The Sun Will Rise
lyrics and music by Brendan James
The sun will rise, the sun will save me.
The sun will change me, change the way I feel.
The day will make this heart a fortune
From the fruit of a hundred orchards,
From the water rivers bring.
The sun will rise, the sun will save me
From the night, the sun will change me,
Change the way I feel.
I've had enough of the hard and harder.
Times are tough. I've drifted farther,
Farther from myself.
I won't dwell on my failures.
It won't help. It won't bring changes.
I won't run, when all I want is to run.
I won't forget the morning's sure to come.
The sun will rise, the sun will save me
From the night, the sun will change me,
Change the way I feel.
The love I want, the love I need is
Sure to come, is sure to lead me,
Lead me home again.
The light is low, the night is burning.
My head is still but my mind is turning,
Turning 'round again.
If only I can make it through this
Lonely night, if I can do this,
If I can drift away,
Then the sun will rise, the sun will save me
From the night, the sun will change me,
Change the way I feel
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
o' Brother where art thou?
o' Brother, where art thou?
When my brother's wife slept with the electrician he hopped a Greyhound bus to Yosemite. With a backpack full of supplies, he carried the heavy load...and he hiked. He hiked the ridges and the valleys, the long stretches of green and tan.
My brother is no stranger to the wild country. He is the mountains and the mountains are him. The canyons and the rivers know his name.
Kin living in the higher parts, he set out for Tahoe.
The sun rose and beat upon his back...dust underfoot, miles blurred into miles...the crisp air of dusk...then the darkness and the stars.
When we were kids we were told an Indian folk tale of how the stars came to be...
Long ago, before there was man, all the animals were. They lived in balance and peace. The eagle soared, the fish swam. Fresh springs of water spilled from the earth and plants grew rich and fortified in the edenic light. The animals had everything they needed. But they grew bored and restless and greedy. "This is my sky!" the eagle told the hawk. "This is my land" the buffalo told the deer.
This made God angry with the animals and so he covered the earth with a heavy and dark blanket.
In the darkness, the waters turned sour and the plants began to rot. The animals became sick, many died and so the eagle gathered the animals. "I am strong, I will fly to the blanket and push it off."
"I will help you." said the hawk.
They spread their wings and flew to the top of the sky but the weight of the blanket was too much to bare and both the eagle and the hawk fell to the earth, exhausted.
"There is no use, the weight is too great."
"I will try" said the hummingbird.
"But you are too small" the animals told the hummingbird.
"But I will try." the hummingbird insisted.
And up he flew, tiny lightning wings, nose towards the sky... and as he reached the top...he poked a small hole in the blanket... and the light shone through.
The animals cheered.
And he did it again and again and again... until thousands of twinkling holes brightened the dark sky.
God was well pleased that the animals had worked together. So he said he would remove the blanket each morning but replace it at night so that the animals would always remember how important it is to be helpful and kind.
My brother pressed on through the night, the hummingbird's holes lighting his path. He told me he was so angry that he just kept on walking, hard walking... as the ache swelled in his chest.
Until finally one morning he came upon a warm valley with tall pines and wildflowers and a river flowing down the center...and it's there he collapsed to the earth, both feet fractured, broken by the long journey.
Kindness came by way of a stranger who found him, took him in, let him bathe and eat and rest. (Mountain folk...they remember the hummingbird.) The next day he boarded a bus to Grandma's house in Tahoe.
Years later he'd say to me, "Thing is sis, I made it pretty far...all the way up to that valley, darnest thing..." he says to me, "you'll never guess the name of that valley... Hope Valley!", he says, "Two broken feet and I end up in Hope Valley. It's the God-honest truth."
When my brother's wife slept with the electrician he hopped a Greyhound bus to Yosemite. With a backpack full of supplies, he carried the heavy load...and he hiked. He hiked the ridges and the valleys, the long stretches of green and tan.
My brother is no stranger to the wild country. He is the mountains and the mountains are him. The canyons and the rivers know his name.
Kin living in the higher parts, he set out for Tahoe.
The sun rose and beat upon his back...dust underfoot, miles blurred into miles...the crisp air of dusk...then the darkness and the stars.
When we were kids we were told an Indian folk tale of how the stars came to be...
Long ago, before there was man, all the animals were. They lived in balance and peace. The eagle soared, the fish swam. Fresh springs of water spilled from the earth and plants grew rich and fortified in the edenic light. The animals had everything they needed. But they grew bored and restless and greedy. "This is my sky!" the eagle told the hawk. "This is my land" the buffalo told the deer.
This made God angry with the animals and so he covered the earth with a heavy and dark blanket.
In the darkness, the waters turned sour and the plants began to rot. The animals became sick, many died and so the eagle gathered the animals. "I am strong, I will fly to the blanket and push it off."
"I will help you." said the hawk.
They spread their wings and flew to the top of the sky but the weight of the blanket was too much to bare and both the eagle and the hawk fell to the earth, exhausted.
"There is no use, the weight is too great."
"I will try" said the hummingbird.
"But you are too small" the animals told the hummingbird.
"But I will try." the hummingbird insisted.
And up he flew, tiny lightning wings, nose towards the sky... and as he reached the top...he poked a small hole in the blanket... and the light shone through.
The animals cheered.
And he did it again and again and again... until thousands of twinkling holes brightened the dark sky.
God was well pleased that the animals had worked together. So he said he would remove the blanket each morning but replace it at night so that the animals would always remember how important it is to be helpful and kind.
My brother pressed on through the night, the hummingbird's holes lighting his path. He told me he was so angry that he just kept on walking, hard walking... as the ache swelled in his chest.
Until finally one morning he came upon a warm valley with tall pines and wildflowers and a river flowing down the center...and it's there he collapsed to the earth, both feet fractured, broken by the long journey.
Kindness came by way of a stranger who found him, took him in, let him bathe and eat and rest. (Mountain folk...they remember the hummingbird.) The next day he boarded a bus to Grandma's house in Tahoe.
Years later he'd say to me, "Thing is sis, I made it pretty far...all the way up to that valley, darnest thing..." he says to me, "you'll never guess the name of that valley... Hope Valley!", he says, "Two broken feet and I end up in Hope Valley. It's the God-honest truth."
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Ode to Chin Hair
Oh Chin Hair…Chin Hair…
Do you mean I’m wise?
Does your tiny, whiskery
existence
mean that I have arrived?
And even though I pluck you,
you are so very dear to me…
I would not lie to you!
as dear as my
sweet ol’ Auntie be!
Oh Chin Hair…Chin Hair…
how you make me smile!
Reminding me the Lord is near,
And I’ll be with Him
(in not too long
a while!)
And most of all
my unruly friend
you tell a tale of truth
that deep inside
where growth begins…
I am so very much
alive
So as you stretch,
In the morning sun,
and old Mr. Wrinkle
winks your way…
do not be sad, if I trim you a bit
you will be
welcome
another day.
Do you mean I’m wise?
Does your tiny, whiskery
existence
mean that I have arrived?
And even though I pluck you,
you are so very dear to me…
I would not lie to you!
as dear as my
sweet ol’ Auntie be!
Oh Chin Hair…Chin Hair…
how you make me smile!
Reminding me the Lord is near,
And I’ll be with Him
(in not too long
a while!)
And most of all
my unruly friend
you tell a tale of truth
that deep inside
where growth begins…
I am so very much
alive
So as you stretch,
In the morning sun,
and old Mr. Wrinkle
winks your way…
do not be sad, if I trim you a bit
you will be
welcome
another day.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Crazy Christian
I am a crazy Christian. One of those freaky scripture quotin, lookin for signs, reading the tea leaves, God’s watching you and you-better-watch-out cause the Devil is just around the next bend, kind of Christians. I’m the one you would call a fanatic, a holy roller, a Jesus Freak. I’m the one you see in the grocery store and you duck down behind the mound of tomatoes until I pass by.
I looked up the definition for Jesus Freak. “Noun: Someone who displays an unusual or embarrassing amount of enthusiasm for Jesus…or…Someone who persists in talking about the importance of Jesus in their life and the world to the point of being rude.” I’m thinking the person who wrote these definitions was, more than once, cornered behind the tomatoes by their local Jesus Freak.
I even scare off fellow Christians. My friends like to say, “Wow, you’re really living it,” or “Wow, you’re really deep,” which is of course code for, “Psychoooo!”
Before I was a Christian, I delivered pizza for Dominoes. It was a very spiritually charged environment. The manager, we’ll call him Greg, sold dime bags of Mexican pot out the kitchen back door. Greg used to let us get high in the bathroom before our shift. This presented just one or two tiny problems for me as I delivered the pizzas. First, and the most obvious, it is not recommended that a person drive stoned. I often found myself staring endlessly at the map and then just shaking my head saying, “Whoa…whoa…” Secondly, there was the whole munchy/steaming hot pepperoni in the front seat issue. I never ate an entire slice. I just strategically picked the good parts off the top, the pepperoni, the sausage, the mushrooms, leaving the customer to believe that Dominoes was getting chintzy on their toppings.
So there was Greg, the pothead manager, me, the pothead teenager and the Jesus Freak. We’ll call him Hank. Hank was plump, somewhere in his early thirties and had one of those cop-mustaches. He wore his bright red Dominoes shirt tucked into his acid washed jeans, fastened by a nifty leather belt. And Hank was a singer, or at least he thought so, and he’d swoop swiftly through the kitchen hollering out “Jesus loves me…this I know for the bible tells me so!”
I’d rub my red and itchy eyes and glare at him as he pranced by. “Jesus Freak,” I’d mutter.
“What’s that?” he’d say. “Did you just compliment me, Darlin’?”
Now here’s where I could’ve just ignored him, laughed him off, pretended I was more stoned than I was, but something about him just got under my skin. “No, I didn’t.” I’d say. “You just think you’re soooo much better than the rest of us,” I bated, blowing my crimped bangs out of my eyes.
“Just a sinner, like you, Sweetie, saved by grace and walkin’ in the light.”
I stared him down.
“You know, Sweetie,” (Again with the Sweetie?) “you confess your sins and give your life to Jesus and you will know eternal joy and have everlasting life…he’ll save you from the fiery pit of Hell.”
Well, now he was just seriously killing my buzz.
He leaned his face close in towards me, “Sweetie, don’t you know how much Jesus loves you? Gave His very life to prove that love!”
Had I been a boy, this is where I may have hucked a loogy at him. But Instead I just quietly, gracefully and very lady-like, rose my middle finger up to his nose.
Let’s just say since then, Jesus and I have gone a few rounds and He’s won, most of the time. I have come to realize He truly is the King of Kings and the lover of my soul. All glory, honor and worship is rightfully His.
But no matter how many days or years I walk in the light, I can’t shake what it felt like to be that seventeen year old girl on drugs, with my hair all crimped up and not having a clue how much Jesus loves me.
So I’m trapped somewhere in the middle. I don’t want to be rude or freak people out but I can’t seem to keep Jesus in the box and only take him out at bible study and on Sunday mornings. The Faith is very real to me. Jesus is very real to me…and so is Satan. I pray in the Holy name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth that my life be a living sacrifice and testament to His sweet glory and grace…and that the Devil would be bound up and thrown in to the fiery place prepared for him! I pray that every living soul come to repent of their sins and know the everlasting grace and love and mercy that abounds from the throne of God! Haleluiah Jesus! Praise Jesus, praise his Holy Name!
Oh, my god, I’m Hank.
So be it.
I read recently that, “the Devil never forgives those who escape bondage” and “as we move farther on in the Christian life that we may expect to encounter increased hostility from the enemy of our souls” and furthermore, “that the Spirit filled life is not, as many suppose, a life of peace and quiet pleasure. It is likely to be something quite the opposite.” Oh…that Tozer really knew his stuff.
It’s not always pretty. Sometimes, well, most of the time…I don’t much fit in anywhere. But here I am, fighting the good fight the only way I know how, running the race set before me. I see God in just about everything and Satan well, truth be told, he’s a roaring lion seeking whomever he may devour.
So when I see you in the grocery store, I just might have to tell you about it. And if you duck behind the tomatoes, I may come looking for you.
I looked up the definition for Jesus Freak. “Noun: Someone who displays an unusual or embarrassing amount of enthusiasm for Jesus…or…Someone who persists in talking about the importance of Jesus in their life and the world to the point of being rude.” I’m thinking the person who wrote these definitions was, more than once, cornered behind the tomatoes by their local Jesus Freak.
I even scare off fellow Christians. My friends like to say, “Wow, you’re really living it,” or “Wow, you’re really deep,” which is of course code for, “Psychoooo!”
Before I was a Christian, I delivered pizza for Dominoes. It was a very spiritually charged environment. The manager, we’ll call him Greg, sold dime bags of Mexican pot out the kitchen back door. Greg used to let us get high in the bathroom before our shift. This presented just one or two tiny problems for me as I delivered the pizzas. First, and the most obvious, it is not recommended that a person drive stoned. I often found myself staring endlessly at the map and then just shaking my head saying, “Whoa…whoa…” Secondly, there was the whole munchy/steaming hot pepperoni in the front seat issue. I never ate an entire slice. I just strategically picked the good parts off the top, the pepperoni, the sausage, the mushrooms, leaving the customer to believe that Dominoes was getting chintzy on their toppings.
So there was Greg, the pothead manager, me, the pothead teenager and the Jesus Freak. We’ll call him Hank. Hank was plump, somewhere in his early thirties and had one of those cop-mustaches. He wore his bright red Dominoes shirt tucked into his acid washed jeans, fastened by a nifty leather belt. And Hank was a singer, or at least he thought so, and he’d swoop swiftly through the kitchen hollering out “Jesus loves me…this I know for the bible tells me so!”
I’d rub my red and itchy eyes and glare at him as he pranced by. “Jesus Freak,” I’d mutter.
“What’s that?” he’d say. “Did you just compliment me, Darlin’?”
Now here’s where I could’ve just ignored him, laughed him off, pretended I was more stoned than I was, but something about him just got under my skin. “No, I didn’t.” I’d say. “You just think you’re soooo much better than the rest of us,” I bated, blowing my crimped bangs out of my eyes.
“Just a sinner, like you, Sweetie, saved by grace and walkin’ in the light.”
I stared him down.
“You know, Sweetie,” (Again with the Sweetie?) “you confess your sins and give your life to Jesus and you will know eternal joy and have everlasting life…he’ll save you from the fiery pit of Hell.”
Well, now he was just seriously killing my buzz.
He leaned his face close in towards me, “Sweetie, don’t you know how much Jesus loves you? Gave His very life to prove that love!”
Had I been a boy, this is where I may have hucked a loogy at him. But Instead I just quietly, gracefully and very lady-like, rose my middle finger up to his nose.
Let’s just say since then, Jesus and I have gone a few rounds and He’s won, most of the time. I have come to realize He truly is the King of Kings and the lover of my soul. All glory, honor and worship is rightfully His.
But no matter how many days or years I walk in the light, I can’t shake what it felt like to be that seventeen year old girl on drugs, with my hair all crimped up and not having a clue how much Jesus loves me.
So I’m trapped somewhere in the middle. I don’t want to be rude or freak people out but I can’t seem to keep Jesus in the box and only take him out at bible study and on Sunday mornings. The Faith is very real to me. Jesus is very real to me…and so is Satan. I pray in the Holy name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth that my life be a living sacrifice and testament to His sweet glory and grace…and that the Devil would be bound up and thrown in to the fiery place prepared for him! I pray that every living soul come to repent of their sins and know the everlasting grace and love and mercy that abounds from the throne of God! Haleluiah Jesus! Praise Jesus, praise his Holy Name!
Oh, my god, I’m Hank.
So be it.
I read recently that, “the Devil never forgives those who escape bondage” and “as we move farther on in the Christian life that we may expect to encounter increased hostility from the enemy of our souls” and furthermore, “that the Spirit filled life is not, as many suppose, a life of peace and quiet pleasure. It is likely to be something quite the opposite.” Oh…that Tozer really knew his stuff.
It’s not always pretty. Sometimes, well, most of the time…I don’t much fit in anywhere. But here I am, fighting the good fight the only way I know how, running the race set before me. I see God in just about everything and Satan well, truth be told, he’s a roaring lion seeking whomever he may devour.
So when I see you in the grocery store, I just might have to tell you about it. And if you duck behind the tomatoes, I may come looking for you.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Happiness
Happiness
I’ve been having a really hard time lately. I’ve not been feeling happy. I’ve been sad and afraid, my chest has ached and I haven’t been sleeping. Some of it’s old stories that keep creeping their way back into my mind, all sorts of stuff that I thought I had dealt with years ago, some of it’s new stuff. I’ve been trying to pinpoint the sick parts of my soul and what exactly needs to happen to make me fully well, make me feel happy. I get that I’m supposed to choose my thoughts, pray, ask the Lord to fix me. I’ve done the drill. Hell, I’ve preached the drill. I also know that I’m supposed to consider the things that are so very right in my life, the myriad of blessings that make my cup, not only half full, but runneth over. I have more than most, it’s true. A kind husband, three amazing and healthy kids, clean running water, some food in the fridge, two legs to stand on and twenty-twenty vision. I should be more grateful, I should be more happy, I should, I should, I should be a lot of things. But still, I don’t feel good and I’ve found myself overwhelmed, deliriously exhausted and weeping like a baby.
And at the top of it all, this feeling that I’m failing…hearing over and over in my head, the haunting, crushing, debilitating whisper that says I’m just not supposed to feel this way because I’m so blessed in so many ways and because I’m a Christian.
Yesterday Jazi came out to the porch to find me crying big tears in my morning coffee and wiping my nose on my nightgown. She said, “Mama, why are you crying?”
“I’m not really sure baby…I’m sad,” I told her.
She rubbed my shoulder with her soft little hand and said, “Are you gonna go crazy mama?”
This is a real fear for Jazi. Several of my dearest friends have been torn up by this world and have seemingly gone crazy.
“I don’t think so,” I told her. “Mama just needs to cry a bit.”
I wandered back into the bedroom and plopped myself down at the foot of the bed and my kind, not perfect, but so, so kind…truly, truly kind husband says, “Sweetie, let’s go for a walk down at the beach, get the sun on your face and the ocean breeze in your hair. It may not fix it all, but it might help a bit.”
Jon comes from really good stock. His Grandpa used to tell his mama when she was just a little girl, no matter what the circumstances were, that everything was gonna be alright. And his mama told him that and she told his brother and his sister too. I’ve heard them all say it. When my niece falls off her scooter, my sister-in-law, Jiffer, says, “You’re alright, you’re alright.” And Carly swallows up her tears and wipes her snot on her forearm and scoots herself back down the driveway. Sometimes when I’m really sad, I cup my hands over my ears and imagine Jiffer saying, “You’re alright, Sistah, you’re alright…” But lately I just haven’t had the strength to get back up on my scooter. I told Jon he should have checked my teeth before he married me. Every good cowboy knows you can tell what kind of stock a horse comes from by it’s teeth. My teeth were pretty messed up when he found me.
Jon was right about the walk. The sun was warm on my face and my shoulders and the sweet sea air filled my chest and soothed my ache. The pelicans flew low along the horizon, diving and fishing. Babies cooed and splashed in little pools at the water’s edge. Families gathered for food and sunbathing, surfing and boogie boarding. There is very little that is better than a day at the beach.
Jon listened as I babbled and bitched. Kind… and patient…man. He’s not been so happy himself lately. His job sucks. When the recession hit, he lost a job he loved and then got one he hates that pays him a lot less money. He went from an office with panoramic ocean views to a basement office with no windows and sewer pipes flushing above his desk every time someone upstairs uses the toilet. Everyone tells him he should be happy to even have a job at all in this climate. He smiles and says, “Everything is gonna be alright.”
After our walk, Jon took me to a sandwich shop that I had never been to before. The bread was fresh from the oven and warm and flaky. Jon got tuna salad and I got ham and cheese. We each got sodas and shared a bag of chips as we watched the kayaks and the stand up paddle boarders glide through the harbor.
When we got home, May said, “Mama, I have a little surprise for you.” I sat down at the end of her bed and she clicked play on her computer. Her voice rang out, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine… this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, let it shine… let it shine… let it shine…won’t let satin blow it out…I’m gonna let it shine…hide it under a bushel…No, I’m gonna let it shine, let it shine… let it shine…let it shine!”
The beach, warm bread, my tender husband, my daughter’s sweet voice…
Such immeasurable joy.
But I’m still having a really hard time.
“There is a nebulous idea accepted by many in our day that faith is an almighty power flowing through the universe which anyone may plug into at will! It is conceived vaguely as a subrational creative pulsation streaming down from somewhere Up There, ready at any time to enter our hearts and change our whole mental and moral constitution as well as our total outlook on man, God and the cosmos.When it comes in, supposedly out go pessimism, fear, defeat, and failure; in come optimism, confidence, personal mastery and unfailing success in war, love, sports, business and politics. All of this is of course, a gossamer of self-deception woven of the unsubstantial threads of fancy spun out of minds of tenderhearted persons who want to believe it!”
I didn’t write that, but oh how I wish I had. I am reading, “Renewed Day by Day,” by A.W. Tozer and I came across those little pearls of truth just this morning.
Faith in God is not magic fairy dust that sprinkles you with happiness. Life is hard. It’s been hard since Adam and Eve and it will remain hard until the day Christ returns.
I am super grateful for the blessings in my life and I do have moments of immeasurable joy. But in that, I’m fighting this crazy Western notion that the joyful parts of life are not actually the moments of amazing grace and wonder, but rather moments of entitlement. We expect happiness, and when things are tough, when our heart is going through something hard and painful, when life hurts, we believe we are on the wrong track and we should fix it as soon as possible.
Somewhere between Prozac and Tony Robbins we have lost our ability to see that there might just be value in the hard times, the struggle, the grief, even the rage. Surely Christ thought so.
So if it’s all right with everyone, I’m just not gonna be happy for a while. I’m just gonna go through this… I’m gonna sit with it… be what I am… and wait. And, I’m going to accept that the timeline may take longer than what is socially acceptable or desirable…and that God himself may just be behind the whole thing.
I’ve been having a really hard time lately. I’ve not been feeling happy. I’ve been sad and afraid, my chest has ached and I haven’t been sleeping. Some of it’s old stories that keep creeping their way back into my mind, all sorts of stuff that I thought I had dealt with years ago, some of it’s new stuff. I’ve been trying to pinpoint the sick parts of my soul and what exactly needs to happen to make me fully well, make me feel happy. I get that I’m supposed to choose my thoughts, pray, ask the Lord to fix me. I’ve done the drill. Hell, I’ve preached the drill. I also know that I’m supposed to consider the things that are so very right in my life, the myriad of blessings that make my cup, not only half full, but runneth over. I have more than most, it’s true. A kind husband, three amazing and healthy kids, clean running water, some food in the fridge, two legs to stand on and twenty-twenty vision. I should be more grateful, I should be more happy, I should, I should, I should be a lot of things. But still, I don’t feel good and I’ve found myself overwhelmed, deliriously exhausted and weeping like a baby.
And at the top of it all, this feeling that I’m failing…hearing over and over in my head, the haunting, crushing, debilitating whisper that says I’m just not supposed to feel this way because I’m so blessed in so many ways and because I’m a Christian.
Yesterday Jazi came out to the porch to find me crying big tears in my morning coffee and wiping my nose on my nightgown. She said, “Mama, why are you crying?”
“I’m not really sure baby…I’m sad,” I told her.
She rubbed my shoulder with her soft little hand and said, “Are you gonna go crazy mama?”
This is a real fear for Jazi. Several of my dearest friends have been torn up by this world and have seemingly gone crazy.
“I don’t think so,” I told her. “Mama just needs to cry a bit.”
I wandered back into the bedroom and plopped myself down at the foot of the bed and my kind, not perfect, but so, so kind…truly, truly kind husband says, “Sweetie, let’s go for a walk down at the beach, get the sun on your face and the ocean breeze in your hair. It may not fix it all, but it might help a bit.”
Jon comes from really good stock. His Grandpa used to tell his mama when she was just a little girl, no matter what the circumstances were, that everything was gonna be alright. And his mama told him that and she told his brother and his sister too. I’ve heard them all say it. When my niece falls off her scooter, my sister-in-law, Jiffer, says, “You’re alright, you’re alright.” And Carly swallows up her tears and wipes her snot on her forearm and scoots herself back down the driveway. Sometimes when I’m really sad, I cup my hands over my ears and imagine Jiffer saying, “You’re alright, Sistah, you’re alright…” But lately I just haven’t had the strength to get back up on my scooter. I told Jon he should have checked my teeth before he married me. Every good cowboy knows you can tell what kind of stock a horse comes from by it’s teeth. My teeth were pretty messed up when he found me.
