The Fullness of God

St. John of Kronstadt was a nineteenth-century Russia Orthodox priest who lived during a time when alcoholism was taking over Russia.  While other priests stayed inside their churches, waiting for the hurting and broken to come to them for help, John of Kronstadt went out into the streets to find the hurting and broken to offer help.  The story goes that when he found people passed out in alleys and gutters he would bend down, embrace them in his arm, and tell them, “This is beneath your dignity.  You were meant to house the fullness of God.”

The Incarnation of Christ, God’s fullness locking arms with man’s fullness in a humanity-altering embrace, one that would change the history of the world forever.  God embraced the fullness of flesh so one day (a day like today, maybe) we as fleshly humans could embrace the fullness of God Himself.   

He was finally with us.  He's still here, and we were meant to house His fullness.

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Embrace His fullness, share his peace on earth, good will toward men, and His glory will shine like it was meant to this Christmas. 

A Prayer of Response (excerpts from Isaiah 50&51)

O Sovereign God,

     help me believe these words in my mouth

     are yours;

Not for me, but the weary ones who pass by.

Awaken me this day,

     grant listening ears and open heart,

     to hear, and fear, and know…

Whom shall I fear?

Not the men,

     the mockers among us,

     those who toss insult like a lazy game of catch.

Do they not know?

You, even you, are comforter,

     creator,

     churner of seas;

Giving words to whom you please,

     protecting whom you desire,

     in shadows 
Of you.

O Sovereign Lord,

     remind me this day of the comfort there,

     the strength within your shadow

That is forever better

     than basking in the ever-fleeting

     light 
Of men.

O Sovereign Father,

     may your light shine this day

     as I am covered by the shadow

Of you.  

Gliding

This is one of two essays I wrote for the magazine contest I blogged about in June.  This is the essay I didn't submit and it's called Gliding.

                Ever know someone who makes you feel as though you’re home every time you’re with her?  The kind of person who, were she an actual structure, you could crawl inside, curl up and fall fast asleep in the safety of her walls, but you never really would fall asleep because you might miss something fantastic she has to show you, like a new set of china or a fabulous new piece of art she’s displaying?  This is my friend Shelby.  

            I met Shelby 8 years ago, just after giving birth to my first son.  She was a fiery red head with a personality to match, someone who by all accounts seemed completely put together in ways I never even considered.  I was fat from pregnancy, exhausted from caring for a newborn, and still reeling a bit from the sting of a year spent in rehab. She worked as a corporate trainer, wearing Brooks Brothers suits and still tucking her button-down shirts into her tailored, perfectly creased size 6 pants.  I was what you might call a peripheral part of a title insurance office, mainly there to accomplish all the menial tasks no one else had time to do, and I only wore professional clothes when I absolutely had to.  I never tucked a shirt in because doing so highlighted my bulging belly and ever-expanding butt.  As soon as work ended, I rushed home to find a pair of forgiving pants with elastic waistband and wear them as long as I could.  I probably had 9 pair of sweatpants, while Shelby owned none.  

            Shelby was married a year or so when we first met, and was by all accounts madly in love and childless.  Bill and I were into our 4^th year of marriage but our first as a sober couple so it was like we had only been married a year.  We already traveled a much harder path than many couples do – drug addiction, jail, homelessness, and rehab – which left some scars and reluctance to let other people in.  Shelby and her husband were no exception, but through a series of encounters over a period of years, we got to know each other better.  She intimidated me tremendously for the first 2 years or so that we knew one another.  She was polished and put together, I was awkward and always on the verge of falling apart.  She had an ease about her in everything she did, while I flailed a bit as I wrestled my way through life.  She seemed to glide while I tripped over my own feet. 

            I remember one of the first times I went to her house on a social visit.  She invited me over to make strawberry freezer jam one Saturday in June.  Max was just turning one and I was still trying desperately to figure out this mom thing, but I went over anyway, considering how much I truly loved homemade strawberry jam.  The home she rented was gorgeous, with matching décor, beautiful landscaping, and level floors.  We owned a duplex at the time located directly next to railroad tracks with floors in some rooms that made you feel like you were in the carnival funhouse.  She stood ready in her lovely kitchen, all her products and necessary items lined up on the counter, poised and waiting to be transformed from simple sugar and fruit into fabulous jam.  Shelby moved through the kitchen, talking as she went, and describing her actions and decisions like the best cooking show host.  I discovered later that Martha Stewart was in fact one of her idols, which was a ridiculous thought to me.  But despite our differences, I liked her.  She never made me feel frumpy or unpolished.  Instead she was gracious and kind, always offering some word of encouragement.  I found myself tripping less as I got to know her more.

            Shelby soon became pregnant as well and went on to give birth to her first daughter, Sophie.  It was my turn next, conceiving and birthing my second son, Charlie.  In the years to follow she went on to have Maggie and Noah, and before we knew it we were knee deep in sippy cups, stinky diapers, and sassy two-year-olds.  We quit our day jobs and became stay at home moms which allowed us to get together on snowy afternoons and let the children run wild while we hid in the living room, chatting over hot coffee.  We shared our frustrations and joys, funny things our children did or the irritation at our clothes not fitting our post-baby bodies.  I think Shelby picked up some sweatpants around this time, and I was able to give her great advice on where to get the most comfy ones.   

            In time we ended up working together at our church, co-leading the music team that led worship on Sunday mornings.  It seemed like an odd thing at first as Shelby was handling the job solo for sometime, but when we combined our efforts and brought together our gifts, the match was almost perfect.  Shelby was (and still is) wickedly organized and operated at lighting fast speed.  I was (and still am) much more slow and methodical, considering all sides before making decisions.  We discovered there were times for both and we quickly learned to appreciate the other for her gifts, and to utilize them when needed.  It was a unique relationship for me in that I had never spent so much time with someone who I was so different from, and yet who didn’t annoy me tremendously.  I found myself being grateful for all the ways she filled in the gaps where I was lacking.  She picked up pieces I dropped, sometimes even as they were still falling.  And I was able to do the same for her, even though I was a bit slower on the uptake.  I did more stooping to pick up off the ground what she was quick enough to catch in mid-air.  But she was giving me confidence in the gifts I was given which was new for me.

