Archive | enough

In which I bless the merciful

February 6, 2013

We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith;if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach;if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully. – Romans 12:-6-8

When I took a Spiritual Gifts test in high school, I wanted my result to be Leader. Evangelical culture values the hero, celebrates the leader, and worships the Man of God up front. In our weird little hierarchy of heroes, clearly the most spiritual among us would be the leaders, right? After repeated multiple choice testings, my own results always came out as Prophecy and Teaching. I wasn’t thrilled but hey, at least it wasn’t the gift of mercy.

Mercy just seemed like such a lame spiritual gift to those of us out to change the world. Who could change the world with compassion and kindness? Behind the scenes isn’t quite enough for a Big Big God with Big Big Plans.

Talk about missing the point, eh?

Bless the merciful.

Bless the hospital chaplains who cry and pray in trauma rooms with the scared and the hurting. Bless the older woman who folds the young mother’s laundry. Bless the young red-head who brought me muffins and coffee during this week of sickness. Bless the father who scrapes puke up off the floor only after he’s gently washed and dressed and comforted the sick child.

Bless the ones who cry too much and feel too much. Bless the wounded healers.

Bless the kind ones, who speak words of life and gentleness. Bless the benefit-of-the-doubt givers, the one-more-chance lavishers. Bless the comforters and the kleenex-passers. Bless the walkers-in-another’s-shoes. Bless the wheelchair pushers. Bless the ones there waiting after the chips fall, and the edifice crumbles, and the truth comes out. Bless them for their grace for both the flyers and the thud-ers, for the fury and the glory.

Bless the ones who sling grace, and bandage wounds. Bless them for they give dignity to the rest of us. Bless them because they see us and they love us anyway.

Bless them for standing in our thin places between too-much and not-enough, the places where our hearts are breaking and our fears are manifesting and we are so scared and so alone, bless them for being the ones that show up in the fault lines to hold our hands and pray and weep with those who weep.

Bless them for their patience, for their supernatural ability to stop rolling-their-eyes, for their ability to be present instead of checking out for something more fun. Bless them for their joy in the face of suffering, for the patience in the teeth of our never-going-to-change, and their faith in our story.

Bless them for their heart to ease the suffering, to smooth the edges, widen the roads. Bless them for their cups of cold water, and their plates of food, for their prison visiting, for their preemie-baby hat knitting, for the nursery rocking so tired mamas can worship. Bless them for the healing work of their ministry. Bless them when they smell of salt tears and someone else’s shit. Bless the merciful because they are, so often, Jesus with skin on, for the rest of us.

Bless the merciful as they carry our own burdens with us, and we cannot know how low they are bowed with the grief of the whole world groaning for justice and peace. Bless the ones who serve without fanfare or book deals or conference attention. Bless the ones who love their children, day after day after day, without thought of a speaking career or a MOPS invitation. Bless the ones who care for the aging and the dying, for those making the way a bit smoother for the families left behind. Bless the ones who hold the hands of the poor and broken and you and me. Bless the ones running right towards the hurting, instead of running away like the rest of us.

Bless them because it takes more guts to be merciful, compassionate, and kind than we could have ever imagined. The older we get, the more we value the kind, the merciful, the compassionate, because the more we realise that most of us, almost all of us, are getting rather lonely and tired, and we need a cup of cold water and a bit of grace, and dignity, and kindness clears the air.

If you care to comment, I’d love to hear about a person of mercy in your life. Let’s celebrate the merciful today.

Continue Reading · enough, faith · 54

In which we’re not wasting the sunshine

October 31, 2012

It’s autumn, it’s raining, it’s synonymous.

I look my best in warm clothes, and my greatest purchasing weakness: cardigans. The leaves are soggy and falling thick outside, the ground is saturated. I turn the lights on by two in the afternoon now, I want to bake things, I light candles. So when the rare days of autumn sunshine arrive, we’re outside in the dying of the light, always.

I’m most at home in these days: climate, stage of life, place, family, community, theology, all of it. It’s interesting/odd/weird/wonderful how ten years ago, seven years ago, four years ago, I felt so square-peggish in every area of my life, and now I’m belonging.

The light is worn out, and it smells like the world is sleepy, just tired out. Trees are baptized in orange fire, slender white birch trees are naked and unashamed in their loveliness. I took the tinies for a wander on a sunny day and a dog came along, a nice mutt of a dog, scruffy but well-loved, friendly. His owner had a shopping cart full of pop cans, and we threw tennis balls for a while, until it was time to go, and Joe critically examined the cart and its owner: “You’re pretty old but my like you and your doggy” was the final verdict. Thankfully, our new friend chuckled, and we left, waving good-bye, and I wondered if I should have offered a cup of coffee or something. He hollered “Thanks for playing with my dog!”

Evelynn fell very ill after I returned from Haiti. I hate when she’s sick, but I didn’t mind the hours we spent in my red rocking chair. The tinies played in the front yard, while we sat at the front window and rocked for an entire afternoon. She slept in my arms, feverish, and I rocked steady, singing sometimes, humming, heart-beating, memorizing. No one minded eating toast and cereal for supper that night.

