Hello. So nice of you to stop by. Sorry I missed you.
It’s spring break here in Wichita. I’m unplugging for a few days to spend time with the family.
God willing, I’ll be back on the blog next week. See you then.
Now go. Get out there and live the gift that is your life.
And God is able to bless you abundantly, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work. 2 Corinthians 9:8 NIV
Sometimes what I really need to do is run away. Travel can hold the ticket to a clearer, better perspective.
over Alaska
I may go to a faraway place and detox from the real world. But there are closer, shorter voyages that achieve similar, lifesaving results.
Drive 200 miles to see an old friend. Spend the hours alone in the car. Singing with the radio. Turning it off to discuss things with God. Questioning. Talking it over. Being heard. Listening.
Or take a long lunch to catch up with someone I haven’t seen in a while. Break down the state of the world as we know it. Pick up where we left off as if the time never passed at all.
Or simply bow out of the room for five minutes. Walk around the block. Step back. Breathe. Remember what’s important. Re-engage with peace.
on the beach in Bali
My favorite psychology professor in grad school once told my class a secret. He said he recommended depressed people go to the mountains or the ocean. I imagine the plains, desert, or forest would work as well.
It is in such places they could come face to face with how small they are and how big God is. Surrender to it and find refuge. Then come home able to move—even if ever so slightly—forward.
Perspective is easy to lose, but not so hard to regain either.
Here you thought it was gone forever, but look. There it is a few miles up ahead.
God’s love is meteoric,
His loyalty astronomic,
His purpose titanic,
His verdicts oceanic.
Yet in His largeness
nothing gets lost;
Not a man, not a mouse,
slips through the cracks. Psalm 36:5-6 The Message
The incredible photos in this post are compliments of Janis and Jeff Jones, my traveling friends who see the value in venturing.
Traveling with the Jones
Between the two of them, they’ve traveled to 80 different countries, all 50 states, and 175 cruise ports around the world.
“Travel, for us, is about personal growth,” says Janis. “It gets us out of our routines and our comfort zones; it broadens our horizons and breaks down our misconceptions. Through our travels, we’ve found people are basically the same despite living under vastly different circumstances and cultures.”
Was reminded this week of one of the many reasons why need each other and the blessing of friendship.
dillon’s daffodil
Friends speak truth into my life. Truth that may be obvious to everyone except me. Truth that frees me indeed.
Alex was that kind of friend. I remember the first time I saw him in my old neighborhood. A cheerful, elderly gentleman walking his dog Bo.
He reached out. Always had time to speak and to care. Left anyone he met along the way with a kind, “God bless!”
Alex refused to talk politics or religion with me. The fall we met nearly 10 years ago, I was knee-deep in a rigorous study of the Old Testament history of Israel. Alex was Jewish, and I was dying to dish with him. But he wouldn’t have it. Didn’t want anything to risk a rift between neighbors.
Fast forward to the next fall. After years of infertility, my husband and I were thrilled by the birth of our son. Then colic put a quick damper on our joy for the beginning months.
By spring, the colic was over and all was well again. I was out with the baby one day when Alex came by with Bo. He stopped and talked with me in my yard among the daffodils and hyacinths.
I told him about the discouraging experience of dealing with a colicky baby. How my son cried and cried. How there was no way to comfort him. How I felt like a bad mom.
“It’s sad for you after waiting so long for a child,” said Alex, “to lose the first months with him to colic.” His wise eyes soft with empathy.
No one had said that to me until then, at least not in a way I could hear it. No one had tapped into the emotion of the experience and spoken the truth of it. Colic is sad, even devastating. For the baby, yes. But also for the parents. Also for me.
The content and care of his words was powerful. Alex called out what happened. Gave me permission to feel the pain. Freed me to move on.
Other friends—new and old, close and far—have done this throughout the years and even this week in matters big and small. Probably without realizing it.
Out of nowhere comes that lightning bolt sentence. That straight shot of truth.
It was legalism. You were hurt in ministry by legalism.
Look at the color! It’s perfect! I love that cranberry.
It’s been a week since we experienced our first Kansas thunderstorm. Think Dorothy in a giant, echoing dishwasher.
Last Thursday night, we were nestled all snug in our beds when out of nowhere came the strong wind. Bellowing thunder. Rain whipping against the windows. Four paws pouncing on my back.
The paws belonged to my dog. Her least favorite thing in the world is a thunderstorm. (Her most favorite thing in the world is rotisserie chicken.)
Our bed was damaged in our recent move to Kansas, so my husband and I are sleeping on our mattress and box springs on the floor. Kind of like camping.
This arrangement gives our small dog access to our bed. When the thunderstorm hit, our terrified terrier was glued to my side, trying to burrow under the covers.
It’s not easy to sleep that way, unless you’re like my husband who can sleep through anything.
forward march
Not me. I laid awake in bed, holding my dog, listening to the sky rattle and hum and shake and scream.
