hands

I spent yesterday with two of my very favorite short people. They're now four, but I remember when they first arrived ...

Mark and Taryn's twins are only a month old, and already I have a favorite. It's whichever one I find myself holding.

Wednesday night, I held Duncan. We stared at each other all during worship. I don't know what he was thinking during that time; I was marveling at how much he'd grown in the few days since I'd seen him last. He didn't smile at my expressions or respond to my questions. That will have to wait a bit. He just watched.

While Dave instructed everyone to turn to 2 Samuel 5, I sat rocking Duncan and feeling a little rebellious. I wasn't turning to 2 Samuel 5, but I was listening. After just a few minutes, Duncan made "I'm hungry" movements, so I took the bottle Taryn handed me and started feeding him. He eats like a champ--just the way Zac ate when he was new. Get down to it, do it like you mean it, don't dawdle. And then he spit up--just like Zac used to after every single feeding. I sat wiping and burping and feeding Duncan, and wishing I could turn the clock back and have my own baby again for five minutes.

With his tummy full, Duncan struggled to stay awake. How do month-old babies already know to fight sleep? More evidence of what a good teacher Dave is. Duncan didn't want to miss a word.

But he lost his battle. His eyelids succumbed to gravity, and I was abandoned. I looked at his almost-not-there eyebrows, his nearly invisible eyelashes, and the barely noticeable flaring of his tiny nostrils. I watched the ripple of miniature muscle along his forehead as he furrowed those little eyebrows. Was he dreaming of empty bottles? I placed my finger in his hand and both watched and felt the curl of his fingers as he responded.

It was that hand that captured my thoughts. I turned the palm up and traced each finger, pondering the fact that those hands have yet to test the waters. They haven't yet moved in response to a thought ... good or bad. He hasn't used them yet to pick flowers for his mother, or pet a dog, or clap with delight. Nor has he used them to pinch his sister, or pilfer one of her toys. Those hands are untested, but all the potential is there. As I sat tracing those little fingers and wondering what Duncan would choose to do with his hands as he grew, I prayed God would guide him.

And then I looked at my own hands, and wished again I could turn the clock back; wished for a chance to go back and pick more flowers, and steal less toys.

sunday snapshot

Here's what I saw when no one knew I looked, when the noise kept swirling and circulating and my silence slipped by without notice:

--A dozen men who gathered around Ed, laid hands on him, and prayed for all the expected things before surgery--peace, a settling of heartbeats, precision, clear eyes, fast recovery.

--Elaina greeting Katrisha with a hug just before both turned their hearts back toward worship.

--Laughing toddlers.

--Scotty claiming a quiet space in the crowd so that he could turn his eyes and his smile toward his infant nephew.

--Brothers shaking awkwardness after a clash of iron against iron, remembering grace, and Jesus, and the need for a fresh start.

--A cluster of women bubbling over with fondness for one another.

--A head bowed over an open Bible.

--Family.

--Love.

--Joy.

I am so grateful that I don't walk this path alone, but have the gift of this big, lovely, loving family to walk with. Just one more gift that draws my eyes upward and "thank You" from my lips.

Now all who believed were together, and had all things in common, and sold their possessions and goods, and divided them among all, as anyone had need. So continuing daily with one accord in the temple, and breaking bread from house to house, they ate their food with gladness and simplicity of heart, praising God and having favor with all the people. And the Lord added to the church daily those who were being saved. ~Acts 2:44-47 (NASB)

And let us be moving one another at all times to love and good works; not giving up our meetings, as is the way of some, but keeping one another strong in faith; and all the more because you see the day coming near. ~Hebrews 10:24-25 (BEB)

wondering

Last night was my turn at serving in the church nursery. But "served," I must say, seems a far cry from what actually transpired. I was blessed to sit in that corner rocker, holding that beautiful new boy. Sean and I spent a quiet hour doing little more than rocking and staring. I don't know what thoughts went through his little mind, but here are mine.

He's less than three months old. His eyes have yet to focus on injustice; his heart hasn't yet felt pain. All his needs are tended to by his mother--a girl I love like my own--and by his father, who still has that "What has happened here?" look on his face. When he's in the building, Grandpa (John) elbows Grandma (Laurie) out of the way for a chance at touching and talking and tending. The rest of us, so very aware of our lesser-than positions, accept our Sean-crumbs with gratitude. This boy is loved. He knows nothing less.

But tonight, as I hold him close and watch his slender, almost-not-there fingers curling around mine, I think of the freshness of his slate and the span of his possibilities. Who will this child be when he emerges from this infant-fog, when he steps into the world and claims his spot? Will he be thinker ... doer ... leader ... poet? Will the echoes of our worship build into a crescendo and lift his thoughts above himself? Will he offer all his maybes on the altar of devotion? Will he speak to his generation? Will he obey the One who fashioned him?

I don't know any of that. I know only that this moment, in this place, those eyes see me, and those fingers curl about mine for anchor.

Lord God, keep me on my knees on his behalf. Keep me watching on his wall. Help me love him toward You.

And make him Yours ... fully Yours.

hallelujah night

About seven seconds after we had it all in place--balloons tacked on the dart board; Goliath at the ready, defiant in the face of all those bean bags; bowl after bowl of piled-high candy; donuts hanging from strings; the hay wagon parked at the back gate; candy bags and markers ready for little hands--the first of our guests arrived: Spiderman (the first of a good half-dozen), Cinderella (the first of several bedazzling beauties), and a tiny, whiskered Kitten. After that trio came a deluge, and the building came alive with the sounds of their united delight.

The adults entered into the fun as well. Suzzanne came as a raccoon. Cora came as Suzzanne. Jennifer was adorable as a Cow Girl. Scotty came as Snoopy's Flying Ace friend, and Joe was a convincing old man. Speaking of men, Dave, Chris, John, Rob, Bobby and about twenty others took turns eyeing and picking up the giant pumpkin at the front table, then "Nah"-ing each other's guesses as to the weight of all that orangeness. The early word is that Rob came in with the closest guess and wins the turkey dinner. Way to know your pumpkins, Rob.

Van, as usual, drove the hay wagon. This year, waiting bandits (Jeremy, Lucas, Nathan, Skylar and Korey) hid in shadows at the edges of our grassed acre. At a secret signal, they waylayed the hay wagon, boarded, and gave candy to all the squealing riders.

