Glorious Autumn

There are times when I lay on the floor of my bedroom, curled up in a patch of sunlight, half delirious with the brightness of fall leaves and half suffocated by the suffering world around me.

There are days when I spend hours outside in glorious autumn, planting bulbs, brown, egg-shaped personifications of hope.

There are 43 autumns behind me now, lived out in Alaska, California, England, Oregon and Washington. Yet every single autumn I am surprised by the beauty of this world.

I have spent 43 years watching God move in my life, seeing His goodness, testifying to His grace. Yet every single time He shows up I am surprised by His love.

Last night I said goodnight to the kids at the bottom of the stairs, I turned and quickly walked through the dark office to get to my own much desired bed. My mind was on Saturday's dress fitting for the Nutcracker. Obviously absorbing. The next thing I knew something slammed into me. Hard. I flew back several feet and landed flat on my back with a force that brought a scream and sob simultaneously.  I was stunned and in pain.

After Dave got me to my feet (ah I could still use my legs, good sign) I realized that I had run into the half open door. The solid wood had pushed my glasses into my now swollen eye and propelled me backwards with the same force I had been moving forward. I had walked into a door...don't only old people do things like that? My tailbone took the brunt of it and is now officially elderly.

God has this same effect on me. I move through life swiftly, thinking, planning, organizing my days, and I run into the God of the universe. Sometimes He stops me gently, and sometimes He's a door in the dark. Sometimes I lay on my back longer than I need to, insensible to what's going on. Other times, I'm up and thankful for the direction, for the halt. Maybe, like last night, I hobble to bed wry and bruised and humble. 

But the overwhelming fact is God shows up. He cares enough about our lives and our circumstances to interact with us. He is unpredictable, yet consistently faithful. 

Tonight, the rain rolls down the windows of my home. The trees drip leaves of red and yellow. Avonlea plays the piano and sings and a gray cat walks into my room. I am again overwhelmed by the beauty of life. But the heights reflect the depths and I also think of the suffering of the world, of people I love, and of my own burdens and I lift them up to God. I remember that I am not an exception. This good God who shows up and guides and helps me will also be present in the lives of those in need. 

To live hope is to take a prayer, an action, a word and bury it, bulb-like, in the hard ground; to revel in the glory of autumn is to prepare for the beauty of spring .

Eclipse

This world is so beautiful.
This world is so ugly.
Once in a while, the beauty juxtaposes itself over the ugly in a way that brings me up short.
An eclipse of sorts.

As a home school mom, summer is essential to my well being. I have to rest in summer to recharge for the next labor intensive year.

This summer was the first time in 3 years that I had all four children at home together. My plan was to go to the cottage and enjoy my children. But there was company coming. Then family wanted Rowan for a visit. Then company came. Then Grant left for three days with Dave. Then three of us flew to Alaska to see Page and her family. Then company came. Then we went to the beach. Then company came.

And to be honest, connecting these dots, was not usually rest, but a preparation for the next thing coming (which in retrospect, should have included rest).

The cottage is almost a personality that I feel waiting for us. Puzzled perhaps, at why it sits still and empty in the summer sun. I sense the vegetation growing over the trails we forged. I am aware that I need to go rest and be at peace. It is as if I am very thirsty and the cottage is the sound of running water.

And then when I feel most empty and vulnerable I am confronted by the ugliness. I know ugliness and I've fought it before, in myself and in battle on behalf of others. But this. This stark fear and misery and torment. I have not confronted this before. Pain so deep it cannot be spoken. I feel my small reserves being sucked away in an instant and the despair tugging at my very soul, like I'm on the edge of a spiritual whirlpool.
All the beauty that I use to fight, nature and wise words and laughter are bottles empty, and I have nothing to pour on this fire.

But then, my mother speaks. Her words are not her own, she quotes His Words. She speaks God's truth to the pain and tears pour. Mom leaves for some water and I make eye contact with suffering and I too speak His Words. They come as mercy. With His Words comes His Heart into mine. A Heart of Love and Compassion. A Heart full of Living Water.

