we grieve with hope

I still remember what I felt when I first watched the video of Pastor Jon Courson memorializing his daughter, Jessie, after her death at the age of 16. I watched that man lift up the name of Jesus, and smile at the memory of his daughter, and comfort those who had come to comfort him. And what I felt was awe--awe at the God who could infuse that hurting man with strength, and give him the words that would direct our eyes in the only direction worth looking--toward heaven.

Today I was awed again. Pastor Greg Laurie stood at the same podium he's approached every Sunday since 1971, but he did so this morning with a grieving heart. He's had to let go of his son this week. Christopher Laurie is with Jesus today, no doubt forgetful of all earth's pain, and without any question fascinated by, riveted to, and caught up in the beauty of his Savior's face.

But his father still had to stand at that podium and speak his first words to the crowd that had gathered to grieve with him. And here's what he had to say.

I hope you'll watch today's service. And then, if you've never silenced life's noise long enough to hear and respond to the one and only question that matters, I hope you'll accept the invitation Christ holds out to you this very moment.

Today is a good day to secure your eternity.

*   *   *   
To view this morning's service at Harvest Christian Fellowship, click on the link that says: Previous Study - 2008-07-27.

encore

"It may be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life.

The thing I mean can be seen for instance in children, when they find some game or joke that they especially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, ‘Do it again’; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.

But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening. ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite for infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore.” ~G. K. Chesterton

Lord, make me young like You.

full

The washing machine is full, which would make sense at the end of a long trip except that so are both my suitcases.

My heart is full because I'm back in the place of green, where the sun has to go deep and crafty if it's to find a way through all those emerald boughs. Where it succeeds, bright speckles dot the lawn. Where it fails, dark shadows invite and tease. I'm sorely tempted to leave this leather office chair, descend the man-made steps inside and the God-made steps at the edge of my patio, and explore those living, green caverns.

It's good to be home.

But my head is full too. Flashes from the whirlwind intercept my normal, about-the-house wanderings. I lift the faucet to fill the tea kettle and I'm outside the sanctuary in Murrieta, staring at the burbling waters of a pool-filling fountain. I unsnap my briefcase and the moment my hand touches my recorder, I'm in the homes and offices and backyards of all my interviewees, listening to their love stories. I catch sight of Mittens racing herself across the patio, and I'm defying gravity and common sense along the Ortega Highway on the back of a friend's Harley, watching the blur of Scotch bloom at 90 miles an hour--and loving the sound of my freedom.

I hear music and see the morning star and remember laughter. I see the faces I came to appreciate and to love, and I find yet again that I long for heaven--where all is hello, and good-bye isn't worth a memory.

I've stories to tell. Some might find their way here. Most will find their way into my book. But every one has changed me in some way. I've been reminded once again of the vastness of God and the beauty of His sovereignty, the transforming touch of Jesus, and the sacred romance that whispers our name on every breeze.

Today I'm listening.

... and when he is old ...

"Hi, Mom," I hear. A man's voice, and not my son's, comes crackling through the phone.

I scooch up higher in bed, hoping the extra few inches will land me in that elusive current of "Yes, I can hear you now." It works.

We'd spoken earlier in the day, when his father and I had walked together down a long gray strip of gray in a tunnel of sun-flecked firs. He'd sounded cranky then. Bible college has its moments.

"Sorry about earlier," he tells me now. "There's a lot of warfare down here. I didn't mean to be so crabby."

Warfare. Like migrating birds and winds and well-wishes, warfare honors no borders. Its arms are long and unhindered, its claws hungry for flesh.

We swap war stories for a minute. And then my boy begins ministering. "Read Psalms 7, Mom. The whole thing." Without the benefit of his Bible, he quotes words that pierce and burrow, soothe and heal.

This is the child who once doubted. This is the boy I've dreamed giant dreams for, prayed mountainous prayers over.

"I'll be praying for you, Mom," he says, after we've spent the better part of an hour talking about God, and His goodness, our worship of Him, and the new work He's doing in our midst.

"Goodnight, honey," I tell them all ... the man he is this moment, the man he'll be tomorrow, and the boy still there--the boy who would fall asleep to my half-whispered songs.

Beautiful, beautiful
Jesus is beautiful
And Jesus makes beautiful things of my life

Carefully watching me
Causing my eyes to see
That Jesus makes beautiful things of my life

beauty in shadows

The seed I gave, if transferred to the One who is Light, would have taken root where it belonged--in the heart of the recipient; the heart He and I both love. But the seed was not transferred to God. While I watched, helpless, the god of shadows wooed open the hand that held it, took the hopeful kernel, and planted it in a seedbed of gall and resentment. And overnight, the seed grew into a bitter tree.