            Shelby became my best friend, which is why it came as no surprise when she and Josh announced they were moving to Pennsylvania to take a head-pastor position there.  Even though I had been privy to the intimate details all along their decision making process, it was still a harsh blow to my heart when they finally spoke the words “We’re leaving”.  I flailed internally again, much like that girl fresh out of rehab years before, and not sure where to go.  In the days following, I worked my way through all the tumultuous emotions, praying and crying and wailing into my pillow about the loss I was already feeling even before they were gone.  I knew this would mean our friendship, a friendship like I had never known before, was about to drastically and permanently change and the pain was unbearable.  As much as I wanted to cling to her, wrap my crumpled body around her ankles and cry, “You can’t leave me! You’re the best friend I’ve ever had!” something inside wouldn’t let me.  I knew I owned no rights to say such a thing.  There was a place deep inside that, despite my own selfish desires, wanted what was best for them, for her, and I knew this was it.  For what may be the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to love in letting go.  You might be thinking of the old cliché “If you love something, set it free…yada, yada, yada,” but that’s not exactly it.  You see, I never owned her, or her love.  I was given a gift in her friendship, not something to possess and hold on to, but to enjoy while it was with me; it was always free. 

Letting her go and watching our relationship change due to the distance between has been tough, but necessary.  It is still difficult to consider what I lost when she moved 700 miles away.  I am grateful for cell phones and email and text messaging because all those things help to make her feel closer; although they don’t replace the moments of curling up on the couch with a cup of coffee on a blustery winter day, children playing all around, and looking into the beautiful eyes of my friend. But seeing who she has become, how she has touched lives that would have never been touched had she stayed, and how her family has grown, make it all worthwhile. She’s changing the world one relationship at a time, much like her love and friendship changed me.  There might be another flailing woman somewhere in Pennsylvania needing Shelby’s help to stop tripping, and start gliding.  

just sometimes

sometimes I want to run fast and far

and see if there’s a chance

I can run all the way home

not all times…just some times.

and sometimes I forget how worn my legs become

because in the hollow of my mind

my legs can run and run and never grow tired

not all times…just some times.

and sometimes I forget the hard pavement

under my feet and the way the dense ground

resounds through my fragile body

not all  times…just some times.

and sometimes I think  maybe I could fly

if I slid my toes close enough to the edge

and really bent my knees and pushed hard

not all times…just some times.

and sometimes I forget these wings are not real

that these legs are weak

and the dirt sits beneath my fall waiting to break it

not all times…

and sometimes I run fast and far

even though there's pain in my faltering legs

because of  this tension between my shoulder blades

just some times…

crouching low near the rocky ledge

poised to extend these weary legs

and jump and fly and forget…

not all times…

just some times

some city life

concrete hardened

feet slapping down, splitting heels

rough on surface

oil-stained parking lots

leave memories of here and now

then and gone

oil-stained bare feet

flat with pounding this pavement

almost lost all curve

all nuance

all function

but still walking, still

black with stains of some city life

slick with the mess of streets

that confine, that define

oil-stained…

…hands leave streaks

…faces blend into night

…hearts unable to mold, too slippery

slap down, feet on concrete

hard and slick…

oil-stained.

finding steps

finding myself in darkness again

eyes covered in pitch

hands still free, still groping

feeling through the blindness

ears listening  amid dull roars

mouth hanging open in dryness

getting a sense of your rub

my malleable soul recoils

as it takes shape in your hands

but gentle is your touch

and slowly I relax as the pink and fleshy parts

burn into defined moments

of clarity and function,

within this broken beauty

scooping self off the floor

shouts of Hallelujah! resound

from the bowels of my being,

like a survival cry within the wave of white flags

shadows begin to take form, and if I look too hard

they pull fear that was not there

in the pitch

but I can still feel you near

and you give me your fingers to hold,

like a child just understanding legs,

and you hold me in a light touch, guiding

forward

and I have senses enough to recognize

shadows mean some light is here

so I rub my eyes, shake my head,

reach

and step.

Old Roads

                Sitting in this parking lot that used to be a what…I don’t remember…now serving donuts and coffee, and I remember…this stretch of road and others, racing from one end to the next…looking and needing what…I couldn’t tell you then…thinking I may know a little more now…maybe…

                …I see others like us, souls with dirty hands, flailing limbs, longing faces, hurting hearts, traveling these roads and others, searching and wanting what…they don’t know…

                …I ache to reach out, caress their faces with my fingertips, offer an intimate touch, one that might bring healing…may be…recalling how the grime of choices made from a place of wounded feels, trying to wash it away, not knowing how to get it off, so getting off instead…

                …teary-eyed, my heart revisits these old roads…and I remember…pain, and healing, and I rejoice in my weeping…

                …we know…we remember…we reach…we remember…we hope…as we travel…new…on old roads.

                Never forget the old roads…remembering helps you know where to look for the others, like you.

Okay

I'm learning...

 ...it's okay for me to say,
                              and believe,
                                        I have something to offer.

This new-found understanding may seem well overdue,
                             and probably is,
                                         but it's finally becoming okay...
            ...and might even be good.

                                                               



                                           

Limping as I go

always a smear of sticky

                across the cheek of my soul

always a bit of blemish

                on the skin of my emotion

always a kind of kink

                in the hip of my spirit

that leaves me

                a little messy,

                a little rough,

                a little lame,

returning to you

where you lick your thumb

                and rub my face clean

where you smooth your salve

                over my burning skin

where you give me your arm

                on which to lean,

                as you walk me through

back to the mess,

                and the rough,

                and lame,

limping as I go

Old Friends

Old friends come back in like skipping stones

across water’s surface

in slow motion;

touching down for just a moment,

and never long enough.

Leaving ripples which flow well beyond

the place of touching,

of contact.

Finally sinking beneath what’s seen

to rest in the deep of the soul,

creating new landscapes far below,

and new currents above.  

Our shores long to be visited again,

to be stirred by the passing through,

the fine flick of the wrist

of old friends.

Still fighting

I’ve been meaning to – wanting to – write something lately.  I have all this stuff floating around in my head but I can’t seem to make sense of any of it, at least not enough to form thoughts and ideas that would make sense to anyone else.  I’m silent because I’m a little scared, and a little weak, and still a lot insecure.  Opportunities have been placed before me lately and while I am grateful for the confidence in the presenting, I’m still unsure of my ability.  I actually watched a hypnotist on Dr. Oz yesterday (let’s not get into why I was watching Dr. Oz in the first place) and he was talking about using hypnosis to tap into the subconscious mind to free oneself of negative impulses.  He was mainly talking about weight loss and quitting smoking but he also touched on the idea of freeing people from their own self-doubt and lack of confidence.  I watched intently hoping to gain a tool of some kind that I could use to pry open my lockbox of insecurity and release all of it, but after 30 minutes of watching, no such luck.  I even thought about looking in the phone book for hypnotists in my area who might be able to help me.  I’m embarrassed even writing it, but I am glad to say I did not look. 

