Taking 2019 By Storm

I still remember the afternoon we met the specialist at the hospital.  The words she used were terrifying, phrases like “blood incompatibility and potential harm” rolled off her tongue with an ease that made me cringe.  My life was about to change and I wasn’t aware I was going in for more than a check-up.  During that hour long visit, I learned about a crisis I didn’t understand, heard a language I didn’t speak and met a list of characters I didn’t know existed.  That would have been fine but it was my crisis, my life and my future we were discussing.  I remember holding my husband’s hand tightly and trying to breathe and crying: I remember a lot of crying.

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The morning was grey, cold and gusty.  The wind was picking up and the forecast was calling for a storm to hit.  For many people, that means an afternoon indoors, but for a certain few it means bundling up and heading to the water for a walk.  My Dad taught me that there are gems to be seen during storms which are not visible at any other time: be it an eagle or a seal riding their respective currents, storms are for catching sight of treasure. Consequently, I called for a family outing as the winds started. My family hustled to get ready and out the door we went.  Which is how twenty minutes later I found myself in inclement weather with a handful of the Pacific Northwest’s finest.

I love the sight of those who come out in storms.  I enjoy smiling at those who walk by, hunched over by the wind, rain stinging our faces as we peer out to give each other a knowing smile: “Yep. We are amazing, this is the best.”  But something else entirely takes over when I see those who have come out with the sole intention to play in a storm.   My gut reaction is a primal thrill that makes me want to scream for joy.  Our area is replete with outdoor enthusiasts and if you are lucky, you can watch such a person display their mastery, the bad weather enhancing rather than weakening their performance.  Their ability to manage the increased pressures in their environment allows them to reach heights in their sport that cannot be attained in regular weather. 

The wind blowing off the water was icy and hit the van head on we entered the parking lot.  Looking to the water, I spotted a lone parachute, the insane person attached to the contraption not yet visible. I ran toward the water, my family following behind.  There beyond the pylons, were two brave souls: a kite boarder and windsurfer hurling over the slate grey seas.  I was overjoyed.  We watched them for quite a while, skipping off waves and leaping in the air on their boards, as our extremities cooled and our ears began to ache.  The windsurfer hurled into shore for a few moments before heading back out again.  My children watched overjoyed at the sight.  They claimed the weather was “perfect” as they stood on shore in rapt admiration.

We marched down the board walk in an attempt to stop hypothermia from taking hold.  Cormorants, scoters and gulls dove and played in the waves as we strolled by admiring their buoyancy and fishing abilities.  Walking down the pier we observed old men tend their crab pots as the waters below the dock churned.  We held our course until our youngest declared she was turning numb and headed back toward the beach.  Managing the cold for about ninety minutes I’d call it a successful blustery outing.

Climbing back into the van, I was thinking about storms.  You can’t go through a trial in Christendom without running headlong into a storm metaphor somewhere in your experience.  Whether you look online or in print, you will find parallels drawn between periods of suffering and the weathering of storms. I find such teachings deeply comforting.  Many liken storms to testing, a process wherein God refines your character as you experience circumstances beyond human control.  To survive a storm there seems to be an essential component of surrender, a place wherein those suffering accept the inconvenience and pain of their circumstance, in order endure the time allotted to their suffering. Sadly that would not be me.  My first reaction is to protest and feel persecuted.  It isn't natural for me to don a positive attitude or to metaphorically hop on a board, grab a parachute and find anything enjoyable about my winds of misfortune.  I’d rather whimper.

But what is a person to do, when providence has decided that you will remain in a storm until the terror in your heart subsides?  What if the purpose of your storm is to build a testimony for others: a testimony of overcoming and the faithfulness of God?  Well, I can tell you quite honestly that is the space where many a bad attitude has been born and has died.  Yes, I am speaking from experience.  If you are like me (and I pray that you aren’t) you are more interested in getting out of the storm than staying in it.  Be darned if you are in the surf beside me!  Go on YouTube and find your own sermon, I’m trying to tread water without drowning.

Of course dear friend, this is not the purpose of our storms.  The purpose of storms is that we, by God’s grace, overcome them and provide comfort for others who come after us.  This is how testimonies and ministries are born.  If someone is facing a cancer diagnosis, the first person they will call is one who has been through the trial in order to gain wisdom and insight.  It’s hard to minister to a friend if you are curled up in the fetal position under your bed.  Yet this is where I’m inclined to want to stay when storms strike, nursing my own hurts and wounds. 

Our children declared that only hot chocolate could warm their frozen bodies and so we stopped inside a grocery store equipped with a beverage stand.  My husband went off to hunt lunch in the isles while I ordered drinks.  I sighed, musing on storms, wind surfers and whether or not I would ever manage to endure my trial with grace and patience.  It was then (without a word of a lie) I saw the barista look up at the ceiling and say to another customer, “Yes, he came in here about an hour ago.  Maybe it was to get out of the weather.”  I looked up.

There in the rafters, was this fellow.  He’s a hawk in case you can’t tell and no, he isn’t made for the indoors, regardless of the rough weather outside. Looks wrong doesn’t it?  I was immediately taken with thoughts for his survival, “Hey sir, you need to get out of here.  This is no place for you.” Though I cannot say that God spoke to me directly, it did make me think that I was being given an illustrated example of why God’s people must resist the temptation to lie down and give up when confronted by adversity.  I suspect it is because we were made by God to overcome it. 