The twisting branches of this black canopy have covered me in darkness. The one whose hand caused this cares little, or none at all, that this shadow has fallen not just on me, but on all we love in common. Such is the way of bitterness.

But God's light always shines brightest in the dark places. I've been visited in this grove.

"I love you," several told me. Such vastness spoken in just the barest of syllables. "I know your character," said others. One held me tightly, unable to speak, but I could feel her heartbeat. And when we pulled apart, I looked past her tears and saw all the words locked away. I know you. I trust you.

"Can I pray with you?" a stranger asked me. She knew nothing, and she knew everything. "Father," she began, "would You strengthen my sister ...." Then the woman who doesn't know me proved that the Spirit within her does.

God sent His comfort through the tears of a close brother, the tight hug of another, knowing smiles, a hand on my shoulder, penned affection. And He sent flowers to brighten my darkness.

"Do you know how much I love you?" said the first card, attached to the first vase holding one single, perfect carnation. Addressed to my husband and me, it was signed, "Your Father."

Ten minutes later, the same florist knocked on our door. In her hand, she held another vase holding another perfect carnation. "Do you know how much I love you? ~Your Father."

Ten minutes more, and another knock brought the same florist, and the same offering. "Do you know how much I love you? ~Your Father."

Then at last, her knock brought a big bouquet of loveliness. Deep purple, the color of His royalty ... and bright yellow daisies and lilies, to remind me of the sunlight beyond these shadows. Brilliant fuchsia mums and zinnias, that spoke of coming joy. Tender, peach-blush roses, that reminded me I am His bride.

The last card told us that He knows, He sees, and He has a plan.

Beauty in shadows. Light in the darkness. And a love that knows only truth.

How grateful I am to be His.

the heavens declare

Dave just sent me a link to this picture from the Hubble Site news center.

The accompanying blurb says, "NASA's Hubble Space Telescope Resolves a Dark "x" Across the Nucleus of M51."

An "x"? Really? Those scientists must be walking around with their heads tilted at an odd, abnormal, uncomfortable angle.

Because I see a cross.

God's glory is on tour in the skies,
God-craft on exhibit across the horizon.
Madame Day holds classes every morning,
Professor Night lectures each evening.

Their words aren't heard,
their voices aren't recorded,
But their silence fills the earth:
unspoken truth is spoken everywhere.

~ Psalm 19:1-4 (The Message)

calvary chapel of the coastlands--part 4

After the first session, I came back to my room and found this picture waiting for me in my inbox. My cousin, Tracy Willms, had sent it to me--a memento from my visit last September.

That reunion was 26 years in the making. Though much time had passed and we'd walked very different paths, when he called me out of the blue one morning last April, we talked for three hours and caught up on key moments we'd both missed. By the time we said good-bye, I'd almost forgotten the years we'd lost.

Then in September, I went to southern California for a pastors' wives conference and to do a bit of writing-related work, and I finally got my face-to-face reunion with this favorite cousin. Sitting at his house, talking and laughing with him, I'd watch his face and sometimes catch glimpses of the boy he once was, back when life's challenges were small. I remembered afternoon barbecues, and running at dusk in our uncle's backyard. I remembered one surreal winter night when, without any discussion or planning, we both snuck out of our homes (just blocks away) at midnight and spent an hour playing in the snow together. I remembered the last night I saw him, just before he left to join the navy, and how the boy changed into a man right before my eyes. And I was glad for those memories, but glad too that we had time now to make new ones.

Sitting in my condo in Corpus Christi, with this picture on my laptop screen, I thought of how good God is. I thought of His words in Joel 2:25, when He promised to "restore the years that the locusts have eaten." And then my thoughts turned again to Hannah.

Chase away the locusts, God. They've consumed enough. Bring the reunion Hannah longs for. Let the next picture be of that moment when she's engulfed in the arms of Larry and Isaac, Isabelle, Ali, Sebastian and baby Emma. And when she's holding the ones she misses most, let the memory of their absence fall away. Restore what she's lost, Lord.

caught

My friend, Andy, always sends me the best forwards. Here's the latest.




Look at the picture above and you can see where this guy broke through the guardrail on the right side where the people are standing on the road pointing. The pick-up was traveling from right to left when it crashed through the guardrail. It flipped end-over-end, across the culvert outlet, and landed right side up on the left side of the culvert, facing the opposite direction from which he was traveling.

