Be That Leaf

We were hiking last week through a forest that appeared to be dying.  The branches were bare against a sad steel-gray sky that seemed to shroud the world.  The trail was scattered with decaying leaves that once adorned these majestic trees.  The dirt, rocks and dead leaves created a monotone landscape of the ordinary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then suddenly, standing out from the rest, a bright red maple leaf appeared right in the middle of our path like a glimpse of hope and joy.  I know people like that.  They radiate in the most unusual circumstances, not drawing attention to themselves, but taking every opportunity to bless others.

In this world of griping, complaining and brokenness, these people are like bright leaves strategically placed to give us a little bit of courage.  Not just a bright spot trampled in the impending darkness, but a vibrant reminder that all is not lost.  It will not always be this way. These woods surrounding each one of us are not dying after all, but preparing deep roots for the festivities of spring.

No matter if there is mud up to our shins, or rocks threatening to bring us down, or grumbling as a dissonant roar around us, we can walk differently into this day, into that difficult relationship, into this season when it gets dark so early.  Because God hikes with us on that trail.

In these seemingly uninhabited, barren, dried up places, God transforms our hearts, not to make-do or survive, but to thrive in the reality of His Presence. Not in a sequined, sparkling, phony kind of way, but a deep resounding that is real and true and deep. And can't help but being shared.

...among whom you shine as lights in the world.  Philippians 2. 15

God empowers us to see circumstances with new eyes and a fresh heart, walk faithfully with Him in the ordinary or the strange, and be different in this impossible place. We can see our surroundings differently because we see God differently. What does this situation make possible? What is God forming in me through this? What leaf is not like the others?

In these strange and sacred encounters, God strengthens us to stop asking why and to start asking what.

When we hit those difficult dreary spots, we can lean on God even more. We are not lost, nor randomly scattered, but divinely appointed and strategically placed for His glory all over it.

Be that leaf.

 

The Annual Burning of the Rolls

 

Today I am reheating a posting from 2015.  The turkey is not the main course, nor the burnt rolls what we remember, but grace and thankfulness to God Almighty.  May our time together reflect that.  Happy Thanksgiving!

None of us can remember the first time it happened, but along with my mom's green beans that had been cooked to death, the annual burning of the rolls became a Thanksgiving tradition when I was growing up.

"This year," mom would promise and proclaim, "this year, it won't happen."  But it did.  The store-bought dinner rolls were slipped into the oven in their little aluminum trays, and well, there was always some kind of distraction.  The blessing went on a little too long, there was jockeying for position at the table, someone's water glass tipped over, or the rolls were simply forgotten.

And then, with exact timing 3-2-1, we all heard Mom's shriek from the kitchen as she discovered the charred rolls.  More than once, the smoke detector alerted us to the obvious.  The back door was opened to let out the smoke into the bitter Chicago air.  And the bread, now appearing as lumps of charcoal, once again was deleted from the menu, ending up still smoking in the trash.

Mom would look surprised for a moment as if "how did that happen?" and then, she would laugh.  And we would chuckle with her, grace not covering up her mistakes, but redeeming them.

Realizing that Thanksgiving comes suddenly upon us next week, a family email was circulated among our daughters yesterday, soliciting Thanksgiving menu requests.  Let the creativity commence.  And may the cornbread dressing retain its rightful place of honor..

My husband's request for the meal?  "I am just glad to be together," a rare and precious time now that our family are scattered across two time zones.

It's not about the perfect table, or perfect food, or a perfect family, but thankfulness to God for what we do have, for what He has done this year, and for Who He is.

Many friends have shared with me their anxieties about the holidays, and it doesn't have anything to do with the menu, but bitter grapes, long-seasoned animosity, and overcooked bad attitudes, things that don't belong. Breaking those traditions means taking the high road there and bringing a huge plate of grace to the table.

Saying grace refers to a short prayer or an expression of thankfulness to God, traditionally said before a meal.  It is not meant to be a recitation, but a realization of God's favor.

Bringing grace is a state of being that results in an intentional mindset and heart prepared to express a love that is not earned.  Grace releases us from expecting perfection in others, and fills in the cracks with an impossible love.  The most important person in the room is not you, but the one that needs your love the most.

Who is saying grace this year?
More importantly,
               am I bringing grace?

 Grace covers it all, even when provoked.  Grace changes it all, especially me.

A commercial last night showed a family joyously arriving for Thanksgiving dinner.  "It's going to be perfect," the narrator said. 

Think instead:  "No, it's going to be grace."

Because that is what God has given us.

And from His fullness
we have all received,
                  grace upon grace.

                                 John 1 16

If I want things to be different,
        something has to change.
And that would be me.

Finally, brethren, whatever is true,
whatever is honorable,
whatever is just,
whatever is pure,
whatever is lovely,
whatever is gracious,
if there is any excellence,
if there is anything worthy of praise,
        think about these things.
What you have learned
and received and heard
and seen in me,
                        do,
and the God of peace will be with you.

                             Philippians 4. 8-9

Practice grace in this.