As I shared in Moon Walk, where we live in Kansas is flat and mostly devoid of trees. Nothing but God and ground and sky. Thunder echoes and booms like tympani in a large, empty room.
Nothing to buffer the wind. No gusts either. No chance to clear the hair from your face or adjust your vision. Kansas wind is sustained, constant, relentless.
Rain flies horizontally across the prairie. It attacks the house. A smattering of bullets against the siding.
“Jeff, do you hear that?” I whispered. “Should we go to the basement?”
The sounds reverberated, bouncing to the earth and back to the sky then down again. Angry and loud.
In my mind, I knew this was just a thunderstorm. It was not tornadic. It could not hurt me inside my house.
Even if it was tornadic and plowed my house to the ground—even if it killed me, it could not destroy me. Easier to write those words now than to remember them in the storm.
drying out
Storms are like this. They seem to erupt out of nowhere. They are no respecter of persons. None of us is immune.
Storms may devastate, frighten, hurt, and kill. They can last minutes or decades. Afterward, it may take years to rebuild.
But in Christ there is a place storms cannot touch. A place sealed and safe.
And there is a Person present in the storm. He stands beside us in the suffering and terror, even in death.
God, help me remember this because I know I will forget.
Next time the sky tears open and rages against me, next time I tremble, remind me You are with me. There is nothing to fear.
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the LORD your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” from Isaiah 43:1-3 NIV
Before January 2012 makes its final exit, there’s an anniversary to remember.
This month marks the 39th year since the 1973 decision in Roe v. Wade legalized abortion in the United States.
The hair on the back of your neck is rising as you read this, isn’t it?
Some of you are tuning out. Others are mentally rushing to your battle stations. Ready to defend your position in this divisive fight.
Regardless of which side you’re on, abortion inhabits a tragic, tender place.
The numbers are staggering. No one seems to know the exact figure. Most estimates agree abortion has ended more than 54 million pregnancies in America since Roe v. Wade.
That’s a lot of abortions and a lot of women. The Guttmacher Institute reports about half of American women will have an unintended pregnancy, and nearly one-third will have an abortion, by age 45.
The stakes are high. Abort73.com estimates providers take in more than one billion dollars annually for abortion services. On top of that, pro-life and pro-choice groups raise millions of dollars each year to support their causes.
Commonplace. Clinical. But still not openly discussed.
When was the last time you heard Jane or Mary or Lana flippantly drop, “Yes, I had an abortion last week,” in passing at the grocery store? More likely that conversation is shrouded in secrecy and whisper if it happens at all.
We whisper because this is a delicate subject. Maybe, despite our rights and choices, we recognize abortion ends human life.
Feminist writer Naomi Wolf acknowledged this way back on October 16, 1995, in The New Republic. Click here to read a full repost. Wolf writes:
Abortion should be legal; it is sometimes even necessary. Sometimes the mother must be able to decide that the fetus, in its full humanity, must die.
Ayelet Waldman did. In her 2009 best-selling book “Bad Mother,” Waldman writes a chapter entitled “Rocketship,” the nickname she gave her unborn child.
Waldman painfully recounts how she knew she was killing her baby. But she thought it was worth it. Better to choose to end his life than risk giving birth to a child who tested positive for possible birth defects. Waldman writes:
Although I know that others feel differently, when I chose to have the abortion, I feel I chose to end my baby’s life. A baby, not a fetus. A life, not a vague potentiality. As guilty and miserable as I felt, the only way I could survive was to confront my responsibility. Rocketship was my baby. And I killed him. (p.131)
Now we can carry out this choice in near-complete privacy. No accomplices but an inanimate pill. Clean and quiet, or so we think.
Enter Jennie Linn McCormack of Idaho. Sometime in December 2010 or January 2011—news reports vary—this unemployed, unmarried mother of three ended her pregnancy with RU-486, the abortion pill, her sister obtained online. Only McCormack didn’t realize how far along she was.
Frightened and confused, she put the corpse of her baby in a box and set it outside on her porch. The cold, winter air preserved the remains until they were discovered by authorities following a tip. A whisper.
An autopsy concluded the baby was between five and six months gestation.
Can you imagine the horror of facing the remains of your own child? Placing them in a box? Leaving them alone outside in the cold?
McCormack was arrested under a 1972 state law making it illegal for a woman to induce her own abortion. The case was dropped due to lack of evidence.
Meanwhile, McCormack’s been ostracized in her town. Can’t go out. Can’t work. Her private actions making her a pawn in the public battle to decide whose rights, whose life will be protected.
I’m not interested in condemning women who’ve had abortions. I’m not qualified to do so. We all sin, myself included. In Christ, there is the gift of forgiveness for you as much as there is for me and my transgressions. Take hold of it.
extinguished
Encroaching on your rights or privacy isn’t my concern either. I believe it’s most often in brave, lonely, silent moments of desperation you make a choice. You try to set things right in a tragic, tender place.
