If a little bit of change sounds nice ...

She was just two and a half when she memorized her first bible verse. It wasn't intentional. She had this favorite book about a caterpillar. You know, the very hungry one.

And parenting was still new when she was two and I didn't know how to "train up a child" (I still don't ...!) but it just seemed natural to recite it with her ... the way the old goes and the new comes. And so we did. After that caterpillar munched its way through one piece of chocolate cake, one salami, and one slice of cherry pie, it wrapped its old self up for the waiting.

Each time we turned the very last page we held the book up overhead, opened and closed its pages and pretended to make that "beautiful butterfly" fly. She would articulate it just right and cheer the last part as if there were an exclamation point. Maybe there should have been.



"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old is gone, the new has come(!)."

For four years now, she has recited her "butterfly verse" at the end of that story and at the end of (nearly) every day.

This was accidental parenting too, us not knowing then how it would pave the way for hearts just before sleep. Night time is an ideal time, after a day of mess-ups and missteps, to talk about needing a little new life pumped into day-drained vessels. They seem to do their best thinking after the lights go out. I know I do. And by days end, which one of us couldn't use a little transformation?

Who doesn't need reminding that we are new and we are being made new all the time ... simultaneously soaring while shedding this mess-up prone life-skin -- one real, hard day at a time.

Each Monday here, we begin school the same way. I hand my girl a new character card and we learn the sentence together, then practice the lines from weeks before.  "I don't quit, I persevere."
"I am a wise child, so I work hard." This week she asked why the card included a butterfly. We read the words, "God can make me new."


I smiled, told her I bet she already knew the answer. 

So we read books about butterflies and she drew their life stages. She didn't say. We painted butterflies on canvas and she ran after moths with cupped hands in the yard. But she didn't say. So, when she let that back door slam on her way in from outside, I shushed her loud, nearly yelled  (always ironic) that "Ben is sleeping!" the way I tend to do. And then this ...

"I figured it out, Mama! It's just like my butterfly verse ... God does metamorphosis in us! That's why there's a butterfly on my card. "

And four years later, her "butterfly verse" came into full color and she was animated and jumpy with the knowing. Later, she dug a bit deeper. "Mama, can God make anyone new? I mean ... like anyone?"

I knew what she was really asking. And she wanted to know what we all desperately need to remember. Is there anyone who is too far gone, too far out, too far away? Ah, and this girl of six doesn't know her own heritage, the oldest born to two prodigal parents.



I smiled. "Yes, He can make anyone new." I told her how we don't ever stop loving, hoping with, anyone. "Not ever, ok? Because God can always change a heart."

I say it loud and clear, tender but emphatic. I say it with authority because I've lived it. I've seen it. And I've listened, jaw-dropped to the floor, to humble men and women who speak of the old, but only display the new. Yes, this is one I'll die on -- for myself and for the one out there who appears unchangeable, for the one who believes too much time has lapsed, for the one who has been given up on.

Because really? What good is Easter then?

What are we remembering? Hoping for? Celebrating? Why all the praise that will come on Sunday morning? Why bother with any of it if not for the promise of the new?

Later that day I mess up big and I yell and I have to apologize to my kids. For a minute my couch with green marker streaks trumps a kid's heart and I crush it good. I send everyone outside with wide eyes while I scrub and the marker comes out but I'm all messed up.

I tear up while I apologize and I try to make sure they know I value them more than a piece of furniture. But my oldest girl has internalized this butterfly truth and she leans in, pats my back the way I do hers. "It's ok Mama. We all need a little metamorphosis everyday."

She winks and I'm stunned because what do you do when your kindergarten kid ministers to your soul? I tell her I guess I'm just a stinky caterpillar today and my middle gal just thinks this is hilarious. 



On Palm Sunday we entered into Holy Week and began this final leg of the Easter journey. I've failed miserably in writing about any of it here-- but God has met us in these past forty days. Beautiful things, rich and lovely, are transpiring.