May we not just say grace as a formality,
    but bring grace as a personal gift.
It is not that it will be the perfect holiday,
   impossible with imperfect humans all in one room,
                     but that is what grace is all about.
Do not forget why we come together:
           not to be thankful,
           but to thank God.
He is the honored guest.

Peeling A Mandarin Orange...and Other Impossibilities

I would have preferred an extraordinary heroic story to accompany the cast on my arm.  But in the vast majority of fractures, as in mine, it happened at home on the most ordinary of days. 

I broke my wrist in two places, not through rescuing 93 orphans from a vicious grizzly bear, but eating humble pie. I tripped over my slippers in the early morning darkness.

We do stupid stuff, and there are consequences.  “I didn’t mean to” does not exempt us. Nor blaming someone else. No one plans to have an accident. That's why it's called an accident:  noun:  an unfortunate incident that happens unexpectedly and unintentionally, typically resulting in damage or injury.  

A mishap, misfortune, calamity, problem, tragedy or misadventure. Oops! We may not have paid adequate attention.  Or thought we were invincible -- not going to happen to me.  And stuff happens just because we live in a broken world.  Stuff gets broken.  Including us.  Including our pride.  Lesson one in humility.

Restricted to the use of one hand, albeit my dominant hand, I have discovered the past seven weeks, the simplest activities border on the impossible.  Try opening a zip lock bag with only one hand. Pulling back your hair. Peeling a mandarin orange.  Tying your sneakers.

As one of my practical and philosophical daughters pointed out, “You never realize how much you need something ‘til it’s immobilized in a sling.”

I have deeply appreciated the care and concern of others as they observe my bandaged useless arm.  I am obviously wounded.  But my experience has made me even more sensitive to those who are chronically hurting, even with pain that is not so visible, the deep injuries of the soul.  How can I care for them?  How can I love them through this?

It is not a shame to ask for help.  Nor a sin to accept it.  

Indeed our selfishness and so-called self-sufficiency are what turn away another’s opportunity to love us.  I heard a story on NPR yesterday about a man who also had a broken arm. He was picking up his dry cleaning.  He carried part of it to his car.  A woman he did not know approached him in the parking lot, "Could you use some help?" the woman asked him.  "No, I'm fine," he replied.  While he struggled to put the load in his car, the woman went into the dry cleaners and came out with the rest of his order.  After she placed it in his car, she turned to him and said, "You have been helping people your whole life.  It's your turn to accept it now.  It makes people really happy to help you."

“I don’t want (or need) your help” is not a sign of strength at all.  “I can do it myself without you” is the slam of a door in the face of a relationship. 

A willing heart, which the Bible emphasizes, goes both ways.  Willing to help and willing to accept. 

Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.  Hebrews 4.16  When we draw near to Jesus, we do not just find grace to help in time of need. We find the grace to accept it too.   And as a result, we discover the nurturing of a deeper relationship, a stronger realization that we need each other.  And that goes both ways.

Those who offer assistance, encouragement and help are not just being nice. You are not a burden. Nor weak. Let others love you.  Let someone peel your mandarin.

Gonna Be Epic -- Inktober 31 #landmark

It was not what I expected, because frankly, I had no idea what I was getting into.  And that was probably a really good thing.

A few years ago, with just days to spare, my brother-in-law Jon called to offer us two vacant spots on a three-day mountain biking trip to Canyonlands National Park in Utah.  Like next weekend. Were we interested?  

My husband started packing within minutes of the call.  I was invited to come, not as a cyclist -- which I am not-- but to ride shotgun in the support vehicle, run parts of the infamous 100-mile White Rim Trail, and enjoy the camaraderie of wilderness camping and speechless views.  

When I hesitated. my husband encouraged me.  "It's gonna be epic."

Within days, we were on the road, some 1520 miles each way.  We left Friday evening, drove straight through the night and staked our tent in Moab on Saturday night.  

On Monday morning, we convened at the dirt road entrance to the White Rim.  Looking down at the incredibly steep switchbacks of a extremely narrow gravel two-way "road," I realized it was only wide enough for one vehicle.  Yikes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few minutes later, the ten cyclists decided that the group really needed more than one support vehicle.  They handed me the keys to a small 4 wheel drive pick-up.  I've never driven a truck before.  Keep your eyes ahead and don't look down. 

The Bible says to pray without ceasing.  There was no problem with that.  I vacillated between "O LORD, have mercy" and "Thank You, LORD" for getting me through.  I learned that trusting God involves facing sheer fear.

The route could have been adequately named the White Knuckle Trail.  There was rarely an indication of a defined road.  It was more like guess where it goes, avoid the abyss three feet from your wheels, and try not to scrape the side of the vehicle as it ascends the narrow squeak of a rock-hugging cliff.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Who led you through the great and terrifying wilderness, with its fiery serpents and scorpions, and thirsty ground, where there was no water...? Deuteronomy 8:15

All ten cyclists, both trucks, and the drivers survived.  And epic was not big enough to describe it.  When we returned home, everyone responded, "You did what?!?"

A landmark is not what we have done or endured, but what this endeavor does to us.  We cannot but be changed by it.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

               T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets