Day 47: Holy Housework

 

I woke up to a little boy creeping into my room for morning snuggles. I gobbled him up in blankets and savored the lazy morning. I knew there was a whole lot of housework ahead of me.  

I almost always spend holy Saturday cleaning. Like passover,  I feel a deep yearning to prepare my home for Easter morning. This year,  I don't planning on getting all the way to clean.  My goal is just greeting to "normal." Back to back infusions,  with a surgery for a kid, a bad back and a trip where mom was out of the house for a week meant that most of Lent has been a "do what we can to keep up, " kind of season. 

I rolled out of bed almost excited.  I took note... that's a strange feeling. I do not usually look forward to housework. I scanned the house.  It was rough.  

Andrew, Miles and Philip were wrapped up in blankets on the family room couch. Andrew was telling about the trip. He remembered he had souvenirs in his suitcase to share. "Wait. " I told him. "Let me prepare a space. " He got dressed and started making breakfast. I got to work on tackling the back room. I slowly methodically tidied and swept.  Uncovering shoes and spilled backpacks. And like the cat in the hat on the little machine,  I cleaned all the things and Andrew fetched his suitcase. 

I went room after room.  Slowly transforming and renewing each one. 

I swear there is something important that happens on the brain during a long bout of ordinary domestic work. I could almost feel my brain repairing and rebuilding connections. Almost like sleep,  but differently. Something spiritual.  Something deep. 

I started thinking about it.  

The cleaning people do after a loved one dies or during a stressful life change. The long hours of domestic work common in monasteries. 

I had worked for 3 or 4 hours. And my brain was in this state. Not really thinking anything. Not reflecting on my recent holy week lessons. Just empty. Like mediation. But different,  because my hands were working. I was doing.  But my mind was empty. Somewhere deep deep in,  I think there was a deeper processing that was going on. An important piece of spiritual practice.  I cannot name what it is but I know it. 

I think it's the real reason i clean on holy Saturday. My brain needs time to sit with the story of the passion. I never think about it consciously but I can feel something in my spirit.  

If you have recently had a lot going on - stress or grief,  change or decision making and you find yourself in the garden or doing laundry or scrubbing a floor, maybe give yourself the gift of just being fully present in the work. Your brain might be catching up to your heart or your heart may be catching up to your brain.  Or perhaps, God is pouring water over your soul. 

Either way,  holy Saturday is my favorite day to do housework. It is part of my ritual and it is a gift that sustains me long into the season ahead.  

See you tomorrow ! Can't wait!!!

Day 46: Home

 

This isn't a usual Good Friday post.  

It wasn't a usual Good Friday. It was a strange but Holy week.  God has been teaching me.  Walking with me in unusual ways, in unusual places. And the familiar story has become new again. 

It's been a rigorous schedule at break neck pace.  Intentionally set up that way to keep young people from getting bored and getting into trouble. But as we've gone along,  I've gone some deep places and my mind and heart are tired. 

We pulled up to the air and space Museum. It last museum before heading home. I readied myself for one last rally.  But when I looked over,  Andrew was done. He has decided to sit with me on the bus instead of his friends, which was the first sign.  But,  I could see it in his eyes, we had crossed the line; it was too much. He needed me to mother him.  He loved the trip but it was too many days with too many people on too fast a schedule.  

Instead of touring the museum,  we went down to the cafe and I got him a snack and we sat on the floor in a quiet corner. 

He was ready to go home.  I was ready to home and judging from texts my husband has been sending,  home was more than ready for us to be there. 

Some times we just know the time has come. It's time to go home.  We could try to fit in one more thing. 

But no... it's time. 

Its just time. 

The capitol building has a crypt, an empty tomb, for George Washington. But the tomb is empty. George wanted to go home.  

I strolled the gentle lands of Mt Vernon. It was a place that felt like home. I saw the bed where he died.  I stood at his tomb.  It was easy to feel the yearning to return that Washington must have felt. The whole property had the feeling of home. Like going to grandma's farm.  And the yearning he had to return to it, is the yearning I feel now. It's just time. 

Going home was one of Washington's gifts to the country. The humility to trust others with unfinished work.  

It was the remarkable thing about Jesus too.

Crowds had gathered to try to make him a king. But he knew they needed something greater.  He traded divinity for vulnerability, glory for a crown of thorns, and walked the way of the cross. And then, he went home.  

In the end,  we all go home.  To the place where we are loved and cherished. Warm kitchens and soft sunsets.  Breezes and the smell of good food. Comfy clothes and the abilty to be our full authentic selves.  

It is lovely and perhaps romantic to think of George Washington going home or Jesus going to a golden throne in heaven. But there were real consequences to leaving unfinished work. 

They left a void.  

A hot mess that people had to stand up to fill. The newly minted United States was full of fractions, contradictions and inconsistencies. It was such a mess that it went war with itself in barely a generation. Still in infancy in the lifespan of a country. 

Jesus left a scared band of  disciples cowering in the upper room. A chosen people fractured by his presence and an uncertain future for the people who followed him.  

There are a lot of things that I find difficult to let go of. Who would raise my kids if i were not there to do it? What would happen to my Sunday school? My job? People I help to take care of? 

I spend a lot of time thinking about what i might help.  How I might be the hands and feet of God in the world. But there has been, and will be moments when God will call me to lay down unfinished work.  That is hard. That is a deep trust that God will work in unfinished work,  even if it looks like a mess. 

In that way, going home may be a much of an act of risk and courage and faith as picking up the call. I honestly don't know which is harder. 

Can I pick up my cross and follow Jesus?

Can I set it down again if God asks me to?

As I sit on my plane heading west, ready to sleep in my own bed and snuggle my babies.  Jesus speaks to me from the cross.  

It. Is. Finished. 

The work is already done. 

The cross declares loudly, eternally,  the love of God conquers all things,  in all time, for all people. 

We all get to go home at the end of the day. And the work too, will be finished. 

And that will be best of all.  

Day 45: An early Easter vigil

A hard smooth stone sealed the tomb.  A guard, erect and to attention guards it. A cool gentle mist settles in the surrounding garden.

The loud crashing violence gave way to calm eternal silence. Death is still. Irreversible.  

The kids sat on the cold steps for 30 minutes in silence.  The only sound was the clicking of heels as the guard turned a corner. The tomb was a simple but beautiful.  White marble engraved, "Here rests in honored glory,  an unknown American soldier known but to God. "

The pacing of the soldier created space for meditation.  My mind drifted to a different tomb,  gaurded by a different soldier,  in a different garden with the same holy,  eternal silence.  The sounds of violence left behind to the stillness of death. 

The unknown soldier.  Honored by ceremony.  

The broken Savoir cradled by women brave enough to bear witness to his suffering. 

Then I thought of the giant pile of shoes at the holocaust museum. Bags of hair from shaved heads used to stuff mattresses.   Bodies thrown unceremoniously into mass graves. They too had much in common with Jesus.  

Clothes stolen by strangers ready to profit off of state sanctioned violence. Innocent lives taken because their very existence was a threat. 

I sat with these three graves all day. My own early Easter vigil.  

All the tombs were silent. All the tombs bore witness to the horror of violence.  All the tombs known and beloved by God.

I was pulled from my mediation by the changing of the guard. I watched the path of the guards as they changed places.  It was so perfectly walked that each path was etched into the cement below then. The movements automatic,  precise as guns moved in unison.  Feet moved in unison.  The laying of the wreath.  A large crowd has gathered in this sacred cemetery to witness and participate in a ritual to remember sacrifice. In unison we placed our hands on our hearts as the sad and beautiful blowing of taps echoed in the valley below. 

