Toast

Puppy

It unraveled pretty quickly if you ask me.

I’d shut myself away in a bedroom to listen to a podcast and fold laundry (which is the equivalent of a Hawaiian vacation in my world), so I was enjoying the quiet when the sound of howling made its way up the stairs.  The cockatiel heard it too and stopped playing with the fringe on the carpet long enough to tilt his head toward the floor to make sure he was hearing correctly.  We looked at each other and agreed the puppy had woken up. I extricated myself from the pile of clothing and offered my hand to the bird, he obliged by stepping up and allowing me to put him on a basket off the floor while I went to check on the dog.  

Howling isn’t good where a puppy is concerned and I hurried to the kitchen to see what had transpired in my absence.  Puppy came dancing over to see me with a prancing-goat-jump-step thing she does.  Giving her a pat, I stepped into the kitchen and square into a ginormous puddle of pee she had placed directly next to her potty pad.  Bending down to remove my squishy sock meant puppy had direct access knock her skull into mine and lick my face, neither of which movements caused me much happiness.  I reached for the spray and the paper towel when my toe hit something sharp.  It was then I realized an element of danger had entered the game as goat-puppy had knocked a plate off the dishwasher (probably containing a forbidden toast crust) smashing it on the floor.  Pieces of shattered dishware lay scattered like a minefield.  Grabbing the leash off the counter I scooped up puppy and held the leash out to Grandma.  “Can you hold her please while I get this cleaned up?”

Grandma was sympathetic and spoke to the dog about injustice issues while I managed to get the pee cleaned up and started sweeping up the broken plate. At that moment another adult entered the kitchen and asked what was for lunch.  I managed a chirpy response as Grandma and puppy set to looking in the fridge for the leftover soup.  Puppy was remarkably keen to get into the fridge as my mother put leftover beets, cauliflower casserole and pork on the counter asking each time, “Is this the soup?”  Puppy started her goat jumping trick to see the containers and better, imagine eating leftovers.  Figuring I could speed up the process, I gave directions, “Square container, top shelf.”  “Ah ha!” was the response as Grandma pulled the soup from the fridge while puppy-tigger bounded in appreciation of the find.  Sensing disaster, I grabbed the cauliflower from the counter and the leash from Grandma and tried to steer tigger-puppy away from the fridge so Grandma could remove the soup without incident.  Stupidly, the leash and the cauliflower casserole both ended up in my left hand.  Mistake. Satan dog, sensing my intent, lunged for the fridge as it was closing and sent the cauliflower container and my left hand in the opposite direction of my body. My favorite curried cauliflower dish landed with a delightful “plop” on the floor as the puppy moved in for the kill.  Launching herself at the largest floret she could find, she bit it, walked it 2 feet and then spit it out on the floor.  

By this point in time I had identified the sense of dismay hovering in the back of my psyche.  It appears when the universe has conspired against my mental health. I was losing.  I was awash now at the hands of providence and wisdom dictated I should try to get out before I lost my temper.  Grabbing the paper towel again, I started to mop up the cauliflower.  The puppy, pleased to have me on the ground again, came for my face at which point I growled, surprising us both.  Enter another functional, able bodied adult into the kitchen asking what was for lunch and I just about started barking.  Grandma made a comment about the injustice of the demise of the cauliflower, followed by a comment or two about the best way to heat soup.  I threw the Tupperware in the sink and decided the best way to extract myself from my losing streak was to take the puppy for a walk.

Running upstairs to return the cockatiel to his cage, puppy in tow, I secured birdie, who was moderately upset to be returned to his cage, put on new socks and flew downstairs and through the kitchen.  Offering (again) my opinion in regard to reheating soup, I excused myself and headed with puppy through the back garden.  Sighing, I stood still under the apple tree to quiet myself and psycho dog.  Opening my eyes, I stepped straight into a spider’s web with a fat spider in the center.  When the spider and I had finished screaming and wiping off our hair and faces, I sped up and made for the back gate where I stepped in deer poop.  Shouting in disappointment, I wiped my shoe in the grass as the dog ate the poo with unfettered happiness.  So much for the worming medication we fed her 3 days ago.

Undeterred, I pushed through the back gate onto the street and stood while puppy sniffed and snuffled.  I took half a dozen steps before, I am not lying, it started to rain.  The puppy looked at me expectantly, “we are going for a walk,” I told her and pulled at her leash.  Puppy however, wasn’t convinced.  She made it 100 ft. down the street before she lay down in protest.  No amount of encouragement could move the critter either.  “Fine, you win, let’s go home.”  When I changed direction, puppy jumped up, ears flopping, bounding toward home.  I walked gingerly through the garden, avoiding deer excrement, walked in through the front door thus avoiding the kitchen returned to my bedroom and sat on my bed.  Jumping-satan-goat puppy crawled under the bed and immediately fell asleep which was a wise choice all things considering.  Tears were very near and in an attempt to push them off I tried to think of something to be thankful for.  My friend texted me last week and suggested that when I was feeling bleak thanksgiving might be a lifeline.  So I took a deep breath and thanked God for toast.  

Yep.  

That’s what I landed on.  

Toast.  

Frankly that was the kind of day I was having.  I might have thanked God for my children or husband but they were the reason I was a parent in the first place and I didn’t like any of them at the moment. However, I could thank God for toast and thank him I did.  After thanking him for the versatility of toast I moved onto the toaster and the electricity that powered this marvelous appliance. I moved onto the kettle and tea after that, followed by linoleum and indoor plumbing.  It was a bizarre prayer time but I don’t think God minded. 