So as we move again into a new year, my thoughts are with you dear friend.  The coming year is bound to hold victories and defeats for all as well as a storm or two.  My prayer starting with myself is that despite the pain and suffering we will be able to withstand trials with by the grace he provides.  By loving the Lord with all our heart, mind and strength we might decide to learn in our adversity knowing that there is great value in pain and much to be learned in times of adversity.  I pray that we would grow brave not faint and that God would deliver us from our fears.

The crying stopped eventually.  As I was welcomed and knit into my corner of the medical community, I learned that my trial was not impossible but lonely, scary and occasionally painful.  Despite my unhappiness, those adverse experiences did not kill me and I grew less fearful.  Then one day, the season of trial left as suddenly as it came.  When a couple years later, a friend happened upon a similar experience, I was able to provide the support and hope she needed to endure.  I could speak to her fear and failings as not one else could.  I could even crack a joke now and then that would have her laughing.  Over the years, I have sought out those who struggle the same way I did.  It might not be as brave as strapping a board on my feet and grabbing a parachute, but its pretty close.

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Happy New Year Dear Friend,

xox Karen

 

PS.  Hawk got out.  Daughter went back today to find that one of the young men managed to persuade/chase the little fellow back outdoors.  

The Classic Christmas Card

A Classic Christmas Card
Thank you Friend.

I can’t remember when traditional Christmas Cards went out of fashion.  I’d say it was about 20 years ago but I can’t be sure because at that time my family left the backwoods of Canada and ventured to a major US city.  So I’m unclear if Christmas cards disappeared or if somewhere in the country people still exchange real Christmas cards replete with stars, the city of David and the odd camel caravan.  In my world however, they were swallowed by the box retailers’ tradition of sending cards composed of a collage of family pictures accompanied by a seasonal greeting.  I’m courting trouble writing this, because many of my friends send these types of family cards and there is no way to say this without it being uncomfortable.  I don’t prefer this type of Christmas card.  It isn’t that I don’t like you, please understand, but your card makes me feel…peculiar.  I would put you in my living room except that I don’t want you staring at me from your timeshare in the Bahamas as I walk through my living room in my pajamas with my hair all skookum. It’s awkward for both of us. Likewise I would put you on my fridge but frankly the sight of you in your swimsuit at the beach kind of vexes me and makes rooting in the fridge for snacks a lot less enjoyable.  I appreciate your dog is still alive but frankly I’m still surprised how much money you spent on the little beggar in the first place and I suspect he gets his hair done more than I do and I fear if we discuss these things we are going hit ground I don’t think our relationship can hold.  You can see how these new cards drag my mind to the present and focus my minimal attention upon the appearance of others’ lives.  It’s difficult territory for me.

The snail mail cards of long ago were marvelous; I have fond memories of those cards.  It was a time when glitter was merely an accent, saved for the Bethlehem star or the glow of the remarkably clean, if not sparkling, Christ Child.  Kings on camels proceeded toward a tiny city nestled in the sand dunes that brought to mind the story of Christmas. Many of them had a scripture verse inscribed in the corner.  In fact, if you were clever and up on your bible, you could guess what scripture the card would contain by the picture on the front. Yet all of them possessed a photo declaration of a time long ago, when something remarkable took place.

Once in royal David’s city,

Stood a lowly cattle shed,

Where a mother laid her Baby,

In a manger for His bed:

Mary was that mother mild,

Jesus Christ, her little Child.

He came down to earth from heaven,

Who is God and Lord of all,

And His shelter was a stable,

And His cradle was a stall:

With the poor, and mean, and lowly,

Lived on earth our Saviour holy.

The marvelous thing about the story of Jesus birth is that it holds such hope for us today.

I’m unclear at what age innocence dies, though I suspect it has much to do with what a person is called to bear.  Clearer in my mind, is the fact that almost everyone I know above the age of 35 starts to understand that the season of Christmas, as portrayed by family cards, is difficult to navigate.  Looking at the photos of smiling people on holiday has little to do with the brokenness in many lives.  I was recently sobbing on the phone to a friend that I had no desire to walk where the Lord was leading me.  Despite all my prayers, planning and industry, brokenness was heading for me like a wave and I found myself unable to make any sense of life. In this season of goodwill and celebration, grief and heartache are an unwelcome reality.  How do you make a Christmas card out of that?  Imagine for a moment, your hearts deepest burden and then add to it a picture of you grappling with its worst consequences.  Now, come with me a moment longer and construct a glossy Christmas card of that moment.  What seasonal greeting would grace that photo, dear friend?

Yet the story of Jesus is in that exact vein.  A young couple pregnant out of wedlock, holed up in a stable, no healthcare provider or midwife.  In a town where she certainly has relations no one has shown up to tend to her as she faces the birth of her first child.  She looks exhausted and he looks uncertain, even frightened perhaps.  A baby without proper covering, in unsanitary conditions lying in a filthy box and across this historic card in 16 point red font the words, “Immanuel: God With Us!” 

What on earth was God thinking?