I followed the kids as we left in silence. We loaded up into the bus and headed to the national cathedral. It was a massive building. As we entered, we were greeted by a large beautiful copper bowl filled with water.  The group moved into the tour. 

I.... had to stay a moment at the water.  

I dipped in my fingers.  I felt the water.  My mind flooded with stories.  The stories of redemption we tell on Easter vigil.  I raised the water to my brow and formed a cross. A ritual we do to remember the sacrifice.  

The rememberance of baptism is my favorite part of the Easter vigil service. It falls in the middle place.  On the one side,  the darkness and finality of death.  On the other, the joy and hope of resurrection.  We are baptized into both. We are called to carry both. The sacrifice of the cross and the infallible hope of resurrection.  

In that moment,  with my fingers in that water,  the sparkling stained glass windows ahead of me and the silent tombs in my heart,  I stood in the cross road. 

This week we tell familiar stories.  We participate in familiar but sacred rituals. We remember bread and wine,  a broken body,  the still garden. We put our hands in the water. We play "were you there. " We slam the book.  The traditions etched in our hearts as deeply as the sidewalk under those soldiers' feet.  The movements remind us, draw us and call us into a deeper trust in those baptismal waters. 

Waters that save us. Waters that give us courage to follow Christ and carry our own crosses. 

May you be blessed in these holy days. Make space for the story.  For the stations or even just for a moment with the water. You are known. You are beloved and there is no where you can go where God won't be with you.  

Day 44: Roller-coaster day

I girded my loins. 

Holocaust museum was the second stop on our itinerary.  

We started the day with a soft sun rolling on the gentle hills on Mount Vernon. I strolled the ground. Andrew stole my phone and took pictures. My heart was at rest.  

I mediated on how George Washington's greatest work was to step away from work and return home to rest in the gentle retreat of his lovely farm. 

I had a beautiful post spun up in my mind about trusting God with our work and listening to the call to set it down. A call to humility but also a call to rest,  to joy and to those things we love best of all.  

But we got back on the bus and I steeled myself for the stop ahead. 

I stopped watching Holocaust movies just before I started having kids. I often lost sleep for weeks when I saw one. This,  I thought,  might be harder. 

But Andrew was with me.  So I needed to be a parent first. 

The experience is really well done.  It is a story told fully.  Even in the way you move through it. I walked with Andrew.  He didn't back down. He watched the videos and looked at the pictures and read the captions. 

I thought I would feel despair or overwhelm at the magnitude of the horror.  I found myself angry. Angry at a boatful of Jews that tried to come to America and were turned away by the coast guard because we didn't want immigrants. Angry at a conference of nations that gathered to identify refuge for jews who needed it, but none was found. Angry at headlines in American newspapers that recognized there was a problem and debates about whether or not to bomb the gas chambers at Auchwitz. 

Angry at the magnitude of the attrocity. 

And I had a glimpse into the wrath of God. 

A wrath that wells up from a deep sadness when as a parent you see your children doing something gravely self destructive. 

I held my anger and sadness as I got back on the bus. Here we are,  in holy week, in the darkest part of the story. 

I felt like I had just watched the crucifixion.  It wasn't nails that held Jesus to that cross. 

I flipped open my phone to post a few of Andrew's mount Vernon pics to Instagram and I saw a post about the crucifixion.  Bold letters. 

"REJECTED AND ALONE" 

But when I swiped left. It was a series of images with captions that reminded me. Jesus wasn't alone. The women were there. The women stayed. They held love that didn't look away.  

And my whole thought changed. It is an act of love to witness suffering and not back down even if there is nothing you can do. 

There is human suffering now.  Could I have courage to not avert my eyes? Is that an act of love?

The day moved on as discomfort settled in my belly.  It's holy week.  It's uncomfortable.  I let it sit. 

We spent the rest of the day on lighter subjects. We went to the natural history museum.  Andrew and his friends looked at rocks for an hour.  We ate dinner. We sat at the Jefferson memorial watching lightning roll across the sky behind the Washington monument. It was warm and breezy. The kids were content and we all shared a beautiful moment. 

We loaded back into the bus just after 8:30 and the teachers played an April fools joke on the kids. There were belly laughs. We got back to our rooms and the kids gathered in the hallway. They were hungry for togetherness. Someone started a pushup competition as a way to "wear themselves out. "

Curled up against the wall in the middle of the fray was the darling 8th teacher. Tired but deeply happy.  She sat and bore witness to joy. 

It was like a moment at a family reunion. After all the formal dinners and conversations. When shoes are off and all that's left is togetherness.   

That is love too. 

Love bears witness to suffering.  

Love also bears witness to joy. 

The women who buried him,  were also the first the witness resurrection. 

May love grant us courage to witness our siblings who suffer.  And may love grant us a yearning for togetherness that births spontaneous joy.  

Day 43: Restored

Andrew has to do a project about what part of the trip is his favorite and why. So he's having me take his picture at every stop just in case it turns out to be his favorite. 

We started out at MLK memorial. Then walked to FDR. Then on to Jefferson. 

At each stop, Andrew and I played a game. We read each quote and tried to name the historical context.  Then he picked his favorite quote from each person and I took his picture with it. 

For MLK, he chose:

"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience,  but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. "

The quote stayed with me as we continued to walk,  read and reflect on 250 years of our nation's history. What decisions we collectively made as a nation in times of challenge and controversy.  There were moments of moral courage.  And moments where the easy road was taken. Moments of living up to the ideals of our nation and moments of failing to. 

As I thought about what I might write for the blog tonight.  I thought about the palm Sunday parade.  The cries of hosanna turned to cries for crucifixion. 

It was a time where people wanted Jesus as a king. They wanted the kingdom he preached.  But in the moment of challenge, they could not stand up for it. 

Peter, so sure he was ready to die with Jesus,  denied having anything to do with him. 

And Jesus,  knowing humanity wasn't ready for his kingdom, laid down his life to pave the path to it. 

God meets us in our moral failure. 

And holds us and points us towards courage. 

The is a grace wide enough for Peter and the crowd that shouted crucify him. Wide enough for slave holders and residential school teachers. Wide enough to lift us up out of moral failure. 

Jesus taught repentance.  

And he taught forgiveness. 

Even in his last breaths. 

He invites us to turn away from the self interested easy road. 

He invites us to release ourselves from bitterness against those who wrong us. Even those who seek to destroy us. 

He invited us even as he hung on a cross. 

He restored Peter.  

He restores us all. 

Day 42: Stay up with me

 It sounded like a cat was dying outside my window. I glanced at the clock 1:58am. My alarm was set for 4am.

I rolled over and tried to back to sleep.  

But I was awake.  

The lament of the previous day louder in my head. Grief for the church.  Grief for the world.  A merry-go-round of ideas of tiny things I could do. Wondering if I should do any of them.  

I prayed. 

I tried to let it go.  But sleep would not come. 

Eventually Zander meandered into the room. I welcomed the snuggle. 

Morning came much before I was ready.  And it was a dash. Last minute items to pack.  Jump in the car.  Hop on the bus. Ride to the airport.  Flu across the country. Eat dinner.  Tour cherry trees and monuments. Walking with a full belly in the evening breeze. Sleep finally starts to come for me.  My back feeling the strain of a day like today. Ibuprofen on the way to the hotel.  Write my blog before we arrive so bed can find me. 