Sometimes my friend, the only thing that holds back the darkness is a genuine sense of thanksgiving for one of life’s small blessings.  So go ahead and thank him for the small things.  The sweater you found on sale, the fragrance of your favorite flower: nothing is too small for mention.  In fact these tiny things can redirect you back into the sense of his love and care.  Sometimes I wish I were the type of person who could instantly thank God for his unending grace or infinite mercy but sadly I’m the type of person who has to start with toast and work my way up.   

So I’m praying for you this week dear heart if you, like me, feel a bit done and toasted.  That you would be able to have the courage to try again, to shake off the myriad of things that continue to go wrong and to keep on marching, putting one foot in front of the other until the road gets less crooked and until you are able to sing with ease.

Until then, I’m gritting my teeth and praying for you.

XoxKaren  

Bring Out Your Dead

Search and Rescue: Best Volunteers Ever! 

I like parades.  Granted, not everyone enjoys sitting on the side of the road, often in the heat, waiting for friends and strangers to walk by in various states of dress…or undress…depending on the event.  It is one of the few times I can experience acute vicarious embarrassment and yet still enjoy myself. 

Small town parades are the best.  Although the spectacle of watching a gigantic purple dinosaur impale himself on a lamppost before crowds of thousands has its own charm, towns that pull out a moth eaten Barney suit and stick it on a mortified teenager are spectacular.  Towns like this are an exquisite and dying breed. 

When I was young, most groups in town would decorate a float.  Real flowers adorned the floats of any organization who had as it’s member a woman (generally named Gwen, often a real estate agent) who knew how to fund-raise in a community where asking for money was deemed a brazen activity reserved for the town alcoholic.  More righteous groups stuck to the plastic flowers, which were made of folded plastic with a staple in the middle, displaying both their waterproof characteristics and economic frugality.  Both qualities were deeply admired by the Chamber of Commerce and scorned by Gwen, who really was much before her time and shouldn’t have lived in such a backwater town as ours. 

With a happy heart I placed my chair at the end of our drive and waited for the parade. Off in the distance I heard the sounds of the Cadet Bands, long before they were visible. By long before I mean about ten whole minutes, which is how long it took to get from the old elementary school to the main street.   It didn’t disappoint.  Soon I was watching embarrassed tellers from local banks, walking in groups of two and three, waving and handing out candy.  Those who were prepared had on their sunglasses, the great barrier that prevents the wearer from the need to acknowledge any customer they might see.  Various charity groups followed, carrying banners and talking to friends as they went.  Sadly there were few floats, most business not able to afford the cost of decorating them since the exodus of all the Gwens; but they were out regardless, walking the street and creating community.

I was awash with admiration, mortification and a myriad of cringy emotions when I saw a small group that made me look twice:  Search and Rescue.  In the past, family members of mine have worked as volunteers in search and rescue.  They are some of the most dedicated and committed people you could hope to have looking for you when disaster hits: salt of the earth, trail mix munching, mostly-made-of-sinew movers and shakers of the back woods.  I cheered reflexively and then shook my head, trying to figure out what I was seeing.  The bright orange shirts looked sharp but on the stretcher was a yellow something.

It was a body bag.

Specifically, a body bag which looked to be occupied, which wasn’t exactly the message I expected them to send.  I was thinking of a mental picture which left one focusing on the rescue part of their work.  In my surprise I started to laugh hysterically.  Not that parading around with a mock dead body was a problem, it was just surprising.

Now, I know this community and I can tell you without any hesitation that there wasn’t a body in the body bag on this stretcher, though I thought maybe they could use one.  I wondered if they had considered placing one of their members on the stretcher, wrapping them in a blanket and placing a mug of hot chocolate in their hand.  Perhaps being search and rescue folk they were all too capable to assume a “rescu-ee” role. * I’m unclear if they of the grim search and rescue message they were sending but perhaps solemnity was what they were after. Watching them walk by still made me happy, “Bring out your dead,” I declared to no one.

It won’t have escaped you my friend that I haven’t written for a while and while I won’t go into the details, I can share that death, loss and grief rushed into my life like a flood in the last few months.  I’m told in scripture that such calamities are common to man, but as I have awoken in the night, rising to consciousness while simultaneously descending back into unspeakable grief, I have wondered how anyone manages to survive life’s common sorrows.

To add an interesting twist, I’ll share that through one of my trials, I was entirely certain that the Lord would deliver me out of a muddle of a situation only the providence of the Lord could fix.  I fasted, prayed, stood on the promises of God, fasted again, prayed more and believed the solution would be rectified.  I have to tell you my friend when God did not intervene and the bottom fell out, I was devastated.

As I’m certain you have experienced, the blows of life rarely land one at a time.  They often come in a flurry of successive strikes, leaving a soul reeling. When the element of faith is added to a storm, God’s sovereignty, man’s faith and suffering can create an agony of the soul that is difficult to bear.  So when the town came out for the parade on this particular summer’s day, I was happy to find myself represented by a group that brought a body bag to a celebration.

In fact, I had used the parade metaphor with a friend last week.  She made the mistake of asking me how I was and, at that moment, I decided I would speak freely.  Poor darling, sometimes we need courage to stand by those who are suffering, this friend has it in abundance.  Here’s my text to her as she helps me describe what I’m experiencing.

The only way I can describe it is a picture. 
I was in a parade going to a lovely place with all my friends. I had a sense of purpose and my children were happy. Everyone had a role to play.  I was standing with the Lord thanking him in faith for our future which I hoped would take shape. 
Then, I suddenly realized that I was foolish.  I was not going to be in the parade.  I was pulled aside with my family and all my goods were sold off in front of me and destroyed. I was ushered out of my community in shame and with haste.  Some people threw insults, others stopped talking to me.  
I found myself on a side street with my family; alone and afraid.  We were injured, bleeding and unable to stand.  My children are weeping and asking what happened. While in the background the parade marched on. People called out and wished me well. Some mentioned they would visit soon. 
Thank you for reminding me God has a plan.  But I can’t get there. I am trying to figure out if we are just marked for destruction.  There is something that isn’t adding up and isn’t working and it seems to be with my faith.  
I don’t have the ability to figure out faith anymore.  I’m just trying to take the next breath. 