To begin the week, we planted a tiny garden in a silver tub. We chose plants still green with the knowing that they will bloom ... soon.  We bought parsley for the sole purpose of attracting butterflies and Cara has been toting a self-made caterpillar habitat, complete with caterpillar, for three days now. Our house is full of anticipation and the watching for signs of new.

And I just keep laughing, thinking about how badly I need some metamorphosis, and how often. I think on how we shed just a bit more of this everyday skin all the time -- everyday becoming a bit less like a caterpillar and a bit more like a winged beauty (2 Cor. 4:16).

This is the hope we have and the promise He made good on. "God can make me new."

Friends, today is Holy (Maundy) Thursday. If you missed Lent, missed Palm Sunday ... perhaps begin today?  Perhaps read through Mark 14 and 15 and begin to walk this road a bit, before Easter sneaks up?

Because everything changed, and became new, at the cross. 

Peace and grace today.

If you need a little courage ...

May you stand tall today, courageous with your chin held high. May you know Truth as you cling to Him who writes it on your heart, engraves it on your soul.

May you live out what you know. Really live it. Because He can be trusted.

May you lean into Him who makes you brave, moves your feet, and keeps you from stumbling. May you take a leap, or even just one step, and know this: the One who broadens the path beneath you won't let your ankles turn. 

Peace (and courage) to you today, my friends.

Where I'm From ...

Inspired here. Just what this little brain needed to get going again ...

I am from crosses over doorways, from spider plants dangling long over copper pots and aloe in the kitchen sill. I am from the beige Berber carpet under shelves lined with books and markers of where we have been. I am from Pearl Buck and Frances Hodgons Burnett, the wishing for my own secret garden with strong, long limb for reading ... my own key to hide away.

I am from John Denver's Christmas, from pickling spices simmering on stove top, a Jesse Tree. I am from marigolds in wagons and geraniums in window boxes, silver tubs of soil. I am from a magnolia by the front door with lingering perfume and leaves waxy green. I am from Los Angeles brown, from backyard pools, stray cats, post card collections, and pink checkered Vans.

I am from lasagna for dinner guests, coffee strong and black for dessert. From stories around a dining room table, folk songs and a guitar, communion in my living room. I am from Winland Strasse and Nevada Avenue, from alpine skiing and Malibu swimming. I am from orange-tent camping with a red-checkered table cloth.

I am from my mama and her mama on Davis Drive. From Puddy, Toshi, Ginny, Janny and Suzy. 

I am from "Go Army, Beat Navy" and "Be not afraid, I go before you always." From "On my honor, I will try..." and "Can you feel the love coming out of me and sticking on you?"

I am from walks through woods over the Hudson River, fall leaves in pockets and pressed between pages. From West Point cadets and Cream of Wheat, pickled eggs and pussy willows at Easter, kilbasa. I am from Nurnberg, Germany and bratwurst with mustard.

I am from liturgical living and the kneeling, hands clasped right next to my mama. I am from 'One Bread One Body,' from watching the multitudes walk forward with palms turned upward and me -- falling in love with humanity, one 'Amen' at a time.

I am from a family of prodigal sons and daughters: on LA streets and in night clubs, behind fun house mirrors and down sordid side roads, up fraternity house steps. From hunched-over shoulders, all wayward and slopping with the pigs; all home now and kneeling at Father's feet,
dining at His table.

I am from running too far and falling into shadows, paper-thin. I am from choosing, this day, Whom I will serve ... and feasting in new robes.

I am from Big Grace and no room for drama and parents who made the 'big gesture' every time. I am from redemption that is real and multiplying. I am from heart friends who love like family. From a Colonel-father turned humble, with eyes welling up when he speaks of Forgiveness.  From a mother who taught "faith is a gift" and whispered prayers for children over a lifetime. From a helpmate who models love: steady, kind, extravagant.

I am from palm branches creased into crosses and a home that learned to make way for the One who makes rough places smooth. I am from an assurance that if God is for us then who...?
I am from Water who quenches, from Bread who fills, from the Word who dwells right here.