Jesus spent his last living day like this.  Busy with a holiday.  Running around and then the quiet of the night, the heaviness of the road ahead.  No sleep found him. Arrested at the end of an all-nighter. Tried. Abused. Made to carry his cross. Exhausted. Nailed.  Sleep did not find him. The pain was too much. 

I will be grateful for a soft bed in a quiet room.  But sometimes... God speaks when sleep doesn't find us. Being up at night with our hearts is sometimes a sacred liturgy. May we be open to hear God's voice even if it finds us in the middle of the night. 

Day 41: Palm Sunday Blues

I have the strongest feeling of melancholy.  I've been feeling it all day. 

Palm Sunday is one of my favorite services. Not quite as good as Easter vigil,  but maybe a close second. The colors. The joy.  The hosannas. The passion.  

In Sunday school,  we made communion bread. We went all the way back to passover. The bread of haste.  The bread and wine of freedom.  The cup of praise. 

"This is my body. "

We look at pictures of Jesus life. 

Baby Jesus at Christmas

The boy lost in the temple. 

Jesus baptism with his cousin and the dove. 

The sermon on the mount.  

The healing of the blind man.  

And the donkey,  coming to Jerusalem.  On his way to celebrate freedom with his friends. He tries to teach them about a new freedom. They don't really get it. 

The journey into the garden. The tears. The sweat.  The sleeping disciples. The guards.  The Sanhedren.  

This is where it got complicated for Sunday school.  

Charges to lying and overthrowing the government. Lies saying Jesus did things he didn't do. Angry people.  Mistreatment.  And he stayed calm.  They killed him. They hastily put him in a cave.  

Nothing happened. No one did anything but cry.  It was Sabbath.  They weren't allowed to have a funeral. So the women waited to say goodbye to Jesus.  

It was Sunday school.  I couldn't leave it there.  We had to go to Easter. 

The women crept out early in the morning as soon as Sabbath had passed. But something was wrong.  The heavy stone was moved.  The garden seemed empty. They were afraid some other terrible thing had happened. But then...  they saw him. Jesus was there.  Alive.  

And next week.  Church is going to be one big party!

The kids were somber. They carried small loaves of bread to the pastor. She blessed it.  We all ate that bread of freedom.  

I get so much joy watching them.  Helping them learn the faith,  the stories that sustain me.  It is hard to really teach it. There's so much more that comes after Sunday school.  

My heart so full of joy also held sorrow. Sorrow for our world,  still not free. Sorrow for the church.  Sorrow for the lack of support these kids might not have as their faith grows. Sorrow I have not been able to shake all day. 

After church,  I played music with Philip.  He jammed on the drum kit in the sanctuary whole I was on the grand piano.  Then we traded. My heart was joyful. His gift and love of music. The freedom to be playful,  make mistakes, make noise.  But the sorrow followed me.  

We went to lunch as a family. The boys were cracking jokes. We saw old friends at the restaurant. It was a joy to see them. It was a joy to watch the boys be brothers. They love each other.  It makes me so happy.  But that darn sorrow never left. 

In the midst of the joyful parade. People shouting for Jesus to save them.  The sorrow hung in his eyes. 

I feel the sorrow today. The sorrow of things not yet here and still to come. But I choose faith and hope and love.  Jesus chose these even in his sorrow. 

The story has started. May I have ears to hear it again.  

Day 40: Looking forward

 

I can't wait for spring break. 

I've been trying to figure out what we are going to do.  The tricky part is Eddie has a different spring break. His is next week. All the rest of the kids are off the following week. Eddie has calculus on Tuesday and Thursday. He can't really miss.  We can't really go on a trip without him.  

So I've been bummed. Im ready for a break. More than ready.  

I remember two years ago we left from Easter church to start our spring break,  an RV trip to Texas to watch the solar eclipse.  I happily handed out Kindle fires to every kid and scrolled Instagram while sipping a diet coke.  It was GLORIOUS! 

No RV trip this year. We need to do maintenence work on it. We might rent out an Airbnb for a day or two and pull out the rv to work on it. Or maybe,  I'll let the kids play video games while I garden for a week. That sounds tempting. 

The unfolding of possibility is at the center of hope. Hope and faith co-mingle in the potential of a joyful future.  What is heaven like? No idea,  but the unfolding of possibility-- like my spring break -- creates joyful anticipation.  Maybe we'll have bodies,  fully healed,  fully whole,  resurrected and perfect in God's image. Or maybe we'll be free from bodies able to exist purely as spirit. There's a lot of theology about this -- but it's a mystery.  A beautiful holy mystery.  

Lent for me is usually a season of doubt and uncertainty.  One of yearning and seeking. 

Easter is a Polaroid picture. 

Usually faint at first,  but slowly coming into view, and by Pentecost I'm plunged in to the new life and work that God has shown me. Reflection gives way to action. Yearning finds satisfaction. 

Not always.  Im not just reflective during Lent.  But the church calendar,  like the secular calendar leaves a mark on my rhythm.  The thoughts that began a seeds during new year,  sprout and grow during Lent when I intentionally carve out space to sit with them. 

But Easter comes and life floods back in and all the activity I push off during Lent (to create space for reflection) fills my calendar. And in the renewed activity,  dots start to connect and often I can see the hand of God at work,  drawing me in to help.  

I am still in Lent. I don't know what lovely encounter I might have with God during the Easter season,  but I trust it is out there. And I'm looking forward to it. 

We don't go around the cross to get to Easter. We go through it. We don't go around the pain to be healed. We are healed in it. But hope is what we hold while we're going through it. God is with me. God is at work here and on the other side,  there's something amazing. Hold on.  We're almost there. 

Day 38: The painful path to healing

 

I woke up frozen. 

Everything hurt and I was afraid to move. But I had to go to the bathroom. I lay there planning the best,  least painful strategy to get from horizontal to vertical.  I dreaded it.  

Working up the courage,  I used my arms to lift my legs and move them slowly to the edge of the bed. If I could swing them off, I'd be most of the way there. There was an obstacle course of pillows to move and every twitch, every slow careful movement was accompanied with suspenseful breaths. Will this be OK?

I finally got my feet to the floor. 

"Oh, for the love of all things holy,  please do not jump on me, Zander."

His excited eyes dimmed. 

My hand pressed against the bedside table and lifted me up. I leaned against the wall as I slowly hobbled to the bathroom, already planning for how I might manage all the logistics once I got there. 

The thing about muscle injuries is that it is terrifying to try to move. The thought of movement fires the nerve,  the nerve contracts to the muscle and also,  the nerve registers the pain. So sometimes even the thought of moving is painful. In fact,  sometimes the thought of moving is more painful than the actual moving. 

But muscles and nerves need to work together to heal the injury -- movement is part of the healing process.  Even though it hurts. 

I spent the day pondering about other forms of healing that hurts. Much of it does -- getting stitches,  fixing a cavity,  washing out a cut,  putting a dislocated bone back in place. This pain is often accompanied by fear. It feels like there is a choice that sometimes I don't want to make -- accept mild discomfort with status quo or risk a greater pain to try to heal it. 

The thing is,  healing isn't always garuanteed. It's probable. But there is an element of faith involved.  

Spiritual and emotional healing can look like this too. There is a big discomfort in naming something that is broken within me. Saying it out loud and admitting it is there. Repentance.  Brokenness. Vulnerability. Creating space for God to heal me is to first receive the pain associated with that broken piece of myself. There might be practices, like PT, that God reforms my heart and soul through repeated movement in the uncomfortable ways of wholeness. Then one day,  I am healed and I look back to who I was and I see that somethings that were once hard are now easy.

Christ choose this kind of healing too. Satan confronted him in the desert with the greatest of temptations -- "there's a way to wholeness without suffering" 

But Jesus didn't take it. 

I've long wrestled with the cross. There is so much about it that doesn't make sense. Surely God could redeem a broken world without entering into the brokenness. Surely God could heal us with a magic that doesn't require the process to hurt. 

But sometimes the healing is IN the pain. It is the pain itself that heals. And summoning up the courage to enter into the healing is also part of the healing. Jesus healed us and Jesus is taught us how to be healed by going ahead of us and showing us what it looks like. 

Today I moved around. I stretched.  I walked.  I took myself to the pool. I entered into my Owen path of healing. It hurt  but I can tell I'm starting to mend. 

May you have courage to enter into healing whenever God invites you to it. Even if it hurts a little. Amen.  

Day 37: For people with bodies who annoy them

I hadn't expected my infusions to be a big deal.  I've been doing them every six months for the past 2 years. With time,  they have figured out better how to lessen side effects and maximize effectiveness. I can't begin to say how grateful I am for the doctors and nurses who spent the time and care to figure these things out. 

So I wasn't really thinking they would be that big of a deal. A couple of days to recover after each one and on my way. 

Unfortunately,  every time is a bit of a new ball of worms.  Slightly different set of side effects. I had usual tiredness and chills and sore throat (which is such a strange side effect) but this time I was incredibly nauseous and I had a tightness in my chest with a shortness of breath. 

The nausea felt very lent-y. 

The breathing thing worried me. 

There is a rare side effect with this medicine that it can impact your lungs. But the thing is,  the disease also impacts the lungs. So.. it was hard to tell what was going and and if it was significant enough to report. So I monitored and wondered and reflected on this medicine as a sort of safety net.  

It was a sobering and very lenten reflection. If I ever have to stop taking this medicine for whatever reason,  there aren't many alternatives to control the disease.  So far,  the disease has been very limited in how it has effected me but it is can be a narly disease. 

Dust we are and to dust we return. 

Just when I was about to write my doctor about the breathing thing -- I woke up much better. Like 1,000 pounds lifted off my shoulders. I was so so grateful.  

I also felt silly for worrying. Like a child climbing down out of a jungle gym with a foot 2 inches from the ground who's absolutely terrified to keep going. 

Good thing no one saw me panic, cause that was ridiculous.  Oh ya, I just wrote about it on my very public blog. Oh well. Vulnerability is a spiritual practice.  

Anyways,  yesterday, the nausea started to lift and today,  I ate like normal. It was glorious.  

Perfect timing. I'm supposed to go with Andrew and his 8th grade class to Washington DC during Holy week and I have been praying that I would feel better. 

The weather was perfect this afternoon and the kids don't have school tomorrow so I took miles to the store for some treats for another audiobook marathon (and some dinner because I'm feeling too lazy to cook tonight.)

As I loaded groceries into the van, I feel it,  like a spring in a watch that has popped out of place my back did that little -- tweak. I finished loading groceries and drove 4 blocks back to my house. By the time I got home I couldn't stand upright. My back was in full spasm and I could barely walk.  Hunched up, I hobbled inside and told the boys to bring groceries in. Glad I got dinner. 

I hobbled into the shower and got heat on it. Grabbed an ice pack,  took some ibuprofen and stared googling, "how to fix a bad back in under 3 days. " I texted my brother who is the most gifted physical therapist I've ever met (he can literally do magic with his hands and just fix things and make them work again). He gave me a plan. I'm working the plan and again praying that I'll be better by that flight to Washington. 

Jesus has a body. He faced the fear of death and tired legs.  He only lived to 33 so maybe he never had a bad back,  but he definitely wrestled with body stuff. 

I think there is something added to spirituality in having to struggle with the joys, pleasures,  sorrows and struggles of having a body. If I just lived as spirit,  I think faith would be easier.  I would be more like I imagine myself to be. But my body makes me tired and cranky,  limits me when I feel limitless, grounds me to the present in a way I'm sure I could never be without a body. And then there are the ways I see myself as I look at my body -- life giving and nourishing,  strong and caregiving. Fragile and finite. 

Holy week is the re-telling of a deeply physical spiritual story. One in which God takes on the limited frailty of containment in a biological body. That eats and drinks with friends. That weeps. That prays with such a high level of stress and anxiety that he actually just starts bleeding. That falls under the weight of the cross and endures lashes with a whip. That struggles to breathe and cries in anguish. 

God entered into humanity to show us that there is nothing our bodies will face that God will not join us in. To show us that there is not one thing that can separate us from God's love. And that our very limited,  blemished bodies are in fact temples of the most high -- redeemed and beloved.  

Whatever crap your body decides to dish out,  you can answer back with "God is with me in this too. " Also,  please pray for my back. I really don't want to get on a plane like this. 

Day 36: The stories we tell

Wednesday is a short day. A long afternoon for brothers to find some fun in the middle of the week.  Lately they've been playing a board game,  but today they choose to lay around and listen to their latest audiobook.  

They are re-listening to a series called Guardians of GaHoole. An epic about owls battling good vs evil. All the elements are there. Lore.  A band of heroes. Moral struggles. A rich world and a rich cast of characters.  

They listened for hours. Our family gets into stories.  Sometimes we spend full days on our RV trips listening to a book while we drive or hike.  

I woke this morning to a different story.  A real one.  My brother texted me before the sun was up.  Giddy. A co-worker of his us getting baptized and asked him to participate. He was bubbling with excitement. His texts reminded me of stories in the Gospels. People who had seen Jesus and ran and told.  "God is here among us. " My heart smiled. My brother met Jesus in the road. He sees the work of God painted in the life of someone he knows. And in the telling of the story,  he experiences God again. And as I share the story,  God leans over my shoulder.  I'm pretty sure God likes stories too. 

There is another story that had stayed with me this week.  

Eddie and I are reading Life of Pi for his current literature book. 

Life of Pi is a story about an Indian boy who finds himself stranded at sea with a tiger following a shipwreck. An interesting thing about Pi is that he is deeply religious.  Following Christianity,  Islam and Hinduism. 

We're currently reading about his early religious experiences. He grew up a Hindu. He shares a chapter with sacred Hindu stories with a variety of God's who seem to serve as different faces of an unknowable divine. Hinduism is a religion that I know relatively little about so it was interesting to me to hear some bits of the theology. 

But the next chapter was he introduction too Christianity. He was a bit afraid of Christians, but intrigued.... enough to sneak into a church. He describes the church as a complete outsider to the Christian faith and story. He sees these gruesome pictures of torture and wonders why God would punish a man so harshly and why this particular story would be featured so prominently in the church's art work. 

He sits with the priest who tells the story of Jesus. Pi is confused. In his mind,  gods are above humanity. Why would a god send a son to become human and then to die? The story offended him.  The more he thought about it,  the more he was offended by it. He couldn't stay away -- the anger burned,  the questions burned --  who was this God? Who was this Jesus? 

He returned daily for several days firing he anger and questions to the priest. The priests response was always simple - Love. 

The answer to all questions about this story is love. 

Finally,  exasperated, Pi asks the priest to tell him another story. 

The priest replies, "We have but one story. There are many prologue. But one story.  And this story has but one word. "

Love.  

