It is December. Everyone is preparing for Bethlehem. Lights hung. Trees decorated. Carols in the air. But I am on the eastern shore of the Jordan. Waiting to go into Jerusalem.
This has been a long and slow journey traveling with Jesus. I started it in the new year before the great pestilence. I never imagined it would take as long to write his story as it did for him to live out the three years of his ministry.
Read MoreBurning persimmon red stretched across the horizon dividing midnight blue sea from sky. Morning had spoken; she was on her way. There would be no stopping her light. I turned to the right, the ocean waves breaking to my left, the sand cold against the soles of my feet. Ahead of me, where man is not allowed to build, sand dunes rolled far into the distance. One lone fishing pole stood silhouetted against the retreating night.
I was surprised as I got closer to find the fishing pole belonged to a woman and her young daughter. Sitting on a handwoven blanket, cozy in hooded jackets; socks with their Birkenstock sandals, the mother’s arms encircled her daughter as they waited for the rising of the sun.
“You have the best seat in the house,” I greeted her. “We do,” she agreed.
Read MoreWe say we are taking Maybelle for a walk, but I think mostly we are taking one for ourselves. This week we walk the roads of my childhood and the ones that did not yet exist then.
We walk past where the Fisher's long straight driveway started and if we go farther down Fisher Road and turn left and then left again past houses on two-acre lots until the neighborhood road dead ends just past the house with the tennis court, we can look up into the enormous oak trees where the small white wood frame farmhouse of the Fisher’s once stood. It was surrounded by pastures and fields with a creek running through the woods where children waded, and sunlight broke through the canopy like glittering diamonds.
Read MoreTransformation. That is where I have lived this summer. It has been in the broken tile and concrete dust of tearing out my mother’s 1950’s burgundy and pink bathroom to redress it in shades of white and veins of gray. White travertine luxury vinyl tile (who knew there was such a thing?), ubiquitous white shiplap walls, and the easily installed cabinetry of Ikea.
We met a lovely French plumber named Jean Marie from Corsica who made crumbling pipes sound almost wonderous. Our dog Maybelle was enamored, and we soon discovered if we missed her, she could be found sitting in the bathroom with him, his hand absentmindedly rubbing her head.
Read MoreI am slowly dismantling my mother’s life. Last week it was the pink and burgundy tile of her bathroom. This week as the plumbers move the hookups for the toilet and the sink, I scale the built-in pine bookcases she designed to fill the entire wall in the living room in 1954 as the carpenter stood by waiting for her pencil sketch. There are books in the high nooks with cloth covers and faded titles no one has reached for in years.
I always knew this would be the hard part. When she fell in my backyard from a stroke, hitting her head on the terracotta planter on her way down, and promptly died 36 hours later, I sort of took that in stride. She had lived a full and vibrant life and had told me that last week she was lonely. “I want to go home” were her last words. My sisters and I met with the mortician in Greer, planned her service with her great nephew officiating, talked with the relatives who gathered, and I wrote a poem about not missing her enough knowing the missing her part would come later.
Read MoreThere’s his mark. The little blue ink line on the front of my blue leather journal. Only an inch long, I know it is his.
He is fascinated these days with the marks an ink pen can make. It’s not that we give them to him. Lord, no. But we leave them scattered around the house like breadcrumbs to find our way back. I am sure he thinks they are there for his good pleasure.
On my refrigerator, there are drawings of cars climbing a mountain and motorcycles signed with a backward 'B'. But this morning as I pick up my journal to write about Peter, I am greeted with the boy's little line in ink. It is a reminder; "I am four years old and curious. I know I shouldn't, but I will. Just a little bit."
Read More“Open your eyes. Look.” These were the simple but very direct instructions I heard before I had a chance to even begin my morning prayers. “Look.”
Anticipating three days at the front row beach house of my friend, we had been watching the weather reports of storms covering the south, deep and wide. Morning greeted us with dark gray clouds hanging low, the roar of crashing waves instead of the gentle roll of calm turquoise waters. Wind blowing. Rain falling. We perched anyway on the balcony overlooking the wet dunes – eye-level with the storming sea beyond.
Read More“I tell this story, not because I am good, but because He is good.” Susan's voice is soft and soothing – as it always is. There are seven of us gathered on the screened-in porch; cousins who share the bloodlines and upbringing of Robert and Pauline, Doris and Helen. We gather once a year to share our food, our time, our stories. We once lived over the hill and down the road from one another – now time and distance and our own families have strewn us across the southern states.
Susan had gone to the grocery store after church on Sunday. As she waited in line to pay, a woman about her age and a young boy waited beside her. Joy spilled out of them and drew Susan’s attention. She smiled back at the little boy who proudly announced to her, “I got to ring the bell today!”
Read MoreMy thoughts skip back to a distant time in my own young life. The sun is bright white light shining outside the open window. The white curtains blow into the room and float back in release. The sounds of ocean waves breaking against the shore are the constant - pierced by cries of seagulls. I am alone. It must be after lunch. Naptime.
I know outside the window play my older sisters, Ann and Kathy. My daddy is out there too. My mother is somewhere in the house with me. It is the end of an era. Perhaps 1959 or 60. When you drove to Florida and your daddy found a white-framed house right on the beach. The ocean breeze came through the windows and golden sand was outside your doorstep.