Raw, no?

Sometimes dear friend, those around you will be enjoying the parade of life and all you will have to bring to the celebration are dead things: purposes, plans and promises.  At such times, life can become unbearable and when you feel that God has let you down or lead you astray it can be very difficult to muster the strength to pray again.  At such times, when faith and friends fail there is one thing left to do.

You have to bring out your dead.

One cannot bring out your dead and take them anywhere however, that isn’t wise.  Not many deal in the death and ashes of the human soul.  Certain people do not want to have anything to do with your pain because they are too busy feeling good and don’t want their attention diverted to suffering.  If you can relate to this sad circumstance can I suggest you let such friendships go; don’t try to hold on to them, such relationships cannot go the distance.  You need to have been broken to walk with those who suffer, smile and wave if friends pull away.  You can add their names to your stretcher and piles of broken things as you muster the courage to try again.  

Conversely, you might be surprised who shows up to walk alongside you for a spell while you are grieving.  People can be so very lovely sometimes. 
In truth though, human help is not enough to recover from loss, you need a Redeemer for that task.  Not just any god will fill the bill on this either.  You need one “who, [was] despised and rejected— a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief (Isaiah 53:3).” At first, it might feel weird bringing your stretcher and body bag out into the light but don’t let that stop you. Granted it seems an odd thing to bring the ruler of the universe but "The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Ps 34:18) He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds (Ps 147:3)." 

If your faith is bruised, broken or altogether smashed to pieces may I remind you that words aren’t necessary?  It is enough just to show up and sit in silence with him for a spell.  Or maybe, like me, you have so many words they get caught in a jumble as they try escape your throat and all you can do it sob and choke out a “why?”  Entirely acceptable: as is frustration, anger and hopelessness.  Lately my offerings to the Lord have been measured in piles of soggy Kleenex. 

If this note finds you in a difficult season, I am truly sorry for your loss.  If you are a person of faith who feels like it has been irreparably damaged, may I remind you who oversees your walk?  "He is the author, finisher and perfecter of your faith (Heb 12:2)."  He will not leave you alone; the pull of the crowds has no effect on him.  He will wait with you in gentle silence until you can find the words, or not, to look up again. 

You might not get to march in the parade my friend, but there is a job for you in search and rescue.  The world is sadly lacking those who are able to comfort broken hearts.  If you allow your brokenness to shape you and find the grace to stand again, you will be able to pull the stretcher of those you rescue from despair.  You will wrap them in comfort, give them a cup of compassion and heaven will cheer you on as they recover.

There won't be a body bag on your stretcher either.

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren   

Resigned and Inclined

Going Up

Going Down

I didn’t set out on an epic trek, not intentionally.  Feeling a bit under the weather, I figured the best way to clear my head was to take a slow stroll around my hood.  If a walk didn’t make me feel better, I reasoned I could jump in bed and have a snooze when I returned.  Leaving the house, I remember thinking to myself, “These are the wrong shoes, I should put on the brown pair.”  However, I was a full ten feet from my front door and the thought of opening it again and swapping my footwear didn’t seem worth the effort.  I told my feet not to complain and started up the street. 

Wandering aimlessly, I stared at the new greenery spring had provided.  Flowers were in full bloom and I sniffed my way down the road, stopping at every lilac bush and early rose I could find.  A pair of rabbits caught my attention and I followed them through the empty lot.  My mind has been  busy lately and the pace of my adventure was a welcome respite to the hectic month.  Walking toward a friend’s house then taking a detour to follow a family of ducks meant that by the time my feet started to hurt, I had walked much farther than I had intended. 

The noise from the gun range was loud in this cul-de-sac.  No one much noticed it though, the residents and wildlife having made peace with the noise as only longtime residents can.  I can hear the gun shots through the forest from my home, but I had wandered to the limits of the range property and the sound was much louder now.  Looking up, I cursed silently.  I really had taken myself for a walk.  A few hundred yards followed by a left turn and I would be at the bottom of a mile long hill, whose gain was about 500 ft.  Do-able, but not exactly what I had intended with a headache, crummy shoes and sleep deprived brain. 

Contemplating turning around, I realized the fastest way home was up the hill, not retreating the way I had come.  Congratulating myself sarcastically, I steeled myself at the bottom of the incline and slowly started my march up the hill.

My children will tell you that I chant when I run up hills.  I’m not repeating the chant here, but be assured it is equal parts ridiculous and annoying.  At this point in my life though, it’s automatic.  I started my little chant as I marched my chubby self up the hill, making sure I didn’t close in on the man who was ahead of me by ¼ mile. By the time my lungs started to feel the ascent, he had stopped and pulled into a small driveway.  I continued my merry song as my left foot started to criticize my inability to make solid life choices.  By the time the fellow ahead of me started his ascent again, my right foot and head were complaining.  Determined to make it halfway up the hill before I agreed with any aching body parts, I wiped a tear or two from my eyes and continued with determination.  I changed the lyrics of my chant.  Pleased with the introduction of “urban grit” into my vocabulary I continued up the hill as only a street fighter can.

When I realized my left foot had given up complaining and started to bleed in protest, I stopped again to adjust my shoe.  My companion climber had stopped again and this time I was able to recognize the face of 70ish year old man, leathery and strong, smiling kindly and clearly willing to chat.  Forcing myself to breathe steadily instead of sucking wind, I walked up and stopped to catch my breath. 