Yet we can’t turn a blind eye to the mass killing of a muted people. Little ones who have no means to defend themselves. Who have been blotted out of existence. Snuffed out like tiny match lights.
We are American citizens, born and unborn. Hold fire for a moment on this bloodied battlefield and listen. They are your countrymen. Hear them whisper.
How will we answer?
For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb. Psalm 139:13 NIV
Dear Father, hear and bless Thy beasts and singing birds; And guard with tenderness Small things that have no words. —Anonymous
My mother once remarked on the differences between two of her children. While one said, “I’ll do it tomorrow,” the other said, “There is no tomorrow.”
self check-out
Guess which one you’re reading.
Brace yourself. This may come as a surprise.
I’m a little high-strung.
The only gray in my life is on my head when I miss my salon appointment. I’m black and white—and read all over. Considered by some to be entertaining as well.
Although I may look super cool, my nature is type A. Prone to burnout, breakdowns and digestive issues.
Last post you read about how I drive with intention. You may have detected an urgency in other posts too, and you probably will again.
Live now. We’re not getting any younger. Get those ducks in a row. Just do it. Today, please.
When taken to extremes, our strengths look a lot like weaknesses. So I’m learning with age, motherhood, circumstances, my husband’s encouragement, and God’s gentle prodding to cool it. Take my foot off the gas pedal once in a while. Give myself and the rest of the world a break.
As much as I hate it, things spin out of my control.
Okay. Things were never in my control in the first place.
Pacing doesn’t come easy. But with practice and God’s grace, it’s possible to slow down. To actively wait and rest. As I heard the pastor say in yesterday’s sermon, “The invitation is to trust.”
One of my favorite quotes is from writer John Steinbeck. “Don’t worry about losing,” he said. “If it is right, it happens. The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.”
God has a good plan for you and me. He’s the driver. Nothing we do or don’t do stands in His way. God’s plan will be accomplished in spite of us.
tick-tock
Time to rest on that.
And I am certain that God, Who began the good work within you, will continue His work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns. Philippians 1:6 NLT
This is a letter my dearest in the world friend gave me the last time I saw her. Four weeks ago, December 18, 2011.
unopened
There it sits. Pristine. Unopened.
I couldn’t open it the last evening we were together with our families in St. Louis because I would cry. We both knew it would be a long time before we’d see each other again. So I saved the letter to open it later.
“We’ve been here almost a month, and you’re handling this move really well,” said my husband last week. “You’re not crying.”
No, I’m adopting the Midwestern attitude. Putting my head down to forge a life on the prairie. Onward and upward. Just. Work. Harder.
If I open that letter, I’ll disintegrate.
I’ll cry big tears when I think of all that’s been lost. At the same time, in front of me stands so much that’s been gained. The gains hold the tears at bay in a bittersweet tension.
Before we moved, parents from our son’s class at school had a going away party for us. My son asked why they were having it.
“Is it a birthday party?” said my seven-year-old.
His friend, whose family was hosting the event, was with us that day. “No,” he said. “It’s a you’re-going-away-forever party.”
Female Orpheus Fountain Figure by Carl Milles as seen at Missouri Botanical Garden
I intervened. “We’re not dying. We’re only moving.”
But moving is a sort of dying. All changes are. A beloved Bible teacher of my past used to say we first experience change as loss.
We held it together, as did most of our friends, through our goodbyes. Then there was that moment the day I rushed to the groomer’s to pick up the dog.
We wanted to have Ella groomed one last time before we moved. As I paid the sweet shop owner, told her goodbye and thank you for all her years of service to us, she began to sob.
“We’re really going to miss you and Ella,” she said.
Fear shot through the muscles in my face. Confusion billowed up in my brain. Not the groomer. She just couldn’t lose it. No, no, no.
“There’s something about those terriers,” she said and boohooed some more.
“We’ll miss you too,” I said helplessly. “I don’t know how we’ll ever replace you.”
And we won’t. We’ll find another groomer. We’ll find another salon, dry cleaner, church, and circle of friends.
moving truck
Another, but not a replacement.
That’s what I tell myself to keep from opening that letter. At least for now.
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted;
He rescues those whose spirits are crushed. Psalm 34:18 NLT
Me, I’m a part of your Circle of friends. By Edie Brickell.
Ad Astra per Aspera:
To the Stars with Difficulty.
To the stars. What are we waiting for? Let’s go.
See, I am doing a new thing!
Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
and streams in the wasteland. Isaiah 43:19 NIV
It was the post that launched a thousand hits. And then some.
Quite by surprise, WordPress Freshly Pressed this simple story about a bike named Cindy on the last day of August 2011. A deluge of clicks and comments rolled in, making it the most read everyday epistle post to date.
Cheryl and Greg Brewer at a castle in Switzerland
Interestingly, it was last to be picked for Reader’s Choice. My classy, continent-hopping friend Cheryl Brewer came through at the eleventh hour with her unprompted selection.
Seems fitting to make it the Reader’s Choice post on this, the last day of 2011.
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