So no hypnotists in my future, and still no tattoo (Dad), but still hanging on to the same old fears and other belaboring junk. 

And I keep thinking of the words often spoken, “My grace is sufficient for you” and quickly realizing I don’t always believe it.  This then makes me wonder if not believing takes away from the validity of the statement, or just robs me of the ability to receive its truth.  The grace eludes me, or I elude it. 

There’s been a lot of screaming going on inside my head recently.  I’ve been listening to this Dave Matthew’s Song called “Gray Street”.  The chorus at one point goes:

            “There’s an emptiness inside her/and she’d do anything to fill it in/and though it’s red blood bleeding from her now/it’s more like cold blue ice in her heart/She feels like kicking out all the windows/and setting fire to this life/if she could change everything about her/into colors bold and bright/but all the colors mix together/ to gray/and it breaks her heart”

And that’s how I feel lately.  A little dramatic, I know. 

No placating encouragement needed.  I’m just doing a little wrestling.  Really wanting to curl up under shadowy wings and hide out for a while but hiding doesn’t seem to be in my cards right now.  Getting down in the mix, in the mess, and duking it out does.  I’ll be swinging like a madwoman and hope I’m not just shadowboxing. 

Maybe one of the punches will knock loose the lid to that box…

Understanding Love

I started my new job today.  It was one of four days I will actually get paid to be at the ministry center this summer.  I spent the morning hanging out with the ladies there, chatting with them over breakfast, helping to watch their children while they smoked or showered, and helping to make sure they had what they needed to achieve their goals for the day.  Some of those goals were quite small, others a bit larger, but all were goals of some sort.  Around lunchtime, I suddenly found myself alone.  It was a bit ironic considering I went there with the hope of pouring in to the lives of these women, to be a sort of conduit of hope in hopeless places, and I was alone!  I spent several hours alone actually, and since there was no one to engage, I decided to sit on the patio with a magazine and do some light reading.  I casually flipped the pages, not very interested in most of its content, and answered the phone when it rang.  All was quiet for the most part.

As I was leafing through the magazine I came across a page about a writing contest.  The magazine is sponsoring a writing contest about “life lessons”.  The topic question is “When did you first understand the meaning of love?”  I thought to myself, I should enter this contest.  I’ve only entered one other writing contest and apparently didn’t win (or lost, in another word) but that was several years ago and hey, it was worth a shot.  So as I continued to mindlessly turn the pages of the magazine, my mind was turning pages of memory in search of the moment, or even a moment, when I understood the meaning of love.  I was a little troubled at my lack of ability to pinpoint a moment, and the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t let it go.  Finally I put down the magazine and retrieved my laptop from the car.  I figured maybe if I started writing something would come out.  That happens to me sometimes – I start writing about some topic I believe to have a grasp of only to discover what I thought I knew about myself and my thoughts/feelings/reactions was wrong.  It’s weird.  But anyway, I figured I’d start writing and voila! I’d have a better understanding of love.

I started writing, had about a page written, reread it, then deleted it all.  

Then I started again.  Then I deleted again.

I have now started this essay three times and I still don’t know what I’m talking about.  

The stupid thing is that I have received so much love in my life, this essay should be cake.  So why can’t I figure out how to write about any of it, or really how to write the understanding?  

Sadly, I believe it’s because I have yet to gain a good understanding of love.  I can give you the usual answers: it’s a deep longing for someone, a sacrifice on behalf of someone else, a burning desire to be near another, etc, etc, etc.  We could go to the parental definition, the idea of doing anything, even dying, for one’s child, but again, that’s not really an understanding.  How do you write such a thing? 

What I began to see was I still don’t have a real understanding of love because I think our definition of love isn’t really love, or at best it’s a limited love.  We do for others, long for nearness with others, say the words “I love you” to others, almost always because of what we get in return, not what we’re giving.  Does that sound completely jaded and cynical? 

For as much as I “love” the people in my life, there is almost always something I get in return for my love. Does that make my love any less real or effective? Or is it still valid, just a little twisted?

Maybe that’s the point.  Maybe our version of love is only defined and fulfilled when given, then taken, then taken, and given again.  It’s a continuous movement that becomes tangible, realized, in the give and take.  Love changes from  a noun to a verb and back again an indefinite number of times.  Maybe that’s the part I’m just beginning to understand.  So it’s a little messy, a little broken, but still something.  Maybe that’s love here.

Being the neurotic individual I am, I had it in my head that I was going to get an essay written tonight, even if it sent me into an emotional coma for lack of understanding, or at least identifying well, love in my life.  Forget the fact that the deadline for submissions is September 15^th – I need to get it done!  But then I realized I have more processing to do, which is why this post exists.  Writing about writing - only a writer (aspiring or otherwise) would find value in such a topic.  

For everyone out there who has loved me – please hear me when I say you have all loved me well.  This dilemma does not stem from your failure to love, it comes from my failure to understand.  All of you are the reason I even bother to attempt the understanding.  You deserve it because you’ve been good at the job, which I know hasn’t been easy.

New Adventure

So I really just want to give a quick update as to what's been going on.  I'm about to embark on a new adventure, one that has been a desire of mine for sometime.  No, I'm not going skydiving (but I hope to someday).  Yes, I do plan to get a tattoo sometime in the near future, but that's not it either.  Starting Monday, a new center for homeless women and children is opening here in Grand Haven and I've been given the opportunity to work there.  I was originally offered a part time position but the hours didn't work for our family so I'll be volunteering as a mentor as well as acting as a fill-in person for the staff when they take vacations or need time off for other reasons.  I took a tour of the center yesterday after staff meeting and it is unbelievably gorgeous.  There are 6 rooms currently with the hope to add up to 33 more in the coming years.  They have already approved 5 women to begin the program there and I would imagine the 6th room will be filled soon.  Each room has its own private bathroom and there is also a communal kitchen, dining room, and living room area in the house.  This is unlike most homeless shelters in that the women who come here will be set up with an individualized program to fit their current needs.  They will be given money management training, parenting classes, communication classes, as well as a host of other "elective" classes, like health and wellness, nutrition, how to utilize the community resources available, bible study classes (if they desire), and many others.  If a woman needs to earn her high school diploma, we will help her do that.  If she needs counseling for emotional or spiritual issues, we'll make sure it happens.  It's a complete life skills program and looks like it will be really cool.


I've been given the very first resident to mentor, which is humbling for me.  We have some similarities based on my background so it seems like a good fit.  I'm not sure that I feel qualified to take on such a task, but the  call was never "only if you feel qualified".  I suppose my life experience qualifies me to some extent, but we'll see.

Anyway, just thought I'd give you the scoop.  I'm really excited to see God move through this ministry center.  I know there will be issues that arise and we'll have bumps along the way, but at the end of the day it will be good. 

So if you think about it, pray for the opening of the center on Monday.  And send one out for me as well.  I need all the help I can get!

Fabulous Las Vegas

We just returned from a trip to Las Vegas (exhausted sigh). This is our 4th time to Las Vegas and while there are new buildings going up, new restaurants and clubs opening, and new showings playing every year, it’s still the same. There is a big convention for commercial retailers there every year so Bill goes and has meeting after meeting for several days and I spend my time at the pool or running around the city, checking things out. This can be dangerous for me as we all know I’m a processor by nature, and there is a ton to process in that city. Much to Bill’s dismay, I spent a lot of time processing again this year. I must admit that I LOVE the sun and warmth, even when it gets up to 100 degrees or more. It must be because I live in Michigan where a hot day is 85 degrees, and I miss the real heat of summer. I also love the food in Las Vegas. Whatever one could possibly crave is available there, often 24 hrs a day. It’s actually overwhelming to me and I find myself paralyzed with too many choices. Again, much to Bill’s dismay I am even more indecisive when we’re there. Having so many choices makes me think I might make the wrong one and therefore opt to not make any at all. I know, I’m a mess, but this is not the point. I also find myself in awe of the sheer determination it took for people to go to the middle of the desert and create what is now one of the most widely visited cities in the country. It’s not only a popular destination for Americans, but is most certainly a world-renown destination. The shopping options are beyond comprehension and I could spend days (literally) and still not hit every store. The entertainment is some of the best in the world as well, from what I understand. There are at least 100 shows to choose from on any given day, and most of them are amazing. We’ve seen several Cirque du Soleil shows in years past and this year got a chance to see The Lion King musical, which was fantastic. So many things to do and see there, it truly is amazing.


But…you knew there was a but, didn’t you? You had to know it was coming. For all the glamour and excitement, I’m always a little tormented when we go there.  As I walked this week, I processed what I saw around me. I saw what looked to be an underpass where some homeless people were finding shelter, shadowed by a multi-billion dollar resort. I passed signs that read such things as “Vanity Club – Sin Every Sunday Night”. I walked past countless “newspaper” machines that held catalogues of prostitutes categorized by their physical traits. I saw the faces of people that came to Las Vegas to take their chances at the betting tables or slots in hopes of striking it rich, and none of them looked even remotely happy. I listened to songs that sang of getting drunk and having sex with whoever was close enough to grab. I watched people spend their hard-earned money on things like strip clubs and overpriced drinks, sometimes at 7 or 8 in the morning. I talked with old men and women who were still up at 7am after a night of gambling and hard drinking, who thought I was crazy to be wearing a tank top, not realizing it was 85 degrees outside because they hadn’t left the casino in days. This is fabulous Las Vegas.

Bill and I go round and round every year about what I struggle with when we go there. I’m not going to rehash our discussion, but I will say a few things of what we determined. First, we aren’t angry with the people we see – the situation makes our hearts hurt. Second, God loves the people in Las Vegas.

I believe what gives us such a difficult time there is that the Spirit that lives inside us is in direct opposition to the spirits that are at work in Las Vegas. We’re not at war with the people, we’re at war with the spirit of the place. Lust is being sold in Las Vegas, and everyone’s buying. I struggle with it too when I’m there. I am told to eat whatever I want, drink whatever I want, have whatever I want, no matter the cost to me or anyone else. Indulgence is the name of the game – forget everything else. And sex is the number one seller. There was an interview on the news one night that was startling and a bit sickening. The man who owns The Bunny Ranch, a legal brothel outside the city limits, was commenting on how he believes they could cut down on illegal prostitution and human trafficking in the city limits. (I can barely think the phrase “human trafficking” without an ache in my heart and tears in my eyes.)  He made the statement, “Las Vegas used to be a gaming town with some sex in it. Las Vegas has become a sex town with some gaming in it.”

So what do we do? There were moments when I felt overwhelmed by it all and I just wanted to bury my head in my book and pretend like none of it was happening. And I will admit that’s what I did at times. But there were other moments when my heart was so heavy with the mess all around, that I did the only thing I knew to do – I prayed. I was reminded of the opportunity God has given me in prayer, to be a part of the solution instead of standing by shaking my finger at the problem or ignoring it all together. My judgment isn’t going to change anything, but my prayers can. He put in my heart the desire to pray for healing and restoration of the city. (He, after all, loves cities as He designed them and plans for us to live in one for eternity.) He encouraged me to pray for the local church, for power and wisdom to battle the spiritual darkness there. He helped me pray for a deeper sense of love for all the folks who are being misled, and even those who are doing the misleading. I felt peace as I was able to lift this burden to Him. He sees it and knows it and feels the pain of it every day. I only had to face it for 5 days.

I guess what I’m trying to say is as believers in the true God of the universe, it is not only our duty to pray for the dying world around us, it’s our right and privilege to do so. He has given us a way to care for the world even when we feel helpless and surrounded by hopelessness. I am a walking example what He can do in a hopeless situation, and I must remember that when faced with what seem to be dead ends in life. And if there ever was a place of dead ends, it’s Las Vegas.

God is still there, and He’s still in whatever situation you are facing today that seems hopeless to you. So pray. And when you’re done praying, pray again, and again, and again until the peace of Jesus settles in, removing the darkness and bringing the light. Everything looks different in the light of Jesus, even Las Vegas.

I’m not suggesting it will all change when you finally say “amen” – after all, there were hundreds more people arriving as we were leaving yesterday - but just knowing God is alive, even in a place like Las Vegas, is hope enough for today. It was enough for me to be able to have a good time while I was there, and that’s saying a lot!

some silence

the weight of fear
hangs heavy in some silence
dangling overhead like an anvil
ready to crush
these are the matters of the heart….
when the silence binds us to the post
and delivers its 40 lashes
when it overwhelms as a tidal wave
filling our wanting mouths
with the salty taste of bitterness
while the even tide of its fullness
goes out, and comes in
and we’re drowning in the foamy crash
of confusion, and in the depths
of the unknown
silence.

About Bill

So last week was my anniversary, and my post was more about an overall sense of what annversaries and relationships mean to me, but I never really gave Bill much time in the spotlight.  Since he is so very deserving of the spotlight, I thought it wise put it on him this week.

Who is Bill to me?  Besides my best friend....

- he is the one who sees me at my best and my worst and always thinks I am amazing - sometimes a bit silly, but still amazing
- he is the one who carries on conversations with me about topics like the definitive variations among subcultures and how varying subcultures do and don't relate to one another and the social and spiritual impact of such failures to relate...this is one we actually had last weekend
- he is the one who tells me when to settle down and get over myself, and rarely asks if it's "that time of the month"
- he is the one who listens to every single one of my songs and never tells me any are bad (although some of them are) and goes way beyond encouraging me in the good ones
- he is the one who gives me incredible gifts like studio time to record my songs that will most likely never be heard by anyone but the people we force to listen
- he is the one who laughs at me in moments he could be screaming, and gets me to laugh at myself
- he is the one who bends to carry the weight of our family burdens so I don't have to
- he is the one who will spend a Saturday afternoon hauling landscaping debris from one side of the yard to the other and let me sit on the patio and watch him, without making me feel guilty
- he is the one who will always give me an excuse to make chocolate chip cookies, and celebrates every bite with comments like, "These may possibly be the best cookies in the history of mankind" (he's been known to exaggerate a bit)
- he is the one who thinks I'm beautiful when I'm 20 lbs overweight or 20 lbs under
- he really doesn't care that I don't wear makeup (no, really)
- he is the voice of reason when I'm being unreasonable
- he is the voice of encouragement and confidence when I have none of my own
- he believes in me in ways I may never believe in myself, and he cheers me on to do all the things I don't believe I can do
- he stands with me through every storm, walks with me through every fire, wades with me through every flood, and runs with me when I'm able
- and when I don't have the strength to do any of these, he carries me, never once making me feel any less beautiful or amazing or strong

He is truly the beautiful and amazing and strong one, and I am so grateful to call him my husband, and my friend.

Anniversaries

Today is my 13th wedding anniversary. Bill and I committed ourselves to one another 13 years ago today and man has it been a wild ride since then. I think back to this day 13 years ago and am in awe of who we were compared to who we are today. Some of you reading this knew us then, some of you didn’t, but you’ve all probably heard stories along the way.  We sat on our patio last night after the boys went to bed, just talking and enjoying each other’s company, and realized that while we’ve been married 13 years we've  been together for almost 17. That’s just shy of half our lives. We’ve spent almost half our lives as a couple. What a wild thought. It’s not that we didn’t know these numbers; we just don’t have time to reflect on them most days so it’s nice to have an anniversary to do just that – reflect. I guess that’s what anniversaries are about, reflecting on the ups and downs of whatever relationship celebrated. But our anniversary always falls around mother’s day, which adds another element all together. Another anniversary of sorts - an opportunity to reflect on the relationship of a mother. So I was standing in church yesterday singing songs of worship and praise, and suddenly became overwhelmed with gratitude once again. The line that struck me was “You are the God who saves us/worthy of all our praises” and it hit me like a ton of bricks – He saved me, and all my relationships with me. I know that seems very elementary to many, but I stood there with my boys on either side of me, holding Bill’s hand, 13 years after we said, “I do” and I was overcome once again by the transforming power of Jesus in my life. 13 years ago I couldn’t even step foot in a church without being so high I couldn’t see straight. I looked around and saw my family and friends and was struck with the reality that I don’t deserve any of this. I don’t deserve these beautiful boys who are healthy and strong and call me Mom, I don’t deserve a husband who’s still madly in love with me after 17 years of craziness, I don’t deserve friends who love me in spite of my persistent craziness, I definitely don’t deserve the strong friendship I share with my mom, and I certainly don’t deserve a God who saved me from all of the mess I created– who saved me from myself.

But God, in His great love for me…

Overwhelmed can’t begin to describe my feeling in that moment.

God’s goodness is unbelievable, and yet here I am, 13 years later with a stronger marriage than ever, with a husband who truly thinks the world of me, with a better relationship to my mom than I ever thought possible, and with the gift of being Mom to beautiful Max and Charlie.

I wish I could take credit for these changes and blessings in my life, but I can’t. All I did was realize I was lost and reach out for the hand that had been so long reaching for me. That’s it, and now I have all sorts of anniversaries to celebrate.

Thank you, Bill, for 13 years of love and strength and security and fun. Thank you, Mom for a lifetime love and support and encouragement and forgiveness. Thank you, boys, for letting me be mom to you even when I stink at it. Thank you, friends, for seeing me through so many dark times and being the light-bearers in my life. And especially thank you, God, for your relentless pursuit and your everlasting love. You are the God who saves me, worthy of all my praises.

Lost in Translation

Moving straight in a
     circular world.
Drawing lines in sand
     as grains swirl around our planted feet.
Speaking directed words
     with little meaning.
Tumbling down the slope
     of confusion and identification,
Wanting to define with
     sharp edges and pointed paths,
All the while getting lost
     in the rounded borders,
Unable to find, to define,
     the beginning or end.

As blacks and whites
     turn to grays and greens and blues,
     hues of yellows and pinks and purples…
Get lost in the beauty,
     forget the horizon and looking instead
To the open sky.

Brutal Honesty

I was getting ready for church yesterday, and it being Easter and all, I was trying extra hard to look nice. I’ve gone round and round in my head trying to figure out why exactly this is, and I could give you all the usual answers I give myself, but none of them make sense so I’m not going to get into it. Let’s just say I wanted to look good and leave it at that.


If you know me, or have known me for any amount of time, you will know that I don’t usually wear makeup. I probably should, but I still haven’t come to the conclusion it matters all that much in the grand scheme of things, so I don’t. To be honest, the processes of putting it on and taking it off seem to be more work than the effect is worth so it’s just easier to not wear it at all. Then there’s no shock when people see me early in the morning or late at night because I always look the same. It’s perfect. And when I do wear makeup, I look that much better. This system works well for me so I’m sticking with it.

But back to yesterday. I had just finished putting on my makeup (including eye shadow and eye liner, which almost NEVER happens) and when I felt it was complete, I turned to Max and said, “How do I look?” I have learned over the years that if I want true and brutal honesty, I should ask Max, but I didn’t think that part through before asking. He looked me over and said, “You look good. Except here,” and he used his index finger to motion to the area under his eye.

Before I could defend myself, my God-given dark circles, and the fact that I had already applied concealer to them, he said, “You look like you’re trying to be one of those Goth teenagers. You really should cover up the dark part under your eyes.”

“Thanks, Max.”

While I'm sure there are several lessons to be learned here, I took away two.  First, don't ask if you don't really want to know the truth.  Second, you've got to have a real sense of security as a person to be the parent of a kid like Max. 

I'm still learning...

The Woman Bleeding

Touching the tattered
cloak of Him
Who brings healing,
through faith and wounds.
How close must she be
to brush the robe
Of the One who passes by?
How long to wait
for Love to come through,
for Power to change
hurt into Healing?
Lay your face in the dirt…
reach open hands up…
fingertips rub, anticipate…
for death to pass…into Life.
Bleeding begins, and ends,
And Eternity remains.

Limits on love and sacrifice

We’ve been back from vacation for almost a week and Bill has been suffering from an “illness” since we’ve returned. He has been put on several medications to cure him of the illness and while I believe they’re working, they’re also taking their sweet time. While he waits for healing, he has been in a significant amount of discomfort. Every evening he laments the irritation of symptoms and every evening I say, “I’m sorry you feel so badly,” and I mean it. I truly am sorry he’s hurting. After I told him as much the other night, I sat and asked myself, “How sorry are you? Would you take this illness from him if it meant his healing?” And I felt a little proud to be able to say, “Yeah, I would.” I thought if I could take the pain away from him, I would, and that made me feel pretty good about myself. But then suddenly another question arose in my mind, and I don’t think I was the one asking it. The question was, “What if he didn’t care that you took it? What if he completely disregarded your sacrifice for him? Would you still take it?” Can you guess my answer? I realized in that moment that no, in that case I wouldn’t take it for him. In order for it to be worthwhile to me, he would have to recognize what I did for him and truly appreciate it. Otherwise forget it.

And then it hit me: that’s exactly what Jesus did when He died for the world. I was overcome for a moment while I lay there in bed, realizing how unworthy I was and am of Jesus’ sacrifice. I was filled with sorrow as I understood my own limitations of love and sacrifice, and oh so grateful when I recognized, even if incompletely, His limitless love and sacrifice. It was just a moment in time when I understood a little more what He has done for me. The idea that while I was still a sinner, Christ died for me (Romans 5:8), took on a deeper meaning. Even though He knew I wouldn’t care for a long time, and might never fully understand the depth of His sacrifice, He did it anyway. Even though He knew the greater portion of humanity would reject Him, He still willingly went to the cross and died, for all of humanity.

As we enter this Holy Week and as we remember Jesus’ death, burial, and glorious resurrection, take a moment and consider what it meant for Him to die for us, fully knowing we would never truly appreciate what He did.

Doesn’t it make you fall even more in love with Him?

Our Trip to the East Coast

We just returned a few days ago from a trip to the East Coast.  We began our travels last Thursday morning at 3:30 am.  We caught a flight out of Grand Rapids at 6am and landed in Baltimore around 7:30.  We quickly caught the commuter train to Washington D.C. and were finding our way through the Metro system by 8:30am.  We wandered around the National Mall and checked out the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History before our hotel room was available at 2:30.  Needless to say, we were exhausted by that point and all ready for a nap.  Well, all except Max of course.  He only naps when ill, and not all the time even then.

We spent 3 days in D.C. going to several of the museums, checking out the memorials, and even got a tour of the White House gardens.  The weather wasn't great, but we still had a great time.  We caught the train back to Baltimore on Sunday morning where we met up with my parents, brother, sister-in-law, and nieces.  We spent the afternoon wander around Inner Harbor and touring some historic ships that are docked there.  We went to the National Aquarium in Inner Harbor on Monday and then had dinner with my cousin and her family.  Tuesday was our last day in Baltimore and it was pouring down rain, so we spent the day at the Maryland Science Center.  I've been to several science centers and I must say the one in Baltimore is one of the best I've been to.  Bill, my parents and I all got sucked into the exhibits as much if not more than the boys.  It was a great day, and a great vacation all around.

We planned our trip so that we wouldn't need a car, which was fun and surprisingly very easy.  I liked it too because it made me feel like I belonged there.  I love urban life.  I truly wish I lived in a major city.  Bill loves it as well and if it weren't for our kids, we might move to Chicago or D.C. or some other major metropolitan area.  But I always struggle a little when I'm in the city because there is so much obvious need.  Baltimore had a huge homeless population and that caused a bit of angst for me.  I think I struggle so much because I want badly to help in a greater way than I can as a visitor - we gave away all of our leftover dinners to homeless folks we encountered, but it isn't enough.  I wanted to let them know there is another way - you don't have to live like this - but then I realized I'd just be blowing hot air as far as they were concerned.  I didn't live there and I had no real understanding of the resources available to them.  It made my heart hurt to know that I have the answer, but I'm not sure they want to hear it and I'm not sure I'm in a position to give it.

Does that sound crazy?  Would it have helped for me to run up to the couple we gave our leftover seafood to and say, "Jesus loves you and wants to set you free from your life of hopelessness"?  Is having the answer and giving it enough?  Maybe I should have done just that, but somehow that doesn't seem like that is the whole answer.  I don't know.  Am I putting too much emphasis on my part and not enough on the saving grace of Jesus? Again, I don't know.

I do know there's a lot of pain out there and I want to help in the process of healing it.  I feel a bit unable to truly make a difference in the location I find myself, but then I realize there are plenty of hurting people all around me.  They don't have to be homeless or addicts to need the healing and restoration Jesus gives. But seeing people in the same state I was in 11 years ago really does a number on my heart.  Maybe someday I'll be in a place where I can help those hurting folks, but today I'll purpose to be a light and bring the healing of Jesus to the hurting around me here and now.  Is that enough?

I don't know.

Duped

I was sadly duped last night. Some might even say deceived, although I’m not sure either word truly fits the offense. I don’t know if it was intentional, which is why I’m having a hard time defining it. Maybe just loose manipulation…

Let me set the stage for you: It was a cold but sunny evening so Max and Charlie were outside playing ball with our neighbors Daniel and Gideon. They had been out there for some time when Max rushed in to use the bathroom. I was sitting at the dining room table, staring at the computer and looking for words in my head.  When he was finished with his business, Max sidled up to me and asked, “What are you doing?” He thrives on moments like this, when he has me all to himself. He will pretend to be interested in watching ice melt if it means alone time with Bill or me. But I didn’t consider that reality when I answered I was working on more haiku poetry. He immediately began to read it aloud, counting the syllables to be sure I was adhering to the 5-7-5 form of the haiku. (I really want to go into more detail about this topic, but I must resist. The reason will become clear in the end.) I was not surprised by his immediate checking of my work, as he tends to be extremely black-and-white in his dealings with me. If there is a rule, I’d better be following it or he will call me out EVERY TIME. (Where does that characteristic come from? I wonder…)

He was suddenly struck by a line in one of the poems: “Twisting branches reach for it,” and told me he could write pages on the picture that line conjured in his mind. I told him he should, to which he promptly asked if I would write down what he said. And so we created a little prose poem together, and for a moment I was dwelling in my own little corner of heaven. Here I found myself sharing one of my passions, poetry, with my son, watching him find pleasure as well as his own creative voice in it. I fought hard to conceal my delight for fear it would somehow scare him back into his hole, much like Punxsutawney Phil upon seeing his shadow on Groundhog’s Day. So I silently squealed with joy as we sat and shared poetry.