I am from all that was. I am from the promise of One Who Is. I am from the hope of what will be.










Working hard to define this space, all these rambling words here. And I am just not good with a plan! Thanks for kindness. Thanks for coming back. Keep checking in? I've got some ideas and, well, I am finiding my way ...

Peace, as always, to you. My friends.

From middle class to masterpiece

My middle gal is in a phase.

I don't know for certain because my oldest sailed through these years with yes mama's and a lot of tenderness. But lately, when the middle one most needs a hug, she is more likely to throw an elbow. And I haven't read the book on elbow throwing yet ... though I recently picked up 'The Young Peacemaker."

She doesn't feel heard and she has trouble with patience. She takes what she wants by force: hitting, wrecking, grabbing ... then crying popcorn tears right on cue. Life has been a bit dramatic lately. She needs to make her presence known and she is a middle child. I could be mistaken, but I think I am watching textbook play out in real time.

We remind her to use her words, tell us what she needs. Maybe it's my job to know so that she doesn't have to ask? No one reacts as quickly as she wants when her heart has been hurt: her middle voice unheard and her middle height overlooked.

There is a blue-eyed boy who still needs a mama to pick up and hold. There is a tall, firstborn who needs help to piece letters into words, decipher b's from d's. The littlest needs my help and the oldest  is the helper and the middle one with fair skin and full cheeks ... she is known to wander a bit.

Todd and I stay up late and ask question over handfuls of peanuts, black coffee.

"How do we make her feel special?"

"How do we encourage her heart, how do we 'fill her love tank?'" 

"How do we teach her right behavior, not crush her little spirit?"

We have guesses, inklings. But who really knows? We land on the way of extravagant love.

"We just need to love her well," he says.

I think on my kids from work, how their most desperate attempts to separate were often the loudest cries for closeness. I think on my own life and how the anger and the pushing-away can grow right out of the heart-hurt.

A soul cry can look a lot like throwing an elbow. 

It's late in the evening and dad should be walking through the door any minute. The glass storm door usually creeks first and this is the hint that he is just seconds away ... bigger door separating father and the waiting few. Sometimes the wind pulls the glass door open just a bit and then lets go again. The kids are tricked every time, running for dad who isn't really there.

On this day, my middle one is aimless and she has ostracized herself from the two, no longer welcome. It is six o'clock and I have to choose: damage control or dinner. 

I see her in limbo and four year old shoulders can slump low like my own. I stop the doing and sit on the kitchen floor. At the foot of the fridge I scoop her into my lap, ask if she wants to read a book, play a round of Connect Four. Really, she just likes how the red and black pieces spill loud with one slide of the lever. She will fill and spill, fill and spill, laughing each time. She shakes her head no and she doesn't know what she wants.

I think about Peter. He was a semi-disaster and Jesus loved him well: called him a rock until he became one. Peter had to learn who he was, had to be told before he could grow into his name.

Truth spoken right into his skin. Words entering marrow.  

Someone did this for me once and who says four years old is too young to start knowing?

So I tell her she is wonderful company even though she just pulled hair. I tell her she is so fun to be with even though she just wrecked block cities. I tell her she is a wonderful big sister even though she runs with toys overhead while the smallest screams wild.

The  moment shifts and her face softens and she settles sideways into my chest. The words begin to come easy and suddenly I have a lot more to say. I tell her Truth. She listens while taco meet sizzles and the glass door creeks. The other two yell for dad and four little feet sprint.

My middle child doesn't budge and and this is how I learn it.

This is how we have to love this girl.

We have to call her loved until she knows it deep; we have to call her loving until she acts it out. I pray into her sandy strands right there on wood planks and we, just for a moment, ignore dad.

She hugs my neck and she kisses my cheek soft, doesn't bulldoze.

I think how I, too, have been loved this way for years and years ... Someone calling me lovely even though lovely is but a vision.

I hold this middle child in my lap and I let go of middle-child fears. I cling, instead, to the hope of  what and who she will be, who she really is ... because He is speaking it into her already.