Now look at the 2nd picture below... (if you click on it, you'll get a bigger view)



If this guy didn't believe in God before, do you suppose he believes now?

hungry

In those early days, when I came to the realization that the God of Sunday actually lived and breathed and beckoned for me all the other days of the week as well, and I fell into those warm arms and whispered, "Not just my Savior, but now my Lord," I reached for His love letter and began to read. I read as though the pages were bread, and I, a starving woman.

I read before I left my bed each morning--grateful that the sun had roused me from sleep (which I counted to be wasted hours) and called me back to my food. I devoured those honey-words during breakfast, when nothing on my plate tasted as good or satisfied as fully.

Thankful for red traffic lights, I read until the car behind me honked in annoyance. I read while in line at the grocery store. When I arrived at the department store where I worked as a plainclothes security officer, I rushed the steps two at a time, signed in at the back door, and hurried my key in the lock to my office door. Ensconced inside, I would often take my fifteen-minute break immediately because I couldn't bear to close the book.

Countless times, when God's love rose from the pages and wound themselves around me like a blanket of "I'm here," I'd lift the book to my face and press my cheek against His letter, and cry. His love wove through every word, and I could not believe that the Maker of clouds and babies, rippling wheat fields and laughter had thought to send me something so precious.

I remained in that ravenous state a long time--long enough to read each word and then read them over again. And then one day when the sun tapped my shoulder, I turned over and chose sleep. One day, I spent my time in the grocery store line scanning nothing but the ridiculous headlines of lying magazines. One day, when I arrived at work I signed myself in and went straight to my task.

I didn't stop eating entirely; I just stopped loving it quite so much. Now and again, I'd remember what it was to feel such intensity, such passion. Sometimes I'd feel it again.

Yesterday the hunger returned. While researching for my current work-in-progress, I looked up a well-known verse. I don't know what it was that caused me to look twice at that page, but when I did, something stole over my heart. I love this book, I thought. The scribble-embossed page was covered with markings from the many times I'd read it--touches of red on verses that spoke of the cross; touches of blue that reminded me of God's unchanging nature. Lines that drew my eyes to the margin, where I'd recorded an insight I could have received only from the Spirit who teaches me all things.

I ran my hands over the page, and it touched me back. The words felt like braille, and I, a blind woman, read, I love you.

I lifted the book to my face, pressed my cheek against His letter, and cried. And then I dined like I hadn't eaten in years.

Keep me hungry, Lord.

little faith

How little we know of the power of God.

Thirsting, we look up at the One who created the ocean, and set its boundaries in place;

the One who invented the roar of thunder and the crackle of lightning, and who sends both skittering madly across the sky;

the One who colors the clouds gray and fills them with moisture, and flings fat raindrops splattering to earth;

the One who forces a bubbling stream to a mountaintop surface, and sends it rushing in tiny rivulets, merging and twisting and growing until it becomes a raging river...

and to demonstrate the great depth of our faith--to prove that we believe He is there and He is able--

we lift a thimble skyward,
and ask, with trembling voice,

"Can You spare one drop?"

lines

The trail at my feet is a carpet of orange and gold, red and brown. In places, it crunches at my step. Here and there, where wet patches dot the path, indignant, still-dry leaf tips curl upwards from their soggy torsos, protesting the humility of the puddle. I walk, and think, and crunch the crunchables in my way.

It looks like I'm the only walker on the trail today. One jogger huffed past me from behind, early on, but she didn't seem aware that we were sharing a bit of time and space together. Most of my companions are bikers in their expensive, streamlined suits. You'd think I'd stumbled upon the course of the Tour de'France by the gear these people are sporting. What I dislike more than their over-the-top attire are the black glasses they each wear. Are there eyes behind those lenses? I'm doubtful.

It's a melancholy day. I'm not sad, really, but I do feel alone. I'm alone in a way that permits unwelcomed thoughts. In this bubble of invisibility, I can't resist snatching from God those things I previously entrusted to His hands. "I'll have that back, thank You," I say, in my politest tone.

Just as I'm working my way through the batch, grabbing back one by one all the worrisome "what ifs" I've handed Him in past days; and all the regret from all the missteps that have brought me painful consequences, God sends me a boy.

He's tiny--so tiny he fits nicely in the bike seat behind his father (grandfather?), who is piloting a regular old, sensible, no-ambition-for-France bike. I love that the man is wearing sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt--real people clothes.

