Breaking and building

I think Legos are about the best toy ever created, despite the fact that I often end up stepping on one in the middle of the night. As a goal oriented person, I love there's a defined result....follow the directions and all goes well. As a creative person, I love that there's flexibility when building with Lego's. Pick a different color, add an extra piece, abandon all reason and make-up your own idea. But as a mom, the best thing about Legos is they can always be put back together.

With three boys in my house who are obsessed with Legos, it' s inevitable that a model gets broken (or stepped on), that one brother steals a piece from another, or it's just been played with too much and falls apart.

When their masterpieces get broken, when the best laid plan doesn't work, I often say, "The best thing about Legos is you can make something new or put it back together. That's what they're for."

And honestly, they see the logic in this. Yes, maybe something better can be made!

When things get broken - like Legos - but more like dreams or goals or hopes, what helps us keep going is the belief that the shattered pieces can be put back together. The pieces of our lives can be gently scooped up, brushed off, and molded into something new. Our lives and dreams may not look exactly how the instruction manual showed or laid out just like the final product in our heads, but when it all comes together in the end, we often feel like the brokenness served a purpose.

That sounds all fine and dandy, but the hard, the crappy part is when we've done the scooping up of the pieces, we've brushed them off, we have a new vision and still the pieces aren't fitting.

This is what I wrestle with because I do believe that good things always arise from bad things, that hope triumphs despair, that laughter drowns out sorrow, and yet sometimes I can't see how. Sometimes my vision fails, the instruction manual makes no sense, and a few pieces have probably been lost under the sofa.

You know, I don't have an answer to this pondering. It seems too trite to say it all works out in the end. Well, we know that, but life isn't just getting to the end. Life is about putting things together - putting our families together, our communities together, our countries together, our religions together. Life is about building - not tearing down. So - here's the thing - no answer today - nothing profound, but a request:

Help someone today, and tomorrow, and the next day to pick up just one piece of their life. You don't have to put it in place for them, but hold it gently for them in prayer or brush away the tear, or listen. Because man, I don't exactly know how to put all dreams and lives back together, but - I do know scattering the pieces doesn't work. Take it from a mom. Take from someone who honestly belives the grace of God is the glue which holds her life together - like the little Lego bumps.

The Sound of Music

Waiting. Waiting.. Waiting... Much of life is waiting. This morning I was waiting at the bus stop, as I do every morning. It's the same each morning - at least for me. I walk to the bus stop - the kids run. I chat with the parents - the kids run around in the park. The big, yellow bus pulls around the corner and all the kids run to their parents for the obligatory hug.

Jackson, my middle son, hugs me and runs along his merry way. Cooper, my youngest, always lingers a bit longer, hugs me a bit tighter, and engages in that moment more than Jackson. More than me.

This morning he hugs me tightly, laying his head on my chest for a few seconds.

"Mom, do you have your ipod on?"

"No, why?"

"I hear something..."

"Oh, you must hear my heart beating."

Lays his head back on my chest, "Oh yeah, that's what it is. It sounds so nice."
Then, he kisses my belly; I lean down and kiss him on the forehead and off he goes.

The sound of music, while waiting at the bus stop. I didn't even hear it. I didn't hear a thing really, or at least nothing really registered until that moment. Who knew that I sounded as good as an ipod. Now, since his current favorite song is, "BOOM, BOOM, POW" I'm not sure I really want to sound like that, but to know that me, just me, sounds like music to my son. Man, I will take that any day.

Psalm 139:14 "I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."

The Weight of Water

The other morning I was out running early, very early. Early enough that I knew it was raining only because I could feel it on my skin. I couldn't see the rain falling. Although when I passed a streetlamp and looked up I could really see just how hard it was raining. The rain streaked down like glistening tinsel.

It's easier for me to run in the rain when it's dark. I can't really see what I'm in for...and once I'm out there, well...I'm already up out of bed, dressed, and wet, so I may as well stick it out.

By the time I got home I was really glad I had spent the early morning hours outside. Something about the monotonous, humdrum of the rain against my skin, and the splashing of my shoes through the puddles made me feel just right. Just right in the way that everything in the world may not be just right, but I was just right. I felt fresh. I felt renewed. I felt ready to take on the world. Maybe, I sort-of felt baptized. Awake.