When I was growing up, my mother had a crewel embroidered saying on her wall: “Cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow for babies grow up we’ve learned to our sorrow. So quiet down, Cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep. I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.” I have one hanging in my living room now, it’s my saying now, and I hope to pass it down to my tinies someday, in word and spirit and deed. Rock your babies, hold them, love this time, it’s always shorter than you think before the leaves start to fall on another season. My mother and my father taught me that, they taught me to delight in small things, and to notice them. They taught me that by delighting in me.

Anne read that looooooong “Green Eggs and Ham” out loud this week, and I am in raptures of joy and pride. She was named a Star Student this month for her hard-work and her kindness. (Eshet chayil!) She’s such a little kid now, with funny jokes, and friends, and questions. I drop her off at school, and she always grins and waves, and then she’s off, out of my arms for the day, on her own. I’m glad she’s still her. I’m glad that school hasnt’ change her fundamental core. It feels like yesterday that she was in my arms, and it was just us two then, for these slow afternoons of humming my old church songs by the windows, watching another autumn’s leaves fall away.

The days feel shorter now, the years are faster. Just like that, another trip around the sun, the leaves are falling, and we’re rocking for a little while longer. I’m listening to childish voices sounding out words in the living room, refereeing their arguments, calming hearts, I’m making supper, crumbs are stuck to my feet, Joseph still sneaks into our bed in the mornings to hold my hair and snuggle.

Right now, as I write this, the rain is pouring, the wind is whipping by, it’s dark and dreary, and somehow, still, I feel like I belong here.

Continue Reading · Anne, enough, Evelynn, family, Joseph, journey · 21

In which the stories that aren’t told are the sweetest to me

October 3, 2012

I’ll sing the song of the redeemed, I will. I’ll stand in a school gymnasium, in the congregation of the saints, and I’ll sing until the tears run down my face, mascara tracking, about how He loves us, about His justice, about His lovingkindness. I’ll dance-sway in the back aisle with the other mamas-with-babes-in-arms, we have toddlers to chase and that is part of our worship, and I’ll think that this is what heaven sounds like, stomping feet, and laughing children, and people singing, hang on a second, let me kick my shoes off, this is holy ground.

I tell the stories of how God has been enough for me, how he has changed me, saved me, set me free, redeemed me. I sing about my gratitude, a deep, bone deep, gratitude for the vulgar, lavish, wild grace and love of my God.

But do you know what I love about these Sunday mornings, about the space between the songs? I remember the stories I don’t speak out loud. I remember the secrets, just between me and Jesus, and the millions of ways I’ve been healed and restored and no one will ever know.

The sweetest restorations are the secret ones, don’t you think?

The Lord has done great things for me. I am filled with joy.

I sing these songs of the redeemed, but sometimes the songs don’t have words, and it’s sweet for the secret language of knowing, for the space between the words, for the humming and the silence, and the waiting.

And maybe no one else will ever know the depth to which he went to pull me out of the mire, but I know. My feet smell of the earth still, and even that is real and good to me now. These Sunday mornings, when everyone is singing, these are my appointment times to remember, and give thanks, my own secret eucharisteo moments that don’t ever make it to a keyboard, because they’re not for mass consumption.

The stories that aren’t written are my favourites.

I love to see the people of God with my own eyes, in a real room, with real people, right now. I love knowing that we all have these secrets. We all have them. And they’re sweet because they’re only ever ours.

And I love that we don’t match with each other, so many of us might not be friends if it weren’t for this Jesus stuff, and when I saw the conservative-looking dad in bad khakis cinched to his waist, stand beside his teenage son, and witnessed them singing, together, his arm around his son’s shoulders, and that teenage boy, he wrapped his arm around his Dad’s khaki-ed waist, singing, defying every stereotype to find a moment of loving peace in community, I could have gone home right there. (Teenage boys, aren’t you longing for your Daddy to hold you, too? don’t we all?) There were kids playing games on the iPhones, and I watched my friend, a mother of three, dance and dance, elegant, unrestrained as a girl, and I felt like she was dancing for me, too.

We sang songs to worship our God, we sang songs to remember our stories. And when we were quiet, the in-between moments, the Holy Spirit breathing truth, all of us remembering the desert, smelling of earth and coffee and breakfast, and the crop of new babies cried, and a kid laughed with his dad, and we all exhaled, before our preacher tossed his notes away behind the podium, and opened up his Bible.

He read the story of the Prodigal Son, and his voice cracked, and we all cried, have you ever really read it? we wondered, how had we forgotten the Good News?

And the Word of God was enough for us, again, always, always, enough, blessed be the name of the Lord.