As they pass me from behind, the boy turns his shiny, black-haired head in my direction. I see enormous brown eyes. But he's leaning over and laying that tiny head down, and I don't think he notices me. He must be falling asleep, I think. It's the steady whirring of those wheels, and the blur of passing trees. He's probably closing his eyes right now ...

But just as I think that, one tiny hand shoots upward from the back of the bike seat. It lifts toward the sky ... and waves.

I smile. I can't help but smile.

Black hair shows itself above the bike seat. Dark brown eyes peek at me over the rim. I can't see his grin, but I know it's there.

In order to wave, I have to free my hands of all I've filled them with. "You can have it all back," I tell Him. And then I wave.

And the boy waves.

And I wave again, grinning like an idiot.

And for two long minutes, while that bike keeps dropping more distance between my new friend and me, we share our mid-air conversation.

When he disappears around a corner my eyes can't follow, I feel a bit of loss. Then the words to a favorite song come back to me.

Lines

A spider spins the lines from leaf to ladder
A trellis spans the canyon to Kathmandu
A transatlantic cable carries transatlantic chatter
And there are lines that run from me to you

Lines

A circumstantial glance from passing strangers
Both exchanging sadnesses of souls
Time will take the travelers so they may not remember
But there are lines that hold them even so

Lines

Lines that run from vine to branches
Lines that carry love's advances
For those who try to find their place in time
There are lines ... lines

How the strong and mighty take their places
Following the politics of war
Eliminate the enemy
And never see their faces
There are lines that maybe we ignore

Lines that run from vine to branches
Lines that carry love's advances
For those who try to find their place in time
There are lines ... lines

Now and then I hear my grandma's laughter
From the cloud of witnesses above
And every generation from Abraham thereafter
Makes the lines that lead us back to love

Lines that run from vine to branches
Lines that carry love's advances
For those who try to find their place in time
And for those who long to know that they belong
For those who pray
And those who up and walk away
There are lines ... lines

~Billy Crockett, from the album "Watermarks"

vast

Along the trail I walk every day, tall trees line the paved path and witness my regiment. If they could do more than bend in response to the breeze, and whisper caresses against each other's boughs, they'd give me a "Good job!" now and then. "Keep going!" I imagine them saying. But whispers aside, the trees are silent.

The ceiling above, on these hour-plus walks, is an ever-changing palette. Mid-June's cobalt blue (that was for you, Cora :) will eventually give way to Pacific Northwest gray (which I adore).

Yesterday, my covering was blue. Deep blue. Blue like a promise. On my tar-blackened path, I walked--for the first 40 minutes--to the beat of Simply Red and Michael Buble; Five for Fighting, and a bit of Natasha Bedingfield. When I turned and began retracing my steps, though, I switched to a worship playlist and heard Brett Williams, Brenton Brown, and Matthew West.

I liked the first half of the trip; I loved the second. There's just as much talent in Christian music, but they have an added edge in that the lyrics connect with your spirit. I'm never sorry when I think to switch to that playlist.

About twenty minutes from home, the trees lining the trail break away to reveal a wide-open space. An endless queue of power lines and radio towers dot the rolling meadow, but if you can ignore those steel uglies, what captures your eyes is the sudden vastness of the sky. The sliver that snuck peeks at you through the treetops all the rest of the walk now shouts its presence. You have to look up. You have to draw in a bigger breath, for just that span of steps.

As I approached this opening in the trees, Third Day began singing, and I heard familiar words. But words I've heard--and sung--a hundred times before, deepened themselves into a God-thought. He timed the nudge I felt to switch to that playlist; timed the order of songs that played themselves into my ears; timed the moment those words would mingle and meld with the sight I saw above my head.

Your love oh Lord reaches to the heavens
Your faithfulness stretches to the sky
Your righteousness is like the mighty mountain
And Your justice flows like the oceans tides

And I will lift my voice to worship you my King
And I will find my strength in the shadow of Your wings

I heard the words, and I heard the truth behind them. His love, vast like the sky, presses down on me every second of every minute. It's not the elusive thing we think it to be. It covers the earth like a canopy, and there's no place where His love wasn't there first. It's the touch of wind against my cheek, the air that fills my lungs, the source of my heartbeat and my dreams.

In the face of such insistent passion, there's not much more you can do but cry. So I did.

chick wisdom

She came out of the woods one day and sauntered around the corner of the house with four unexpected fluff balls in tow. She'd never let on that she had a nest out there. She'd been holding out--and this day was show-and-tell. If ever a hen exuded pride, she was it.