He is speaking it over her today.  

Some rambling on the mystery of love ...

Ten years have passed since we gulped back tears and barely whispered "I do." For ten years we have shared space within these walls, under these sheets, trying to work out and understand what we uttered that day. We have had to fight for this always-growing-closer love.

And the dailiness of loving a person can wane. The reality of what it really takes to love can take its toll.  There is a cost to this together-living. This messy, gut-wrenching, mirror-imaging, love.

This man, this marriage, these children -- they are all wrapped up in love and the not-knowing.
Do we ever really know what we are doing ... if we are loving just right? How to really let love in, how to really make it grow? I have come to the same conclusion year after year:  this love is a mystery.

We crash and we burn and little souls rub up against big souls and each soul in this house is just a singular disaster living among other disasters, always trusting the One who makes masterpieces out of mess. We need extra grace to make this love-life work.

We have spent ten years learning how to say "I'm sorry, will you forgive?" Ten years learning how to fight well, fight for US and not for self. Learning not to say "don't worry about it," but say instead, "You did hurt me and I do forgive." Ten years learning a vocabulary of respect within a dance of grace. Ten years learning how to take inventory within these walls, courageously throwing out what must go and fighting, at all costs, for what must remain. 


Ten years learning that love isn't a feeling but, on many days, is a sheer act of the will. We get busted up in this school of love. It can be brutal at times.

Ten years realizing that the word 'submission' is not passe, not cause for cringing; this handing over, this getting lower, is cause for cheering really. Because what is true love without the laying down of a life?

I find it so very uncomfortable to be vulnerable, so scary to be exposed. And sometimes it is easier to fall into love under covers than it is to cry real tears, say real apologies, speak true words.

We have found that the soul-naked can be the scariest kind of undressing. Wide open for rejection, disappointment, the walking away. 

And this nakedness has never been easy for us. We have paid our dues here and we have claimed a stake in the ground: we won't let it take us down. Not if it kills us. We sit against our wills, knee to knee with hands together. We have needs and we need to pray. There is often a  long pause and I notice only the quiet. He smiles sweet like the college boy I married and he tells me he is nervous. He cant say why ... just knows the feeling mirrors that feeling of 'being too exposed.' And sometimes upstairs when the pursuit is on, the same risk of exposure can stop us dead in our tracks. This is the stuff that can kill a moment.

I spent too much time in the early years believing this union was faulty ... just couldn't seem to get it right. The money, the fighting fair, the whole "let the man lead" fiasco ... and the intimacy. We would whisper hope to ourselves and each other- would someone else just go ahead and raise the flag first!? Admit outright that it is hard for them too and confusing and a whole lot of work? It seemed like everyone had cornered the market on marriage ... had it all figured out. We were living our own little enigma, this other-worldly love placed in the hands of two messed up folks.

How in the world ...?



Now, in those awkward, too bare moments we decide to pray anyway, even though it is awkward and intimidating. We choose to soul-expose for the sake of this one-ness we know is our good. We push through. And in one act of vulnerability we align our wants and our needs and our fears and our hopes. We come together under the One who created this covenant love -- this love meant to draw us close, not tear us apart.

We want the mystery and so we risk the uncomfortable.

In the end we are unified, on a love-high with a heavenly twist and we talk about it; we think it odd that the two most unifying acts in a marriage are also the most risky, most vulnerable, most exposing. How we can dress up love making and tidy up our words in order to stay all covered up ... shielded from the very exposure that unifies, refines, literally grows love.

And we were twenty-three and thought we knew it all when we exchanged platinum. Perhaps the only thing we really knew? He would somehow be the model for this long life of loving. We have read our fair share of books, studied  marriage with a small crowd of friends.

But it is the soul undressing of this life, the constant and purposeful drawing near, the risky business of being exposed ... this is the stuff of growing love. This is the way of its Maker -- the invitation to be fully known and fully loved.