And then it got better because Charlie showed up.  Upon seeing that Max and I were sharing something, he immediately wanted to joined us. “With pleasure!” I screamed within, and went on to explain in detail the form and function of a haiku poem to my 6-year-old, and how this line (which I read to him) had given Max inspiration to write his own poem. He seemed to be listening, and I was abiding in sheer bliss.

In response to their inquiries and requests, we started looking at my other poetry. I quickly offered to read them, and they just as quickly agreed to hear them. I came upon the poem A Gray Morning in March and preceded the reading with an explanation of where and when I wrote it. They posed more questions, mostly in terms of specifics relating to day and time, which to me seemed insignificant but I answered anyway. And then I read the poem aloud, slowly and using every bit of inflection I could muster. When I finished, I said, “Did you have pictures in your mind while I read?”

Charlie’s face dropped just a bit as he looked at me, his eyes beginning to glass-over, and with all sincerity and defeat said, “I don’t really listen so well.”

Max quickly followed with, “Me either. I don’t listen so well either.”

Charlie then motioned to the screen, pointing to the space between the first and second sections and said, “I heard you up to here. I couldn’t pay attention after that.”

It was then that I realized I had been duped. That while their interest may have been sincere for a moment at the start of our time together, somewhere along the way they recognized an opportunity and took it. They saw their chance to play on my love of poetry for their own self-gratification. They kept me talking and reading and going through detailed explanations so they could stay up just a little longer. But this plan only served them so well for so long.

What they failed to realize was the depth of this love their mother had for poetry, and ultimately her own self-gratification. They had no idea how deep this infatuation went, and while they felt pretty secure wading up to their knees in her babble, as they got waist high in it, they knew they were in trouble. When it rose to their necklines, they used the only life boat available to save themselves– the truth. They bailed out, and my heavenly plugged was pulled.

I laughed as I looked at my little manipulators, fully aware of the fact that they learned from the best. I laughed as much at them as myself in that moment. As I leaned over to kiss each one on the head, I exhaled the long-awaited and overdue words, “Go to bed.”

Intermediary

Not standing on edge
Or sulking on precipice
In Fall, and decay

My Boy Growing

You’re 8 and ¾, almost 9. You’re growing fast; your brain is beating your body in the race, and although you’re the smallest in your 3rd grade class, you’ve got one of the biggest personalities. You are learning new things everyday, about the world around you, about your family, about yourself, and about where you fit into everything. You have big ideas and you want to share them all. You believe, deep down in your gut, that your opinion is the most important. I believe the same about mine, which makes for some messy headlong crashes at times. We argue every day and while I’ve determined I won’t continue, somehow each day you manage to engage me once again. I plan for forced stand downs, like the US in the Cuban Missile Crisis, and you, unlike Cuba, are not fazed by the size of your opponent. But we’re working on it.


I realize you’re trying to figure things out, what’s important and what’s not, what deserves a fight and what isn’t worth the effort. Sometimes I forget that while I see no real value in some of the issues you chose to debate, they are extremely important to you. Please forgive me when I fail to recognize the largeness of your world, even when it seems small to me. And I will do the same when you assume as much about mine. I know you don’t understand why I limit you in so many ways. Oh that I could make you understand…I place some limits to protect, and others to preserve, and still others to balance who I believe you’ll be someday. And I fail, too. You already know it, but I want you to know that I know it too.

There’s another side to you, too; a softer side. This side of you still wants to lay your head on my shoulder when we watch movies together. This part of you wants me to laugh at your jokes, as silly as they are, and hear all the important information you tell about the happenings on the playground. This side is the one that still on occasion asks if you can sleep in my bed when Dad is away. This side still takes my hand when I reach for yours in a busy parking lot or store. This is the side that you’re trying to give up, but don’t really want to yet. This is the side that wars with that independent part of you, the part that wants freedom and space and opinions. This softer side wants to hold on to my arm when we pray together at night. This side longs for my approval.

These warring worlds in which you live make life difficult. As hard as it is to believe, I understand the struggle and I know the pain that it can bring. Soon the more independent part will have the louder voice, and you’ll want to lie close to me less and less. This louder voice will tell you to keep daily happenings to yourself, that I won’t understand, or care. (And please forgive me for the times I communicated as much.) The part of you that needs to be free will continue to resist me, and I will keep working to hold you somewhat close, even when you push away.

But for now, for now I will remember that there is still a softer side. I will quietly celebrate that you still take my hand when I hold it out to you. I will try not to notice that sometimes you don’t take it right away – I will simply be glad you take it at all. And I will purpose to not hold on to it too tight, because I know you won’t be 8 and ¾ forever. 9 is just around the corner, and so very soon you'll be grown. 

Transparency

Interrupted passage of light,
Vexing darkness,
Luster lost.
Obscure in our profound musings,
No longer shining as we should.
Covering our windows and doors,
Blocking out the Light.
Protecting inner workings
From getting out,
And outer influences
From getting In.

Gathering around our
Tightly woven garments of belief,
In order to…
For order’s sake.
Obtuse weapons bruising no enemy,
But instead each other,
As we seek to conceal
The wounds we long
to reveal,
And mend.

Bearing scars of
Emotional battle,
Presenting as intellect
Misunderstood.
Never to find healing
In this kind of display.

Open the windows,
Stretch wide the doors,
as Brilliance penetrates
the darkest of surfaces,
the blackest of hearts,
For Love’s sake, in truth.
Protective soul conceptions,
welling up and spilling out
in waves of refreshed cleansing.

We are transparent again,
And Light shines through.