She had a right to that pride. Those chicks are perfect little hen-lets. Teensy eyes, stick-figure legs, miniature bodies so downy-light, the yellow seems to hover about them like an aura.

That first day, they followed her across the sea of gray concrete with their tiny hearts beating madly in their mini chests. Where was she taking them? Why? When I spoke to them (in practiced Chickese), they skittered to the far side of Mama, cocked their heads to this side and that, and stole quick, quizzical glances at the scary Womanzilla who is me.

I was patient. Those first few days, I tossed crumbs of toast or leftover cheesy bread at them from a far distance--but always with a spoken invitation in a quiet voice. After that, when I'd hear their little chirps and Mama's more persistent cluck, I'd open the sliding glass door and wait them out. They'd come nearer with cautious, scratchy steps ... closer, closer ... until they couldn't bring themselves to move another inch. At the edge of their courage, they'd wait for the handful of leftover brown rice or muffin bits I'd lob at them, again, while speaking. "Hello, babies," I'd say.

This morning, I looked up from the couch to see four small faces peering at me through the slider. They'd made it all the way to my door.

I opened it with a slow nudge and said, "There you are." At the sound they'd memorized, they hopped and fluttered and chirped. And they stayed right there, waiting for me, while I slipped out to join them on the step. I let a handful of quick oats drop through my fingers, and they dined at my feet.

Call me back, Lord. Draw me away from all that leaves me empty. In that voice You use--the one that soothes and lulls and comforts--draw me to Your feet. I need to dine today.

this moment

It's just a bowl of oatmeal. Scotch cut; nonfat milk; a hint of real maple syrup, added in a last-second burst of indulgence. The coffee is a tad on the cool side--enough to notice; not enough to drive me from this chair. But I ground it just seconds before it met my French press, and the smell, as it rises to my lips, is so potent I have to pause to draw it in deeper.


I'm conscious of the fact that when I go downstairs to heat this cup, I'll also have to deal with the stove, because while I sat upstairs in a posture of gone-away delight, listening to an old Billy Crockett CD (I so love Billy Crockett), that oatmeal boiled over and left a milky puddle beneath my burner.

I'm conscious, too, that in a moment, I'm going to have to forget this oatmeal, forget Billy, and turn my attention to the document hiding just beneath this blogger page. An editing deadline looms.

But in this moment, I need to look up. He's there ... and it's my turn to speak.

How often do You do this, Lord? How many uncaught hints do You send in an ordinary day?

It's just a bowl of oatmeal. But I'm aware of something sobering. He could have just given us Manna. He could have run the calculations, gone to the kitchen, and pulled out the one item that would keep our bodies blinking and breathing and crossing space. One flavor. One texture. Manna.

He could have skipped the whole notion of coffee beans.

He could have stopped just short of breathing rhythm into being ... and we wouldn't have known. Our lives would be stilled and silent. No soundtrack. No angst. No moments where we caught the heart of another in the lines between lyrics. We would have lived and died without once closing our eyes in a stark moment of connection and shared worship.

And we wouldn't have known. We wouldn't have known.

It's just a bowl of oatmeal. It's just coffee. It's just music.

Oh God, how You love us.

secret pal

I got a card from my not-so-secret pal a few weeks ago. She's eleven, blonde-ish, and creeping up on me height-wise. She lives in the bedroom above mine. As far as secret-pal duties go, she favors sneaking up on me when I'm working and giving me an impressively firm shoulder rub. She likes to bring me coffee when I haven't asked for it, and drop handfuls of Skittles or sour Starburst on my desk whenever she's in possession of a bag.

Tera's card says "Guess who?" on the front. Two plump, rounded-faced critters--a bunny and a cat?--sit together on a snowy park bench singing from a shared music book. The scene is centered within a snowglobe. When opened, the card reads,

It's time we had
a little meeting
'Cause I sent you
a little greeting
And now I think
you ought to know
Who was behind
that Christmas "hello!"

Your secret pal is Tera Woodward

A sweet sentiment. But it doesn't hold a candle to what she wrote beside it:

Dear mom,

Your the one I the most.
I love u so much.
And thank you for picking me!

Tera

"Thank you for picking me" . . . Ah, little girl, it wasn't like that. I saw those curly blond curls on that tiny little head, and a pair of mischievous green eyes smiling up at me, and I wanted you, yes ... but you were picked for me from the beginning of time. Choice had nothing to do with it--you were my gift.

I've thought about her card, and her words, a dozen times since she grinned and handed me her offering. How lovely to be loved, to be thanked. How lovely to have a child overlook the time-outs, the corrections, the denials we have to mete out now and then.

