Living the Contradiction

"So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it."

-Wendell Berry
taken from Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

I thought of this poem many times in the last month. I've loved it for a long time. Loved the idea that we are not computers, that the very ability to do something that doesn't compute or make sense, is the very thing that makes us human. That our life can be a great big contradiction of sorts. A parable. 

So for years I've done things that don't make sense (I envision many nodding heads here). I filled my house with animals. I ran through every field I could. I danced when my feet hit sand. I drank out of china tea cups with four small children playing tag through my legs. You can fill in the rest.

But this year I took it to a new level. Our family signed up for foster care. I didn't feel like I could do much more than respite while homeschooling the kids so I thought I'd just get my feet wet. There is no such thing in foster care. Our first child came in November and was difficult and turned our family life on it's head. He was brutish and I decided we needed a girl next. 

So last month a little five year old skipped up my walk and threw her arms around me. 
Ahhh this is more like it, I thought. 

I wasn't thinking that the next day when she threw a peanut butter and jelly sandwhich at me. I wasn't thinking it when a water bottle brushed my head and she proclaimed, "I am little but I can throw hard." I wasn't thinking it when she screamed and spat and called me something to do with a donkey's anatomy. Nor when she laid her head on my counter and said in a little tearless voice, "My mommy hates me." Nor when I spent my nights stretched across the doorway into her bedroom so that Jason, Freddie, and Annabelle the murdering doll didn't get her. 

I was thinking, What am I doing? This was living a life that didn't compute with a vengence. Why would I bring this out of control, raging, terrified little child into my home? I have no experience with this. I have four children of my own. The only word that echoed in my exhausted brain when I asked these questions was "Jesus". The romance of living a poem worked very well when running through fields, but Jesus takes our gift of humanity, of non-computing, way further. I danced on the sand and Jesus walked on the water and that was the difference I was experiencing. 

The first 10 days she was here were long and hard for the whole family. But we all loved hard and gave generously and forgave quickly and we saw amazing fruits come from our little sacrifices. She started to speak the words that we were speaking. She joined in morning prayers with us, even asking if she could talk to God. She wouldn't let me out of her room at night without a Bible story. She hugged each of us many times a day (Rowan counted eight hugs one day, "And that's not including group hugs.") and told us she loved us. After 8 days the nightmares went away and I could sleep through the night in my bed again. She woke up on the ninth morning and said, "Last night when I was going to sleep an angel came in my room and hugged me and told me I wouldn't have anymore bad dreams." And she didn't. 

I don't naively think that we changed her life. Our home was a merely a stepping stone and she has many years of trials and healing yet to come. But we introduced her to God and His Son Jesus. We showed her what a life looks like that's been transformed by His goodness. We showed her ways to live that don't make sense. God goes with her where we can't. He is the parent that will never fail or abuse her. My prayers wrap round her instead of my arms now, and that's even better.

We don't always realize that each step in life is preparation for the next step. Running through fields and loving the children in my home and caring for others faithfully enabled me to love someone who, at first at least, was not very lovable. Years of chasing after God can land us in some interesting places, but it will always land us closer to God. 

She's living in a different foster home now with her two sisters. I miss her but know that she's where she needs to be. And I'm where I need to be, right here, preparing for the next thing God brings that doesn't make sense. In this world anyway.....

When Jesus Comes To Your House

First, thank you my friends for your texts, emails, and comments over the past few days.

We had an incredibly sensitive and difficult situation to deal with concerning family trauma. Everyone is okay, still on our knees, but okay. Mom and I battled together for spiritual victory in the life of someone dear to us. Many of you joined in the prayers and we are so thankful for you.

Yesterday, I told Dave I would hire a landscaper if he just gave me some names to call.

Today I got a text from Dave that said, "Call Jesus." Followed by a number. Even though I knew that probably wasn't how he pronounced his name, I had to smile.

I thought, that's what I've been doing all week, calling Jesus.

I called Jesus. He didn't answer so I left a message. Again I smiled, I've left many very important messages this week for another Jesus.

I started to text Dave back when Jesus called. He was kind and told me he could come tonight by 6pm. Jesus called back, and he made me a priority.

At 5pm Jesus pulled up, I wasn't ready for him and was caught off guard. When I went out to meet him, he introduced himself as Jesus and then the man who was with him introduced himself as Jesus also saying, "He's the father, I'm the son." I did a quick glance around for the Holy Spirit.

I left them in the yard measuring for bark dust and I had a good laugh. Somehow...through a Craigslist landscaper....God reassured me that He hears, that He shows up, that He always exceeds my expectations. That He's full of surprises.

Jesus made me laugh.

Generations

My brother Mike, his wife Caroline, and their two children Christopher (4) and Emily (2) flew in for an extended visit.
The first morning they were here Mike gave me a gift.
He gave me a ring. It's white gold with a one carat diamond. It belonged to our great-grandmother on my mother's paternal side.