He was thinking of us.  The “us” without the fancy family card, without our best foot forward.  For God he seems to have strange standards, but not if you understand he was thinking of the brokenness that gripped humanity and how he would condescend to enter into relationship with us.   His means of celebration is unconventional much like his Christmas card.  A back water town, a hovel of a birth place, humble beginnings doesn’t begin to describe the lowliness of his arrival.  Announce your coming to the dregs of humanity; proclaim hope to the hopeless and a means of salvation to those who know they are lost.  His love for those who are nothing means he turned the whole pecking order upside down. If you are withdrawn from society and your family doesn’t visit, God wants to spend Christmas with you.  If your closest friend has turned against you and you no longer have traditions that used to be precious to your heart, God has hope for your heartache.  If this Christmas finds you without your beloved and all you want to do is curl up and sleep until spring, there is one who wants to share your grief.  The coming of Jesus means that there is hope for your despair, comfort for your affliction and restoration for brokenness.

It’s quite the Christmas card, this picture of Jesus’ arrival.

So I’m praying this week, that we might spend some time with the story of Christmas.  That as society tells you to spend more to acquire a perfect Christmas, you might remember that Christmas is, at the very core, for those whose Christmas is painful, lonely and sad.  And that no amount of Christmas card fantasy can drown out the truth of hope that is offered to those who desire to meet him.

xoxKaren 

The Posts of Christmas Past

Hello My Friend,

Sometimes I get messages asking where a certain Christmas story resides.  I can never remember so I have pulled some of the Christmas messages into one place so they can be found more easily.  There is probably a way to do it so that it sits neatly down the side of the page but frankly I can’t figure it out at the moment. 

I hope you are spending time with friends and focusing on faith instead of fussing. Holidays are not always easy, be kind to yourself and eat a cookie every now and then.

Enjoy,

Karen

The Perfect Fit:  Nothing says holidays like extra seating.  This was epic.

The Perfect Fit

The Center Peace: New friends coming to dinner and I didn’t burn anything.

The Center Peace

Sock it to me Jesus: One of my most beloved Christmas pieces: Have you met Sock Jesus?

Sock it to Me Jesus

Behold the Nativity: How I miss this bird.  Setting up the nativity was never so exciting.

Behold the Nativity

The Cattle are Lowing: This was the year I met Fried Egg Jesus. 

The Cattle are Lowing

Noel Never hurt Anyone: Who could forget the unChristmas tree?

Noel Never Hurt Anyone

Time Out: This was before I posted with pictures, which is sad because this was about the best donkey ever to grace a living nativity.

Time Out

Geronimo!:  The cat who climbed trees.

Geronimo!

A Camel in a Crisis: I miss Curly.

A Camel in a Crisis

The Real Christmas Tree: I think of this every year at Christmas time.  It is my most viewed post, not certain why, but I wish I had taken a photo all those years ago.

The Real Christmas Tree

An Unwelcome Visitor

Tree Critter

Though I can hardly believe it, the month of December has arrived and the world around me has turned to the task of Christmas.  More specifically, it has turned its attention to the task of “Happy Holidays” which seems to be far less offensive than the celebration of Christmas itself.  However, being distinctly behind the times, I celebrate Christmas and as such, a pine tree was brought into my living room this week.  I love Christmas trees; I don’t even need to decorate them.  Their presence brings me joy, less so our bird, who was rather confused by the entire ritual. 

It should be mentioned that when you bring an object that lives outside indoors, there is a good chance that you will bring in some countryside contamination and critters, which is why the vacuum is nearby and used frequently when setting up our tree.  As two family members set the tree in its stand, another is assigned to sucking up the trail of pine needles and dirt that follows.  The sudden invasion of a pine tree combined with the pine needles swirling in the vacuum creates a type of unintentional, unapproved HEPA filter potpourri I really enjoy. 

Christmas music is required for tree decorating as are tea and snacks.  After procuring them from the kitchen, I sat back and let the girls decorate, reminiscing about the days when I despaired the Christmas tree would ever get decorated without some form of crisis as three undeveloped little brains hung breakable ornaments while standing on stepladders. Mind you, there is a Christmas ornament on our tree that still causes some consternation as certain family members are unclear what a fat glittery pink pig complete with crown and wings has to do with Christmas.  It spends the entire season on the front of the tree dead center or hidden at the back of the tree in a place of obscurity, depending on who just walked through the living room.  I find it is the little traditions that make the season. 

Not long after the tree was decorated, I inspected the girls work.  Smiling, I walked to the tree to take a closer look, when something in my peripheral vision turned my head.  I couldn’t quite catch what I had seen until I thought an ornament was casting light.  A fraction of a second later I realized a ladybug had come in on the tree and was inspecting the newly decorated branches.  I think she was enjoying herself.  Did you know that ladybugs are named after the Virgin Mary? If you did, you aren’t surprised it was hanging out on my Christmas tree; it is after all “our lady’s bug.”  If like me you were unaware of this fact, you are doubtless impressed with this particular bugs’ love of symbolism. 

It should be mentioned that I hold no animosity toward lady bugs, however a ladybug is still a bug, (beetle actually but never mind) and belongs outdoors.  Not wanting the charming coccinellidae to meet with the vacuum or the less charming bird, I looked up where the creature should be deposited to spend the winter.  A quick wikki search and I was back to ladybug wrangling.  I had to find the silly thing again though, that took a while, they might have small legs but those aphid munchers can really move.  Finding her a suitable hibernation spot, I returned inside to contemplate the ways in which Christmas brings both the welcome and unwelcome visitors to our home.    

It’s the unwelcome things at Christmas time that I grapple with, struggle and strive to find peace; most predominantly the unwelcome visitor of suffering.  Like an infected taste bud, suffering can be a constant companion, painful and aggravated by almost anything. When well intentioned people would glibly quote Romans 8:28 at me during my crisis over the holidays, I would almost spit fire back at them.  Don’t tell me that things are going to work out, tell me how to trust God in a crisis”, I wanted to shriek.  Rather, “explain to me the steps by which I am to facilitate a trust in prayer, so that this torment of fear will stop.”  Don’t tell me in Christianese to have a happy holiday, speak to me about Jesus in the manger, forgotten, the smell of manure in the air.  Remind me how Christmas teaches me to worship with the angels in this broken backwards place.   

Which leads us back to the question: what are you celebrating this season my dear friend?  Are you celebrating a Happy Holiday or a Merry Christmas?  If you are celebrating a Happy Holiday then decorate away with every scarf wearing penguin and Santa you can find.   There isn’t enough glitter or tinsel to make my holidays happy if I can’t find a Savior or a message of redemption in my pain.  If I am celebrating Christmas, then I have hope.  Hope that when everything goes wrong, I have a God who is able to sustain me.  Hope that when I am empty and alone, someone still cares and loves me.  Hope that when sin ruins everything, God has a plan to give me life again.

Perhaps this suffering, this unwanted visitor, residing in your life at Christmas time, is not quite the intruder we imagine.  Much like my ladybug, though unwanted, it is part of the landscape of Christmas.  Though we might dread it, there is deep value in knowing our suffering is understood by one who loves us more than anything.  That we would understand we serve a God who entered our broken world so that after we have cried ourselves to sleep, we would awake up knowing there is a provision of mercy to help us get through the day.  That Jesus was born, Emmanuel: God with us, not to give us presents but to give us forgiveness, hope, his presence and his eternal life.     

xoxKaren

Unmentionables

You do not want to see the mystery underpants.
Here is a nice butterfly instead.

My friend!

I’ve missed you. As December approached, I’ve been locked in a wrestling match with the Lord.  I’m not winning, but I’m spending a great deal of time in prayer, which is a close second.  I’m continually amazed how many times I can go to the Lord with my struggles: not once has he dropped an anvil on my head.  That would be surprising wouldn’t it? 

“Lord, could we go over your sovereignty once more because I’m still having some trouble with your plan.”

WHAM! (Anvil falls stage right, missing our heroine by a mere 4 inches.)

“Maybe later?”

Life around my home has provided many opportunities to be thankful, although many have proved stressful.  A few rough days resulted in my teen asking if I would drive her to classes as opposed to her taking the car.  I agreed to chauffeur, allowing her extra time to cram for a chemistry test, enjoying the moments we have to chat and catch up.  The drive in was soggy but uneventful.  A kiss on the cheek, the backpack hoisted over her shoulder and I watched her small frame walk away from me.  I pulled away smiling, it is nice when you like and love your children at the same time. 

I was expecting a call post chemistry test to hear how it went.  What I was not expecting was the amount of hysterical laughter that greeted me after my, “Hello?”

“Mum, the most embarrassing thing happened.  I have no idea how.”

“Well that is a statement. First how was the test?”

“The test was way better than I expected, I did fine, improved my grade.”

“Excellent.  What was embarrassing?”

At this point, I need to tell you things are going to get awkward.  I’m determined to conduct myself with the appropriate amount of home school decorum, but be warned, we are headed for the rails.

“Well, I went to sit down in class, and by my feet in the isle I saw a headband.  I looked about to see if someone dropped it but then, I realized it was (sister’s name) underpants so I scooped them up!  I wondered if they were in my sweater or something when I pulled it out of the dryer this morning.”  She collapsed into a fit of giggles.  “I couldn’t believe it!  They were just lying there.  I really hope no one saw.”

“Excuse me?  You found your sister’s skivvies on the floor of your chemistry class?”

The response was unintelligible, something between snorts and crying.  I attributed a certain amount of it to post-test stress disorder. “Yes,” she squeaked and starting laughing again. At this moment, I need to tell you that not all underwear owned by homeschooling females are granny camo briefs.  Anyone who does theatre will tell you that nothing gets rid of underwear lines like not having any underwear lines to contend with.  Enter the minimalist underpants. Her sister’s apparently, in the isle of the chemistry class, scooped up by my daughter.  The wheezing continued on the end of the line.

“Okay tiger.  Way to both humiliate and defend your sister’s honour.  Are you coming home?”

My daughter managed to get a grip and moved on from the underpants caper.  I had to laugh because my girl, in the throes of an awkward moment, hadn’t put the whole scene together yet.  That is to say, she was not calculating the fact that NO ONE in class even knew she had a sister and probably thought the skivvies in question were hers.  Somewhere, in that first year chemistry class, could be a person who thought my daughter was an exhibitionist home schooler with an underpants issue.

She would put two and two together at some point. 

I would help her. 

The whole scenario did replay itself in my head though and when it did, I was struck by a few things.  First was the manner in which my girl, when faced with an awkward scene, immediately set herself to covering up her sister’s potential embarrassment.  She knew her sister’s skivvies shouldn’t be in the middle of chemistry class and grabbed them, instead of leaving them in the isle.  I was touched by her actions; I would have looked at the ceiling and kept going.  Finding the presence of mind during embarrassment is a rare skill set.  

One of the most depressing things about watching societal decline is the sheer amount of material out there that is aimed at embarrassing other humans when they are in a vulnerable position.  Though it isn’t a straight exchange, the scripture that comes to my mind is Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.1 Peter 4:8 In the times in which we live it isn’t always enough to forgive, we must have within our hearts the earnest affection that causes us to protect those who stumble as opposed to making their weakness an object of scorn or ridicule. 

Second thing I noted were the steps she went through when confronted with that awkward vulnerability.  First she reacted to cover the situation, second she created a narrative with the information she had at hand.  I thought both of those things were significant.  How often do we react in a tense situation and then are left trying to figure out what just happened?  Someone can be shockingly rude and we are left to construct a narrative as to why they would act out.  Lack of information leaves us guessing, the danger lies in the fact that our information can be entirely wrong.  Left to our constructed narrative, we operate out of judgment and misunderstanding.  It’s an uncomfortable place to be. 

As in so many of life’s awkward situations, they key to success lies within the attitude of the heart.  If compassion resides within, I am likely to cover and protect those who make mistakes without having to know all the details.  I will be slow to recount their missteps and will remember I cannot possibly account fully for the actions of others.  If compassion is not found in my soul when humiliation strikes, I will be first in line to heap scorn and fake outrage to the fires that voraciously consume lives almost every day.  Those fires bring devastation and can turn in an instant.  I am well advised to have nothing to do with them.

It was a full four hours later when my daughter came in the front door with her friend.  Immediately, she ran down to her sister and handed over her skivvies.

“Oh my gosh, did you hear what I did? They must have been in my sweater, I’m so sorry.  It was really embarrassing.”

“Yes, I did,” was her sister’s reply.  She peered into her sister’s hand.  “Umm…not sure how to tell you this…but those aren’t mine!”

“What?!”

“Look at the brand.  I don’t own any of those.  Whose underpants did you take?” 

“NO! Wait, what? MUM?”  My daughter flew upstairs with the contraband knickers in her hand.  Looking at me, she held them out, “Are these yours?”

“No, child of mine.  Those are not my underwear.”

The look of shock gave way to a delightful scream of disbelief.  “Oh no!  Whose are they then?”

The sound of hysterical laughter rang through the house, it took ages for it to die down.

Be careful out there.

xoxKaren

ps. Photo by ‪Dima Visozki‬‏ from Pexels

If You Give a Mum a Muffin

If you give a mum a muffin you can get a miracle

“Mum?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you going to do something when we leave home?  I mean, like a career or something?  When you are done homeschooling?”

I confess I clenched my teeth just a bit when the question was uttered.  I could have responded stating my life would cease to have meaning and that I would put myself out to pasture and crochet hats for neighborhood squirrels but it seemed a tad sarcastic.  “I expect by that point my life will have lost all meaning.”

“Mom, I’m just asking.”

“With any luck you will be able to afford my therapy and I’ll figure it out then.” I retorted.

There isn’t a mother on the planet that doesn’t struggle with self-worth at some point, but lately I don't have the energy for an existential crisis.  As one decade as a stay at home mother in a foreign country stretched into two, I am well aware what I have achieved, what I have gained and what I have lost.  It is part of the framework of my thinking and most days I’m okay with my choices.  On the grey days, when loneliness comes to visit, I have a harder time assessing my worth.  

Essentially, you want me on your team if you need to move furniture or want to eat muffins.  I make great muffins.  And chairs, I can move chairs like no body’s business.  Just last week I moved stacks of chairs across a church sanctuary and narrowly averted disaster when I miscalculated the weight of the stack while sliding it onto the chair dolly.  Some fancy footwork, a nearly separated shoulder and 3 cuss words later I had those critters tamed and begging for mercy.  (What church in their right mind stacks chairs 10 high?  Everyone knows not to go higher than 7.)  You might also need me if you want to make a good cup of tea, but as I live in America there is less call for that skill set, the Boston Tea Party doing what it did to the New World’s tea drinkers.  No.  I don’t drink coffee thank you for asking.  Because I am legally not permitted to work, I have accepted my role as a mere mother and maker of muffins.  Until I’m given something else to do, you’ll find me at home making tea and dishing out carbs while school happens.

Ironically my friend called this week to pray through some of the issues that were transpiring at her school, where she worked.  Do you ever pray for teachers my friend?  Remember to pray for them, because if anyone is on the front lines of society, trying to build into the lives of youngsters with limited resources it is those in schools.  My girlfriend wanted to pray for a little who was having a rough time.  “Ellie” came from a house of working professionals.  Sadly, her parents could not make the marriage work and Ellie was suffering as her family crumbled around her.  Time with parents was at a premium and Ellie was feeling it, which was why she had narrowly averted a meltdown entering school earlier in the morning.  The transition from home to school is not easy when a child is feeling insecure.  My friend kept Ellie close and watched her throughout the morning.  

At lunchtime, my friend and her student Sammy sat to have lunch.  Ellie joined them.  Sammy had a muffin in his lunch and my girlfriend started a conversation with her outrageous enthusiasm about making muffins, the best kind of muffins and how she made them for her own children.  Something about this conversation strained Ellie’s heart.  “I don’t have a muffin.  No one makes me muffins.  I don’t get those things in my lunch.”  She opened her lunch box and peered in the offending container. Those three sentences fractured my friends’ heart. Sweet Ellie realized that she was missing out on something.  When a family is in crisis, things like muffins are not as important as arranging car rides, suitcases and bill payments.  But to Ellie, muffins were important and at that lunch table, the missing muffin was paramount in her mind.  “Well Ellie,” my friend replied, “you have done such a good job today, I will happily bake muffins and bring you one for your lunch tomorrow.”  “You will?”  Ellie beamed, peace filling her heart. 

So it was that during our prayer time that evening, we prayed for Ellie and all the brokenness that muffin represented.  We prayed for 7 year olds, their sensitivity, and the injustice that comes from being little and having no say. We prayed for families that were holding on and families that were holding out.  It was the kind of prayer that makes your heart ache.  The next day, when Ellie flew into the classroom and looked frantically for my friend, she was given a bag with 2 muffins: one for her lunch and one for the weekend if it could last that long.   To a 7 year old, 2 banana chocolate chip muffins are a mighty kind of joy. Muffins can be miraculous. 

So I wanted to pray for all you mere mothers and muffin makers out there.  Perhaps you are only a secretary, don’t have a college degree, are balding or are in some astonishing way, absolutely insufficient. 

Welcome to the club.

In God’s economy, a mere nothing can become something, muffins can move mountains and the faith behind your loving actions can change the world. 

Jump in, love deeply and do a million little things.

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren

Playing it by Ear

Behold! A new skill.

It was one of those un-diagnose-ably slow mornings.  Nothing had gone wrong, but things weren’t going right either.  A brutal case of insomnia meant I got to sleep when I was supposed to be waking and the extra hour cat nap did nothing to counteract the 4 hours’ sleep deprivation.  When I finally awoke the colour grey had hijacked the landscape.  Gone were the sunny blues and yellows of the day before, as thick clouds moved in and were pouring large amounts of water on all creation, turning the sky, air and roads the color of slate. 

The rains had returned. 

Deciding I needed a vat of tea, I made my way to the kitchen and filled the kettle, listening to the gutters mimic faucets as the tap matched the sound I heard through the window.  “Wet,” I thought to myself as I watched the rain spill out of the gutters without any respect for the containment architecture.  I pulled cups from the cupboard and emptied the tea pot.  I was an hour behind schedule which meant the girls were still in bed, thankful for the unknown circumstance that had delayed my arrival in their respective rooms to coax them into consciousness.  Heating the teapot, I stared out the window and prayed something non-coherent about the weather, my mood and the day ahead.

Those who reside in the Pacific Northwest know intuitively that the return of the rain is permission from the universe to cancel all appointments, errands and activities, as well as any remotely constructive behavior that would stop one from curling up under blankets and reading books.  Home-schooled children seem to observe this unstated shift in the seasons, much like squirrels obey the call to store food for winter. It’s uncanny.  I had serious doubts anything productive was going to happen in my household and sent up another feeble prayer that my fatigue wouldn’t act as an excuse for the vice of sloth. 

Soon after mugs of tea were distributed, children appeared and school books were taken off shelves.  Though nothing was being done with great speed, some work was being accomplished so I felt optimistic.  Turning my attention to my own chores, I putzed the morning away in relative peace.  Hubby was home so he valiantly set to math homework which filled my heart with giddy joy.  Turning my attention to email, I realized one of my children had been in her room for a fair number of hours without checking in.  I assumed it was because she was in a study groove and quietly peeked into her room to see her on her bed in the middle of a convincing pile of books.  I shut the door quietly without interruption.  The day passed lazily and before long, everyone was tucked into a corner, listening to the rain and reading a novel of their choice.  All except my strangely absent child, who had hidden in her room the entire day. 

When the family found each other in the living room at dinner time, my hubby commented on the rainy day and asked for a report on the day’s activities. I knew what two of the girls had done as I was within arm’s reach all day, but what the third had accomplished was a mystery.  I listened for her response, trying to decide if it was history or science that had taken up most of her time. 

“And what did you do?” My hubby finally asked addressing his girl.

“I was amazing!” She stated confidently.

“You were?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what exactly did you accomplish?”

“Well, not exactly what you might expect,” she smiled and looked somewhat embarrassed.  It was an interesting combination of facial expressions because she was looking pretty pleased with herself.  I secretly hoped she might have been doing some drawing again, but I was definitely curious.  “What does that mean?” I asked.

She sighed.  “To be honest, I spent an inordinate amount of time learning how to wiggle my left ear.  And I’ve actually figured it out!  I can wiggle my left ear, but not my right.  I couldn’t get that one.”

I was about to ask if she was kidding, using slightly more adult language than was required but I was beaten out by her two sisters who thought  that spending 5 hours on learning how to wiggle an ear was a fantastic investment return.  Impressed, they asked for a demonstration which my daughter graciously provided, pleased to showcase her new skill.  I looked at my husband in utter amazement.  He returned my gaze with an expression which made clear I was the primary teacher of his progeny; therefore everything wrong with the ear wiggling child was my fault.  Shaking my head, I glared at him in return, but figured he was probably right so I’d better let it go.