It inspired me to send a thought card to my Father this morning:

Dear God,

You're the one I the most.
I love You so much.
And thank You for picking me!

Shannon

ready

What is it about a blank canvas that puts me in such a mood?

We ventured out today. That makes us sound timid, doesn't it--like we're a family of field mice living under the floor boards, watching the giants we co-habit with through mice-sized eyeholes and wondering if we can scurry out fast enough to collect their dropped morsels without being spied and scooped. It's just that we've been hunkered down in this house all week, enjoying the after-Christmas stillness and moving only enough to refill our coffee cups or fetch our slippers or throw a bit more wood on the fat fire. Today, though, we traded robes for coats and slippers for real shoes, and we ventured out.

Our destination was the mall. That's a place I'm not fond of even during the slow shopping months, let alone the first few days after Christmas. We needed to do an exchange at REI and another at a sheepskin kiosk. Before we braved the mall mob, though, Dave had to drop off some paperwork at our insurance place out at Smokey Point. While he was handling that task, I took a stroll down the strip mall sidewalk until I found an art supply store. I love such places. If they didn't kick you out for doing so, I'd open every tube of paint and stick my fingers in all that color; crack open the linseed oil bottles and turpentine and take impolite whiffs; slit the plastic covering off every canvas and run my hands over all that pristine possibility.

Since I'd like to be free to return to that particular store from time to time, I resisted my artistic urges and tried to keep a safe distance from that side of the store. For a long time, I contented myself with thumbing through the art books (as my thumb is still not back up to par, and I'm still wearing this annoying brace, maybe I should say I contented myself with fingering through the art books) and reading all the technique tips. But I kept peeking toward the back of the store, where one entire corner boasted a ten-foot tall, two-decker display of plastic-wrapped canvases. It wasn't long before my feet dragged the rest of me back to ogle the bounty.

I hadn't been there five seconds and I knew I'd be leaving the store with a new canvas. I've been feeling a strong urge lately to start a painting. The nudge pokes me at odd times, like when I'm just dropping off to sleep, and the memory of oils tickles my nose and runs across my fingertips again. Or when I'm driving past a wide-open pasture and the cows within arrange themselves in 3-dimensional letters that read "paint me."

It took awhile to select just the right size. I almost went with the 14 x 18, but there was something so majestic and intense about the 20 x 24. I had to have it. And when I pulled it down from the top shelf (did I tell you I'm 10-feet tall?) and held its slickery self in my happy hands, a familiar, lovely feeling of hope washed right over me, just like it does every time I hold a frame stretched tight with touch-me, shape-me, tell-me-who-I-am potential.

It could be anything, you know. It could be a still life of plump limes resting in my burgandy wooden bowl, with rare Pacific Northwest sunlight dancing speckles across the green orbs while winter-bare branches fill the windows beyond the kitchen. It could be a pair of barefoot girls sitting on the front stoop of a cottage, whispering giggly secrets while a family of June bugs skitter toward the edge of the painting. It could be anything at all. That's the power of untouched canvas.

A few weeks ago, Zac handed me his headphones and twirled the pad on his iPod. Switchfoot's "This is Your Life" filled my ears. Nice song. But long after the song had ended, one line continued to play in my head: This is your life. Are you who you want to be?

I couldn't shake the question. Am I who I want to be? If not, what would I change? What will I regret if it's not added to my life at some point? Before I knew what I was doing, I'd begun a list. I'd like to be kinder. Less impulsive. More self-controlled. More disciplined. Less of a procrastinator. A better communicator. It's a big list ... but I'm ready.

In a few days, another year begins. Indulge me here: God is placing a brand new, still-wrapped canvas before me, before you. Anything at all can happen this year. We can change that moodiness, finish that goal, mend that relationship. We can fill our lives with good things so there's no room for the bad. We can put our energy where it matters. The truth is, we can become who we want to be--but only if we surrender. No painting ever painted itself. The only way to bring lasting beauty into our lives is to take the palette, the oils, and the brushes, and lay them at the feet of the Master Artist--then unfurl the list and hand it over.