“It’s quite a climb yes?”

“It is indeed Sir, but you make it look rather easy.”

“I go this way once a week.  It keeps my legs moving.”

“Going down the hill would keep your legs moving Sir, I’m fairly certain going up this hill is either vanity or stupidity.  I know what it is in my case, you want to tell me anything…”  I smiled and he laughed.  We chatted a bit more and he let me pass.  “I’m going to rest a bit longer, this is where I slow down,” he said motioning for me to go ahead.

“Fabulous!” Was my reply, “you can call the ambulance for us both after you reach the top.”

I continued on, marching slowly but steadily, trying not to shame myself in front of the 70 something Mountain Man.  In truth I felt crummy, my head was pounding, my foot was still bleeding and my breathing shallow.  At this point in the walk I noticed two things.  The first was I could smell the gunpowder from the range now; the second was that as I strained for breath, it stung my nose and eyes a bit.  I continued my march upwards and noticed at the top of the hill was another walker coming down the steep grade. 

His step was jaunty, not surprising considering the path of the descent.  He looked fresh and matching: the kind of fellow who wears only moisture wicking clothing.  He glanced down the hill at Mountain Man and I and I caught the slightest hint of scorn in his glance.  I examined him from behind my sunglasses.  He held a water bottle affixed to a strap in his hand.  His phone was attached to an armband and his air pods were visible.  Yep.  I recognized the look scorn and pity; given by a beautiful, able bodied youth who had yet to experience any form of physical limitation.  I smiled and looked closer, a second examination of Mr. Correct Fibers lead me to believe he did indeed have on moisture wicking socks.  

I moved to the side so that he could pass.  He looked at me as though I were a form of bug and hurried by.  I couldn’t even muster up the emotion of resentment.  Resentment must require more oxygen than abject amusement.  I giggled.  I felt like hell and Mr. Correct Fibers didn’t have the presence of person to be impressed that a deranged human was climbing the hill.  Heck, even if he found me pathetic he had to be mildly impressed by Mountain Man.  But no, sadly scorn is an opiate to those who feed upon it.  It is hard to be impressed by the efforts of others when exuding effort means you have already lost.  I prayed for Mr. Correct Fibers and asked God to bless him with at least 7 children.  The smell of gun power was thick in the air and I remember wondering how those who lived on this block managed the smell.  Did they ever get angry about it? 

I did get home from my ridiculous walk eventually.  I slowed down considerably after my expedition up the incline.  When I staggered in the front door I was met with a glass of ice water, to which I added 2 tylenol and 2 ibu.  I threw myself in a shower and curled up on the couch for a snooze after that.  When I woke up, I was thinking about my adventure and those whose path I crossed.

Without a doubt the hardest part of my adventure came half way up the hill.  In truth I was too tired to continue either up or back down the hill.  However, there was no turning back.  If I was going to get home, I was going to have to walk myself there regardless of my low reserves. 

Have you ever been in a trial so intense that you came to the end of your ability to cope friend? I’ve spent some time on this road and frankly, I was disappointed Jesus didn’t send a bus to help me out.  I’ve prayed. I’ve fasted. I’ve sought the Lord.  Yet the help I hope for still has not shown up.  I’m well past calling anyone for prayer help because the situation is so complex I’m not sure I understand it.  I couldn’t tell you which way faith runs at the moment, because all I can do is groan and strain to take one more step, which brings me to Mountain Man and Mr. Correct Fibers. 

The interesting thing about my travel companions was the fact that each of us was walking the hill and each could smell the gunpowder.  However, it was those of us who were straining to get up the hill who understood the cost and pain of the climb.  Mountain Man and I could chat in fellowship.  We were both straining, doing all we could to make it up the incline.  The gunpowder stung our eyes and our breath was labored.  We could smile at each other through our pain.  Not so with Mr. Correct Fibers.  Although he could smell the gunpowder, his breathing was not labored.  He was capable, beautiful and indestructible.  He wasn’t straining, his eyes weren’t stinging and he certainly wasn’t hurting. He knew about the hill, he knew about the gunpowder but he did not know about his limitations. It was not surprising therefore, that he looked down the hill at a wheezing middle aged woman and a leathery 70 year old and saw only lack and pathos.  He didn’t know we were actually amazing superheroes, pitting our wills against a hill from hell. Mr. Correct Fibers didn’t realize he was in the presence of those who overcome despite lack.  We look like crap, but we are amazing. 

Have you ever been in a season of suffering that hangs on for longer than you wanted my friend?  Have you walked a road that lasts beyond your fears, tears, and prayers?  I would like to remind you that there are others who have walked that road.  You aren’t lost and you are not forsaken.  You are suffering and existing past your ability to endure.  This is a gift.  Though it feels like death, I promise you it is a gift.  Because unlike Mr. Correct Fibers you know your limitations and what it is to suffer, you are not foolish enough to despise the weak.  You possess the power to ascend and descend that stupid hill of lack.  You alone know how to approach someone who is out of breath and cannot go on, you are able to say,

“I’ll walk this part with you, I know how the road bends and where you can take a breath.  Soon you will smell gun powder and your eyes will sting.  Feel free to cry and clean your eyes with your tears.  Soon we will be at the top of this hill and you can be on your way again.  Take heart. Take a small step.  Take another.  Well done.  You are there.  You have done it.”

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren

Good Grief

Meat my failure.  

Hello my Friend.

How are you?  You said the weather was nice when you texted and I wanted you to know we are coming dangerously close to cracking the 60 degree barrier.  I might not be swimming in the morning like you are but I am flirting with the idea of going outside without a jacket which is almost as impressive.