In ten years, I have held my breath here with this husband-man under my roof. He has witnessed the flaws without shifting his gaze. And he has modeled this God-love, always drawing closer rather than turning away. In ten years I have found safety in the real ... shade under strong oak trust ... being fully seen, with all of my imperfections alluring somehow.

This is the way of unconditional love. 

And in the end, a few conferences, books and small-groups later, we decide it is all too much to understand. We are content to embrace this mystery. We sigh a bit of relief, believing that He who created this work of love takes great delight in the slow revealing.

So, we too, will delight in the slow discovering.

For your Sunday...

Hoping your day includes some sweet rest, a quiet knowing that you are loved, and perhaps an all-star dance party ... well, just because.

 Be blessed today, friends.

 

My Year of Jubilee

When I stumbled over words and explanations in my kitchen, she stopped me. She set down her tea and looked me square on. Somehow she worked right through my circuitous speech and awkward fidgeting ... hit the target dead center. She asked gentle:

Why do you feel the need to explain yourself so much?

It was a fair question, really. There I was, explaining myself away the way I tend to do. I told her I felt frivolous and aloof for having big desires, big hopes. I told her how the old tapes play loud some days,  confirming in my ear the dressed-up lies of old. You are flaky. You are a mess. You are not capable. I told her I that I need to hear assurance that my ideas are not crazy, that I am not crazy. I told her I feel uneasy sometimes, 

on the verge of crashing and burning, always one poor decision away from re-entering the land of the lost.

And when you've been lost before, you can be found and still live afraid.

Afraid of the falling. 

This life is full and difficult and tiring. Beautiful and ugly and taxing. I suppose I would just like a guarantee that I won't crash hard, won't end up in regret. Regret and lost time can team up and cackle at me from the corner; tell me I am only good at wasting time, building up storehouses of regret.

I wear the burden to make up for what I can't get back. I am capable of living in gratitude for what is and in fear of what might not be and I know this isn't right. I know it.
But I have looked wasted time, ugly sin-self in the eye. I've looked square into her soul.

Across my table, this wise woman speaks truth and love and she tells me what I know but don't always live. 

You are not that girl anymore.

No, but she just rears her ugly head now and then ... taunts me like a shadow.

And while she's not the real thing, I quickly forget that I've been facing the Light for quite some time.

Shadows are only remarkable when the back is to the sun. Face the light and, well, that shadowy-girl may as well be invisible.

I don't tell her there in my kitchen because I haven't quite figured it out. But the truth is this:
I don't think I trust who I've become.

And rightly so. Without the One who cradles the fall, sets me upright, I'm just a wispy kid on a high wire; the crashing and the fracturing are inevitable.

This new gal who lives in my skin and speaks free and dances unafraid at weddings and eats a 6-inch sub in four minutes flat-- she was saved by One who likes to cradle the falling. And she shocks me on occasion and it's only when I start thinking I had something to do with the catching that I get all nervous.

I start thinking this whole show depends on my balancing act and perfect execution.
And sometimes the veil between standing firm and crashing hard is so thin that I quake.

I feel the need to check in, pine a little for some assurance. Wait for others to be my mirror. I tell my friend how I can affirm freedom in women, speak truth that builds up, but how I still hold the past over my own head. When it starts to look too good,

I get busy heaping on the coals.

  

This is slavery at its very best, I know. I know.

I can live out some terrible theology. Twisted pride: thinking so highly of myself, thinking my story is bigger than His. I can talk about freedom while I live indebted and whisper up a worn out prayer:

Lord, make up for the time I squandered. Make good on what I messed up.

Sometimes I can hear Him responding with loving exasperation, I am, child, and I already did.

I read in James about the person who asks and then doubts, how they are like a wave in the sea. Tossed about. Unstable. I can identify. But this woman I've come to love relaxes at my table and says it in passing as if I know what she means.

Ab, I think this may be your year of Jubilee.

Finding Home

It was on Day 6 of Advent, back in December, when this little family read about Jacob who slept on a rock and dreamt of heaven. When he woke, he was afraid and in awe at the same time.

