Garden movement

Walking through the story, each new station brings the mental picture to life with another shade of color.
the physicality of it - walking and stopping - the wind and the slight chill to the air bring a different, literal feel to the familiar story.

the mockery of a trial concludes and He's sentenced, events in motion an eternity in the making.

here He falls. There, rises again.

and the etching of His mother knocks me back like never before.

Did she scream? Did she have to be held back? Was she silent? Surely there were tears. I would have screamed until I collapsed.

And still he walked on, his footsteps echoing through time to the conclusion in the center.

I round the corner and feel as though all the air has escaped.

Death.

Even though I half-catch the looming figure in the center, grace just one turn out of range, all I can see is Dies and the horrible picture of His body cradled by his friends.

How his mother must have cried.

The last corner is rounded and the central figure is finally in full sight.

A marble slab, cracked. And graveclothes lying in a disheveled heap, rock solid in their uselessness.


Death is conquered.


The grave is empty, cracked and abandoned.
He is not here.


All that remains is the useless stone that once spelled destruction.


amen.

February

These restless, listless days continue as they have all winter.
They slip into each other, gurgling along, with an irritating, audacious persistence.

Time keeps going.

And I'm left like the character in the story, not sure which way to turn, my hat in my hands.

And somehow I keep my feet under me and I am still trying, though nothing changes and there's no audience to see my best work. Or even my errant slacking.

And time keeps going.

Conversations are interrupted, work continues, and I do laundry.

Still waiting.

Oatmeal and farm cooking

The plan had been oatmeal.
I had packed a baggie of oatmeal, yesterday, a Tupperware bowl and a spoon with the intent of finding hot water somewhere and mixing a healthy, if not completely bland, lunch
Instead, I was invited to lunch filled with noodle kugels, salads and handmade meatballs, a blessing that cost me nothing.
Once again as it has happened so many times before, the Lord took what I had expected and replaced it with something better.
Today the plan was once again oatmeal.
After all, the budget is tight and there is the future to plan and save for.
But with the memories of yesterday's feasting fresh on my mind oatmeal just seems bland and inadequate.
So instead, I take myself out for Asian.
My very favorite.
Over Bangkok noodles and egg rolls I luxuriate in food that really is my favorite and realize two distinct truths:
1) This too is a blessing, a grace. The spice, the sounds of the wok and the chopsticks, an undeserved and unwarranted help.
2) This may be exactly why the budget is tight.

Christmas Eve

I sat in the back of the darkened sanctuary- just a little bit late- and tried to quiet my thoughts enough for the Christmas Eve message to be heard. 

Already this felt like a far cry from childhood Christmas programs full of excitement and wonder. I sighed to myself, knowing there was a full 45 minutes ahead.

I slipped off my coat and tried to silence the inevitable rustle. There was no one to ease its progress and it fell, discarded across the back of the folding chair, sliding down until it touched the carpet.

"Long lay the world, in sin and error pining. 'Til He appeared and the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices."



This, this I could understand. Not magic and wonder, but tired aching and waiting. I sat, the phrase "at just the right time," soothing through my mind. It eased, a quiet balm, as two men in front of me started to wisp light touches over the neck and shoulders of the women sitting next to each of them. They each leaned into the other, enjoying the companionship and familiarity.


I prayed the lights would stay dim as I tried to focus beyond the row ahead. Catching a betraying drop, I breathed out again, remembering why I was there.

Thoughts wandering far from this familiar place, I breathed half-formed kyries through the mental eddies.

I focused again, catching a small New Zealander dressed as a ram for the Christmas story. I laughed, in spite of myself, and found my thoughts lifting.

The mountains of tinsel, glitter, and jolly mythological creatures have never been real. And they don't have to feel like they are.

A lonely, weary night.
Lonely, weary men and women.
All of creation screaming for redemption and rescue.
"At just the right time..."

Grateful for the rescue. Merry Christmas to all.

Perspective is hard to keep. Somehow this helps.

Preaching to oneself

The bustle of the cafe fades into the background as iTunes increases in volume. There are mere minutes before the responsibilities I only half want reclaim my wavering attentions.

"If I find in myself desires nothing in this world can satisfy..."

As her contemplative vocals continue, I remind myself with ever-increasing venom that I am royalty. The daughter of The King, and without reason to feel the way I do today, this week.

"Am I lost or just less found?"

And answering to myself, I am not sure.

Now and again like a landscape viewed through the fence posts from a speeding train, I catch glimpses of who I really am. Who He really is. But they are gone again, disappearing as the bustle and the noise and the sheer speed of living drowns out and changes the face of reality.

The posts blur together and become seamless and the "walls become the world all 'round," in bitter parody of Sendak and his book.

"Speak to me in the light of the dawn," breaks out in desperate triumph.


The feelings are as fleeting as the remaining seconds of this too-brief respite.

"Hope is coming for me."

And with that defiant prayer, I try to gather the shreds of what once was perspective and hold them up again to be rewoven.

Ancient kings and turnpikes

Driving away from the larger cities, there's a hazy divide where stations fade and then slam back into full strength when the wind shifts or geography rises and falls. These midlands of Kansas are deceptively flat- there's just enough hill to disrupt the weak signal of an FM radio station.

There's no middle approach for the wind in Kansas. It's either still as doldrums, with all the world hushed in a humid haze, or a muscular wind- beating all before it.
 The wind today was a middleweight champion, catching the thin signal transmitting from somewhere on the backroads.

In trying to tune the radio on this unexpected road trip I caught the half sentence of what sounded like a story involving kings and far-off lands. The wind shifted and it faded in and back again as the story continued.

I was, it seemed,  hearing the story of one of Israel's ancient kings.

As I listened, Hezekiah took the throne and grew up in the way of the Lord.

It was a full 10 minutes before I realized it was being read in the King James Version, and the awareness was as surprising as if I had been listening and understanding the story told in French.
And as the reading continued, I was drawn in.

...Jerusalem was under siege...

...Her enemies were at the gates...

...The messenger came to speak with the emissary of the king...

And the geography interfered, cutting the story out and replacing it with the introduction to Cobain's ode to suicide, complete in all of its grunge-muck pride.

I shouted at the radio, desperate to hear what came next.

With the next stretch of highway came five more minutes of uninterrupted reading. The messenger laid down a challenge to King Hezekiah, the city, and God himself.
The gall of his arrogance rankled still, even in hearing it thousands of years later.
Did he not see? Was he not aware?

And then the emissary stepped up to reply.

I paused- foot lifting from the accelerator- in anticipation of the holy smackdown about to come...
And the station faded out, replaced solidly by Cobain's ongoing anthem.
I shouted again at the radio, testing the knob as I tried to find the station again.
What came next?
How did it end?
I was miles away from being able to pull over, grab the Book I carry and see for myself. In that helplessness, and in the jarring contrast of not being able to see for myself- Cobain blaring on in the background- it was as if I was hearing the Great Story for the first time.