Peter and Elaina brought two-month old Sean dressed as a Ninja. I'm not sure I've seen anything cuter--ever.

My Tera made cupcakes and organized the Cake Walk, which was a big hit with the short crowd. Dave Kunkle revived his "Phat Jack's" hot dog cart and fed the crowd for free. The strangers in our midst expressed their surprise at his gesture. If they come back and hang around, they'll see a lot of that with this bunch.

Old friends came to visit. New friends were made. After a brief skit, one of the kids accepted Tammy's invitation to meet Jesus.

I'm not a big fan of Halloweeen, but I'm pretty fond of our Harvest Party. And I love my church like crazy.

hillbilly chili

So we have our annual Chili Cook-off last Sunday. And just like every year, little paper donkeys hung on the walls of the church office. Honey-combed sombreros and chili peppers dotted the tables. A giant blow-up jalapeno bounced and jiggled in its pinned-up spot near the door.

One by one, potholder-clad women carried in casserole dishes of cornbread--some plain, some cheesy, some flecked with peppers or corn or a little of both. One by one, confident-looking men strode in with their crock pots of chili. You could see by their faces that each of those men had already cleared a spot back home for the Chili King plaque; each could already feel that Chili King crown on their big heads.

Like I do every year, I had to smile at all that confidence.

Waiting hands took each entry, numbered them, and shooed the contestants outside. While the men stood around in clusters not telling each other their recipes, the women wandered from group to group encouraging each other. "Ooh, you put green chilis in your cornbread--I love that!" "White cornmeal ... that's a good idea." "Yours looks so cheesy! I'm definitely trying yours."

Only God could have made men and women so different.

Though most of the men were mum about their entries, one man (who shall remain unnamed) began campaigning pretty much the moment he handed his entry over and heard his number. "Try number 10," he urged. "You gotta try number 10."

A lot of people tried number 10. All the judges did, of course. And then, after Sue Kunkle was crowned Cornbread Queen and Scott Mayor was crowned Chili King, and Dave handed over the plaque from last year and we all lined up for chili, a whole lot of people dished themselves up a big scoop of number 10.

We ate. And then, when it was far too late to do anything about it, the maker of number 10 spilled the beans. It seems the meat in his chili was meat he had trapped, killed and skinned himself. At his house. Where the varmint had just, the day before, killed one of his ducks. Number 10 chili was full of ... raccoon.

Oh, the gagging that ensued. The retching. The groaning. Laughter came later, but people in shock don't usually think to laugh. It took quite awhile for the color to return to that crowd.

The jokes have begun, of course. Suzzanne Schalo, one of the judges, took it the hardest. Her husband, Joel, and I have had a good time teasing her about the ordeal. "Did it taste like chicken?" I asked. Joel told me she's been picking whiskers out of her teeth all week, and that she might be coming down with a cough ... unless it's just a fur-ball. I told her I didn't want to see her nosing around the garbage cans or chasing ducks.

Pretty much the second we got home from the Cook-Off, Dave began writing up the rules for next year. Rule number one: ingredient disclosure.

Only in Marysville, Washington--home of Hillbilly Chili, and Calvary Chapel Boone-ville ... or should that be Coon-ville?

abundance

From the time I was a child, I've been aware of "girly" behavior. I don't think mannish behavior looks good on a woman. So you'll never find me sitting backwards on a chair with one leg slung left and one leg slung right. I wouldn't crop my hair short, or wear clothes that could go either way.

And the only reason I'm telling you that is because you need to know the power of crab. Put a plate of crab in front of me, and I forget all about girly behavior. Sleeves are for wiping; fingers for dipping; silverware nothing but optional.

We went crabbing yesterday with people so lovely that in ten years of knowing them, I've yet to spot a single flaw. I've long believed they're really angels masquerading as humans. I've told them my suspicions, to which they just laugh nervously. But what else would you expect compromised agents to do? No one else has caught on. One day, however, all the earth will know that John, Laurie, and Elaina Watson (now Elaina Scougale) are angels. (Scotty, their son, is a real boy. I'm not sure how that worked out).

We rose early and took John's boat out. I can't tell you where. Even angels like to keep their best crab-hunting grounds secret. Let's say it was somewhere in the neighborhood of Camano Island. Let's say it was near a green buoy. Let's not say anything more.

Blue sky, bluer Puget Sound waves, and just enough breeze to ward off sweat. Laurie brought perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwiches packed in perfect, uncut rectangles in the very bag the bread came in. Along with that we had peaches from Costco, ice cold water, and little bags of Cheetohs. I'd brought along bags of raw nuts, but you can probably see the end from here. Cheetohs trump raw nuts any day of the week.

John and Dave loaded all six traps with turkey legs while Laurie, Tera and I led cheers from our perching spots. After dropping the traps in a long, bobbing line, John taught Tera how to drive the boat. Somehow, I felt relaxed enough while she bounced us along Puget Sound that I managed to knit several rows of a black, baby Alpaca wool scarf.

We ate and laughed and told each other stories. We talked about church, and God, and how good He is to have brought us all together. And in between all that, we (meaning the men) snagged 15 Dungeness and 3 Red Rock crab.

In really good stories, you don't have to follow the main character while she sorts through junk mail or maneuvers her car back and forth into a parking space or brushes her teeth. You skip all those boring life details and go right to the good stuff. So I won't tell you about emptying out the boat, or snapping the tarp back into place, or driving home, or cleaning all those crab. Let's just go to the table.

There was butter. Lots and lots and lots of butter, melted just so, with a layer of translucent yellow floating over an opaque collection of creamy, salty loveliness. I knew going in that some of that deliciousness would end up on me; sure enough, I wore a splatter or two when I arrived at church later.

I'd brought along marinated T-Bone steaks from our own home-grown cow. While the steaks cooked, I sauteed mushrooms in butter, garlic, worchestershire and sherry. Laurie made corn-on-the-cob; John handled the crab. Dave watched expectantly.


The table bowed in the middle under all that bounty. John, knowing that crab is the thing of my daydreams, teased that he was going to pray a long, long time--just to make me wait. I laughed nervously (angel payback, I'm thinking), but then, looking at the faces I love so much and the abundance of God's provision, it occurred to me that we could pray for a half an hour straight without really making much of a dent at all.