Jon was right about the walk. The sun was warm on my face and my shoulders and the sweet sea air filled my chest and soothed my ache. The pelicans flew low along the horizon, diving and fishing. Babies cooed and splashed in little pools at the water’s edge. Families gathered for food and sunbathing, surfing and boogie boarding. There is very little that is better than a day at the beach.
Jon listened as I babbled and bitched. Kind… and patient…man. He’s not been so happy himself lately. His job sucks. When the recession hit, he lost a job he loved and then got one he hates that pays him a lot less money. He went from an office with panoramic ocean views to a basement office with no windows and sewer pipes flushing above his desk every time someone upstairs uses the toilet. Everyone tells him he should be happy to even have a job at all in this climate. He smiles and says, “Everything is gonna be alright.”
After our walk, Jon took me to a sandwich shop that I had never been to before. The bread was fresh from the oven and warm and flaky. Jon got tuna salad and I got ham and cheese. We each got sodas and shared a bag of chips as we watched the kayaks and the stand up paddle boarders glide through the harbor.
When we got home, May said, “Mama, I have a little surprise for you.” I sat down at the end of her bed and she clicked play on her computer. Her voice rang out, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine… this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, let it shine… let it shine… let it shine…won’t let satin blow it out…I’m gonna let it shine…hide it under a bushel…No, I’m gonna let it shine, let it shine… let it shine…let it shine!”
The beach, warm bread, my tender husband, my daughter’s sweet voice…
Such immeasurable joy.
But I’m still having a really hard time.
“There is a nebulous idea accepted by many in our day that faith is an almighty power flowing through the universe which anyone may plug into at will! It is conceived vaguely as a subrational creative pulsation streaming down from somewhere Up There, ready at any time to enter our hearts and change our whole mental and moral constitution as well as our total outlook on man, God and the cosmos.When it comes in, supposedly out go pessimism, fear, defeat, and failure; in come optimism, confidence, personal mastery and unfailing success in war, love, sports, business and politics. All of this is of course, a gossamer of self-deception woven of the unsubstantial threads of fancy spun out of minds of tenderhearted persons who want to believe it!”
I didn’t write that, but oh how I wish I had. I am reading, “Renewed Day by Day,” by A.W. Tozer and I came across those little pearls of truth just this morning.
Faith in God is not magic fairy dust that sprinkles you with happiness. Life is hard. It’s been hard since Adam and Eve and it will remain hard until the day Christ returns.
I am super grateful for the blessings in my life and I do have moments of immeasurable joy. But in that, I’m fighting this crazy Western notion that the joyful parts of life are not actually the moments of amazing grace and wonder, but rather moments of entitlement. We expect happiness, and when things are tough, when our heart is going through something hard and painful, when life hurts, we believe we are on the wrong track and we should fix it as soon as possible.
Somewhere between Prozac and Tony Robbins we have lost our ability to see that there might just be value in the hard times, the struggle, the grief, even the rage. Surely Christ thought so.
So if it’s all right with everyone, I’m just not gonna be happy for a while. I’m just gonna go through this… I’m gonna sit with it… be what I am… and wait. And, I’m going to accept that the timeline may take longer than what is socially acceptable or desirable…and that God himself may just be behind the whole thing.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Mrs. Wirgler's Spatula
Mrs. Wirgler’s Spatula
My kitchen is a hodge-podge of chipped coffee mugs and hand-me-down plates. I have friends who have beautiful pots and pans and gourmet mixers and chef knifes and the latest seasonal place settings from Pottery Barn. Jon asked me the other day if I dreamed of having fancy kitchen stuff too.
Sometimes I do. Sometimes, when I am fixing dinner, I think how pretty and inviting it would be to have shiny new pots boiling pasta on the stove top. Or sometimes, when I am setting the table, I think it’d be real nice to have bright, flowery plates.
But all in all, I am not so concerned about my kitchen ware and once I leave the kitchen I don’t really think about it so much.
However, there is one kitchen item I think I’d like to be buried with.
For our wedding gift, Mrs. Wirgler loaded up a big box full of all sorts of the things you don’t really think about, but you really need in the kitchen. Mrs. Wirgler and her family lived across the street from Jon when he was a wild monster of a child. But she was always kind, always patient and gentle, even when what Jon really deserved was a good whipping. Mrs. Wirgler knew her stuff. There were wooden spoons and serving spoons, measuring spoons and wire whisks, and a simple metal spatula.
I love that spatula with all my heart.
The end of the handle has been broken off for years. I don’t seem to recall how it got broken, but when flipping a burger, although your hand is close to the flame, your grip is steady and agile and seemingly even more sturdy than when the handle was long. The metal on the shoveling end is pressed wide and thin and is able to slip under and lift the most fragile of pancakes. It’s even been known to ease its way under a crepe or two without so much as even a tiny tear, top those with some fresh berries and whip cream, and you’ve got Christmas morning at the Hughes’. Stop by on Lasagna night and you’ll see us enjoying even the bottom layer of pasta, all thanks to that aged and broken spatula.