That feeling stuck with me as a new heaviness set in. The weight of my soaked clothing practically begged it to be stripped off of me. And that's about when it hit me - the weight of water.

Water is heavy. One liter of water equals a little more than 2 pounds. As I was out there in the rain, being cleansed by the water, it was also sticking to me - weighing on me.

I'm thinking about this so much because we so often focus on the renewing, cleansing, refreshing, sanctifying aspects of water...but we forget about the weight of it. We forget that when water is added to something it makes it heavier. There's this notion that water whisks away the dirt, the imperfections and therefore, the water is making the thing lighter, because the bad stuff is gone. We forget that just a little water adds up quickly.

So, in light of this, what does it means to be baptized, to be drenched in water? To be totally covered in the rushing waters of the Jordon, the rains of the great flood, to cross the waters of Galilee?

I should say that I don't mean for baptism to sound like a burden, but rather if we could think about the weight of it - the enormity of the gift, then maybe we wouldn't forget it so often. We wouldn't forget that we are claimed by God, that we have been drenched with an enormous gift.

The promise in Baptism isn't just that we are cleansed and renewed and claimed....but that we are cleansed and renewed and claimed even in the dark. Even when the weight of the world seems too much to bear - the weight of Baptism is more. The gift of God is more. The love of Christ is more. The breath of the Spirit is more.

Because, you know, we walk around a lot in the dark. We don't see the drips of grace falling fresh on our heads. Maybe sometimes it helps to be reminded to lift up our heads in the dark times, so that we catch a glimpse of the gifts of God raining down on us.

When I Grow Up

At least once a day some conversation with one of my kids begins with, "When I grow up...". Usually it is followed by, "I want to be a "fill-in-the-blank".

Right now my youngest son is obsessed with clowns. When he grows up he wants to be a clown. Yes, a clown. He's been researching juggling, having me paint his face like a clown, wearing a hat... He's predominately interested in being a mime - very specific in his clownly desires.

So, I've been answering lots of questions about his attire. My response has been, "Yes, Cooper has decided he wants to be a clown when he grows up." Then I sort-of roll my eyes and say, "Really aiming high, huh?" Being a clown just doesn't seem to be an aspiration, plus could he support himself? Pay the bills? I mean, really -he does need to get practical

I've been thinking about it though...my oldest son - he used to want to be (and maybe still does)a comedian. He's totally funny - a real gift. I have people come up to me and tell me that he's the funniest kid they've ever met. And my middle son, he'll help anyone or anything. Once I saw him pray over a dying baby bird. He has a double dose of compassion.

So, it seems that I have children that want to grow up and entertain people, make people laugh, and care for people and animals. Man - those are things to want to be when you grow up. Those are things a mom should be encouraging, not rolling her eyes about.

I don't know about you, but sometimes I get lost in the labels or the expectations of life. Maybe it's just this time of my life... But, when I grow up, I hope I am doing those things that my children are so attuned to. I hope they don't lose that wonder at life and that they never stop imagining what they will give to the world.

So - what about you? What do you want to be or do when you grow up?

Good-Bye

I remember when I had my first child, Carter. They laid his sweet, perfect body all tightly swaddled in a hospital baby blanket into my arms. I gazed down at this little miracle and took in every ounce of him - they way he smelled, how fragile he felt, how utterly dependant on me he was. Mom's of older children would stop by the house to meet him and every single person would say, at some point in the conversation, "Oh, he's so small. I forgot how little they are."

I would think to myself, "You forgot? How could you possibly forget this?" And, then - Carter grew and I forgot. And, the next two times I had baby's I remembered this...this time is so short, it's so precious, it goes by so quickly.

All my kids are growing up and in some respects the are growing up so that they can leave me and move on to new adventures in life. Every day they and I are saying good-bye.

But we're not saying good-bye to each other forever. We say good-bye to parts of our relationships, but there are always new things which make their home in the places which were vacated. I said good-bye to holding them all night in my arms, but said hello to giant celebrations for a great goal on the soccer field. I said good-bye to making bottles and feeding them, and said hello to baking cookies with them and having them set the table.

I know that they will leave physically at some point, but I also know that they will never truly be gone. We're a part of each other.

I'm leaving seminary. Today was my last class, Friday is graduation. Lots and lots of good-byes are on the horizon. Seminary has been a home for me - a safe place. That will be gone - the physicality of my showing up on the campus will be gone.