Continue Reading · church, enough, faith · 19

In which he wouldn’t do anything different (neither would I)

August 28, 2012

I can’t seem to bring myself to church more than three weeks in a row. On the fourth week, I wake up, and think, yeah, I’m so not going. I like to take Sundays off now and then from church, and I’m not sure that it’s as holy as recognising that the Lord made Sabbath for us, not the other way around, or if it’s because I’m just tired out from a full week of people-stuff, and I just want to go all pseudo-hermit, have a bit of worship that looks like soul-care. Even though I’m a proper church-goer, a provider of covered dishes, I don’t have an illusions about myself, I know I still like a bit of room, so I make that room for my own self, no one else will do that for me, I’ve learned.

I spent the morning in my kitchen with Evie while Brian took the older two to the garden and Home Depot. I turned on the soundtrack of Midnight in Paris, and I made a roast chicken and summer garden veggies for my friend – she just had the sweetest little baby girl. Sometimes the only ministry I can manage is the ministry of good food.

Then I gave my own family waffles and sausage for supper because I was tired out from all the healthy cooking. I hoped I wasn’t a big old metaphor for putting ministry first, but I was comforted by the knowledge that Joe would eat his body weight in sausage if I let him, and really, it’s just what they like, and honestly, who cares?

Evelynn sat on the floor while I cooked and danced and sang a bit off-key, she was banging pots and pans, and I kind of laughed because, you know, I always use that metaphor for calling others to freedom and wholeness, that image of myself standing in a field, calling everyone outside with kitchenware, truly appeals to me but, hey, did you know, that’s actually really noisy and obnoxious in your own kitchen? She’s a table top climber, she’s a for-the-fun-of-it shrieker, she’s a go-getter, a boundary-pusher, a look-you-in-the-eyes-right-while-you-are-saying-no-darling-and-do-it-anyway girl. I am always running with her, my mother thinks she’s a three-year-old trapped in a 16-month-olds body, and sometimes, when I see that intelligent and saucy look in her eyes, I’m inclined to agree. And then fast and pray about those pre-teen years, Lordhavemercy.

Brian spent the afternoon on a project with Joe. He has a big fold out work bench that he made for himself a month or two ago. It’s the project that I mentioned here in this [love looks like] post. (Brian is quite tall; the very first thing everyone says when they meet him is: “Wow. You’re tall.” So all the benches and counters and sinks are at least a foot too short for him.) He built this workbench that comes up to my shoulders, and it folds back into the wall like a murphy bed. Joe adores it, and so on Sunday, Brian made a little one, absolutely identical, for Joe. I couldn’t tell who was having more fun, Brian or Joe, but they were working together, making their own kind of art, Anne riding her bike, exploring, and I’ve noticed my tinies just like to be with us, it doesn’t matter what we’re doing, they just like to be there, and there is no greater longing of their hearts than to help, let me help, let me be a part of it all.

People keep asking me about my book writing. I have nothing to say other than: yeah, I better get on that, eh?

Then I made blueberry crisp. And organized the closet.

A few weeks ago, Brian lead a baby dedication in our friend’s backyard. It was so beautiful and regular, just a gathering of their friends and family, the many littles running around, swinging on the tree swings, while the adults visited and stood around. Back when Brian was a pastor, he would fold his Bible in half and stuff it in his back pocket, so that he always had it with him, and when he loped up to the stage to preach, he just reached around for his Bible and opened it up. I watched him in the backyard, with our friends, my sister was there, too, and he prayed, welcomed everyone, then he easily pulled that creased Bible out of his back pocket, an easy movement I hadn’t seen him perform in seven years, and some part of my heart didn’t fit in my chest any more, it was good – and sad – to see. He blessed that wee new girl, and her family, and it was that moment when the quiet unassuming one is revealed as their true identity in the movie, he’s still a pastor, still a teacher, even after all of the deconstruction and pulling apart and rebuilding of our faith, and our understanding of church and go-go-go-programs on the premise of compounds and build-it-they-will-come, coupled with a new understanding of vocation and ministry, even with his business acumen, and the new normal life in the secular marketplace. But I can’t deny it, who ever could? He’s meant for this work, he’s a pastor, a teacher, a spiritual director, and there was something so good about seeing him in that role, in that office, for just a few moments in the backyard. Something good, and yet it made me sad.

I mentioned this to him that night, I said, “Don’t you miss it? What do you think? Should we make it more of a priority to pursue some official kind of ministry life again?” And so, for the millionth time, we talked it through, and we yelled at each other, then: ssshhhhhh! the tinies are sleeping! and eventually, he was laying stretched out on the couch, his arm flung over his eyes, we needed to go to bed by now.

“I miss it, sure, Sarah, and I yearn for it, and I hope I do it for the rest of my life, someday, but today was today, and it was wonderful. I built a work bench with my son, and I wouldn’t do it anything different,” he said. “If all I ever do right in my life is love those kids down the hall, I’m satisfied, can’t you see?”

And what can you do then, but go to bed together, it is enough, and this is glorious, and I brushed my teeth, he opened the windows wide, we like fresh air, and I kissed him kissed him kissed him under the red Ikea duvet.