We haven’t debriefed from Easter yet.  I know it was a week ago and the world has moved onto other things but I’m having trouble getting past the trauma and thought perhaps we could go over it together.  I want to move on to other events such as creating a protocol for when your teenage daughters come in the door sobbing because of an Avengers movie.  What would Jesus do anyway? 

The whole day was poignant.  I’m not sure I’ve used that word before, it means to evoke a keen sense of sadness.  I came to consciousness and the blanket over my subconscious dissolved like an Alka-Seltzer in boiling water.  Pulling my pillow over my head to replace the weight of sleep, I think I groaned as the reality of grief rolled over my mind.  With a sense of dread that only grief affords, I took stock of my psyche and found a wound hanging out somewhere near the pit of my stomach and examined it.

Death: inescapable, irreversible, and implacable.    

Staring straight at the hurt, I realized as I have every morning that it wasn’t going anywhere so I might as well get out of bed and move on to the next thing.  Which this morning meant making tea quietly in the kitchen and decorating an Easter table before the children woke up.  Slipping outside to gather flowers for my vase, the beauty of the morning didn’t even register.  I was going through the motions of celebration without any of the joy.  Rousting chocolate from several hiding places, I continued with my display.

Moving onto breakfast next I prepped the meal and waited for my monsters to tromp downstairs.  Tea was poured, prayers were said and before I realized it I was being told to “go sit down while we clean the kitchen.”  I couldn’t tell you much about the afternoon.  Did we go for a walk?  The next thing that registered in my mind was the need to start making supper.   

This is where things started to go wrong.  No.  That’s not true.  They went wrong days before when I staggered to the store with a shopping list and no idea of what meat to buy for Easter dinner.  I walked to the back of the store and stared at the ginormous display of hams and assorted cow parts.  Nothing was registering and I was entirely unable to figure out what to buy for dinner.  My phone made constant noise as questions were texted across continents, familial concern mixing with motivation and tenderness as funeral preparations took shape. I didn’t care what I ate for dinner which is why I made the deadly mistake of purchasing a marinated roast.  

In fairness it had an orange sticker, which made me think, “this must be a deal and the answer to all my problems.”  I grabbed it, threw it in the cart and went to  stare at cheese for a while.  Had I been in my right mind, I might have seen a Southwest Marinade label that would have tipped me off to the colossal mistake I was making.  As it was, I missed the ominous soundtrack as the camera panned mid frame on my roast like an Alien hiding in the wreckage of Sigourney’s ship.  It wasn’t going to end well. 

Oblivious to foreshadowing I started dinner with high hopes.  The roast went in the oven and vegetables were prepped.  Minor distractions kept me busy until, ahead of schedule I removed the roast to rest and prepped the gravy.  It was when I tasted the gravy that I realized my mistake. The roast had been marinated in what could only have been called a caustic mix of nastiness.  You know those demented food shows where 3 stooges venture off and eat spicy food that is essentially inedible?  Well one of those guys escaped and got his hands on the roast and in an attempt to prove his manhood, ruined it with flavorless heat.  To make matters worse, in an effort to cover his tracks, he placed an orange sticker on the roast and because I’m a frugal moron he ruined my Easter dinner.    

I cut a piece off the roast to confirm my worst fears.  Entirely inedible.  WHO SELLS FOOD LIKE THIS?  I was so upset I sat on my kitchen floor with a cup of tea waiting for the will to live to return.  “Mummy?  Whatcha doin?”  it was a teen, checking in on me.  “A lot.”  I retorted.  “I’ve managed to ruin dinner and am figuring out what to do next.”  Reassurances of “it can’t be that bad,” were soon replaced by abject horror they tasted the Scofield sample.  My middle child offered to find me a glass of wine.  The eldest, after tasting the roast, offered to drink it.  “Chicken!” I shouted.  The girls looked at me nervously.  “Don’t stand there, someone go get chicken breasts from the deep freeze.”  “With Yorkshire pudding?” was the quizzical reply.  “Of course with Yorkshire pudding because why not.”  “What do we do for gravy?” someone asked.  “Make more,” I replied though I was out of stock. 

What followed was one of the most bizarre meal preparations my household has experienced.  My children, in some inexplicable silent form of moral support, sat in the kitchen, chatted and helped me through the preparation of the entire second dinner. By the time we were done we had a bizarre meal of chicken, with peculiar white sauce/gravy, Yorkshire pudding and roast veggies.  All the time I was aware I was making family history, an Easter that would go down in the books as “do you remember the Easter mum bought that roast?’  My grief, inability and lack were creating something kind of amazing: a moment of love, grace and redemption.  If redemption can be thought of cooking a chicken dinner when you want to hide under the table and cry.  

Which got me to thinking about Easter…

The disciples numb with grief heading out to the tomb.  Their amazement to find the end was really not an end at all: there was hope that was divinely given when all human ability failed.  

So I wanted to encourage you, if you like me, were viewing life through tears of grief this week.  That the Lord might cause you to know that though you are at the end of yourself, He has no end.  His goodness doesn’t cease, his love never fails and death does not get the last word. 

I'm praying for you this week,

xoxKaren 

Happy Easter

My God make flowers grow on rocks

My God makes flowers grow on rocks,

While all the while the devil talks

“There is no soil for purchase there,”

And thus he tries to sew despair.

Yet all the while the flower grows

The peace of God is its repose.

Sun warms and feeds the petal face

 It questions not  thy Master’s grace.

“This is the place for me to be”

Sings our fair flower fearlessly

While ceaselessly the devil drones

Wellsprings of Grace the master hones.

My God makes flowers grow on rocks,

While all the while the devil talks

At summers end the boast is gone

As sweet perfume still lingers on. 