How does one begin to say thank You for a mountain of blessing?

rich man

We went to Dick's drive-in in the U-District Thursday (U being University of Washington, for those of you unfamiliar with my exotic, sophisticated, Washingtonian lingo). It wasn't optional. As far as I know, it's not possible to drive to and from SeaTac airport without making the obligatory stop at Dick's--our version of In-and-Out Burger.

Got in line. Gave our order: Two deluxe, four cheeseburgers, four fries, two tartar, three vanilla shakes, one diet Coke. And then Dave said, "Isn't that Bill Gates?"

Sure enough. Two lines over, smiling and trying not to notice that twenty heads had turned in his direction, was the founder of Microsoft. "Hi, Bill," someone near him said, as though Bill were a buddy.

"Hello," he said, still smiling.

One woman left her line and scampered over to stand behind him. Clearly, he was her buddy too. She began talking as though resuming a previously interrupted conversation.

While I strained to eavesdrop, Zac, whom we had picked up at the airport, said, "That's just wrong." I might have heard more of Bill's conversation than just the woman's "I've noticed it's really grown around there in the last ten years, haven't you?" if Zac wasn't delivering a speech about standing-in-line propriety and burger anonymity right in my ear.

"Mom, quit looking at him," he warned, right in the middle of said speech.

I really wanted to linger so I could tell you what Bill ordered, but Zac hustled me right to the car. I can tell you that Bill wore simple black pants and a modest blue jacket with thin black squares, and that his wife was waiting for him in their Volvo station wagon, two cars from ours.

I have to say, he seems like a very nice, very humble man. But while watching Bill back up their car, pull out of Dick's, and drive east on 45th Street, I thought the same thing I often think when his name or his face pops up in the news. I thought of baubles, and how quickly they will dissipate when this life is over.

Later in the day, we went to the home of a rich man, to bring him worship and communion in the last hours of his life.

We parked not far from his mobile home, and noticed as we did so that two other couples from church--Dave and Sue Kunkle, and John and Laurie Watson--were also parked near the Baileys' home. With Bible, communion elements, and guitar in hand, we walked up to the house, knocked on the door, and joined the others inside.

Bruce was lying in his hospital bed in the living room next to the sliding glass door, where he had a view of the neighboring mobile homes, and the potted plants Alberta had set on their deck. Two IV bags hung from a stand at the head of his bed. When I asked her if she rotated the bags herself, she nodded. "It's OK except when I have to lift the stand higher to get a better drip. I'm just not strong enough to do it when two bags are hanging there."

I walked to the bed and took Bruce's hand. "Hello," I said. "It's good to see you." His eyes latched with mine. He didn't speak or smile, but his grip tightened. "Your hands are nice and warm," I said.

We took seats around the bed, and prayed, and sang. First, a song of declaration.

I believe in Jesus
I believe He is the Son of God
I believe He died and rose again
I believe He paid for us all
And I believe that He's here now
Standing in our midst
Here with the power to heal now
And the grace to forgive

Then a song of adoration.

Isn't He (isn't He)
Beautiful (beautiful)
Beautiful (beautiful)
Isn't He (isn't He)
Prince of Peace
Son of God
Isn't He

After another song, and more prayer, Dave asked, "Bruce, would you like to have communion?" And Bruce said his one and only word: "Yes."

Dave read from Matthew. Alberta gave her husband a small bite of communion bread, then helped him drink the juice. Then, clustered around his bed, we laid hands on Bruce and prayed that God would ease his pain, and fill him with peace, and give him glimpses of the heaven he was about to enter. Bruce closed his eyes, and kept them closed--and sometime in early hours of Saturday morning, he opened them to Jesus.

He died a rich man--rich in the love of his wife, the love of his church family, the love of his God.

And he's a rich man still.

For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world, and forfeit his soul? ~Mark 8:36

little hands

With that "paci" in her mouth, Amber has the power to leap walls, ward off toy-snatchers, and participate in the after-fellowship ritual of runner rolling-up.

Duncan needs no accoutrements. He brings only bare muscle and the fierceness of two-year old determination.

For months now, these two have been my escorts to and from my car on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. Duncan will not permit me to carry my own Bible. "I do it," he states in a tone that permits no discussion. When he reaches for the handle of my blue Bible cover, Amber--always at his side--pops in her power-propelling-pacifier and reaches for my purse. "I do it." And so we walk together. Flanked by my two small guards, I fear nothing.

"You're so strong!" I always tell them. "What good helpers!" Two turns into twelve overnight, and twelve-year olds are not always as quick to reach for what needs carrying. I want my voice to linger long in their memories.

So when I turned around a few Sundays ago and saw the twins kneeling beside Van, who had set his own dignity aside in the name of service and was crawling along behind a growing roll of floor runner, I gave them my usual pep talk. "Look how strong you two are! What good helpers!"

Behind her pacifier, Amber grinned. I think Duncan heard me. He was just too busy imitating Van to let me know.

Little hands grow fast. Father, cause them soon to reach for You.

soul food

Three times today ... maybe five ... maybe a dozen, my thoughts have turned toward tonight, when we fellowship-moths will gather around the Light, and fill ourselves up with food and laughter and the Word.

Mark will arrive first, of course. He's the Spaghetti Man. And because he's wired that way, he'll have the table up, the burners lit, the water boiling, and sauce on the way in about half the time it would take the rest of us. It's the same automatic pilot he uses to juggle two windows of orders at his espresso stand while still managing to chat with dual customers and nod at the two lines of cars waiting semi-patiently for their turn.

Tera and I will mix up the Caesar salad, and cut and pile hefty chunks of soft French bread.

As others arrive, we'll hear reports about what we've all been doing in the hours we're forced forced to be apart. Josh and Nate will tell about their baseball games. Duncan and Amber, who think my name is "Danny" (and I hope they never figure out the truth), will hug me hello and bring me shoes that need tying. I'll get a hug from Pam before she heads in to set up the projector. Debbie will drift in, tired from a workday that began at 3:00 a.m., but happy to be among family. Word is, Kathy might bring more of those amazing buttercream/chocolate cupcakes from her dowtown Seattle espresso shop. We'll watch for that. The Harris duo will be there, and the Heaths, and the Ramoses, and the Watsons and Scougales. Bobby will bring his new bride, Brenda. The Kellys will be there ... and maybe the Kelleys. Sharon. Rob. A neighbor boy, who has recently started coming. Van and Bruce, Ian and Ted. And all the rest of this crazy crew. We'll chat ... and we'll wait ... and when the clock says "Eat," we'll pray, pass the styrofoam plates, and get in a long, polite line.