Seeing my faith through the unknowing eyes of a young Hindu boy,  tells me a story I know by heart in a way I've never heard it. 

Seeing the texts from my brother adds a few new sentences to my personal epilogue. So does watching my boys grow up. 

Palm Sunday is a few days away.  Christians everywhere will begin telling our story. We will do it with dramatic readings and reenactment. We will do it with liturgy and the pounding of a nail or the slamming of a book on a silent sanctuary.  We will walk the stations and strip the alter. We might watch movies or read the scriptures. We might tell the story with meals or rituals.  Beautifully, our Jewish siblings will be similarly telling the passover story with liturgy,  readings,  meals and rituals. It truly will be a holy week full of holy stories. 

Get lost in the story, my friends. 

Lay around like my boys with their audiobook and allow the hours to pass as you lose yourself in the story. It is epic. Rich with moral struggles and a rich cast of characters.  Let it anger you or fill you with questions. Let it work into your brain and drive you crazy. And then,  remember ... love... love is the story of Jesus. And perhaps,  you may run into God during this very holy week.  

Day 35: Discernment painting

 I told the boys I was having a playdate with a friend from church. 

I set out some activities for Zander so we would have bandwidth to talk.  

She arrived and Zander choose watercolor art the table on a giant pad of paper. I grabbed water for him.  She pulled up a chair next to him and we started talking while he painted a washed out rainbow across the page. 

We're both in the middle season of life.  She's slightly ahead of me and grappling with the changes that come with an empty nest. I'm still working on making sure my nest ends up empty someday. But life in all seasons comes with questions of purpose and big decisions that shape the journey ahead. 

Zander painted a vibrant blue across the page.  It was striking and both of us paused and looked at it.  

"There's a freedom in painting at that age that we don't often get as adults. " She noted. 

Simultaneously,  we both grabbed brushes. I slid the paper over and we started painting like Zander. Wild colors in wild ways.  

Our conversation continued. We were both very present in the painting,  very present in the conversation and lost in our own thoughts all at the same time. It was a comfortable togetherness.  A space to ponder and the painting confirmed it was a safe space to go off script and wrestle with life.  

Zander grabbed neon markers and started filling in any white space.  

Time passed too quickly.  She had an appointment to get to. We didn't have any answers about life but we made art and shared a beautiful hour together.  

Day 34: Impatient

Lent is growing long. 

I am growing weary. 

So here is a brief lament:

I feel impatient that my body hasn't fully bounced back and I wake up to the feeling of nausea. 

I feel impatient about the uncertainty about the future of the church and what the call of the faithful should be in this historical moment. 

I feel impatient about uncertainty my own ministry and vocation in this moment and in the season to come. 

I feel impatient with the process of determining the next right decision for each of my boys. I know the process works and God provides. But I am impatient. 

I'm impatient with lent and the daily reflection for this blog and choosing to do things the hard way every day, waiting for Easter. 

Weariness and lament are part of this season. 

Jesus wept even when he knew resurrection was around the corner.  

He prayed with sweat and blood and tears as he stared down the road ahead. 

This season is a space to search for God and to pick up spiritual practices. It is a time for wilderness and wondering.  For hope and ache and longing.

I feel my impatience and weariness as a heavy blanket and yet,  closed in my fist is the tiny light of hope. Easter is coming.  

Day 33: Fearless

He spoke with the power of Jesus himself. 

The memory is fuzzy in my mind,  so distant I have a hard time believing it to be true. 

I was 19 or 20. I had gotten an old retired bus donated from the local district.  I loaded it with donations and drove it to Miami. I arrived at the port and had it loaded on a ship to Haiti. 

I flew to Haiti and went with the pastor of the church I worked with to the Port to collect the bus from the ship. 

I was exhausted and sleeping in the back wedged between some sacks of pinto beans. The bus came to a stop and an armed man stood at the door.  Things seemed tense.

I stayed still half asleep, half highly alert.

The pastor's voice was calm.  

"This bus belongs to God.  I would not be responsible if you stole it from him. "

The men left. It felt like Obi-Wan using the force. 

We never spoke a word of the incident.  

I sometimes wonder if the memory is real. I never much shared it and as I've said,  he and I never talked about it. 

But it was ordinary for him. He experienced things like this.  His brother was murdered in a similar situation. 

Haiti can be dangerous. 

This small,  gentle pastor has a largeness and a power that reminded me of Jesus. His faith gave him an unwavering ability to choose the right thing,  even when the right thing was dangerous. He died march 20, 2005 of meningitis.  

There are times when faith asks us to risk something. Our reputation, our finances, our careers. When I face a moment of risk in faith, I remember his eyes. Serious and knowledgeable of the risks he faced and yet kind and soft with a conviction that would must certainly move mountains.  

Today I've been thinking about the church and I feel the church is called to risk.  To go out in faith with a trust that God will lead and God will provide -- people,  money,  opportunity.  And i imagine this Haitian pastor -- and I think-- I need a bit of his courage. Maybe we all do. 

Day 32: But I don't want to

I keep weekends open intentionally. 

Saturdays are an open book to get school projects done,  do a fun outing,  catch up on house work or just veg and recover. 

This is a good arrangement for my family.  They need a slower pace and more down time. However,  Saturday morning comes and NO ONE knows what to do. I have to figure out priorities and come up with a plan. I go around and gather input. Do you have homework? Do you have anything you want to do this weekend? Non commital grunts.  What does that mean? 

Eventually,  I make everyone pull out laptops and go subject by subject -- is there homework? I make a list of essential chores. Nice to have chores.  A few options for activities based on weather and the general vibe.  By the time I've done this everyone in the house has found some lazy activity -- one's curled up on the couch with a book,  two in the sandbox, someone else is building something out of cardboard and the last on its just laying on the floor staring at the ceiling. My husband has vanished and the kitchen is a mess from the breakfast rush. 

Since things are calm,  I clean the kitchen and mentally organize the day given the inertia I now need to overcome. I keep my eye on everyone looking for my break. There's a moment when someone is ready to switch activities and if I get something going at just the right time,  in just the right way,  sometimes I can get us on track without too much issue.  

But more often than not I can't find a break and the morning turns to lunch and the day hasn't even started and I have to reconsider and focus on only top priorities. 

What gets me is that they drag their heels even on fun days. 

"Let's go swimming..." 

Naaaaaaa 

I have to twist their arms and say,  we'll just go for 5 minutes and you don't have to get in the pool.  

And we arrive and they are in the water having the time of their life. And I'm exhausted because it took every bit of energy I had just to get them there. 

I wonder if I'm like this with God.

I'm happy in my simple life not seeing the big picture of eternity and God calls me into something new,  that I will totally love and thrive in -- and yet -- I dig my heels in refusing to listen. 

May I find an openness to things that don't fit in with my plans. May I be willing to do things that aren't comfortable. May I find the ability to look up from my minutia long enough to recognize when God is inviting me on an adventure. And may I have humilty to remember that my perspective is limited and generally self centered. 

Sometimes we get to go swimming. Sometimes we have to clean the back yard. Sometimes we just need to rest.  

Good parents know what the family needs and spend a great deal of effort balancing those needs and ensuring everyone is cared for. 

May I trust God as the good parent who knows what I need and what all my siblings need and have a heart to participate in what's needed.  

Day 31: Waiting

On one hand,  Fridays have a more relaxed schedule.  On the other,  there are always things I need to try to cram into the limited space. 