Thinking of you this week,

xoxKaren

No Substitute

The crucible of waiting, there is no substitute for the
lessons learned in the fire. 

I figured I was heading into a rough week when the cockatiel took a nose dive into the takeout.  In fairness, it wasn’t his fault.  A slip of a serving spoon and a quick jolt to catch it meant the little fellow was negotiating his rice allowance one moment and the next was knocked off his feet and slathered in a liberal amount of butter chicken sauce.  Few things are harder than catching a spooked, tandoori dipped bird as he runs across a carpet leaving little red foot mark stains.  Cockatiels can perform surprisingly complex evasive patterns for an animal with a brain the size of a popcorn kernel.  Movie night experienced an enforced intermission as I took him into the shower to get clean.  Tried to get him clean, I should clarify.  By the time I turned on the water he was pretty cross and more interested in sampling his feathers than cleaning them.  This left me, trying to direct the shower spray onto his tiny frame and dodging any of his attempts to run up my arm and hide his buttery body in my hair.   

Events like this leave me wary, so I started the week with caution: double checking emails before I sent them, reading and rereading my calendar to ensure I was on time to scheduled events. When I made it to Wednesday without any major feat of stupidity I felt relieved and let my guard down.  That was a mistake.

Wednesdays are busy days with classes to attend, people to visit and chairs to move.  The day crashes like a wave on a summer shoreline, filled with a kinetic energy that keeps me running.  Community life involves the sharing of information and sometimes, I get overwhelmed by the sheer amount of talking that is required to get through the day.  It is both enjoyable and exhausting which is why by 6:30 pm on a Wednesday you can generally find me taking a 40 minute power nap.   

This particular Wednesday however, I was determined to appear well balanced and helpful as I was meeting a substitute teacher who was stepping into afternoon classes for an absent teacher.  Memorizing the relevant emails, I was prepared to meet and introduce Mrs. Substitute to the minion children she would teach.  At the expected time, Mrs. Substitute climbed over sprawled children in the halls and made her way upstairs.  She was lovely.  Friendly and thoughtful, she quickly went over what she understood to be the plan for the afternoon.  She appeared to have the first class plan, but seemed to be missing the second class activities.  Filled with enthusiasm, good intentions and maniacal friendliness I explained the plan for the second class.  She asked a few questions about timing, seeming a bit perplexed.  I explained pulling up relevant emails and forwarding them as she seemed to be missing a bit of information.  Her mastery of the subject made for easy communication and soon we were both up to speed on the shape of the afternoon.  Feeling confident I had fulfilled my duties, I introduced her to her class and ran off to do other things.

An hour later I was back upstairs, introducing Mrs. Substitute to class 2.  The students were buzzing with energy but gracious as they greeted this new face.  As soon as everyone was in the correct room, I excused myself to running around and making molehills into mountains and back into molehills again.  It was a good afternoon. 

After class I found Mrs. Substitute and thanked her for her time.  She was smiling and genuinely seemed to have enjoyed her afternoon.  Have you ever noticed that some people excel when you throw them in the deep end?  There is a subset of people who seem to have mastery of the storms.  Overexcited students, lack of resources, nothing seems to phase them.  When they are working out of their gifting, they soar.  That was Mrs. Substitute that Wednesday.  I finished up my jobs and collapsed into the car.  My daughter drove us home, leaving me to answer a phone call that came in on the way.

It was Mrs. Absent Teacher checking in.  She had just chatted with Mrs. Substitute and wanted to see how things went.  She is sweet like that, taking the time to ensure that everyone survived in her absence.  I assured we were all accounted for.  I was feeling relieved until I heard her say one small phrase.  

“Pardon me?” I asked.  “You broke up a bit there, what did you say?”             

“I said, I didn’t expect Mrs. Substitute to stay for the second class, she wasn’t going to, but I’m glad she did.”                                                                  

“Ummm.  What do you mean she wasn’t going too exactly?” Panic started in my stomach.                                                                                                

“Just that,” she replied merrily “She wasn’t booked to stay for the second class but she did.”

In half of a second it all made sense.  Mrs. Substitute was sketchy on the plan for the second class because she wasn’t supposed to teach it.  The emails she didn’t receive weren’t sent to her.  In an instant I realized that I had roped poor Mrs. Substitute into staying and teaching a class she hadn’t anticipated teaching.  My patient explanations and email sharing was me assuming she was going to teach the second class.  Mrs. Substitute didn’t even bat an eye as I completely reworked her afternoon.  I expressed my dismay to Mrs. Absent teacher who reassured me the Lord was behind it all and that what had transpired was a good thing.  I bit my tongue and did not reply that I was getting tired of being the agent of idiocy behind His good works.  The rest of the drive home was filled with a fair amount of groaning and self-loathing.  The first thing I did when I got in the door was put on the kettle and penned an email to Mrs. Substitute apologizing for my general existence. 

I spent a bit of wondering if I overwhelmed Mrs. Substitute.  Useless introspection but it did get me thinking about my force of personality and considering the fact how we behave can affect those around us. She responded a few hours later with an entirely gracious email telling me not to worry and how much she enjoyed herself.  I fussed for a bit longer and then decided it was time to put away my embarrassment.  With the Lord’s mercy being new every morning, I couldn’t afford to hover over it for too long as I would probably do something daft the following day that would eclipse this event.

It actually made me thankful that God isn’t thrown off by my strong opinions or the force of my personality.  Mostly I’m thankful; other days I find this fact plain vexing.  If you have ever had to wait on the Lord, you will know instantly what I am talking about.  “Waiting on the Lord” is a Christianese term which roughly translates “I’m in an impossible situation that cannot be fixed without the Lord’s intervention.”  Implicit in the term is the fact that the Lord is taking far longer than anyone expected to turn the situation around.  For those with struggle with impatience, fear, anxiety or trust such situations are exceptionally difficult. 