The Talent Show

We attended the elementary school talent show last night.  Max was in a dance number with two of his friends.  They danced to the song "Fireflies" under black lights with cool glow-in-the-dark painted shirts.  It was the third time I had seen the entire show this week.  I'm at a loss of what exactly to say about it.  If you've been to an elementary school talent show before, you understand my lack of words to describe it.  If you've never been, it's something you should experience at least once.  Just be sure you know at least one kid who's in the show.  You'll understand once you're there.
The acts ranged from kids playing piano pieces to numerous dance numbers to solos of Celine Dion classics.  I didn't realize kids in the 21st century listened to Celine Dion, but they still do.  (Nothing like resurrecting Titanic, the movie that won't stay dead.)  There was even a drum and piano duet.  They played the music for the game Tetris.  You may not be able to recall the music in your mind but if you heard it, you'd know it right away.  Talk about creative!  Some kids did skits while others played violins.  There was a host of young talent to be experienced, and I got to experience it not once, not twice, but three times - this week.  I wish I was the doting, sentimental type who just adores such displays by children, I really do.  But I'm not, so I'll just keep some of my comments to myself.  Okay, most of my comments...

I will tell you that I was extremely impressed by the courage many of these kids had to get out in front of their classmates and perform. I was supposed to sing "Against All Odds" in the elementary school talent show when I was in 1st or 3rd grade (I can't remember) and I totally chickened out.  I made up a sore throat and said I couldn't do it the morning of the show.  I was too afraid to do it and I knew if I tried I'd choke.  Story of my life.  So I was taken by the bravado many of the children had in their talents.  I was also very encouraged by the enthusiastic responses given by the audience of peers to each act, regardless of it's merit.  I have seen elementary aged children be severe in their actions and reactions at times, but this was not one of those times.  They embraced their classmates and celebrated their efforts, even the ones that were not necessarily worthy of celebration.
So way to go, kids, for being brave enough to put yourselves out there.  And bravo to the audience for encouraging them.  Hopefully we can help shape and mold their "talents", and like the audience at the show, give them the encouragement they need to keep stepping out on the stage.

A Gray Morning in March

The gray of the sky
Settles in, like a blanket
Of cold, wet wool.
It crept into my dreams
Last night,
Lacing them with the sadness
This kind of gray
Can bring.
Waking too early, unable to return,
Unwilling to return
To the dreams that persisted.
Receiving instead the
Black of night, that became the
Gray, of this morning.

Gray skies make a dull backdrop
For bare trees.
Branches and limbs jutting out and up
Into the gray, looking for blue.
Their leafless arms reach high,
Waiting to be restored, to be
Renewed in the warmth
Of spring.
I wait, too.

Funny how those branches, exposed,
resemble my system, enclosed.
I curl down and in,
Wanting to return to sleep,

But I can hear the birds singing,
And I know that even though
The gray persists today,
Blue is just a few dreams,
And mornings,
Away.

A Picture of Friendship

We bought a new house last summer. June will mark the one year anniversary of our living in this new house. When I say “new” what I really mean is new to us, as the house was built in 1965 and still looks very much like it belongs in the 60’s. Sadly enough for the neighbors (who are wonderful, by the way), we have spent the past year working to bring the inside of the house into the 21st century. This means the outside is still shining like the 1965 star it is. While I’m sure it was a beautiful home in 1965, it is not very attractive in 2011, and we have plans to reinvent the exterior at some point. I spend most of my time inside the house, which is why we worked on it first. Sorry, Valley Court neighbors.

Part of the landscaping that existed was a bed of white rocks all along the front of the house. One of my friends (you know who you are) immediately called the rock feature out as one that significantly dates the exterior, and explained that was an easy fix. Simply remove the rocks, she said. Simple enough, coming from someone who really truly enjoys gardening and landscaping and all that yard work I really truly despise. Part of the joy I found in renting was we didn’t have to do much yard work at all. I might have rented the rest of my life based on that one fact, but Bill delights in yard work so I conceded and we bought a house. I still despise any type of yard work. (Don’t even get me started on Bill’s need to have all the acorns picked up in the fall. While shoveling snow is my part time job in the winter, acorn clean-up is my full time job in the fall. Did I mention I despise yard work? Just checking.)

Back to the rocks. As the weather has been progressively getting nicer, I was able to spend a bit of time sitting in the corner of my front porch soaking up the spring sun. And that’s when I looked over and saw what’s left of the rocks. I say what’s left because I did finally get around to removing some of them last summer, at the end of the summer, or really in the fall if I remember correctly (when I wasn’t picking up acorns, which wasn’t very often, which is probably why I didn’t finish the job). The reason I spent the entire summer looking at the rocks and not moving them until the fall is because I just couldn’t bring myself to do the job. I don’t know why, I just couldn’t. At least not until my friend (not the same one who gave the original advice to move them) came over and said, “I’ll help you move your rocks.” It was like the dark skies separated and the light broke through my white rock cloud! A savior had emerged, willing to help me with my utterly overwhelming task. These are the moments in life when I stop and realize that for all the ways I believe myself to be highly competent and capable, I really am just a sloppy mess who needs people tremendously. My friend knew it, and she didn’t mention it, she just offered to help me with the task that seemed impossible to me. Don’t ask me why moving the rocks seemed impossible, it just did. So the next day she came over, dressed in her best yard work attire (another one who loves getting her hands in the soil and cultivating the ground and all that unappealing dirty stuff), and we got to work. Suddenly this task was not impossible anymore. I could move the rocks because my friend was there to help me. I must tell you it was really hard work. We had to shovel the rocks into a wheelbarrow and wheel them down to another neighbor’s driveway. (We weren’t secretly ditching them on the unsuspecting neighbors – they really did want them.) We spent hours moving these stupid rocks and only dealt with half of them, but we got the job started, which was more than I had been able to do myself.

I sat on my porch considering the fact that while I still had rocks to move, the ones that were indeed gone were gone because my friend saw that I had a need – someone to help me move the rocks – and she stepped in to help. Friendship is seeing where people need help, whether it seems reasonable to need the help or not, and coming alongside to provide it. Friendship is carrying loads of rocks in the heat of the afternoon just because you know your friend needs you. Friendship is seeing where your friends are lacking and filling in the gaps with your gifts, your efforts, or maybe even just your time. I have other friends who might never come over and haul rocks with me, but they will come over and haul other burdens. And I have still others who will tell me what needs to go, whether it be concerning landscaping or Sherriscaping. These tasks don't always get completed in a timely manner, but these friends don't base their involvment on that fact.  Sometimes I just need help in getting the process started.  These are true friends and I don't know where I'd be without them.  Probably laying beneath pile of rocks somewhere, unable to move myself or the rocks!

Thanks for each one of you that help me carry my rocks in this life. You are a beautiful picture of friendship.