I sat perplexed, as the girls discussed the difficulty of locating muscles and facial manipulation.  Their delight at the discovery of a new skill fueling their hope that the unthinkable was possible: if someone could learn to wiggle their left ear, certainly the sky was the limit.  I sat wondering if they were in fact my children and came face to face with the realization that there is more wrong with home-schooled children than people could possibly realize.

So I am sitting here, trying to figure out how to come up with some form of encouragement when the biggest accomplishment in my household this week is that one of my children has learned to wiggle one of their ears.  Sometimes I feel like the playing field is never slanted in my favour.  If you, like me, tend toward analysis and introspection might I take the opportunity to remind you that not all of life is measured by productivity, output and accomplishment?  (Not that ear wiggling isn’t accomplishment because clearly it is…) Life is also composed of memories, enjoyment and silliness. So I’m asking the Lord for renewed hearing this week: ears to hear the joy of our little people, their ridiculous natures and outlandish ideas.  Ears to hear the kind words our Creator speaks as the world changes and groans. That I might have ears to hear where love is leading and the courage to follow.  If when all that is done and I have some extra time, I might pray for the ability to wiggle my ear too, cause I’ve always wanted to do that.

Stay dry this week,

xoxKaren

Pumpkin Problems

I love autumn.  I’m not certain if it’s the fog, the falling leaves or the frenetic squirrels but the season makes me happy.  Despite the return of the rains, the moments of sunshine are frequent enough to make fall exquisite in my part of the world.   We trek to local farms to sample fresh apples, cider and view the pumpkin harvest. Speaking of which, did this year’s crop not produce some of the biggest pumpkins you have ever seen?** Of course, when I think of the harvest, with its back breaking labour and cornucopia of heavy root vegetables, I hope the next generation will be able to work hard and enjoy the bounty the land provides. This ironically, is exactly what those adorable little freeloaders will do this week, as they venture outside to harvest sugar infused treats from their neighbors.  

Children everywhere will gather in teams, armed with pillow cases and set to canvasing urban landscapes.  They will walk, perhaps hundreds of feet, climb stairs and will press buttons with chilly fingers.  When this has been accomplished, functional adults will pick up treats and drop them mercilessly in their sacks, and the children will then forget to say thank you and turn into the darkness, to repeat this action until their parents gather them up and drive them home.

Yep. It’s Halloween again.

If you have the gift of discernment you have deduced I have a complicated relationship with Halloween. It’s most likely a Christianese thing. A spiritual incongruence that I can’t get around: what do Reese’s peanut butter cups, a vast array of oversexed adult costumes and pumpkins on door steps have to do with each other?  Where else can a desperate desire for community and a good time manifest in a society where community has moved into a realm that isn’t even physical?  It’s all rather peculiar.

As far as traditions go, jack ’o lanterns have never been my favourite thing.  The pumpkin part I love, but carving those critters is next to impossible.  The internet is filled with brilliant people who carve majestic orange masterpieces: politicians, Marvel characters and movie sets.  Utterly astonishing, some are jolly clever. How they do it is a mystery, though I expect they aren’t using a dull steak knife and a cheap plastic saw from the dollar store.  That could be my problem.  This year however, I hit a new low.  I thought if I shared it with you, you’d feel better about yourself as a person and maybe your life in general.

To start with, I like the white pumpkins.  They might not even be real pumpkins, I have no idea.  Maybe they are a gourd – nope, internet says they are a pumpkin variety.  With that out of the way the next confession is that I often carve my pumpkins (white) into owls.  This year something went slightly sideways.  The trip to the patch was lovely but very busy.  Post patch-visit, my pumpkin sat a week in the garage without being carved.  That wouldn’t be a big deal except it discoloured and became a speckled, albino pumpkin.  When I brought it inside to carve, I was disappointed and tried to scrape off the mildew spots.  That was a bad idea because those spots instantly started to weep moisture.  Something about this was super discouraging and slowed me down, resulting in the children getting all the good carving knives.  It was about then, with my pox-plagued pumpkin, that I decided that I would just put candle eyes on my jack’o lantern and call it good. 

That was a really bad idea.

Not because it wasn’t easy to carve, because it was; but the end result was sort of awful.  The eyes went in easily enough but when lit it looks like my pumpkin is weeping wax tears.  It’s truly damnable.  Burning the tea light eyes resulted in severe burnt-on eyebrows, which my youngest tried to fix by washing one off, which makes it look like pumpkin face lost an eyebrow (which he did) to fire ( which he didn’t. )  I don’t think I have ever failed at holiday crafts quite like this one.  I’d be impressed with myself if my children weren’t so horrified.  Strangely, I’ve developed affection for this woe begotten fellow.  My family’s only hope is that it rains so badly on Halloween that the tea lights are blown out and no one sees it. This is unfair considering I was only doing the best I could with my appalling attitude and lack of enthusiasm.

In order to deflect attention from myself, I thought I would ask how your heart attitude is these days my friend?  Because I wanted to remind you, if you heart isn’t in something, the end result will be some form of ugly. However, if your heart is invested in your actions, the results can be stellar, doesn’t matter if we are talking pumpkins or people.

So I’m praying this week, for myself mostly but I’ll bring you in on it, that our hearts will be malleable.  That for love’s sake, we will rally and invest our best, so that the return isn’t outright horrifying.