Read MoreIn his world, it had been almost a week. A week since their feet walked that holy road toward the holy town of Jerusalem. Of course, they didn’t know it, but every step they walked with him was holy ground. Holy dust stirred and settled on the feet of this Holy God, wholly man. Jesus.
Their first stop, (within almost spitting distance from the holy gates) was Bethany. There was a feast; a banquet in honor of Jesus with Lazarus by his side. This Lazarus, who had laid still and breathless inside the tomb for three days quietly silently lifelessly waiting for Jesus to arrive and call his name and invite him back to life.
Read MoreThis is the problem; I spend as much time listening to the whispers of Satan in my ear as I do listening to the songs of God in my heart.
Oh, Satan is such a dastardly deceiver. He comes quietly, well-dressed, and softly insistent. He knows me so well. He knows how to insert himself in my dreams and in the still of the evening. Or he waits for me to be the first murmur I hear as I enter the day.
Read MoreI am thinking a lot about the modern church these days. I kind of miss the very old-fashioned one I grew up in. Teaching seemed to be very black and white and direct – the bible was true, and Jesus died for our sins. There just really was no question about the truth of those things. Those were the facts, pure and simple. These days we slip and slide around on shifting sands.
These days popular pastors in their progressive churches have made a compromise too far. They cannot say the bible is true or without error or even sacred. They are not too sure about Jesus. After all, who is to say everyone isn’t right? And righteous? Just trust your emotions and look out for yourself. That should turn out well. Don’t be too concerned about the buildings on fire around you.
Read More“Eve.” Mary Jane texted. “We haven’t taught on Eve.” No, we have not, I am thinking. Because that story did not seem to end well. Maybe I am missing something, I remind myself. It is time I read it through again.
I start with Genesis 3. Adam and Eve have absolutely everything they can ever want or need or desire. There is one teeny, tiny requirement for them to live rent-free in paradise. Do not eat the fruit of one tree. Only one rule. One requirement. One choice. Call it whatever you like; without that one opportunity to prove you were trustworthy, you would be nothing more than a robot or a puppet. One rule to not eat the poison fruit of the one tree gave you the chance to obey God – or not.
Read MoreHow many four-year-olds does it take to blow out a candle? To Mikah’s credit, she got the first one on her first attempt. But there were many more candles lined up along the table, with flames still burning.
It was the first time in many weeks since we had gathered. The last time was to celebrate love coming down in Immanuel; this time it was to celebrate love going around in memory of Saint Valentine. I probably need to look him up sometime.
Let me tell you a little story.
‘Susanne arrived with her heart heavy in her hands. There was only one thing that would ease the pain. She looked out the window in the back of the cabin and there it was - the lake, blue in the moonlight, waiting for her, calling her name.
She snapped the latches of her suitcase open – and then paused. Considering the circumstances, a bathing suit was completely unnecessary.
Feeling lighter than she had in ages, she pushed the door open and walked across the lawn. Reaching the crunch of the sand under her feet, she looked up into the stars in the vast sky over her head. She breathed in the night air. And dove deep into the water.’
Read MoreHere in this beautiful passage, there is not one, but two reminders to fear Him, our God. Fear. We have painted that word and the emotion that goes with it in ugly colors. We have scratched it out with a black marker and decided to avoid it at all costs. Fear is bad, we think. We buy the tee-shirt that proclaims we are fearless because if we walk without fear every door opens before us and we enter in tall and strong.
But what if fear is sometimes a good thing? What if we see before us something big and wonderous and powerful that should make us take pause?
I think of a summer visit to the Grand Tetons. That was not my familiar world. Everywhere there were warnings about bears. In that land that was guarded by mountains and surrounded by vast prairies and deep woods, the bear roamed freely. Tourists who entered there with naïve expectations of a tame wild creature easily photographed or fed or petted would be in for a rude awakening. Bears were the kings of that kingdom, and they were not to be underestimated.
Read MoreMichael is insistent. He will not be denied. His phone call comes in usually at the most inopportune time and I ignore it. I become as stubborn as he becomes determined.
“I am not answering,” I say out loud, resenting the ringing that finally is silenced as it goes to voicemail. “This is a free call from an inmate at Augusta State Medical Prison. This call will be recorded…” drones on as the mechanical voice clogs my mailbox. I delete the voice messages, but before the day is done, it will fill up again.
These phone calls are only three minutes, but they require my complete attention, so I chose the timing of when I accept them. Oddly, I talk to Michael more frequently than I do family or close friends.
Read MoreThe breath of heaven. I have tried this week to write about it. (This is my second attempt!) Because every day it has shown up to breathe new life in me. Each day, God's presence has come to surround me and fill me and all I have done is show up, with feet following His directions, hands open in expectation.
It started as I walked into December. Wearing a red silk dress, looking out into candlelight and beautiful faces looking up from round tables with fine china. I was invited to stand on a stage to tell the story of God’s Son appearing here in our dark world. My friend Hannah sang Gabriel’s Message to the accompaniment of cello and violin and the chills ran across my arms as I was filled with the Spirit’s unexplainable joy. Breath of Heaven.
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