The food will be great, as always. (Mark has it down) The conversation will be punctuated with lots of laughter, as always. (We're a decorum-less bunch). And when it's all been said and done and eaten, we'll move ourselves from the Italian-scented room to the room filled with guitar strums, and praise, and prayer. We'll unlatch, unzip, or unsnap our Bibles, open to the Psalms, and get our second--and even better--feeding of the night.

Two hours to go. I can barely wait.

God, how You've blessed us with this lovely, loving family ... and how abundantly You feed us.

loved

It's Wednesday night again, and once again, I'm taken with the sight of wiggly, front-row floor inhabiting boys. This time, it's Corbin and Josh. They shimmy to Peter's rhythm. They stare at Jeff's fingers, flying a fret dance along the length of his guitar, and whisper "somedays" to one another. When Sylvia runs a stick against the chimes or shakes that shiny black egg, they point and giggle.

Corbin catches my eye, and when he sees no disapproval there, he exaggerates his conductor-waves for my approval. If you're looking for boundaries, little boy, you'll have to look elsewhere. I'm one of you.

When the last of six songs drifts to stillness, and a plea for wisdom has been ushered skyward, the short people are excused. Corbin waves as he walks back. If he could wink, I've a feeling he would have left me with one of those too.

Josh marches right past me ... but then, for reasons known only to that stoic, often unreadable child, he stops and turns to me. Two small arms open wide, and I fall right into them. He presses his little face against my shoulder, eliciting the only words worth saying. "I love you," I tell him.

And then, while I'm smiling and watching that tiny boy resume his determined march to class, another favorite crosses the aisle and holds out an offering. It's Nathan, and he's brought me a gift to add to my collection. Without a word, he sets two heart-shaped rocks on the chair beside me, gives me a quick, shy grin, and joins the exodus out of the sanctuary.

I don't deserve to be this loved ... but I'll take it all.

calvary girls

What I didn't tell you, when I wrote last week's post, was that I managed to get the baby and myself in trouble during worship. From across the aisle, she reached for me. I reached back. We smiled, and wiggled our fingers toward each other. And she began giggling ... loudly. Well, look at her. You'd play with the child too. Her dad, Ian, actually turned her car seat around and put the hood up so she and I couldn't keep up our across-the-room conversation. But he shot a grin at me to soften the blow.

Last night, Alexia asked me to take her out of the car seat and carry her to my chair. Don't ask me how an eleven-month child verbalizes such longings. She just did.

When I told Ian what Alexia wanted, he smirked, but gave me his permission. And so, during the first three worship songs (before she got just a bit too happy and I was forced to take her to the nursery), I got to hold that warm, wiggly body and stroke that silky black hair. She rocked back and forth in time to Jeff's guitar strums. She reached for Dave's phone, clipped to the right side of his belt. She stared at my nose. She waved her hands at Sally and Hannah, sitting behind us. She played with her favorite toy, a plastic turkey leg. And she stole what little bit of my heart she hadn't already possessed.

While I was loving Alexia and thanking God He thought to make her, we sang an old favorite. The words couldn't have been more appropriate.

Father of lights
You delight in Your children
Father of lights
You delight in Your children
Every good and perfect gift comes from You
Father of lights

Sometimes, we have to get in touch with our own heartbeat before we can hear His. That baby isn't even mine, and yet I am completely delighted with her. I can't get enough of her tiny fingers, her soft little cheeks, and that contagious giggle. I think she's perfect.

And while I was thinking those thoughts and singing those words, God made me really hear them.

Father of lights
You delight in Your children

It made my heart lurch a bit to realize what He was telling me, because I know myself and I know I'm not as lovable as He thinks I am. But there it was. He's delighted with Alexia, and Sally, and Hannah ... and me.

Oh, how blessed we are to be His.

calvary boys

Isaac sits at his father's feet, cross-legged, playing with a yellow sportscar. To his left, his little sister lies sleeping in her car seat. To his right, just five feet of carpet separates him from Peter, who is playing the conga with his eyes closed and his head toward heaven. I can feel the pounding of Peter's hand against that taut skin from my side of the room; I know Isaac feels it through the floor.

He pushes his sports car along an unseen-to-me highway, causing it to skirt surprise obstacles, jump other cars, twirl and leap and dodge the way only 6" cars in the hand of 6-year old boys can do. Stuck at a stoplight, he uses that time to notice his sister's fluttering eyelids. He bends his head, ducks under the handle of her car seat, and kisses her cheek once, twice, three times for good measure.

I watch him and I know he's oblivious to the words we're singing:

The arms of God are open, waiting
Everlasting, loving, saving
Underneath me when I fall
Outstretched every time I call
The arms of God are always near
They hold me high above my fear
This is where I want to stay
My Hideaway

Does that boy know why we gather in this room Wednesday nights and fill this space with guitar strums and congo beats and voices raised in praise? Does he know the gratitude that fuels our worship--the remembrances that lift our hands and faces toward the sky? He doesn't. Not yet. But I pray that as he sits here, Wednesday night after Wednesday night, he begins to understand that You, Jesus, are his hideaway and his rest.

Drill deeply, Lord, and plant a seed of faith.

In the very back row, another boy has taken a seat. He accepted my hug when he walked through the door, but he was careful to choose a way-back place, and take a middle seat between two empty chairs.

I've known this boy since he was small and blonde, with eyes that looked much too big for his tiny face. An enduring image I have, whenever his name crosses my mind and I latch hold, is of an afternoon the 4-year old version of himself spent at my house making kites. When we'd taped the drinking straw crossbeam in place and unfurled the tissue paper tail, he took it outside and showed me his kite-flying skills. The higher it rose, the deeper his dimples grew. As he ran circles in my fenced-in backyard, the sun broke through the evergreen boughs overhead and sprinkled light sparkles over the grass.

He's been gone a long time--long enough to venture into dark corners. He looks older tonight, and sadder, as if he knew things he wished he didn't. But he's here. He's come home.