Be safe, stay away from open flame,

xoxKaren

**No idea why I write sentences like this.  None whatsoever. 

Hungry for the Lord

This is a nice picture of creation which is better than me lying on my kitchen floor.

I reached up and to the right of my head, feeling in the dark for my phone.  Finding it, I hit the home button and was met with a blinding screen that seared the time, 3:19, to the back of my retinas. I switched my phone off immediately, scooted to the left half a foot and was instantly rewarded with a new patch of cool against my cheek.  Doing the math I calculated I had taken approximately 40 mins without managing to get myself a glass of water.  Pretty pathetic considering water was only 25 feet from my original starting point on the couch. I sighed and rolled over, bypassing lying on my side and choosing my back as a satisfactory resting place.   I spent another feverish quarter hour looking up at the light fixture before I set to praying.

“Hi Lord.  It’s me.  On the floor, in the kitchen.  Fever.  Don’t want to be stupid but could seriously use some help getting water and back to the couch.  Unless it’s time to call for some help, then perhaps you could help me with that?  Everyone’s sleeping.  Clearly you know that but maybe someone could come down?  Sitting up is the goal right now; an ice pack would be awesome.  Thank you for ice packs.  I really like them… and linoleum.. it’s cold.   I like lino.  You did a good job on that stuff.” I went on for quite some time, in my feverish, delirious state, before I managed to get a glass of water and return to the couch where I was spending the night.

Yes, a time for prayer and fasting had come into my life and in case I haven’t told you before, it doesn’t come easily for me. 

The internet is a modern sensation where you can find information on anything.  Anything that is, unless you are a Christian who finds fasting difficult.  The web is filled with successful people who are devoted to fasting.  Intermittent fasters, weight loss fasters, keto fasters, detox fasters a whole slew of folks who are enthusiastic about the process of fasting and what it does to their body.   Many of them flounce off to fancy places to fast; they wax poetic about enemas, fiber supplements and lemon water.  They are knowledgeable about the outer work of fasting and what the process involves and that would be wonderful if I was in the same galaxy as these people but I have a serious confession to make. 

I’m not in their league.

Our fasts weren’t even comparable.  When they spoke about the amount of energy they were experiencing, I was napping on the couch in order to make it to 7pm.  When their mental clarity increased at day 5, I just felt mental.  When they felt renewed peace and well-being radiating from the universe, I was up at 3am begging God for a right heart that might experience the peace that passes understanding.  I was sending my friends texts like #ifyouwereacookieIwouldeatyourfeetoffandnotevenfeelbad.  What kind of person does that as a survival strategy? 

Looking for support I scoured YouTube for the “reluctant faster”, “fasting for losers – (but not the good kind of losing)”, “fasting for the incompetent” and every time I was struck by the same fact: spiritual fasting has almost nothing to do with an outside work.  Because in truth I could care less about lemon water, what I want to know “is God sovereign above all things and how do I hold onto the peace he provides?”  Or, “is God truly sufficient? And what am I supposed to do if I find myself in opposition to his will?”  So many things I want to know are not about fasting; they are about the supremacy of God and my attempts to come to terms with His rule. 

In other words, fasting in response to the Holy Spirit is all about the heart and the internet doesn’t have a lot of videos about that.

So I wanted to encourage those of you who feel like you are in a battle when everyone else you know is at a banquet.  When people talk about their amazing fasts and share the quilts they produced during that time, with each stitch loving sewn in place by a heart that is hungry for Jesus, I just want to run screaming from the building.  When I fast I walk the neighborhood and pick up garbage.  That is the limit of my creativity.  Oh, and I cried when I saw the Canadian geese flying south, but that was because I knew they were going to find better snacks farther south and I really wanted to eat a sleeve of Ritz crackers.  It is difficult when those who share a culture with you are on an entirely different page, they speak of a feast and you are in a famine.  It is an isolating and lonely place to be.  I remember sitting in a group taking prayer requests.  One woman mentioned how thankful she was that God supernaturally removed her doubt regarding her struggle to have a family; which would have been wonderful if it didn’t completely run at odds to the woman next to her, who chose not to share about her struggle to view God as good after her battle with infertility. 

Sometimes, faith is a battle and finding the battle hard doesn’t make you a wimp, it means you are a warrior.

Blessedly, the bible has a great deal to say to those who find themselves in a struggle.  Whether the warrior is unsuccessfully making use of the disciplines of the faith, or standing on their last legs like the characters in Helm’s deep, the Creator of the Universe sees their battle.  Run the word “battle” through a concordance and fill up on the support you lack. Your friends may love you but they can never understand you like He can.

“For not by their own sword did they win the land, nor did their own arm save them, but your right hand and your arm, and the light of your face, for you delighted in them.” Psalm 44:3 esv

“Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all.” Psalm 34:19 

So I am praying for you this week my friend.  Especially if you have been given news that makes your heart tremble or sink, and if you are fighting against panic and anxiety.  Praying that you would come to know that if you belong to God, He will deliver you because he is faithful, not because of what you do right or wrong. 

Praying for you to hold until the victory arrives,

xoxKaren

P,S.  I have 3 friends who are quilters and I love them.  They are ridiculously gifted and kind women, and I resent their ability to sit still and produce beautiful things.