I have made myself sick with worry over situations that I could not change as I waited for the Lord to intervene on my behalf.  Bible verses stating “fear not,” would mock me each morning I came to consciousness and remembered the situation before me.  Sick with dread is a familiar term to me and I have spent years of my life attempting to obey the words, “fear not.”  Yet no matter how I have cried, fasted, or begged God for deliverance, nothing I have done has been able to speed him up or to stop the work he does while I am waiting. I have a deep appreciation for the word crucible: a situation of severe trial, or in which different elements interact, leading to the creation of something new (google search, pathetic citation.)

If this is where you find yourself today my dear friend, might I remind you of something?  You might be using the force of your entire Christian self to get God to move on your behalf.  The act of waiting might bring you to such depths of fear you can barely see your way through.  My prayer is that you might understand that God is teaching you about his sovereignty and his goodness.  His intention is to burn away your fear and panic until what is left is something entirely new.  A peace that you did not expect, an understanding you did not have and a word of comfort you never knew.  God does not make us wait because he is unkind; he makes us wait because there is no substitution for the process of waiting on him, powerless and dependent.  It is in these fires we learn about his kindness, faithfulness and provision. 

If you are in the uncomfortable place of waiting on the Lord, I want to remind you that it is a good place.  His eye is upon you.  He hears your prayers.  He is by your bedside and sees the tears you cry. Do not think you have been abandoned.  You are just waiting.  

"And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you."1 Peter 5:10 ESV 

xoxKaren

TULIP

Turned Upside-down Left In Pot

I think we were both confused, me because I couldn’t figure out what I was seeing and the plant bulb because all the blood probably rushed to its head somewhere around mid-December.  Medicine will tell you a person should not hang upside down for more than a few minutes but I have no idea how that applies to a tulip bulb that has been upside down for 3 months.  To my mind, he looked both perplexed and embarrassed. 

I know exactly when the poor fellow got turned catawampus though.  A couple of weeks before Christmas one of the squirrels in my hood ventured out of its nest to look for snacks and landed up on my porch; landed up on my porch and in my potted plants to be more exact.  The wee intruder left a trail of mischief that involved peanut shells, dirt and an upturned basket of flip-flops.  I swept up after the little monster and moved pots around so they would be less vulnerable if Mr. Squirrel returned.  I assumed it was a harmless peanut raid. However, I didn’t realize that Mr. Squirrel had dug up my spring bulbs and inverted a couple as he foraged for the peanuts he hid.    To my knowledge he didn’t come back, but that thinking is probably naïveté on my part.  The same naïveté coincidentally, that causes my girlfriend to swear her cats never walk on the kitchen counters when she isn’t home.  I’m not buying it; I saw that little beast licking a dinner plate above the dishwasher regardless of what she needs to believe to get by.  Satan cat probably also chews on her toothbrush when she isn’t looking. 

I gave the job of rescuing the bulb to my little, who heroically inverted the bulb and spoke to it in a very reassuring manner.  Its leaves look a bit worse for wear but we are expecting a full recovery.  Spring growth has a way of eclipsing the blemishes and imperfections of nature.  This first gardening adventure of the season got me thinking about unexpected things that spring up from the soil when the weather heats up.  Weeding isn’t my favorite task in the garden but I do it with some regularity.  I’m always surprised how quickly weeds grow and endlessly surprised as to where they come from.  Nature is filled with maniacal forces that sew weeds every way possible, causing a bumper crop of them regardless of my participation. 

Have you ever been surprised by what your actions have produced my friend, good or bad?  Have you ever watched one of your children behave with astonishing kindness and wondered what on earth you could have done right in raising them to produce such an act of grace?  Conversely, have you ever become so unglued that when you regained your sanity that you wondered what was going on the depths of your soul to cause such dysfunction? Or perhaps you are in a situation that isn’t as clear cut and you are like my tulip who was minding its own business when it got turned upside down by someone who intended evil against you.  When the situation warmed up you found yourself totally unable to rectify the situation. 

I have a dear friend who finds herself in exactly this situation today.  One moment she was walking in good faith with a “friend” and the next she was turned on her head by an astonishing act of selfish unkindness.  Without any warning, she was left exposed, looking foolish and without the resources or reserves to change her situation.  Kind of like my tulip.  It’s pretty hard to get your face out of the dirt and plant your feet when you lack arms, thumbs or any understanding of how you got messed over.   

My friend, if you find yourself in that place, can I encourage you today?  Your situation is known by God.  One of his names is El Roi which translates “the God who sees me.”  You can find the first usage of that name in Genesis 16 by a woman whose situation far exceeded her abilities to deliver herself.  Rest assured God knows the reality of your pain even more than you do.  He promises not to leave you, to take the evil used against you and to work it for your good. 

That might not be the answer you want.  You might want immediate deliverance. 

If I had preached this to myself a year ago, I would have screamed, “I’m not interested in God being with me, I just want to be delivered from this mess.”   I have cried myself to sleep countless nights, begging God to take away a situation he had no intention of removing until his faithfulness in the trial drowned out my fear of the trial.  It was a difficult time.    

So this week I am praying with this scripture in mind,

I sought the LORD, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears. Psalm 34:4

If you find yourself in a situation that causes you to fear, might I remind you that God is interested in building your faith?  Actually, not interested, that word doesn’t even come close.  Invested, dedicated, committed, these words come closer.  Instead of praying not to be afraid, why not change it up a bit.  Ask to learn the lessons that are taught in times of suffering.  Pray for boldness.  Pray for courage. Pray for his peace. 