For four hours we sat in the tension of the eclipse. We sat in the mysterious beauty of the eclipse.
Then we went home.

I still am not rested. I still hear the cottage calling in the wind. But I do not fear that I will not be able to face the school year, for God has shown me the most powerful weapons I possess have nothing to do with location or even state of mind. My most powerful weapons are God's Love and God's Word. I must stay close to those two things, and maybe, when I hear the cottage and the mountain and the orchard calling, that is what I really want, God's Love and God's Word.
But His Spring is located everywhere,
even the center of tragedy.
And it never runs dry.

Sacrifice

I teach her to braid. Three colored strings tied to a desk leg.
Red. Yellow. Green. Red. Yellow. Green.
She murmurs the pattern, her full concentration on the twisting rhythm of the strings.

The table downstairs is covered in brightly colored eggs. A messy tradition that dates back to my little girl days in Alaska. My dad loved to celebrate. He pushed Halloween and Christmas and Birthdays and made them fun and exciting. Easter was no exception. He boiled eggs and mixed dyes and we stained our fingers making artistic eggs. And afterwards, we'd throw the dye colors off the deck into the snow. And the snow would be stained bright.

Children need to know how to make good choices when they leave the house. Preferably before they leave the house. So we teach them, methodically, how to make good choices. But the tricky thing about making good choices is the knowledge that God trumps all human reasoning. So good choices are really God choices. The best yes, is the yes to His leading.

I read Mark 8:18 earlier this week, "Therefore consider carefully how you listen." Listening is a verb. It's important. There have been many times in my life when I made good, moral choices and God said, "No." There have been times God has asked something of me that.made.no.sense. The times I chose wisely in those situations were the times I yielded to God's voice. The times I listened. So listening is the key factor to making good choices. I am learning.

Grandma's funeral is Saturday. On Sunday Dave's parents and his Aunt and Uncle will lead the Easter service at the nursing home where she died. They've been faithfully bringing God's Word there for years. They asked us to come and bring the kids to minister with their music. I said no. Every year, for 12 years, we've gone to the egg hunt at our park. It's tradition. Avonlea is too old for it now and this will be Grant's last year. I love it. I love the laughter and excitement and a park filled with beautiful children in beautiful clothes. It's what we do every year. Red. Yellow. Green. The pattern of our life.

But I start to get that twinge in my conscience. God wants us to go to the nursing home. I see it clearly, bright colors on white snow.

So I sit the kids down and I tell them. Let's go to the nursing home on Sunday and minister and afterwards I will give you an egg hunt. I'll give you better candy than they do at the park. They agree. They know how to make good choices.

That night I sit long in front of the computer processing checks for the business. And suddenly, impressed upon my heart like bright colors on white snow, You didn't let them sacrifice. I wasn't praying. I was working, I was braiding the pattern of my day. But I recognized God's voice in my heart and so I listened. You padded their sacrifice. When I ask for sacrifice I don't pad it.

And I realized afresh, what Easter is. It's blatant sacrifice.
The cross was never candy-coated for Jesus.

When approached, the kids joyfully sacrificed any kind of egg hunt.
"That's really not what Easter's about anyway, Mom."
"I'd much rather play my violin at the home than have an egg hunt."

It's a small sacrifice.
Just a little step toward Jesus.
But it's the little that prepares us for the big.

I forget sometimes, that it's not just a family God has asked me to braid together.
It's a kingdom.
The pattern is His.
So is the Glory.
Amen.

Flying Into The Light

It's a curious thing to fly to Alaska from the lower 48 at 9:30pm.
The world was dusky as we boarded the plane, but the further north we flew, the lighter it became.
It gave me an eerie time machine sensation of going backwards.
Three and a half hours later, we landed in Alaska, at dusk.

The next day the strangeness continued when it started to snow. I left the lower 48 in May and I landed in December.

Hearing someone shoveling their driveway when I awoke was a bit surreal.