"How awesome is this place," he said. "Surely God is in this place and I was unaware."

My oldest girl drew Jacob's ladder that day, the stairs to heaven colored red and blue with the angels ascending and descending. Wings bright yellow. God hovering at the top. She folded it up, put it in her pocket like Ann told us to do-- to remember, throughout the day, that everywhere is a house of God.

Later that night I pulled it out of her pants pocket, was reminded of its truth before tossing denim into the wash. How had I forgotten so quickly? I was certain I had missed Him that day ... because some days I just don't know how to make a home.

Some days home can feel elusive.

And Todd and I have always named our years, faithfully together on January 1. For years now we have performed this New Year liturgy. We sit close on New Years day, communion between us. We eat bread, drink wine. We remember the twelve months behind us, ponder the twelve to come. We confess, ask, laugh nostalgic, offer up this next trip around the sun. We ask for grace and courage. We give thanks.

And recently we've witnessed the passing of years named COURAGE, FREEDOM, MATURITY. And it sounds audacious, I suppose, to name a year that hasn't yet happened. But the naming has become, for us, more of an asking ... a recognition of a need mixed with humble anticipation.

Becasue He has worked on this family's behalf.

But this year, we sat together with the calendar wiped clean and we had no name-- 2012 glaring at us like a newborn swaddled tight. Infant hope all wrapped up in endless possibility.

And nameless.

This nameless babe has haunted me for nearly a month. I haven't been able to move on, figuratively speaking. For the first time in years, the weight of a name is weighing me down.

But on Day 6 of this new year, one month after my oldest put that ladder in her pocket, my littlest one stirred something in me. On the day of the Epiphany, I had one.

We were talking about church and how it is a building and how it is also God's people, inside four walls and outside as well. This concept is difficult and I wondered if she was tracking. Then she asked me if it was the same as "that story." "You know, mama? The one with the rock pillow and the stairs and the angels? Not just church, but everywhere is God's house."

I remember how Jacob woke up afraid that morning. And amazed. With fear and wonder mixed together, he got up and declared that place God's house. Awe at what he had seen, fear at what he hadn't understood, wonder at God's presence and the promise ahead of him. All the while, he had a knowing that he was on holy ground.

God there in the mystery.

And I wonder if fear of the unknown (un-named) could be holy wonder too? God here, sprawling across empty calendar space, taking up residence in my nameless days ahead.

I go back and read Jacob. And when he woke he went on his way, but not before making a proposition:

"If you'll be with me and watch over me, if you'll provide for me then you'll be my god. And all that you give me? I'll turn around and give it right back. And this place of rock hard sleep will become your house.  If you'll get me home, I'll declare this place a house of God."

Only this: God had already told him, "I will bring you back to this land. This is the land I will give you." Jacob wanted to get home and God said, this place you named 'House of God' will be your home.

Your home will be wherever I am.  

And in the first four weeks of my nameless year, I've been thinking on this idea of home without even knowing. Conversations and books and prayers and encounters, all pointing not to a place but to a reality. "You have been our dwelling place..."

It's nearly February now and Christmas is lingering under my skin; this God who came down to dwell among us, within us, is reminding me again and again that home is wherever He is.

And so it is one month late and right on time that I'll declare this year The Year of Finding Home.
Because there's a stirring here within these walls and we're sensing that home is far more than where we lay our heads. It's a mystery and it's lovely and the welcome embrace is safe, sure and strong. 

Slow going ...

Feels as though I've been hibernating this January and my husband tells me I just need a plan. 

He is probably right.

This new year started up right on cue and I have been wordless ever since. Quiet. 
Hungry and just wanting to fill up and spill over.

I just keep waiting for words. Perhaps a plan isn't a bad idea either.

And I think the words are coming soon. As for the plan ... well, I could tell you I had one.
But then I would just be fibbing.

So much love to you, dear friends, as this New Year unfolds. I'll be back soon. Seriously.