People can say what they want about our trusty old kitchen utensil. They can say it’s not very glamorous, that it’s worn or broken; they may even go as far as to say that it needs to be replaced. But that spatula tells our story… candle lit dinners in a tiny apartment in Santa Barbara, baby girls eating their first scrambled eggs, turkey burgers on warm summer nights, Christmas morning crepes, Grammie’s pot roast, Nana’s casserole, barbeque chicken tacos…and last night’s lasagna.
Imprinted just below the broken handle is a stamp that reads: stainless steel. And the funny thing is, even with all those sticky sauces, all that caked on grease, and even the burnt parts, there’re no stains, and it still shines bright as new. I’d be hard pressed to find a spatula as strong and faithful and enduring as the one Mrs. Wirgler gave us nearly twenty years ago.
Some people think that when they get a new spatula it will work perfectly for ever after. Some people think that when it gets broken, that it won’t work anymore, that it can’t be fixed and they should just throw it out and get a new one. Some people think that the burnt cheese at the bottom of the pan is just too much to bare.
But I know…that if you treat it kindly, wash it well, put the time and work in to scrub off the burnt and sticky parts and you keep it in a safe place… and then if you can see that the broken parts may actually make it work better, be stronger, more able, more useful, then…well, then… you’ll just have something truly beautiful. Truth is, it’s just better broken than it was before…and yet…it still shines as bright as the day we were married.
My kitchen is a hodge-podge of chipped coffee mugs and hand-me-down plates. I have friends who have beautiful pots and pans and gourmet mixers and chef knifes and the latest seasonal place settings from Pottery Barn. Jon asked me the other day if I dreamed of having fancy kitchen stuff too.
Sometimes I do. Sometimes, when I am fixing dinner, I think how pretty and inviting it would be to have shiny new pots boiling pasta on the stove top. Or sometimes, when I am setting the table, I think it’d be real nice to have bright, flowery plates.
But all in all, I am not so concerned about my kitchen ware and once I leave the kitchen I don’t really think about it so much.
However, there is one kitchen item I think I’d like to be buried with.
For our wedding gift, Mrs. Wirgler loaded up a big box full of all sorts of the things you don’t really think about, but you really need in the kitchen. Mrs. Wirgler and her family lived across the street from Jon when he was a wild monster of a child. But she was always kind, always patient and gentle, even when what Jon really deserved was a good whipping. Mrs. Wirgler knew her stuff. There were wooden spoons and serving spoons, measuring spoons and wire whisks, and a simple metal spatula.
I love that spatula with all my heart.
The end of the handle has been broken off for years. I don’t seem to recall how it got broken, but when flipping a burger, although your hand is close to the flame, your grip is steady and agile and seemingly even more sturdy than when the handle was long. The metal on the shoveling end is pressed wide and thin and is able to slip under and lift the most fragile of pancakes. It’s even been known to ease its way under a crepe or two without so much as even a tiny tear, top those with some fresh berries and whip cream, and you’ve got Christmas morning at the Hughes’. Stop by on Lasagna night and you’ll see us enjoying even the bottom layer of pasta, all thanks to that aged and broken spatula.
People can say what they want about our trusty old kitchen utensil. They can say it’s not very glamorous, that it’s worn or broken; they may even go as far as to say that it needs to be replaced. But that spatula tells our story… candle lit dinners in a tiny apartment in Santa Barbara, baby girls eating their first scrambled eggs, turkey burgers on warm summer nights, Christmas morning crepes, Grammie’s pot roast, Nana’s casserole, barbeque chicken tacos…and last night’s lasagna.
Imprinted just below the broken handle is a stamp that reads: stainless steel. And the funny thing is, even with all those sticky sauces, all that caked on grease, and even the burnt parts, there’re no stains, and it still shines bright as new. I’d be hard pressed to find a spatula as strong and faithful and enduring as the one Mrs. Wirgler gave us nearly twenty years ago.
Some people think that when they get a new spatula it will work perfectly for ever after. Some people think that when it gets broken, that it won’t work anymore, that it can’t be fixed and they should just throw it out and get a new one. Some people think that the burnt cheese at the bottom of the pan is just too much to bare.
But I know…that if you treat it kindly, wash it well, put the time and work in to scrub off the burnt and sticky parts and you keep it in a safe place… and then if you can see that the broken parts may actually make it work better, be stronger, more able, more useful, then…well, then… you’ll just have something truly beautiful. Truth is, it’s just better broken than it was before…and yet…it still shines as bright as the day we were married.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Neighbors! Gee Wiz!
Anybody else find it hard to love thy neighbor? Kids in Ethiopia, I'm all over that, the homeless guy down town, I'll give 'em a buck. Troubled teens, bring them on. But the lady who lives next door who hates kids and has a mean yappy dog...well, she's just plain unlovable.
"Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?"
Jesus replied, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it, "Love your neighbor as yourself. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments."
Gnarly. There's no loop hole...I've looked...but still all the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.
So earlier today when the "Mean Lady"(as she has been not-so-affectionately labeled by the neighborhood kids) approached me, wagging her finger and hollering complaints and annoyances, clearly I had not only a responsibility, but was actually commanded by the creator of the earth and skies…to love her.
I told her that if she didn’t like it here she should just move out.