I haven't been up to see Page for a few years. They were attending a new church, it just happened to be the church I grew up in, and haven't seen for 25 years. Again, speeding backwards.

I was even more amazed that someone there actually recognized me. And the man that stood up to preach was an old friend's little brother, who last I saw was running around in pull-ups. By some strange twist of fate, they planned a clip during service of an interview with the man who was pastor the whole time I was there. There he was, up front, proclaiming God's faithfulness on video just as he did when I was a little girl. I'll never see him again on this earth, but what an unexpected gift to have another glimpse of his kind face.

We were able to visit the little girls I used to nanny. They are beautiful women with babes of their own and I am so proud of them. So thankful for the times of laughter and dancing that we had together.

I look at these girls, and I look at my girls, and I look at Page, all growing every year more like Jesus, and I know that I don't really want to go back in time.
I came home today to 2 boys and one man who desperately missed their girls. Grant ran through the kitchen after we were all settled back in and said, "Everything is happy again now that you're home!"

I am so thankful for a past that brought me to this present.

Rosy's first time at the chocolate fountain.

Page and I love our girls!

Avonlea walking the tracks.

The tree which sister Amy and I almost ignited. It's my kids' favorite story of a bon fire gone wrong.

Madison and Rose on Beluga Rock. Dave proposed to me on the rocks right behind them.

Avonlea Page and Page on Beluga.



Avonlea converted Madison into a birdwatcher. They were able to spot a bald eagle and it's nest and several other birds which made Avonlea gasp and squeal at the same time.

I'll leave you with one of my personal favorites. Please remember that we came to Alaska from a heat wave in our neck of the woods. We were a little unprepared for the inclement weather. Page told me it was going to snow, but I didn't really believe her.

Rose was a trooper as we hiked to see the fairy field. In flip-flops. In the snow.

 



Things We Love

Twenty-three years is a long time to be friends.
But not too long.
My best friend Page, from Alaska, came to visit last week.
We stayed up late and laughed.
Laughed until the tears came, and we love that.
We forgot that we were mature mamas to many and only remembered that we like to dress up and take pictures of ourselves.
We put on loud music and dance partied with our kids because we still want to be liked and thought of as fun.
They like us, and we love that.

And they like each other. I was a bit surprised when our boys come down in matching camo shorts, holding hands, and claiming they were on the same team.
Our house was a little boy war zone from dawn to dusk, and we love that.

I write poetry and Page likes to shop and our children encompass the whole range of our personalities with dashes of our fun husbands thrown in for good measure.

Our kids make us laugh, and we love that.

Our daughters looked at pictures of us when we were young and were scandalized by our vanity and trendy apparel.

They are modest, sweet, little women, and we love that.

Page and I see the laughter lurking in the mundane.

We gather the joy up wherever we can find it, make a bouquet out of it, and put it in a vase to gloat over.

We speak the same language, understand each other's reactions and feelings, and share a common history.

We grow up together in Christ.

Twenty-three years is a long time to be friends.

But not too long,

and we love that.

Doors

I've always had a thing about doors.
It's the poetic image of moving though a barrier to get somewhere new.
Doors to let in.
Doors to go out.
I don't always walk through doors blithely.
Perhaps this stems from several traumatic door episodes.

Episode 1. Alaska. I was a young girl who heard a sound at the house door and assumed it was my mother coming home. I jerked the door open and found myself face to face with a moose. I closed the door quickly. Later, I fed it a carrot.

Episode 2. Alaska again. The cat was pawing at the sliding glass door and I let it in. I failed to see the live baby bird in it's mouth. The mother bird entered with the cat and the baby and there was a regular TOMMY SHAW. By the end of this episode I was sobbing, but managed to get every animal out of the house alive (thank you for helping Amy). The cat wouldn't speak to me for days.