You will come through this season.  It will not last forever.  God sees you.  He is working on your behalf.  He is bigger than your fear.

xoxKaren

Humble Matters

Friend!

Has spring arrived?  We are finished with our snowpocalypse and moving into yet another peculiar weather pattern as temperatures head into the 70’s this week, which is well above normal.  I’m not the only one who is finding the weather strange, but the lure of warmer temperatures after that February, is going to stop a lot of complaints. That is if you don’t count the hummingbirds, who complain much more than a bunch of long nosed, feathered slips of nature should.  The spring warmth meant I could take down the lights I set up around their feeder to prevent their nectar from freezing.  However, they feel that my front porch has lost its cantina-party feel and they are a bit cross. Despite their annoyance, I put the lights away and used the extension cord to plug the fountain back in.  I did that for the frog who lives outside the bedroom window, but frankly I’m not certain he is still with us.  I haven’t heard him since late fall and I’m beginning to worry.  Tending to creation isn’t for the faint of heart.  When do frogs wake up, any idea? 

I would give you an update on the squirrels, but they are such monsters that they'll have to wait for next time.  Which brings me to more important things, are you well? I was trying to calculate how long it has been since you left and then I gave up.  I just know I miss you in the spring when we should be out walking.  I forgive you for abandoning me to the intoxicating call of pluff mud.  Mind you, an alligator in my back yard is would be tempting: I bet it cuts down on the number of squirrels you have to deal with.  

It’s not like I need creation to drive me round the bend, either.  I can do that by myself.  Did I tell you I have a new friend? Well, I like to think of it as a friendship; mostly I drive the poor woman crazy.  We both work at the schools’ welcome table, she before lunch hour and me the hour after.  Problem is, try as I might, I never get to the table on time.  I am always late and she is always covering for me.  Moreover, if I am going to do something stupid, it will happen in her presence.  It’s the craziest thing.  Have you ever had someone in your life who keeps witnessing your disorganization?  It is radically uncomfortable.  

Take the other day for example.  I was working upstairs when one of the littles knocked her bottle of juice across the carpet creating a puddle on the floor.  Fortunately she told me what happened, which meant we immediately became partners in a toxic spill situation.  I gave her permission to become my lead helper, despite her lack of hazmat suit and sent her to grab rags, while reminding myself that children’s feelings are far more important carpet stains.  I didn’t want to bite the poor things head off for putting juice on the floor.  Actually, I did want to bite her head off, but had the presence of mind to remember that Jesus probably didn’t bite children who spilled drinks.  Once that tempest-in-a-tea cup passed, I was asked to help with a furniture mix up that involved chairs and tables.  From furniture placement I ran into someone who needed help editing a document and reviewing a contract.  When I finally stopped moving and tried to figure out what was next, I realized it was 1:40 and I was 40 minutes late for my 50 minutes at the welcome table.  Screaming, I ran downstairs and presented myself, red-faced, to the woman to whom I am perpetually indebted.  I’ll call her Anne but her real name is Lois.  Anne laughed and shook her head, “It’s okay, I knew you would show up eventually.”  I was mortified and set myself to a ten minute apology, complete with promises of baking and dark chocolate reparations and then left the table to start the end of day clean up.  I felt horrible.  Being 5 minutes late to my shift was one thing, forgetting it entirely was another.  

It was such a busy day; I didn’t sit down until well after 7:00 that evening.  I sunk into a chair with my tea cup, kicked off my shoes and went to remove my earrings.  When I did, I realized my favorite earring had fallen out.  I had no idea where or when I lost it.  After a moment of panic, I summoned the strength to email the team and ask if anyone had turned in a silver earring at the welcome table.  Immediately, I got an email in response.  

Karen,

A silver earring was found near the table 4th hour.  I placed in the box in one of the bins.  It should be there on Monday,

Anne

Of course Anne had found what I lost!  During the 10 minutes I had been downstairs apologizing to Anne for being 40 minutes late, I managed to lose my earring in front of her, so she could find it, put it in the lost and found and hand it to me later.  It was absolutely mortifying.  I wrote her a note of thanks and prayed to Jesus that she would find me pathetic and worthy of mercy as opposed to entirely incompetent.  The following week I dutifully baked muffins and bought dark chocolate.  On Wednesday I handed her my guilt offering and received absolution for my existence.  I figured the worst was behind me; I would show up for the table on time from now on and prove my competence.  

My plan was in place 5 hours before things went wrong.  Remember that document I edited?  It was a list of student names to be checked to ensure the correct spelling for placement on a tee shirt.  There were quite a few mistakes actually and I was thrilled that we caught 5 misspelled names.  Sadly, there were 6 mistakes.  Guess whose name I missed?  Yep.  Anne’s son.  I got the mail that evening, letting me know of the mistake and asking if I could correct it.  It was gracious and kind and I felt like a humbled toad.  I figured I needed to have a “come to Jesus moment” about how the Lord was humbling me before I accidentally ran her over and killed her dog.  I wrote a note of apology and slunk into bed.

I was not winning.

Have you ever had something like that happen friend?   No matter how hard you try you keep messing up over and over again?  It can be downright demoralizing.  But it does teach a soul that grace in the face of error is a valuable commodity.  Grace might not be as trendy as self-righteous indignation when things go sideways, but its sure handy to have sewn grace when you are the twit who makes the mistake.  

So I’m praying for those of us who are slow learners.  Those who God has placed on the sidelines of safe communities, in order to humble us  so that we learn how to accept responsibility, apologize and make things right.  May the lessons we learn run deep into our hearts, be soaked in grace, and sprinkled with humor so that our lives might be changed to change others.

Change others for the better I mean.

Not like what I do to Anne…

That would be unkind.

Love you and miss you,

xoxKaren

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