Here are the lyrics to an old favorite written by brothers John Michael and Terry Talbot:

The Empty Canvas

An empty canvas waits before the Painter
It waits to be the painting it must be
Unto this end it has rightfully been created
To reflect the rightful beauty the Painter sees

A beauty that will surely find its life within its dying
So another might be born again
And in this constant death a constant beauty is created
Within a constant love that never ends

Jesus is the Master Painter
And the Holy Spirit is the Master’s Brush
To be dipped within the colors
That portray a Father’s love
That the Master’s painting might be born of us
To portray the beauty of the Master’s Brush
That the canvas of our life might know the Master’s touch

An empty canvas waits before the Painter
An empty canvas destined to be hung
Within the gallery once it has been created
Will the canvas bear the beauty of God’s Son?

Here's praying that God adds color and beauty to your life this year, and that you bear His image wherever you go.

loved

I’ve known her all her life. I held her just hours after her birth, and in the weeks and months that followed, snatched her from her mother every chance I got. I clapped when she took her first steps, squealed over her first words, and laughed when she mastered my name. Even now, I love to hear four-year old Hannah say, “Hello, Shannon.”

Sometimes, when I arrive early at church, I’ll pull my car into a slot near the front door and spot her standing in the foyer, looking out the window. On occasion, she simply waves and shoots me that dimple-speckled grin of hers. I always wave back, and hope that by the time I reach the front door, she’s still standing there so I can get a hug.

Other times, Hannah isn’t content to wave. She bolts out the front door and down the steps, shouting my name as she runs. That was the case yesterday. When Tera and I arrived for our homeschooling co-op meeting, Hannah spied me before I spied her. I heard my name floating across the yard, over and over, “Shannon! Shannon! Shannon!” Hannah flew toward me, pink poncho swinging as she pumped her arms, her long, blonde curls escaping her pony tail and dancing in rhythm. I opened the car door just as she reached me. Her arms were wide … her smile wider. And Hannah clutched me like she hadn’t seen me in a month of Sundays.

How lovely to be loved. How it touches my heart to feel the embrace of those tiny arms, to hear her sigh in contentment that we’re together again. And how much emptier my life would be without the love of that little girl.

Her hello stayed with me all through the meeting. I thought of it again last night, just before I turned out my light. But then I remembered something else. I remembered how hurried I’d been yesterday morning, trying to gather everything I needed for our meeting. I remembered thinking about God, but not taking the time to talk to Him, or to listen.

I remembered that instead of calling His name and running for His embrace … I’d only waved.

tea and jammies

I had surgery last Friday. The ordeal was minor and, in part, miraculous, as one "to do" on my surgeon's list got crossed off when the area in question showed the infection had just "gone away." As surgery goes, it was a pleasant enough experience. A writer friend, Dana Williams, took a shuttle from the hospital campus where she works to the campus where I was being checked in ... all so she could pray with me. Aren't those kinds of friends amazing? Then Dave and my sister, Tarri, prayed with me. And then my surgeon popped in and said, "May I pray with you?"

I love my friends, and my family, and my surgeon. I'm not too fond of the nurse who called me out of my anesthesia fog, though. "Shannon? Shannon?" I despise my name when it's being used to call me out of that fuzzy trance. Probably because I'm always nauseated right then and there.

As I said, this surgery was minor. I'm sore, and I'll be dealing with wound care for several weeks. But I'm not immobile. It takes me a bit longer to get from one side of the room to the other, but I can do it. Still, I'm enjoying this quiet week of tea and jammies. Sometimes, God has to take drastic measures to white-out the pages of our daytimer.

Had this surgery not happened, I'd be smack dab in the middle of a typically rushed week. Instead, I've spent most of my awake minutes lying on the couch, holding court as an array of friends bring me their crockpots. I've also spent this time listening to Shakespeare with Tera, and playing chess with her when she finishes her math, and enjoying extended, luxurious devotional time, and knitting a hat for Dave. Only the hat provides evidence that I've been alert and active. All the rest just dissipates into air. And for a person who spends her life putting words to paper (where they stay put in indisputable black and white) and editing the work of other writers (with a bright, red font), it's difficult to feel productive in your jammies. But maybe this was necessary. Maybe I needed to feel unproductive for a little while.

How else would I have heard God's reminder? There it was, this morning -- that voice so full of kindness, so loving, but firm and authoritative as well. It broke through my sighs and set my thoughts straight. If you stayed on that couch forever, and never wrote another word or cooked another meal or crossed another task off your list, I'd still love you.

Oh, Father ... keep me right here, clutching that truth.

refreshed

Every October, I cram six pairs of shoes and clothing for two weeks into my suitcase and head to Murrieta, Californa for three nights and three days of refreshment. Don't say a word about the extra clothing. All women know you must pack for both mood and weather.