Today's mission was ambitious.  I was going to do about an hour of consulting work,  then head over to Sonja to try to get her a login for social security. 

On the surface,  it doesn't seem that ambitious. A little tech support while I wait for Eddie to finish bowling. But setting up an electronic account with SSI is somehow harder than getting clearances at a national lab with a nuclear facility. And honestly,  I'm not exaggerating that much -- when we moved to Livermore,  Ulrich was hired as a scientist at Sandia and yes there was paperwork and beaurocracy but only slightly more than the hoops they were asking me to jump through to set up Sonjas SSI benefit account. 

Today was my third attempt. I started at 9am. We spent about an hour taking pictures of required documents and uploading them into a portal. Then a timer appeared on my phone. I had 1 hour until they wanted to do a video chat with her. 

I quickly drove 20 minutes away to pick up Eddie and head back. Eyes flicking to the phone every few minutes to check on the timer. 

1 hour 5 minutes

52 minutes

47 minutes

42 minutes

30 minutes

As I was on my way back,  it jumped back up to an 1 hour 2 minutes. 

Hmmm... Eddie has music class and I have to be present as an adult. This wouldn't be over before class started. 

I called Sonja and we agreed she could come over when the timer counted down to like 15 minutes. 

I got home and started housework. Always an eye on the timer. Up and down the timer went.  I plugged my phone in to keep it charged. I was so stressed. Life couldn't continue until this timer gave me permission.  

At 16 minutes,  I called Sonja and she headed over with a friend of hers named Vincent. The three of us sat in rocking chairs in my living room talking about kids and health and Jesus.  And we kept watching the timer.

9 minutes. 

6 minutes.

I handed the phone to Sonja just in case it launched a video call without warning. 

We talked about Job. 

Suddenly a large X appeared on the screen the the place if the timer. Sonja handed me the phone

"The name visible on the documents does not match the recipient, please re-upload document pictures."

So again I took pictures of her ID and uploaded it to the portal. 

"Thank you.  We will review these images manually and schedule next steps via email.  Good bye. " 

She left. It was 1 o clock. I spent over half the day looking at that little timer and I didn't know if I was any closer to having a log-in for her.

I'm still waiting for the account but I'm not expectantly waiting. I'm not glancing at my phone,  held captive by a small timer that doesn't actually tell me how long I will be waiting.  I'm doing other things and hopeful an email will show up eventually.   

I find myself sometimes waiting on God as if there were a timer and a pop up video call that will appear when the countdown finishes. I find it hard to do other things because,  I'm waiting on God to do something,  to say something,  to give me a sign and I'm afraid I'll miss it. 

Then there are other times when I am waiting on God but it is more like email -- I go about my day hopeful that God will show up but in the meantime I continue with my ordinary routine. 

We're drawing close to Easter and in this time,  I find myself looking for God,  expecting God to pop out with bold amazing messages. 

I am 💯 the people lining the street of Jerusalem -- waving palms and ready to see God do fireworks. Time for some big time messiah action. 

But Jesus is riding a donkey not a horse. 

His eyes are sad,  not proud. 

I misunderstood.  God is coming. But not the way I hope or want or expect. Not with clear answers or sweeping changes that fixes all the things wrong with the world.  

Dare I follow the donkey to see where it goes?  Dare I follow Jesus and try to understand what God is doing? 

Day 30: Lean out

When I was at the beginning on my tenure as a startup founder, Sheryl Sandberg released "Lean in" a guide for women leaders. 

It talks a lot about inviting yourself to the table. Making things happen.  Putting yourself out there. 

I think leadership often involves imagining the world differently and taking steps to help others see the vision.  It's also running small experiments, testing and refining ideas,  talking to people,  gathering perspective and empowering people to become change makers. 

Changing the world,  even in small ways often looks a lot like "Leaning in." It's stepping up and saying yes and then figuring out how to make it happen.

Leaning in is one of my default postures. I spend a lot of time reflecting on what might make the world better and the rest of it Leaning in on small ways in my current situation I could make incremental progress on some way to make it happen -- even if that's just with my own kids or my own carbon footprint or my church or school. 

When we pray "your will be done on earth as it is in heaven, " I  am tempted to pray, "give me wisdom and point me in the right direction so I  can start doing all the amazing God things on earth " I want to lean in and manifest God's will. 

But the more faith informed side knows better. I don't understand God any better than the disciples understood Jesus. If I've learned anything from faith,  it's that God's will for this beautiful creation is more radical than any of us can imagine. Even more,  it is born in ways that we wouldn't choose or expect. No 1st century Jew had the messiah on a cross as part of the "God's own bingo card. " We have theology for it now with 2,000 years to think about "why the cross?" And still.... I wonder.... why the cross? 

If we had God's will on earth as it is in heaven,  would there have been a cross? 

And so God moves in mystery. And prayer requires me to sometimes set aside my fire to DO THINGS and just...  

just... 

just what?

I've been feeling a call to "lean out." 

To not send emails.  To not make things happen.  To just... just... 

I'm not sure what.  Perhaps listen.  Perhaps watch.  Perhaps pray. 

And so I'm trying to be faithful to this call and to slow down and intentionally not try to do anything,  but I have to say for the record -- that it is not comfortable,  I don't like it and I would much rather try to make something happen. 

So here's me trusting that God will call me off the bench at some point. And hoping I'm paying attention well enough to know what to do once I'm back in the game. 

Day 29: Mailing it in

My mother grew up catholic. Went to a catholic school in a tiny town. Everyone in town was catholic. Half of them were related to my mom somehow. 

She fought to create authentic faith for herself. It bothered her that everyone went to mass and said the words and did the things. But it felt hollow.  She wanted to meet Jesus. Know Jesus. 

I grew up in a more charismatic household.  My mom found faith that was vibrant and she did everything she could to pass it on to us kids. Consequently,  I grew up seeing the fireworks of personal faith. The earnest seeking of God and the honest finding of God in songs and scripture and heartfelt prayers.  

It wasn't until I was grown that I really understood liturgy. Creeds and recited prayers were,  in my mind,  just old fashioned things people did when their heart wasn't in it.  

I was a little bit right. But just a little bit. 

My heart wasn't in it today.  

I had my infusion yesterday and I was nauseous and tired today.  But there was chapel at church and I had teenage boys to homeschool.  

Life has become a form of liturgy. Small moments where I touch God. And I wasn't feeling it today. At all.  But the routine touched the places and I lived into a thing I didn't feel. 

That's what liturgy is there for and memorized verses and hymns. The things I know so deeply in my soul that when I have nothing to pull up,  I can pull them up and they can help me find my way back to faith. 

When I was a teenager, I struggled with depression. There were many days I couldn't find the point of anything. It was a place of despair. But in that darkness,  I decided to shift my focus from myself to someone else. I would go volunteer or do something for my brothers and the act of moving my body with purpose would pierce the darkness. 

That is liturgy of living. 

We all have days that we need to mail it in. But if our routines and rhythms can point us to the light, we can find a path back even on days that feel especially dark. 

Day 28: A lesson in how to listen to God

 

I came home from my infusion ready to flop on the bed and ignore the world. 

But, it's still Lent so we switched the internet off. 

Eddie was stuck. He offered to go somewhere to work on calculus homework,  but class is canceled on Thursday so he has plenty of time.  Nope,  I decided.  Today is a day to just sit with it.  