Episode 3. Springfield, OR. I was at my sister's house and I stuck my head out the door to check on the dog. When I closed the door and turned around, my sister and all four of her kids started screaming. It seemed a huge preying mantis had lit on my head when I stuck it outside. I did what any sensible person (who everyone is screaming at and who doesn't know why only that it somehow involves her head because that is where they're looking) would do. I wiped my head on my niece's chair. It was rather traumatic for all involved.

Episode 4. This current home. My first day alone with 3 children. Little Rowan was 5 days old. Avonlea and Grant went outside to get some fresh air mid afternoon. I opened the door to let them come in, baby Rowan in arms, and urged Grant to hurry as he climbed up the ivy. When he was about 2 steps from the door he began screaming. I yanked him inside and pulled down his pants, as this was the area he was grasping. He had stepped in a bee hive. Bees went wild in our entry way. I tried to shield little Rowan. I tried to call Dave for help but threw the phone when I was stung on the hand. Brave little Avonlea almost beat me to death with the zipper of her coat trying to get all the bees off of me. Needless to say....traumatic.

So you see why I sometimes hesitate?
Why my hand pauses?
Why I love the poetry of opening the barrier, but sometimes find the result not poetic enough?

I co-owned a business for a few years called Door #1. It was an abstinence awareness venture. We spoke in high schools and youth groups on the importance of abstinence. I came up with the name Door #1 because I could tell them what would most likely happen should they choose abstinence. Any other door was a risk. Door #2 could be an STD. Door #3 an unplanned pregnancy. You just had no guarantees. Except abstinence.

Now in life I don't really have this choice. I can't abstain from opening doors and no door is mantis proof. However, I pray Matthew 7:7 over my boys at night, "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. for everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened."
Last summer we decided to go on a trip to Prince Edward Island in the fall. We planned our route and looked up houses to rent. We bought our tickets. We went to bed that night full of excitement for our trip. Somewhere around 2am I woke up with the distinct feeling that someone was saying something to me. I listened and I heard, "You didn't even ask me." We hadn't knocked. We put our hand on the knob of a door that could have opened to a moose, or worse. We prayed about it (Dave had the same conviction before I said anything about it) and we knew we were not to go.

So although I hesitate, pause with my hand cupping the knob, it's not out of fear.
For if He says open, I will.
True, there are no guarantees, except one.
That God's grace is sufficient for me, no matter what is behind the door.
And really, what could be more poetic than that?

Alaska

Like coming out of a stuffy room into a cool night.
Like seeing your mother's face again after a long absence.
Like coming home.
I breathe the Alaskan air and some soul pocket of drought is filled; watered. The mountains glisten their blue sheen. The quaking aspen wave their many-handed welcome. Every way I turn, a memory winks at me. I search faces walking by and realize I'm looking for their childish counter-parts, the friends I had 20 years ago. I forget that I am grown up; that these next to me are my offspring. Page, my best friend of 20 years, and I talk late into the night, forgetting the baby will wake us at dawn. I forget the now and remember the then.

This is the tree out at Beluga that Amy and I almost set on fire. The kids love to hear the story of a windy night and a bon-fire gone bad. They love to touch the black marks and know their mommy and auntie were responsible for the desecration.

My beloved friend Page is well equipped for so many things in life. However....there was no tea kettle or pot to be found so I had to brew my tea in a vase.

One of my favorite places to go in Alaska is Potter's Marsh, a wilderness boardwalk. In the autumn all the green grass is golden and it's reminiscent of Heaven. I walk along it and hum, "it is well with my soul" because it always is well here.

We celebrated Page's birthday at Red Robin. Isn't she cute?

Grant and Isaiah celebrated with her.

Avonlea and Grant love the huge chocolate fountain at the candy store. Isn't that tempting?

I was able to see two of the little girls I nannied. I love them and I love the laughter we always share.

Page's little woman is sweet and funny and happy-go-lucky. She's so like her mama.

I was in a summertime production called the Music Machine for many (nine?) years. We were able to go see the show and it brought so much forgotten joy. I had to stop myself from jumping up on stage a couple times!

All that fun in 48 hours. And the soul pocket filled and the drought ended.......for a year or two anyway.