Today I'm back from our annual Calvary Chapel Pastors' Wives Conference. The suitcase awaits unpacking, but my thoughts are not on the reorganization of my closet this morning. Instead, I'm enjoying the after-glow of a brief respite with 900 of my closest sisters.

Our bonds deepen every year as we share more tears together, more worship, more prayers, more understanding of the God who called us and who loves us. And every year, I think the exact same thought when I arrive at the gate and hear one of the 600 Bible students say, "Welcome to the conference. God bless you." I think, This must be what heaven will be like. There's no other time when I know that every heart I pass and every smile that greets me belongs to someone who loves Jesus as I do.

Today, I'm missing heaven.

But I know that God called me away for those sixty-some hours so that I could get a refilling of the passion and joy I'll need for the coming year. There's still work to be done. God's heaven is ahead somewhere; my Murrieta-heaven-on-earth will be waiting next October; but while I pass the time waiting for both, I've been called to a task. We were reminded of that calling and that responsibility by every speaker this year. "Love the sheep. Tend the sheep. Feed the sheep."

What a privilege. To serve God is enough; but ours is a God who not only calls us into service, but blesses us while we serve and rewards us when our service is ended. Sandy MacIntosh (wife of Pastor Mike MacIntosh) introduced our Bible passage in the first session:

The elders who are among you I exhort, I who am a fellow elder and a witness of the sufferings of Christ, and also a partaker of the glory that will be revealed: Shepherd the flock of God which is among you, serving as overseers, not by compulsion but willingly, not for dishonest gain but eagerly; nor as being lords over those entrusted to you, but being examples to the flock; and when the Chief Shepherd appears, you will receive the crown of glory that does not fade away.

Likewise you younger people, submit yourselves to your elders. Yes, all of you be submissive to one another, and be clothed with humility, for "God resists the proud, But gives grace to the humble." Therefore humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour. Resist him, steadfast in the faith, knowing that the same sufferings are experienced by your brotherhood in the world. But may the God of all grace, who called us to His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after you have suffered a while, perfect, establish, strengthen, and settle you. To Him be the glory and the dominion forever and ever. Amen.

--1 Peter 5:1-11 NKJV

We were reminded by Sandy, June Hesterly, Cheryl Brodersen, and Jean McClure that the ministry brings suffering. It's the nature of tending God's people, pure and simple. But the Chief Shepherd knows our suffering and uses it to perfect, establish, strenghten and settle us. And one day -- maybe one day soon -- He will appear again. The God of all grace will bring with Him a crown of glory, and we will forget the suffering in an instant.

May He come today.

sauce

When I grab my one and only Longaberger basket--the one with the frilly blue liner I made myself because I was too frugal to buy theirs, overlaid with the plastic liner I bought from them because I was smart enough to know I'd need it--and head down to the garden, I know I was created to harvest tomatoes. And beans. And whatever else my eyes spy out there. There's something earthly and perfect about hunkering down before a groaning tomato plant, reaching between those curly, pungent leaves, and relieving the branch of a hefty round orb--the scent of which I simply cannot describe. Nor can I quite capture the color. It's almost alive, that ruby hue. Nestled in all that green, those gems practically call your name when you make your appearance through the greenhouse door. "We're here!" And so they are.

So when I'm loading my basket with perfect tomatoes, I know I was created to feel the growing weight of that Longaberger basket slung over my arm.

I'm convinced, too, that I was born to make spaghetti sauce. I feel like a genuine earth mother chopping the peppers, zucchini, garlic and onions that found their way into my basket during the tomato-fetching mission. And when I'm tearing bits of basil from the pot on my patio, I'm quite convinced that God wrote somewhere near my name, a century or two before my birth, "Make this one love to cook." Because I do. I love the tasting and testing that goes with the venture. I love digging through the spices above my stovetop, looking for that one particular something that I'm sure will pull the best flavor out of the pot. I love the warm, lovely smell of just-peeled garlic ... and the patterns made by dancing, jumping herb-flecked splatters ... and the hot sound of burping, burbling, bubbling sauce. And I love that I get to wear -- and wipe my hands on -- my black Starbucks apron.

And though I truly don't want to go all chariots-of-fire on you, the truth is, when I'm cooking, I feel God's pleasure. Maybe it's because He's a parent, and a banquet-setter, and the satisfier of all our hunger. He knows what it is to see upturned, expectant faces, and to watch hope dawn in the eyes of the hungry. So when He looks into my kitchen, and sees me stirring that ugly wooden spoon in my sloppy fashion, I feel the rhythm of His heartbeat.

And sometimes, I feel His smile.