Andrew and I sat in rocking chairs in the living room.  Our heads resting back, being part of the family but kind of wanting to lay down. Eddie pulled up a chair. I could feel it.  An openness. A boredom. A longing for something. 

"Lent is hard. " I said.  "Sometimes we have to just sit with it,  not knowing what it is.  It's how we learn to listen to God. When you have your headphones on high,  you are getting something. But you can usually hear me and I'm pretty sure you can't hear God." 

"I wonder if Saul would have heard God is he had headphones on. "

Eddie: well,  it was pretty dramatic...

Me: do you think God tried something quieter and had to resort to something dramatic?

God talks to us in all kinds of ways. But the tricky part is first hearing it and second. Separating the stuff God said from the stuff in our own heads. Did you know the church has guidance for helping us figure out when things are from God

It's a fancy word called discernment. And it involves thinking critically -- does it match what I know about God? Does it match scripture? Then,  if you tell the thing to other people who are also believers in God, they can use their wisdom and insight to say -- hmm, it think that was just you or wow,  I think that might be from God. And eventually with praying,  thinking and talking to people we can figure out if the thing might be from God. 

The conversation went on and on. We talked about having purpose and vocation.  Having specific calls or just making choices that live a life that is faithful to our faith even when there isn't a special call.  We talked about the body of Christ and how all kinds of people are needed to do God's work and we talked about the world and what kinds of people are going to be very helpful in the coming generation. What problems do their generations face compared to the problems my generation faced when I was a teenager and trying to figure out what to do.  

We talked about different way God spoke in the Bible. Ways that God speaks today.  Ways that God has spoken to me. 

It was such a good conversation.  Maybe an hour or two. We moved from rocking chairs to the back yard and sipped drinks until Eddie needed to go to Taekwondo. 

My heart cherished the moment. I, in a small way,  am handing over the reigns. I can listen and help to discern,  but God will speak to them. God is forming them and I will bear witness to it. 

Man,  Lent was wearing me down,  but today,  thankful for God speaking to us through a bored teenager. 

Day 27: When teenagers come home late

 

I'm in my rocking chair watching and waiting for Eddie to get back from bells and for Ulrich to return from work.  It's 8:49. 

Eddie's late. He usually gets home around 8:30ish I'm starting to worry. Every time I send him out on his scooter,  I do so knowing there's a chance he could get hurt or even not come home. My stomach churns a little. If he's not home in ten minutes,  I might go out looking for him. 

I remember my mother panicking when I was a teenager. Back then,  we didn't have cell phones. But one day,  I was riding the bus and and announcer came over the loudspeaker. "If Sara is on this bus,  her mother is looking for her."

Waiting,  just waiting, feels helpless. Mothers don't just sit and wait. If there's something to be done,  then mother's are going to do the thing.  

But sometimes God calls on us to wait and trust even when the result doesn't go the way we hope or expect. It is in that place,  where faith doesn't feel rational at all,  that I call out to God. "Are you there? Are you sure? I'm trying to trust you. "

Jesus's mother followed him all the way to the cross. And I'm almost sure the woman who spoke to angels,  who found herself overcome by the Holy Spirit and who carried the son of God inside her own womb sat in the shadows crying out to God,  "Are you there? Are you sure? I'm trying to trust you...." what else could she do watching her invincible, miracle making boy dying slowly on a tree. Mary had a hard road.   

God was not there.  Jesus cried out. "My God why have you forsaken me. " Mary's heart tore. I would have felt so utterly betrayed by God.  

But the story doesn't end there. The Gospels don't record whether his mother was among the women who went to the tomb. As a mother,  I find it impossible to think she didn't go.  However it went,  I'm almost certain that Jesus gave her that look.  That look the kids give moms that says -- I'm OK.  Actually,  I'm good. Everything is good -- and Mary had peace.  She could see it in his face and her heart held that image for the rest of her days. I'm sure of it. 

And.... Eddie walked in the door. I can sleep tonight. Thank you God for bringing them all home safe at the end of the day.  

Day 26: Longing

The past several days I've been overwhelmed with the feeling of a deep quiet longing. 

It took me a while to name it. Not quite sad.  Not quite anticipation. Not quite pregnant inspiration. Longing. 

The days are lengthening and the world is coming alive. But there is something disquieted deep within me.  

I've been searching for the source. I lingered after church to listen,  to be available for conversation. There was small talk after service but there were pauses that made me wonder -- there's something deeper to say but perhaps no words to say it with. 

I went for a walk with my husband. We talked about the world and life and our kids.  But in all the conversation,  I couldn't name the source. 

Sonja called.  She needed Jesus. I just bought her a new Bible.  It was purple,  her favorite color. I swing by to drop it off. She was stressed and had been drinking a little bit. She climbed into the van and vented. At first,  I was annoyed,  but I let myself just listen. She went on, but as I watched and listen with all the gentleness I could muster,  she softened. Eventually,  she was a little ok. She grabbed her Bible and jumped out of the van. 

Somehow that moment came closest to whatever the Longing I've been feeling. I pondered and still couldn't name it. 

Lent is a season of Longing. As we get closer to the cross, we will hear chants in the streets of Jerusalem.  A people longing for a king. Prayers in a garden.  A longing for a different path.  A groaning on the cross.  

Longing is a deeply human condition. We long in our sorrows for the return of joy. We long in our joy, to stop time and to bottle up the moment. 

I cannot even tell if the longing I carry now is one born of grief or of joy. Perhaps it is both.

But longing is holy. 

Blessed are those who mourn

Blessed are those who hunger for righteousness. 

Blessed are the poor in spirit. 

Blessed are the meek. 

Sacred is the longing. 

Sacred is the seeking to world to be as it should be,  as it one day will be. Sacred is the grief for what is not yet and sacred is the hope for what will one day be. 

God shows up in my longing, even when I don't know what my longing is for exactly. 

Day 25: Jam session

 

I've always loved music. 

When I was 16, we moved into a house that had a piano in the basement. A friend taught me middle C and I was off...

Free classical sheet music was available on the internet. I downloaded my favorite pieces,  moonlight sonata, claire de line,  pathétique. They were tough pieces. I pecked away.  Over years,  I learned to play some of them. But it was hard. There were so many notes. My brain was so focused,  so full.  It was hard. But slowly,  my hands learned. And every once in a while I could play a few bars without thinking so hard and the music was so beautiful that id forget I was playing and I'd lose my place and have to start over. 

My junior year of college,  I moved into the dorms. I had so much free time. I spent hours in the practice rooms. I was overwhelmed that there was a whole building full of pianos that you could just play. I had my folder of songs. Id listen for new pieces that I loved enough to learn to play.  I print out the music at the computer lab and peck away at them on Friday nights.  

I moved to Haiti,  then to Africa and music had to stay behind. I learned a ton of local music. I learned to dance local rhythms, but there weren't any pianos to practice on. 

Eventually,  I moved to Davis and joined a little Lutheran Church. Davis is a university town and the church had an evening service for students with an amazing band. I started singing with the band and eventually led the service as a lay leader -- planning music,  attending rehearsals and jam sessions. Occasionally we had gigs in town. 

These were amazing musicians and i learned entirely new things about music just by hanging out. I learned about chords and guitar music. Short hand ways that people can write out music and then just play with it. It was MAGIC.

I promised myself someday I'd learn how to play that way.   

We moved to Livermore. I got real busy with kids. We lived in a tiny house but I  always kept hope that one day I'd find space for a piano. 