Does he hear the words we're singing now? Does he know they offer the cleansing he's looking for?

Mine was Your only sin
Yours is my only righteousness
Mine was Your only shame
Yours is my only confidence
You took all of me; I want all of You

Mine was the pain You bore
Yours is the healing I received
Mine was the nails and thorns
Yours is my life abundantly
You took all of me; I want all of You

I'm waiting here to feel Your touch
The weight of sin it seems so much
The freedom that You offer me is You

Mine was the the victory
Yours is the blood that purchased me
Mine is a blessed way
Yours is my love eternally
You took all of me; I want all of You

Does that boy know You are the answer, Jesus? Does he know that You're the stealer of shame, the robber of regret?

Drill gently, Lord, and free his heart to remember.
*******

"Hideaway" and "The Trade" by Brett Williams

heart cries

On Wednesday nights, when the message has been taught and we're all full and satisfied, we close our Bibles, arrange ourselves in circles, and turn our gaze from the Word to the Writer.

Within my own group of seven or eight, I try, at first, to not hear the voices in all the other circles. Because I have a hard time keeping my eyes closed during prayer (is it only me who feels closer to my Creator when I study the hands and feet and faces of His artwork?) I stare at the shoes lining our circle, and sneak surreptitious peeks at their owners. But soon the voices in the room begin to overlap and harmonize. I stop fighting the sound. Instead, I let it in, and I envision those ascending chords rising through the ceiling of this building. I've read that God draws in the fragrance of our prayers like a delightful perfume, and so treasures them that He keeps them in a special bowl. So although I can't see our prayers, I know the mingled sounds rise and swell and swirl together en route to the throne room.

    Lord, remember my brother-in-law on the mission field ...
                 ... and she’s only four, Father. Please touch her body ...
            My neighbor, Joe, is going to Korea after being in Iraq ...
                Lord, I want to lift up my workplace ...
        We want to see Your kingdom ...
         ... and so I thank You for providing ...
                 ...and be with the persecuted Church in other countries ...
         We pray for our president ...
                         ... that You would desire to dwell here ...
                                ... the continued presence of Your Spirit ...
        Please give us what we need to respond to You ...
              I want to pray for my dad ...
                                I'm grateful, Father ...


And I think in awe of the God who is everywhere enough to hear it all—-who bends his ear to pick up the sigh of a heart, and stores the memory of His child’s murmur.

hands

Mark and Taryn's twins are only a month old, and already I have a favorite. It's whichever one I find myself holding.

Wednesday night, I held Duncan. We stared at each other all during worship. I don't know what he was thinking during that time; I was marveling at how much he'd grown in the few days since I'd seen him last. He didn't smile at my expressions or respond to my questions. That will have to wait a bit. He just watched.

While Dave instructed everyone to turn to 2 Samuel 5, I sat rocking Duncan and feeling a little rebellious. I wasn't turning to 2 Samuel 5, but I was listening. After just a few minutes, Duncan made "I'm hungry" movements, so I took the bottle Taryn handed me and started feeding him. He eats like a champ--just the way Zac ate when he was new. Get down to it, do it like you mean it, don't dawdle. And then he spit up--just like Zac used to after every single feeding. I sat wiping and burping and feeding Duncan, and wishing I could turn the clock back and have my own baby again for five minutes.

With his tummy full, Duncan struggled to stay awake. How do month-old babies already know to fight sleep? More evidence of what a good teacher Dave is. Duncan didn't want to miss a word.

But he lost his battle. His eyelids succumbed to gravity, and I was abandoned. I looked at his almost-not-there eyebrows, his nearly invisible eyelashes, and the barely noticeable flaring of his tiny nostrils. I watched the ripple of miniature muscle along his forehead as he furrowed those little eyebrows. Was he dreaming of empty bottles? I placed my finger in his hand and both watched and felt the curl of his fingers as he responded.

It was that hand that captured my thoughts. I turned the palm up and traced each finger, pondering the fact that those hands have yet to test the waters. They haven't yet moved in response to a thought ... good or bad. He hasn't used them yet to pick flowers for his mother, or pet a dog, or clap with delight. Nor has he used them to pinch his sister, or pilfer one of her toys. Those hands are untested, but all the potential is there. As I sat tracing those little fingers and wondering what Duncan would choose to do with his hands as he grew, I prayed God would guide him.

And then I looked at my own hands, and wished again I could turn the clock back; wished for a chance to go back and pick more flowers, and steal less toys.

this weekend--part two

The Bride at Calvary Chapel Marysville is happy, and beautiful ... and noisy. In fact, they're probably the noisiest people I've ever met. But it's the best kind of sound.

On the first Sunday of every month, shortly after church ends, we load up the bounty and meet at the church office for a potluck. As I'm not one of the plan-aheaders, those pre-potluck Saturday nights often find me standing in front of the open freezer, staring down and praying that a delicious option will rise from the heap. This weekend, still tired from the writers' conference, I needed something easy. And there it was--the last bag of crockpot stroganoff. It's not the best-tasting stuff all on its own; if you want to like it, you have to add cream cheese and sour cream and a bunch of seasoning. But it will do in a pinch.

I got up early on Sunday and started the stroganoff. By the time I landed back home with two loaves of French bread, the house already smelled wonderful. Fran, Jon, and their four children arrived just as I was mixing up my not-so-secret bread spread and slathering it on the loaves. (I know you're going to ask ... mix up an enormous glob of mayonnaise with several handfuls of shredded cheese (any kind or combination will do). Add a little cayenne, some garlic powder, salt and pepper, and spread it over the two halves of a cut loaf of French bread. Broil until bubbly. Try not to eat the whole thing yourself.)

While we waited for the bubbly, Fran whipped up a fruit salad. What is it about simple fruit cubes and Cool Whip that causes such rapturous anticipation? It's so simple, we could have it every day, but for some silly reason, we make ourselves wait for Thanksgiving and church potlucks.

The timer dinged and I pulled four cheesy delights from the oven. As I could see that "Don't you think we ought to test it?" expression on every face in the house, we did. Just little pieces, mind you, but it was enough to silence growly stomachs, if only long enough to get down to the church office.

When we pulled in, a tummy-tugging aroma met us in the foyer--that rare combination of baked chicken, tater casserole, saucy penne, chicken pot pie, and still-warm brownies that you find only at church potlucks. The line for food had already formed. We scooched to the back of the line and prayed there'd still be brownies. And there were.

