Cover Up

This is not what Grandma was wearing

I don’t own a leaf blower but a couple of my friends do.  I find them noisy and obnoxious (leaf blowers, not my friends).  But if I did own a leaf blower, I’m pretty sure I would wear pants while operating one.  Pants and sturdy shoes because you never know when something is going to go wrong when using machinery.  I think it was my dad who taught me that.   

I was walking to the car from the Saturday farmers market in a sea side town when I heard the leaf blower.  The neighborhood I was in has a funky mix of residential buildings dispersed amongst its downtown core, so I wasn’t surprised to hear the machine in the background as I passed an insurance office, an elderly man on his front porch and a set of town homes.  My family ambled along, sharing conversation as we rounded the corner.  Looking down the street we saw a woman blowing leaves off her yard and sidewalk directly in front of our car.  She was in her late 60’s, tanned and grandma looking, crinkly and round.  You might find those remarks personal, but so was the very small black bikini she was sporting as she swung her leaf blower to and fro, adding the dimension of vibration to her already striking form.  

“Oh my goodness,” my youngest whispered.

“That is a lot of good news!” offered another. 

“Ahhhhh!” My husband had lowered his head and was marching resolutely to the car as if he didn’t notice the mostly naked grandma brandishing her gas operated leaf blower right in front of his minivan.  I was utterly gobsmacked.  I had no words, I was stuck by equal parts admiration and embarrassment and the overwhelming sense that grandma should be wearing pants…and perhaps a top…and sensible footwear.  

She looked up, her ample smile matching her ample…ness.  “I’m afraid my van is in your way,” I offered by way of conversation.  I was trying not to stare but failing miserably.  “Not at all honey,” she replied and sauntered 20 feet back toward her porch.   Trying not to watch her leave, I wondered whether I needed to rethink my perception of senior citizens.  I concluded that I did and made a mental note to buy myself a bikini for my 70th birthday.  A bikini and a bottle of scotch.  

As I sit here a day later, I’m stuck with the task of trying to turn my run in with a mostly naked grandma into some form of spiritual reflection and to be honest all I can say is that I was astonished by grandma’s lack of embarrassment, regardless of it being good or bad.  

What a gift to be at peace with one’s failings and flaws, to put aside the need to cover up shortcomings and pretense.  One of the traits of a mature believer is their acknowledgment of sin and their transparency.  The mature believer has learned the cross is a place of security and mercy as opposed to needing to feign righteousness for fear of being discovered.  What freedom comes with realizing that our sin has been covered by the astonishing sacrifice of Jesus the Christ.

This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light, and in him is no darkness at all.  If we say we have fellowship with him while we walk in darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth.  But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin.  If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.  If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.  If we say we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us. 1 John 1: 5-10  

So I am praying for us this week my friend.  That when it comes to our weakness, God might uncover our hearts and reveal the truth of his mercy and kindness.  And where bikinis and dimples are concerned we might feel free to cover up just a wee bit.  

Enjoy a sunbeam this week,

xoxKaren

Not Normal

Jail break chicken.  It was this or a photo of a headless mouse.  

It wasn’t the phone call I expected to have. 

“Darling, I can’t talk to you this morning.  The men with the tranquilizer guns are here.  There is a baby bear loose in the garden and the plumber just arrived.  The tap outside broke.  I’ll call later when they’ve gotten the baby bear out of the garage. Unless they find its mother, then it might take longer.”

One of the tricks of belonging to my family tree is discerning metaphor from reality.  After a quick set of mental calisthenics, I asked, “You are going to stay inside right?  The plumber can come back if it is too busy.”  “Of course!” my mother chirped, “Oh they’ve scared the deer.  Where is the cat?”  I excused myself from the conversation before it turned into a monologue and group texted my sisters for moral support. Within 30 seconds one called to ensure our mother was safe and to commiserate with the lack of normalcy a phone call home sometimes provides.

The “lack of normal “ thing must be a genetic trait because I have just spent the better part of half an hour looking for the head of a mouse. It's the missing piece of a love offering left for me this morning as I house sit my girlfriends’ cats, dog, chickens and ducks. 

Yep, I’m a farmer again trying to get along with animal-kind.

What does it mean when a cat brings you a headless present?  Does it mean they love you? Was it a feline death threat? An invitation to a secret society?  I’m not certain. 