In some respects life is a whole lot of good-byes strung together. But it's also...a whole lot of hellos. We can only have the opportunity to say good-bye, because we once had the opportunity to say hello. Evey piece of seminary, every class, every professor, and mostly every student is part of me now. I've been raised, in part, by seminary.

Good-bye. Hello. Adios. Hola! Au revoir. Bonjour! Go in peace, serve the Lord. The Lord be with you.

A Prayer in Time of Need

Last weekend I attended two funerals - they could not have been more different from one another. Saturday I went to the funeral of a 50-something woman. There was not an empty seat in the church - pews were packed, extra seats in the aisles were filled. It was standing room only. The woman who had died had everything planned to a T. She had breast cancer, so she had thought a lot about her death and her celebration of life. This funeral was definitely a "going-home" celebration. Friends got up to talk about their relationship with her...they made us all laugh and cry. We all learned knew things about our friend...pieces which we could hold onto. She reminded us each to live...not to live as if we are slowly inching closer to death. But to live, live until the day we just die.

My friend was a frequent lay assistant at church...she was an amazing "pray-er". One of the things she always said in her prayers - "We stand in awe of the power of prayer." Each time she would recite that, I would think, "Yes, yes we do." That day was awe-filled. It was assurance filled. It was couched in between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. It felt as if the sting of death was there...yet, we knew it wasn't.

And then....the Resurrection. Easter Sunday. It was sunny and bright - a glorious day for new life. Another funeral was not on the agenda, but as I tucked in my middle son and checked on his gecko, which had been sick, I knew something was wrong. The gecko was cold and stiff - and, my baby had just snuggled into bed. I had to tell him though, because I knew he would find him in the morning.

Oh, the tears, the sobbing. I was crying as hard and he was. His brothers, his dad, and I all traipsed out to the garden for an unplanned funeral in the dark. As we walked to the garden, Jackson said to me, "Stripe (the gecko) died on the same day Jesus came back to life." Oh, my heart ached - more than I thought possible for the loss of a gecko. I just said, "Oh Jackson, I know." I didn't know what else to say. But Jackson knew...because then he said, "But, at least we know that Stripe is with God now." I thought, "Oh yes, Jackson. At least we know that."

We are promised that!

So, we dug a hole and we placed Stripe into the dark ground and covered him up. Jackson knelt down on the cold, dark earth and bowed his little head over the gecko. I whispered to Jackson, "Do you want to say a prayer?" He shook his head "No," - he wanted me to say it. The words, the prayer - it just came. I was crying, Jackson was crying. And as soon as the prayer started, his brothers and dad were crying. There's something about prayer. There's something to be in awe of...a power that we have no claim on.

His dad said later, "That was a damn good prayer for a lizard." Hmmm...the words just came. It was God, I know it.

That's when I made the connection to the funeral the day before. The funerals were so different. One well-planned, one make-shift. One packed full of people, one 5 people total. One in a beautiful, sunlit church, one in the chilly, dark of the night. One for a woman, one for a tiny gecko.

And yet, they both held prayer and love in common. They held the promise of the resurrection in common. They held the assurance of God's presence in common. A prayer in time of need holds healing and grace, power and gentleness. A prayer in time of need reminds us that there is something awe-some whispering about in the corners of our lives.

Lullaby

I don't consider myself a singer. I'm not horrible - my average voice doesn't prevent me from singing in the car, praising God, or breaking into song with my kids. But nobody is going to stop and listen when I sing.

Last Sunday I had just returned to my seat from the communion table - I had sat down to join the singing and I suddenly had this experience of being wrapped in a warm cloak. I stopped singing and listened. There were three men singing, one to my right, one to my left, and one behind me - all with these pure, clear voices. Their song became my song. I didn't sing. I listened. It felt so much more worshipful to listen than to make a sound.

While these people were not singing to me - they were praising God, I realized that for me, in that moment, I was feeling what a child cradled in it's parent's arms must feel like when they are sung a lullaby. Protected, loved, surrounded. The baby takes it in and, somehow through simple song, hears a truth beyond just the words of the song. The baby knows love.

I think God gave me the gift of a lullaby last week. A time to rest in the arms of God. Those men were God's voice and, in some way, we were all wrapped in the warm Spirit of God.