Our apartment complex certainly doesn’t have recycling, so every cardboard box and glass bottle is thrown away with a wince.

But me & waste, we go beyond the kitchen garbage.

The truth is, I’m afraid of it, afraid to miss an afternoon that could be well-spent, afraid to ruin a date with the wrong movie, afraid to squander my Saturday morning with the wrong book as company.

And at moments, afraid I’ll miss catching the sweetest and tenderest part of my boys’ hearts or my lover’s smile.

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We went on that date Wednesday afternoon, and my heart kept jumping back and forth– 3 hours at a coffee shop? Popcorn and a movie? What movie? Which coffee shop?

Isn’t indecisiveness exhausting?

I sit at the couch with my Jan Karon book, half reading because I’m wondering if I should switch to Rosetta Stone French, or actually take a nap or do the dishes or, or, or…..rest my overworking brain!

Waste is a big monster who reminds me that life is vapor, fleeting, vain.

Or, perhaps waste is a slap in the face, a wake-up call that reminds me to cherish the days, hours, moments I’ve been given.

A dad stoops to take a picture of his little girl, blonde-red hair, big smile, striped hoodie and tiny doughnut in hand.

He waits for his coffee, they nibble away together, smile, enjoy, take in, understand the beauty of this moment, here in a coffee shop on a Saturday morning.

Isaiah learns to walk, slowly, slowly, and Dad holds his hand as we head down the broken, cracked, and mossy sidewalk. Not wasted.

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So let us recognize waste, our fear of it, and battle it with our recycling bins and with whole-hearted relationships, with full-eared listening and full-bellied laughs. Heck, let’s share a doughnut or two over coffee while we’re at it.

Because life is gift.