Before I can utter a thank-you, he says, "Grandpa gave it to me a long time ago. He told me that it was a big diamond but it had a crack in the heart of it. It's flawed, so it's pretty much worthless."
I flinch.
A priceless, worthless ring passed down through the generations.
I put it on.

The days go by quickly with company, and there are messes and mayhem, and I struggle and strive to love like Christ. In the midst of all this there's mourning. My mom's dear friend passed away. Her friend's name was Mary, and she was a blithe, joyful spirit, full of the love of God. So on Saturday, Mom and I left the children, siblings, and grandchildren, and slipped away to Mary's funeral. The video clips of her family talking were extremely touching, but one thing stood out to me. Her kids talked about loving her, but they also talked about arguing with her, being angry with her, and butting heads with her on different occasions. She wasn't perfect. She was wonderful, she was a godly woman, but she was real.

So Sunday morning at breakfast, I told the kids about the funeral. I happened to glance down at the ring my brother gave me. The analogy hit me, "You know, Uncle Mike, told me that this ring is worthless because it's cracked, but he's wrong. This diamond is just like us, flawed in the heart. Mary wasn't perfect but her cracks gave Jesus a place to shine through. Jesus can shine through our imperfections, too." The kids nodded slowly, as they processed this information. Grant broke the silence, "Then you can always wear that ring mommy and remember that everyone is cracked open and it's good."

An hour later we sat in church. A whole row of my family worshipped together. Grant snuggled up next to me and during the service ran his finger along the surface of the ring, feeling the edges of the crevice. My immediate thought was to pull away, I didn't want him to get cut on the flaw. But no, the ring is to remind me that I am cracked open as well ,and that my children may very well be victims of my jagged edges. I don't recoil from them in order to save them from wounds, I pray for God to bind up any gashes that I, in my sinfulness, may make. But I let them know me, flaws and all. We stand to sing and instinctively one of my hands rests on my son's shoulder and the other, the diamond ring hand, the flawed, cracked, priceless hand raises high to the Lord.

Several of Mary's family members spoke of having visions of her going to Heaven and they said she was beautiful, shining, perfect.
Yes.
Someday the diamond will have no flaws.
Someday....
But until then, I wear the ring and remember,
"We're all cracked open, and it's good."

The flawed ring and the flawed soul will pass down through the generations, but so will the grace and the blessings. Thank you Lord.

His Fingerprints

My dad died three and a half years ago and my grief has ebbed and flowed as the tide. As time passes the tide stays out more often, and I'm okay with that. Last night however it came in with flood force. I was moving in to my almost done dining room. I put dad's clock up on my new mantle. It doesn't work, hasn't worked since the day he died. I opened it up to try the keys once again and accidentally opened the book of memory as well. The morning he died I was sitting with him at his house. He was agitated. He kept glancing up at the clock; muttering. So I asked, knowing the response "Dad do you need me to wind the clock?" He seemed to look me over. Please, I thought, I'm 32 I'm capable, let me help you. No go. He struggled to his feet shuffled over with his cane and wound it up. He left for the doctors a few minutes later not knowing he'd never come home. His last words to me were jest. He drove to his death and I stood there laughing. It was part of him, to always leave me with a laugh.
Memories pages fell forward a few days and I saw my brother going through dad's coin collection. The funeral was over. My brother was jubilant to get the long desired collection. I saw his excitement turn to preoccupation over the days and I asked why. He answered "I always wanted to share this with dad in life, but he never let me."
I was back in 2009 staring at the clock, staring at dad's smeared fingerprints all over the glass of it, the fingerprints I could never bear to wipe off. And suddenly I was angry. Angry that he never shared his clocks with me. Angry that he never shared his coin collection with Mike. Angry that he was selfish and left me with a clock that didn't work, a clock wound too tight. In a spatula-throwing burst of anger I grabbed the Windex and sprayed his fingerprints. I wiped them clean. Then I cried and went to find my husband.
Dave and I stood and looked out at the falling snow. I told him what I loved best about snow was that it covered everything. The dirty, the ugly, everything was tucked under it, made lovely. The verse I'd been saying over and over to the kids this week came to mind "love covers a multitude of sins." I loved my dad. My anger and dad's selfishness were buried under a deep blanket of God's forgiveness. I felt the peace of it flutter down.
We went to bed only to be waken abruptly at 1 am by a horrendous crash. Dave ran down. I laid in the dark; chilled. Dave's scared voice "Annie. Annie you need to come here." I came trembling down the stairs. Dave was holding a clock in his hands. "Annie your dad is mad at you for wiping off his fingerprints. I found his clock on the floor." Think of any expression you've ever read to describe a terrified person and I'd pretty much fit the bill. I looked closer at the clock in Dave's hand. I looked up at the mantle. I replied, "Geez Dave that's not dad's clock, that's your grandpa's clock. What've you been doing to him?!"
Dave and I went to bed laughing. That was dad's gift to always leave me with a laugh. I guess I haven't wiped his fingerprints off after all.