She pointed her finger at my face and told me I was evil and my children were evil and that she didn’t know what sorts of things I was being taught at my so-called church but that I wasn’t a very good Christian.
She said that to me and stared me down with her beady little eyes…while over a dozen kids sat out in the driveway watching.
Well, this just made my Russian blood boil!
In my defense, for the past two years since the Mean Lady moved in, she’s done nothing but scream and yell and complain and alienate every neighbor on our street. And in all this time, I’ve never had so much as a single unkind word with her. But she’s been so unbearable for so many of my friends that I figured this time, she had it coming.
Or did she?
Two commandments, Love God, love your neighbor. The first is the greatest, but the second is like it? So you mean to tell me that loving this Mean Lady is like loving God?
Gee Wiz!
So the drama continued with just about half a dozen ticked off neighbors gathering to talk smack while she huffed and puffed and took pictures of the kid’s scattered toys and sidewalk chalk drawings. She said she was gonna get us all restraining orders. A few of us said we were gonna get em for her too.
Then she stormed into her house and we let off all the steam we could muster. We said, “Yeah, you’re right…she’s mean…she’s crazy… you don’t deserve that…”
Then a moment later, she came back. She was shaking with big-baby tears pooled in her eyes. “We should talk,” she says.
Now I reckoned that this was a divine appointment.
So me and two of the other Christian moms stood with our arms folded across our chests. And then she hollered a bit more and then we hollered back…nobody really listened much. But somewhere in the messiness of all the “she said, she said”…the Gospel shone through.
She said, “I just feel like you all just hate me,” which wasn’t entirely untrue.
But then she said, “I just wish we could have a fresh start.”
Ahhh..so there it is…the loop hole…a fresh start. Loving God and loving your neighbor is in it’s very nature all about screwing up and having the graceful opportunity to try again. And somewhere in the messiness of it all, is truly where the magic of God’s love is glorified.
“Well,” I told her, “we are actually all about fresh starts.” Then we talked for a good while about the healing and restorative power of Jesus Christ of Nazereth and then we even prayed together …and like balm to a wound, things softened.
Eventually, we came to some compromises on her demands and we all promised to wave and be more friendly. Turns out, although her list of gripes was long, at the very top of that list was that she felt left out and unloved.
I wonder if now would be a bad time to tell her that her yappy dog woke me up at the crack of dawn this morning?
"Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?"
Jesus replied, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it, "Love your neighbor as yourself. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments."
Gnarly. There's no loop hole...I've looked...but still all the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.
So earlier today when the "Mean Lady"(as she has been not-so-affectionately labeled by the neighborhood kids) approached me, wagging her finger and hollering complaints and annoyances, clearly I had not only a responsibility, but was actually commanded by the creator of the earth and skies…to love her.
I told her that if she didn’t like it here she should just move out.
She pointed her finger at my face and told me I was evil and my children were evil and that she didn’t know what sorts of things I was being taught at my so-called church but that I wasn’t a very good Christian.
She said that to me and stared me down with her beady little eyes…while over a dozen kids sat out in the driveway watching.
Well, this just made my Russian blood boil!
In my defense, for the past two years since the Mean Lady moved in, she’s done nothing but scream and yell and complain and alienate every neighbor on our street. And in all this time, I’ve never had so much as a single unkind word with her. But she’s been so unbearable for so many of my friends that I figured this time, she had it coming.
Or did she?
Two commandments, Love God, love your neighbor. The first is the greatest, but the second is like it? So you mean to tell me that loving this Mean Lady is like loving God?
Gee Wiz!
So the drama continued with just about half a dozen ticked off neighbors gathering to talk smack while she huffed and puffed and took pictures of the kid’s scattered toys and sidewalk chalk drawings. She said she was gonna get us all restraining orders. A few of us said we were gonna get em for her too.
Then she stormed into her house and we let off all the steam we could muster. We said, “Yeah, you’re right…she’s mean…she’s crazy… you don’t deserve that…”
Then a moment later, she came back. She was shaking with big-baby tears pooled in her eyes. “We should talk,” she says.
Now I reckoned that this was a divine appointment.
So me and two of the other Christian moms stood with our arms folded across our chests. And then she hollered a bit more and then we hollered back…nobody really listened much. But somewhere in the messiness of all the “she said, she said”…the Gospel shone through.
She said, “I just feel like you all just hate me,” which wasn’t entirely untrue.
But then she said, “I just wish we could have a fresh start.”
Ahhh..so there it is…the loop hole…a fresh start. Loving God and loving your neighbor is in it’s very nature all about screwing up and having the graceful opportunity to try again. And somewhere in the messiness of it all, is truly where the magic of God’s love is glorified.
“Well,” I told her, “we are actually all about fresh starts.” Then we talked for a good while about the healing and restorative power of Jesus Christ of Nazereth and then we even prayed together …and like balm to a wound, things softened.
Eventually, we came to some compromises on her demands and we all promised to wave and be more friendly. Turns out, although her list of gripes was long, at the very top of that list was that she felt left out and unloved.
I wonder if now would be a bad time to tell her that her yappy dog woke me up at the crack of dawn this morning?
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