I am certain taking care of chickens hasn’t gotten easier.  When I went to collect the eggs last night, the little black and white striped fellow made a break for it.  The only reason it didn’t get away was because I was fast enough to grab it by the tail feathers and mean enough to hold on to them  until the squawking stopped and we caught up with one another.  I apologized to jailbird chicken and rubbed its rear end in case almost pulling out tail feathers hurt, but then stopped because rubbing a chickens’ rump seemed awkward.    

Recently, I prayed that I would get a few days away to catch up on paperwork. When farmer friend asked if I would be interested in chicken sitting, I agreed envisioning a wee family holiday.  However my hubby, sensing an opportunity, packed me off to the farm to write while he and children stayed at home.  All that explains why I am sitting on a couch at my favorite farm with a golden retriever as my sidekick. It also explains why I was looking for the head of a mouse after breakfast and accosted a chicken after lunch.  

I’m having “me” time.   

Blessedly, farmer friend keeps a stash of homemade truffles in her freezer. This is the one place earth where I could eat 3 pounds of Christmas chocolate in July and it wouldn’t be thought of as strange, which is a comfort because these days “normal” isn’t happening.  Normal is evading my grasp because things in my life keep changing.  No matter what I do, kids grow up, things break and seasons end, meaning I should be used to transitions by now.  But I’m not.  Despite knowing transitions are hard, I waste my time getting upset because I’m frustrated or impatient through the process.

One of the books by my bedside table is an old blue hymnal.  It contains the songs of generations and lately I’ve spent time thumbing through its tissue thin pages.  As I do, an appreciation of the English language has been growing in my heart.  Nothing takes my mind off myself quite like the songs in those dusty pages.  A song written in 1922 caught my eye, the themes relevant almost 100 years later.  Here are the lyrics to the hymn “Now Again the World is Shaken,” by Henry Smart.

Now again the world is shaken,
Tempests break on sea and shore;
Earth with ruin overtaken,
Trembles while the storm winds roar.
He abideth who confideth,
God is God forevermore.

Thrones are falling, heathen raging,
Peoples dreaming as of yore
Vain imaginations, waging
Man with man, unmeaning war.
He abideth who confideth,
Christ is King forevermore.

Human wisdom in confusion,
Casts away the forms it wore;
Ancient error, new illusion,
Lose the phantom fruit they bore.
He abideth who confideth,
Truth is truth forevermore.

Right eternal, Love immortal,
Built the house where we adore;
Mercy is its golden portal,
Virtue its unshaken floor.
He abideth who confideth,
God is God forevermore.

As we make our way into the summer, I pray that you experience some rest and recreation.  Summer holidays don’t last long enough for my liking, but not many nice things do and I guess that is the only “normal” part of our time on earth. The good news is that through Jesus, we are marching toward an unshakable kingdom (Hebrews 12:28) that is run by one who never changes.  Though things around us are shifting quickly we can rest assured that our trials are momentary and that he will work them to our benefit.   

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal. 2 Cor 4:16-18

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren

Loss Lessons

 Can you spot it?

A quick trip to my long suffering girlfriend to borrow her lawnmower and I was set.  The rain in the Pacific Northwest hung on far too long this spring and my grass was crying out for a haircut before the clouds finally parted and I dusted off my lawnmower.  A few you tube videos informed me it was time to change the oil and replace the air filter on my grass munching beast.  Fearing the clouds would roll back in before I tuned up my machine, I called my almost-neighbor and asked to use hers.  “Come on over,” she sang, her standard reply to my mildly demanding friendship.  

After a quick tour of her machines' peculiarities I was on my way.  Back home, I unloaded the behemoth and got ready to cut the grass.  A glance at the two machines revealed that although her machine was older, it was more expensive.  More importantly hers was self-propelled, a feature I was eager to try out on my back yard incline/ski slope.  Aligning the mower, I put on my headphones, pulled the start cord and squeezed the bar to start it moving (known as a “bail” to all you mechanics out there, of which, doubtless there are thousands.)  