As a baby,  Andrew was sensative to noise and he wouldn't even let me listen to music.  I longed for a time when music would find its way into my house. Eventually,  I introduced him to gentle sounds,  then flutes, then classical music,  then jazz.  Eventually he learned to tolerate music. Q

During the last couple years,  my autoimmune disease has attacked my vocal chords. My range is much smaller than what it once was and sometimes,  when I'm having a flare,  no sound comes out at all. It's a quiet grief. Not having time.  Then not having access to the one instrument that let me praise God in the shower and sing my kids to sleep. Maybe music was just for listening. ... my heart still ached.  I missed making music.  

Last year,  my church was cleaning out the choir room and there was a practice piano that needed a new home. The seas parted and in October my heart swelled looking at my very own piano.  

My boys flocked to it. They started playing video game music.  Movie scores. Sea Shanties. Classical.  There was hardly time for me to play.  But from time to time, I  hop on and pull out my old folder of classical pieces. They were lovely.  My heart was happy. 

Recently,  I began learning how to read guitar music. It looks like the lyrics of a song with random letters sprinkled over them. The letters represent chords that guitars strum while someone sings the melody. On piano,  you can play the melody with one hand and the chords with the other. 

There's so much to look at and think about when playing sheet music. This notation is incredibly simple. Once I figured out how to do it,  I found new freedom. I could play and not use every single brain cell. I could listen,  I could improvise. I could even sing while I played. I never thought in the whole world would I have enough brain cells to control two hands doing two different things and then add my voice. 

I looked up all my favorite songs and just jammed. And then,  I looked up all the hymns and praise songs and last night I sat and played and sang for hours. I tried different rhythms and experimented with adding parts of the chordto the melody to figure out where the harmonies might go. I was lost in the beauty of music and just enjoyed a musical time of prayer. 

There is something that music adds to prayer. Some element that makes it more than just the words. It carries the emotion,  the energy,  the soul of the prayer. 

Today I'm so so grateful that music has found its way back to me.  

Day 24: Trust

Routine surgery.  

I didn't even give it a second thought. 

He actually had the exact surgery when he was four. I still remember his little face smiling back at me as they wheeled his little body away in a wagon.  Now he's 13 and he needs ear tubes and his adeniods out -- again.  

I hung out with him in pre-op and we watched tic toc videos while he got his IV put in. He did great. But then it was time and they wheeled him away. 

That's the moment.  Watching him leave when the vulnerability becomes real. 

Anesthesia is alchemy. 

Modern surgery is a miracle. 

Even small ones.  

It is of the most vulnerable experiences we can have. For a moment,  our bodies are under the complete care of the surgeon and anesthesiologist.  And as I watched them wheel away my baby,  I felt both vulnerability and trust. 

The trust part is what made me think of writing this post.  I trusted so fully because I knew the surgeon.  He had operated on me. But more than that,  I visit him regularly and he scopes my sinuses and trachea. His hands as incredibly skilled and steady. He is deeply knowledgeable in the field. He is kind and thoughtful. He's a great doctor. 

Last week in Sunday school,  I taught the lesson of the Good Shepherd.  The sheep know the voice of the Good Shepherd and they trust him because he leads them to calm water and protects them. 

I knew the doctor. I knew Andrew was in good hands. 

When we know the shepherd we can be vulnerable with our body,  our hearts and our spirits. And even in those moments where we have zero control over what happens,  we are in good hands. 

I went down to the Cafe and had some breakfast. By the time I finished,  he was already waking up. The doctor called and the said surgery was a good idea. 

Day 23: Christian optimism and pessimism

I'm still not feeling great so I allowed myself a tiny bit of Instagram scrolling and came across a reel by Kate Bowler about Lent. It was really good. I forwarded to a girlfriend who does Lent with me every year.  

Basically the message is - Lent isn't a 40 day fix up.  It's starting with dust and sitting with who we are and to give up on the fantasy that we will be able to be "finished" some how.  

I love it because I think there is a huge temptation to think of Lent as a 40 day self improvement plan and to me,  that misses what Lent is. It is creating space to feel our humanity and reach towards God with honesty. 

But the reel did something more. It made me think of this huge contradiction in how Christians seem to approach human suffering. Because i don't want to write an incredibly long post I'm going to use stereotypes and broad brushes here. Theology is complicated and humans are even more complicated. 

But I see the struggle that we all have to have a people of faith -- if God is good,  why is there human suffering? And I think, as Christians we rightfully look to Jesus who fully carried this question. And yet,  we can't look fully as Jesus. Because Jesus doesn't give us a straight satisfying answer.  

On one hand,  there are those among us who look to Jesus's conquering of suffering. Jesus healed people. Jesus raised people. Jesus suffered willingly but then defeated death. God wins in the end. Suffering is temporary and healing is inevitable. 

Others among us see Jesus and say - he wept at Lazarus death.  He was a man of sorrows. God came to suffer with us.  To dwell with us in our suffering. 

Some of us lament. Others unswerving optimism.  Perhaps we all find courage in Christ.  

I think it is hard to hold. But perhaps both views are true. God has both conquered death and suffering and yet somehow still dwells with us in it. 

Holy week is coming. The way of sorrow.  The stations. The garden. The grief. The dawn.  The empty tomb. The joyful women. 

Lent does start with dust and finding a way to be honest in our humanity. It is a path marked with grief and bodies that don't cooperate and tiredness and frustration and an inability to reach God the way we want to.  But it ends with an empty tomb and a sun soaked garden.  

Easter is coming. May we rest in God's grace and God's power. 

Day 22: My Many Colored Days

On Bright Red Days how good it feels to be a horse and kick my heels!

On other days I'm other things. On Bright Blue Days I flap my wings.

Some days, of course, feel sort of Brown. Then I feel slow and low, low down.

Then comes a Yellow Day and Wheeee! I am a busy, buzzy bee.

Gray Day....Everything is gray. I watch. But nothing moves today.

One of my favorite Dr Suess book is the lesser known "My many colored days. " I read it often to my kids to help them have another way to identify emotions. 

Today was supposed to be a yellow day.  Chapel with Miles,  lifting with Eddie,  writing class with Eddie,  work meetings, house projects and gardening with Zander in the afternoon.  

I did some of the things but the rest of the day I was curled up in a hoodie.  Bummed.  Such beautiful weather and my body is not up to doing anything. 

I made the most of it.  I turned on hymns and rocked in the hammock swing. Sunlight on my face.  Grateful for the sandbox that Zander played in, the swing under me,  the blue sky,  the new green,  the soft music and the nice sunlight.  

If I can't get anything done,  I'll at least enjoy the moment of rest.  

As a Midwestern girl,  so much of my identity is wrapped up in work. My family worked for fun. Giant piles of landscaping materials showed up in the yard and all us kids shoveled and hauled them whence they needed to go.  Trees chopped into firewood and nearly stacked on the side of the house.  Work for the family business, a solid part of family vacation -- don't worry,  we also played hard -- but at least one day was spent on opportunistic work since we were in the neighborhood. 

Work feels good for me.  Like exercise. Using my body. Getting stuff done. Helping people.  Making the world a better place.  Even my hobbies are productive - gardening,  painting,  playing music,  learning, hiking,  traveling. 

Sitting still is hard. Especially sitting still and just not doing anything. Maybe I can get some spiritual practice in or reflection or discernment. When my body doesn't work,  my mind is there to work with. 

But today.  Mostly I just dropped the list and let it be. I enjoyed the weather and just let myself rest and heal. And I think,  that was my spiritual practice today.