If you could hover in a corner of the room and take it all in at once, I think you'd be most impressed by our ability to eat while simultaneously conducting multiple conversations. The noise level rides on laughter and teasing and instructions to "Bring me back some of that, will you? Just a tiny piece!"

Kids are everywhere--needing juice, needing a bite off your plate, needing a lap. I must confess that those little ones are my favorite part of every potluck. I held Mark and Taryn's twins--first Duncan, then Amber--until I saw ominous looks in the eyes of the other women--looks which told me I had to share. Noelle came to talk and play a bit. Gracie crawled under the table and reached up for me to take her in my lap. Rachel stopped chasing Brady over the chair long enough to give me a kiss. Joel poked me in the head with a Cheetoh.

When we'd sampled every offering and couldn't pull ourselves from the table, we sat and solved the world's problems. Chris and Dave talked about their new and shared passion--beekeeping (I will most definitely have to post about that at another time). Elaina D. brought her knitting over and showed us her work-in-progress. Merrylue brought me a chunk of chocolate cake and a sliver of carrot cake, which I nibbled while Sylvia and I discussed global economics (Ha! Gotcha, didn't I?) at the same time that Hannah and Cora discussed paint color (Cinnamon and Butternut) over our heads.

I gave my bread recipe to John and Laurie, and a few others who had asked. Jeff flitted from table to table, meeting people he hadn't met before and howdy-ing up the ones had already had. Another not-to-be-named man who found himself seated next to a new boy warded off comments about his body. "What's that long thing hanging out of your nose?" the boy asked, before adding, "Oh. I guess it's just your nose."

We're a funny, quirky bunch. I think you'd like us ... if you could handle the noise.

shackles

Two weekends, two women's retreats.

I spent the first with the women of Trinity Baptist Church. We gathered in Leavenworth, Washington (home of Bavarian-styled storefronts, lots of sausage, and a man who climbs a second-story balcony railing each morning in his lederhosen and blows a ten-foot alphhorn to serenade the town) and discussed what it means to walk "Hand in Hand" with one another. Though I'd only met three of the women before I arrived (and then only briefly), the bunch welcomed me warmly, treated me as though I were one of their own, listened attentively to my teaching, and hugged me on my way when it came time to say good bye. A truly lovely group of women. Before it was all over, my sister, Nancy, (who is my assistant and a wonderful traveling companion) and I spent several hours fingering yarn and talking patterns with the shop owner of Wooly Bully, Leavenworth's finest yarn shop. We also consumed far too much passionfruit gelato from Viadolce ... but I'm not apologizing.

Weekend two was spent with my own women at our annual retreat. As we've done for the past four years, we gathered out at The Homestead, a family-run retreat center between Snohomish and Monroe. I saw no lederhosen-clad men, heard no horns, tasted no passionfruit gelato. But here's what we did experience:

• The full gamut of emotions: much laughter, many tears, gratitude, and joy
• The kind of unity that only comes when you're all on the same page
• The releasing of a few hurts
• The birthing of many new friendships
• An openness like none we've shared before
• Shackles ... and a lot of dancing

That last one calls for an explanation. We had two fabulous singers in our midst: Patty Estrada (my good friend and the wife of my longest-standing friend, Andy. Patty has led worship for four of our retreats, and I can't even begin to describe what it's like when she takes the piano and starts worshiping. God has anointed that girl) and Sonya Kaye (also a beloved friend. She made the trip from Tacoma simply because she wanted to attend a retreat, but ended up blessing us with her amazing voice and spirit).

Every part of this retreat was ordained by God. It's always that way. It doesn't matter if you start planning in October (which I don't) or you wait on Him right up to the last few weeks (which I do), He's the originator of retreats, the knitter of details, the opener of hearts. We couldn't possibly have planned the blessing that came upon us. Though Tarri, Fran and I met a few months back to discuss our theme, I have to be honest ... we had lunch, talked about the retreat for a half an hour or so, and then spent the rest of the afternoon learning how to knit an I-cord. After that, our huddles went something like this:

"Are you ready?"
"No. Are you ready?"
"No."

I wasn't worried. I'm never worried. Because I've been doing this long enough that I know God will reveal His plan in His own time, and will bring together details we couldn't possibly orchestrate. It's His retreat, after all.

We had no idea what the three of us were planning to teach (other than that it all revolved around our theme). Nor did we know what Kari would say in her devotional. Nor did we know what Sylvia would share in her testimony. Nor did we know the songs Patty had planned, or the songs Sonya would share Friday night. And it's a blessing we didn't know, because we walked around with big eyes and awed hearts as the thread began to show itself. God planned it all. Without knowing I was going to teach about Hosea's forgiving love toward Gomer, Sonya chose a song by Scott Kripayne about forgiveness, entitled, "I Can't Believe You Still Love Me"--a song she sang for the women just before my teaching. The three sessions echoed, confirmed, or elaborated on the points of each other. Kari's devotional and Sylvia's testimony served as exclamation points on a sentence we didn't know we were writing. And over all, God's presence hovered.

The joy we felt, collectively, was so intense it needed release. Even though there was plenty of blowing-off-steam time (the women participated in our first ever "Amazing Race" competition, complete with ladder ball, hoola-hoops, gingerbread houses, popping balloons, and a trip across the pond via swing or scooching bottoms), we had such a welling need to proclaim the release God had wrought that we pushed back all the chairs and danced to Patty, Sonya and Sylvia's rendition of "Shackles" (Mary, Mary)--not once, but twice.

When I think of our retreat, I will remember the tears, and the stomach-tightening laughter, and the numerous times women told me, "This is the best retreat we've ever had." But I think the overriding picture I'll carry with me is the sight of my beloved sisters dancing to the sound of their own freedom, with clapping hands, shining faces, and eyes closed in pure delight.

Enjoy the lyrics.

Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance
I just wanna praise You
I just wanna praise You
You broke the chains now I can lift my hands
And I'm gonna praise You
I'm gonna praise You

In the corners of my mind
I just can't seem to find a reason to believe
That I can break free
Cause you see I have been down for so long
Feel like all hope is gone
But as I lift my hands, I understand
That I should praise You through my circumstance

Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance
I just wanna praise You
I just wanna praise You
You broke the chains now I can lift my hands
And I'm gonna praise You
I'm gonna praise You

Everything that could go wrong
All went wrong at one time
So much pressure fell on me
I thought I was going to lose my mind
But I know You wanna see
If I will hold on through these trials
But I need You to lift this load
Cause I can't take it no more

Take the shackles off my feet so i can dance
I just wanna praise you
I just wanna praise you
You broke the chains now I can lift my hands
And I'm gonna praise You
I'm gonna praise You

Been through the fire and the rain
Bound in every kind of way
But God has broken every chain
So let me go right now

Take the shackles off my feet so I can dance
I just wanna praise You
I just wanna praise You
You broke the chains now I can lift my hands
And I'm gonna praise You
I'm gonna praise You

sunday joy

She starts dancing somewhere in the middle of our first song. As the worship team settles in and focuses and begins to practice "There is Joy," Aliya walks in front of us and proves it.

I try to concentrate on the words.
There is joy in the Lord
There is love in His Spirit
There is hope in the knowledge of Him
But that tiny girl has begun spinning and jumping right in front of my microphone, and I can't take my eyes or my thoughts off of her.

She's wearing a green corduroy jumper and white tights and tennis shoes. Her strawberry blonde hair, secured in the front with five miniature clips, hangs in springy tendrils past her shoulders. As she spins and dances, those curls come alive.

She dances us out of that song and into the next.
You are the Lord, the famous One, famous One
Great is Your name in all the earth
The heavens declare You're glorious, glorious
Great is Your fame beyond the earth
And for all You've done and yet to do
With every breath I'm praising You ...
I want to be Aliya. I want my praise of God to bubble up and spill over in every breath, every movement.

We move on.
Blessed be Your name, in the land that is plentiful
where Your streams of abundance flow, blessed be Your name

She twirls, and raises her head toward the sky, and smiles.

Blessed be Your name, when I'm found in the desert place
though I walk through the wilderness, blessed be Your name
Every blessing You pour out I turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord, still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

Watching Aliyah, I bless His name.

And then I see Hannah walking through the foyer. She marches like a girl on a mission, straight down the center aisle and toward the worship team and her father. She, too, has living curls, captured (barely) in two springy blonde pony tails that swing in frenzied spirals as she marches. Under one arm, she carries a red book.

"Daddy!" she squeals, in a tone that is one part insistence and three parts pride. "Look at my Bible!" Corey is singing and strumming, but he still manages to convey his approval. She grins, spins, and retraces her march back down the center aisle, pausing at every familiar face to repeat her Bible show-and-tell.

I want to be Hannah.

After worship practice ends and we pray for the service, I look toward the foyer again and see my friend, Noelle, walking through the door with her mother. I make a beeline for her, because we have a routine, this girl and I. She's never said much to me beyond "Shannon!" and "Bye!" but we have our own language, nonetheless. When she sees me, she grins, drops her mother's hand, and starts our shimmy. I mimick her, shaking my waist, laughing, and running through a couple of movements we've added recently. As Noelle performs our "hello" dance, the thin, silver butterfly clipped to her hair shakes as though it might take flight.

She fills my heart, this girl. I watch the pure delight on her face and the joy visibly energizing those little arms and legs, and I want to be Noelle.

Make me a child again, Lord.

Then Jesus called the children over to him and said to the disciples, "Let the little children come to me! Never send them away! For the Kingdom of God belongs to men who have hearts as trusting as these little children's. And anyone who doesn't have their kind of faith will never get within the Kingdom's gates." --Luke 18:16 (TLB)

sunday joy

If you'd asked me to create a perfect Sunday, I would have tried to assemble all the ingredients that have gone into this day. But the fact is, perfect days can't be ordered, assembled or fabricated. They're gifts, and the best you can do, when you find yourself in the middle of that gift, is to look up and say "Thank you."

Before I could even reach the front door this morning, Paula (of Tony and Paula) greeted me me with a hug and a smile and grande mocha. She does that sometimes, just because she thinks I'd like a mocha during church. I like the way Paula thinks.

Once I stepped into the lobby, Mark and Taryn greeted me and handed me a bulletin. Something about those two always makes me happy. Don't ask me to explain. I've given up trying to trace it down to something understandable. I just like them a bunch.

Said hello to Tony, and Jon (of Fran and Jon), and John Watson. Hugged Elaina. Got a hug from Chris Underwood. Asked Cora about her sniffles. Had a nice conversation with Bonita, who had been a pastor's wife herself before losing her husband in a plane accident several years ago. She is a sweet, gentle woman with beautiful, soft brown eyes. She asked about my recent pastors' wife conference. "Did you have a good time?"

"I did. It was wonderful."

She smiled. "We were praying you'd be refreshed." ("We" being Bonita and her new husband of six months, John). It blessed me tremendously to think of this woman asking God to refill me. Only another pastor's wife would know how much that was needed.

After talking with Bonita, I met a new couple, saw a couple I hadn't seen in awhile, and indulged in a few quick heart-to-hearts to straighten up a few must-straighten issues. Those are private, so you'll just have to wonder.

Worship began, and as it did, every difficult moment of the past week slipped away. I loved the fact that my husband and brother-in-law (who are both crazy-good singers) were back on the worship team; loved the way Elaina and Tarri harmonized; loved the set Corey picked out; loved the words to Brett Williams' song, Hideaway:

The arms of God are open waiting
Everlasting, loving saving
Underneath me when I fall
Outstretched every time I call
The arms of God are always near
They hold me high above my fear
This is where I want to stay
My hideaway

When I feel God's arms around me
Healing, rest and peace surround me
My weakness only brings to light
The arms of God, such strength and might
The arms of God will always be
Open, waiting here for me
This is where I want to stay
My hideaway

Men: My hideaway (Women: You are my rest)
My hideaway (You are my home)
My hideaway (Safe in Your arms)
You're my hideaway (My hideaway)

When you sing words like that--words that remind you God is near and good and strong, and ready to hold you just as soon as you're ready to be held--it patches the little cracks your heart gathered through the week. It soothes your hurts and fills your lungs and clears your vision. You remember what matters--and you remember that He won't be long in coming for you.