I am unclear if there is a correct way to start a self-propelled lawn mower.  It was my first time, so I don't know what I expected.  I think it is fair to say that I did not expect squeezing the bail would result in the mower growling and launching itself at my lawn with the ferocity of an angry grizzly bear.  The intensity of the forward motion just about clear ripped my arms off.  Thankful I had sent the girls inside, I looked up and down my street to ensure no one was watching as I hung on to the raging mower, tripped over my feet and send the enthusiastic machine over the flower bed where it instantly destroyed a patch of day lilies before sputtering to a standstill.  

I surveyed my adversary with a stern look, chiding myself for not g r a d u a l l y squeezing the bar and got set up for round two.  It went slightly better than the first round but got tricky because I managed to make it to the corner of the yard before the physics of the whole affair had me flummoxed.  The azalea sitting in the corner flower bed can attest to my incompetence.  

Anywhoodles….. 

It took a while but after chasing the mower across my lawn, off-roading through another flower bed and killing 3 innocent ferns, my lawn was shorter than when I started.  I was sad about the mulched day lilies, ferns and the fact  I couldn’t feel my arms but the satisfaction of not killing myself had created a heady glow of invincibility.  I staggered over to my front walkway, found my water bottle and collapsed on the grass.  

It was on my way down to ground that I noticed the tiny piece of plastic on the front stairs.  I have no idea why it caught my eye, but I think fatigue had kicked me into some kind of heightened-senses-mummy-ninja universe.  I crawled across the grass for a closer look.  There, on my stair was a tiny calico critter spoon from a much loved picnic set.  Unfamiliar with Calico Critters?  Think tiny animals, marketed to children, with an endless array of props to create make believe worlds.  This spoon belonging to my daughter was only a few millimeters long.  I called her over, bragged on my mad skills and reunited her with the overpriced piece of plastic.

Found

She chirped happily and skipped inside leaving me on the grass staring up at the sky.  I would have stood up and followed her in but I was too tired.  Watching the clouds gather overhead, I considered the nature of lost things.   I have lost a few precious things over the years: a scarf of my Dad’s, relationships with loved ones and an opportunity or two.  How is it that I can accidentally find a tiny beloved piece of lost plastic yet work so hard to regain trust and come up short?  Why are some injuries so miraculously restored yet other losses leave bruises that take years to fade?  

How does loss work?

Loss:

- unable to find one's way; not knowing one's whereabouts.

- unable to be found.

- denoting something that has been taken away or cannot be recovered.

- having perished or been destroyed.

- (of a game or contest) in which a defeat has been sustained.

I’m actually pretty accomplished at getting lost.  My year includes a few pilgrimages to my homeland and though my routes are established I seem to have a knack at getting turned around.  My sense of direction is like an earthworms’: I have up and down figured out, everything else is negotiable.  On our latest excursion north my eldest commented, “How is it you can completely forget where you drove only 3 hours ago?”  Is she kidding?  She has been blessed with her father’s uncanny sense of direction so I didn’t have the heart to tell her I don’t even remember her name.  She will learn about my failings over time.  Though I’ve been lost, I haven’t stayed that way.  So far I’ve gotten us to our destinations despite the detours. 

However, there are losses I’ve experienced that aren’t going to be recovered.  Certain things that cannot be fixed by stopping and asking for directions.  While I understand these things to be a normal part of life I find them difficult.  Somewhere I still believe that if I serve Jesus, I will be shielded from things going wrong and the staggering pain of losing what I once possessed.  The life of those who serve the Lord is not like that.

At times, processing loss brings confusion.  As denial gives way to reality and I struggle to find a new way of coping, I get caught up in trying to understand the “why?” of it all.  Could I have done something differently?  Was I faithful to the Lord through it all?  Is God mad at me?  I have found that there are seasons when faith is the only light against the darkness of my heart.  

Dear friend, if you are struggling with loss might I remind you that God is aware of your pain.  The fact that you are suffering doesn’t not mean he has forsaken you.  His eye is still upon you.  Though your prayers remain unanswered and your heart is sore it does not mean you are not his child.  His silence does not mean he is absent, his word is still present.  The awful stillness does not mean he has taken his love from you. 

The experience of losing what we once possessed is a painful invitation to get to know the Lord in a new way.  The fact that it is difficult and hurts terribly does not mean that there isn’t healing available to you.  I am praying this week, that by God’s amazing grace, you will hang on tight until loss has done its work and you can stand again.

xoxKaren