Dave's message was wonderful. He taught on the first half of John, chapter two, and he began by pointing out that the first miracle of Jesus happened at a wedding. As Dave sees it, there's an awesome significance to that. He thinks it's to remind us that Jesus came to find a Bride. We're that Bride--all we imperfect, fumbling beings who continually fall and and are continually restored. He came for us. I was humbled anew at that thought.

Dave had so many great insights into that half-a-chapter that my Bible now contains a new series of scribbles, stars and arrows on that second page of John. I almost couldn't write fast enough to keep up with all that wisdom. Tonight I want to go back and try to decipher my notes, and ponder all those new thoughts.

After church, more fellowship happened. More hugs were exchanged. Laughter punctuated a dozen clusters of conversation. A cup of coffee was spilled on the gym floor; three people helped to clean it. Plans were made for lunch, and dinner, and paintball. A borrowed book was returned. My nephew, Nathan, ran in with a basketball. A trio of boys chased each other around our legs in a game of tag. The men stacked the chairs, Laurie and her helpers walked around offering trays of leftover muffins ("Please take these home!"). And in the end, we stragglers escorted each other to our cars.

I'll see some on Tuesday night, when we gather for women's ministry, and some Wednesday night, when we'll meet to study the book of Ruth. Four of us will meet for prayer on Thursday.

But it was still hard to say good bye. I sure do love the Bride of Christ.

I sleep, but my heart is awake; It is the voice of my beloved! He knocks, saying, "Open for me, my sister, my love, My dove, my perfect one ..." Song of Solomon 5:2 (NKJV)

a kiss of kindness

Peggy’s tumors weren't responding to her treatments. Despite every effort to halt her cancer and urge it toward remission, it grew and spread throughout her body.

She fought hard and tried to keep up a normal schedule. At her request, I met with Peggy and some of her friends for a summer study of the book of Romans. That first morning, she surprised us all with a hefty brunch: shrimp salad, fruit salad, taquitos, and cookies.

"Peggy," I protested, "the whole idea of meeting here is so you can rest."

"But I want to bless you," she argued back.

The following week, the rest of us brought lunch. That didn't stop Peggy from contributing. She'd been up early to bake for us.

Peggy continued to host the study till mid-summer, when it became clear she didn't have the strength to ready herself for company any more. With reluctance, she asked that we discontinue.

Friends from church rallied around her. Some came on a weekly basis to weed her garden or do laundry. Others brought meals. Still others came just to sit with Peggy and pray.

One of our young girls, Elaina, showed up at Peggy’s door on a sunny morning and asked if she could help with some housework. Peggy paused before saying yes. Elaina was only twenty. Peggy thought about all the things she should be doing instead: running around with her friends, hanging out at the beach, shopping at the mall. Why would this young girl choose to spend such a beautiful day indoors, cleaning house?

She lowered herself into an easy chair and visited while Elaina vacuumed the living room, dusted the shelves and knickknacks and watered the plants. She watched while Elaina fluffed the pillows on the couch and straightened the magazines on the end table. When she asked Peggy for window cleaner and a clean rag, Peggy stopped her.

“Oh, Elaina … you don’t have to do that. You’ve done enough already, honey. I don’t want you spending your day washing my windows.”

Elaina’s eyes filled with tears and her chin trembled. “Please let me, Peggy,” she said. “I don’t know any other way to tell you that I love you.”

Peggy stayed earth-bound for another fifteen months before slipping away to her new life. I saw her just hours before she left, and though she wasn't conscious at the time, I believe she heard our prayers, and that her heart responded with anticipation when we reminded her of Who she was about to see.

Often, while missing Peggy and remembering her last months, I've thought about Elaina's gift and the truth she walked out that day. Genuine love will always find a way to shows itself. An act of service is one heart telling another, “You matter to me.” It’s appreciation bubbling up into action. It’s a kiss of kindness.

Life can be very fleeting. Many things draw our attention and demand our time, but we’ll never regret setting those unimportant things aside long enough to tell another person, “I value you. I appreciate you. I love you.” Don’t let this week pass by without giving a kiss of kindness or two.

If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that you should do as I have done to you.” --John 13:14-15 (NKJV)

on sisters and swimming holes

So we had our day at the river. And wouldn't you know it? We somehow managed to plan our river-side picnic during the one rainy afternoon in an otherwise hot stretch of weather. But we're resourceful, we Calvary women. We only soaked ourselves a half hour before one of us was bright enough to suggest we move our chairs and other paraphernalia under the bridge.

I enjoyed being with my friends and sisters. I often feel like a reporter when I'm sitting in the midst of them. At one point, I even pulled an index card from my purse, borrowed a pen from Fran and started recording the snippets of conversation flying across our circle.

"Anyone want some Pepperjack Doritos? You have got to try these," one urged.

"Nah. I can have 51 pretzel sticks for only 150 calories."

"I finally found a bra that fits," another announced. This was followed by a lively discussion in which the pretzel eater enlightened us to the fact that of the 27 pounds she had just lost, she believed nearly all of it came from her "chestal area." (Edited by the poster.)

She went on to say that she refused to give in and switch from a D to a B because that would be too sad. "I'll get enhancements before I do that," she laughed.

This led, naturally, to a discussion of liposuction, and the horror stories we'd all heard about that. "My sister-in-law said it was the most painful experience of her life," one warned.

Of course, immediately following that topic, we discussed the merits of fruit snacks shaped like Peanuts characters, and our particular favorite lipstick shades (Diana swears by Clinique's Black Honey, while I talked up Burt's Bees Rhubarb not only because it's cheap and it looks good, but also because of that lucious tingle you experience when it first goes on.)

We watched each other's kids, fed each other's kids, and swapped cute and/or poignant kid stories. One woman, separated from her husband, told me what her just-turned-three year old told her after she cried during a recent phone call with her husband. "Mommy, when you talk on the phone with Daddy, your sad bleeds."

We had nothing to give her but looks of love--and an unspoken promise that we'll be here for her, regardless of what happens; that we'll pray for her husband and ask God for a miracle; that she'll always have this circle of comfort to run to.

Last night, Dave and I spent an hour with another couple in need of counseling. Just before we prayed together, the husband said, "It's easy for people to say, 'I don't need church. I can do this on my own.' But I know differently now. I know why it's significant to have a church family. The truth is, I can't do this on my own."

Amen to that.