In Grief's Waiting Room

 

Our Entryway: 

Memorial to Sergeant Sean Michael Lagrand

Third Marine Air Wing, Aircraft Rescue Fire Fighting.

July 13, 1981-September 25, 2006

Remembering Sean 

This Memorial Day morning, I hear my husband sniffle. I look over, sure I know...but I ask, anyway, as I wrap my arms around him and his blue terry robe:

"What is it?"

He swallows. "It's Memorial Day," he says, the words thick. I hold him a moment more, then step away, leaving him space to sip his coffee and drink deeply of his grief. 

I grieve with my husband, on Memorial Day, on Sean's birthday, every time we gather for a family photo.

Each photo bears a sacred hole. We're missing one.

But Sergeant Sean Michael Lagrand was his son, not our son. He died in September, 2006, a year before we married. I can go with my husband to his grieving place, but I am confined to the waiting room. 

Rich goes without me into the inner chamber of his grief. I wait for him, pray for the Spirit to accompany him to this painful, holy place.

I know the facts: Sean had completed eight years in the Marine Corps when he died; he was on terminal leave the day of the accident that took him. "Terminal leave" is the military expression for using up all of one's accrued leave time at the very end of one's enlistment in the service. It's not meant to be fatal.

Sean survived two tours of Iraq, including the Battle of Fallujah. War can be ugly and noble at the same time; Sean's memories of the ugliness he saw in Iraq, the things he was called to do in service to his country--in service to us--tormented him, fueling an anger that led to an impetuous, fatal motorcycle ride. 

His wife Rachael was widowed on her twenty-fourth birthday. Son Ayden had just turned two.

Ayden in His Daddy's Helmet. January, 2011.

Those are the facts.

At 0800--in just a few minutes--we will raise the flag smartly, then slowly lower it to half-mast. At 1200 we will raise the flag again to the top of its pole. Because that's what one does on Memorial Day.

I sit in the waiting room while my husband grieves. I grieve with him as best I can. I pray for peace in his broken heart, lift him up to the One who heals the most searing wounds. And I am comforted. While I can't go with him into the holy place, he does not go there alone.

As I pray for my husband, I pray for everyone else who spends today in an inner chamber, and for everyone who waits in grief's waiting room.

 Sean and Rich, Celebrating Sean's Return from his Second Tour in Iraq.

¹⁶ Now may the Lord of peace Himself continually grant you peace in every circumstance. The Lord be with you all!
2 Thessalonians 3:16 (NASB)

I'm linking up today with L.L. Barkat's In, On, and Around Mondays from my place in the waiting room. Won't you visit there, too?

Listening to Michelle

Open House Refreshments. May, 2011.

What Will I Say to Her?

In my last post I wrote about Ahn and the tremendous care she added to a bouquet of flowers. After I left the floral department that day, having sprinted through the grocery store in my business suit, preparing for a company open house, I made my way to the checkstand. Ahn followed me, pushing a second cart loaded with the flowers and balloons I'd bought.

And there, I met Michelle. She bagged my groceries while I transacted business, then took charge of the second cart and accompanied me to the parking lot. 

As we approached my car (okay, Rich's' car--this project wasn't pickup-truck friendly) she read the decal on the rear window.

"'Godspotting.' That's a weird name for a website."

"It's my blog," I told her.

"What's it about?"

"Spotting God," I said. As we spoke, my initial perception that Michelle's gifts were, well, different from most people's was confirmed. I stood with her, overblown in my suit and pumps.

"I pray to the sun and her daughter," Michelle said to me as we fitted my purchases into the car. 

I looked at her.

"I used to go to church, but it made me tired," She explained. 

I felt a meaningless response rise in my throat and swallowed it down. I needed to keep listening.

"I used to go to Saddleback. The big church. You know it?"

"Yes," I said. "We used to worship there."

"I would be walking around, looking for a place to sit, and it would feel like hands on either side of my face were pressing in." She set down a cheese tray, freeing her hands to demonstrate, cupping her face in her own hands. "Or I would feel like I was in a soft fog, like something gentle was wrapped all around me."

She picked up the bouquet of flowers and I opened the door so she could place it on the floor in front of the passenger seat. Then she turned to me. "What was that? What were those things I was feeling in church?"

"I would say that was the presence of God," I said.

"You think I'm nuts."

"No, I don't! People feel all kinds of things in church." 

"I would be so tired after church I would go back home and sleep for hours." Michelle was staring at me, expecting a response.

And I needed to hurry back to the office.

"Michelle, I need to think about what you said. And I have to get this food and stuff back to my office. We're having a party there today."

"You think I'm nuts, don't you?"

"No," I said, shaking my head with all the emphasis I could muster. 

She cast a skeptical eye upon me. 

"My name is Sheila," I said to her, reaching out to shake her hand. "It's nice to meet you." One of the privileges of a professional career, I suppose, is that we control who knows our names, as we're not required to wear name tags.

"I have to go back to work now," I said. "But I will come back another day and we'll talk some more." 

"Do you know that movie, The Sixth Sense? I have that, too, what that boy in the movie had," she told me. I recognized her bid for me to stay longer.

"Michelle, I really have to go now. But I will come back another day soon."

"Okay," she said, as she gathered the two empty grocery carts and turned back towards the store. "See you later." 

Michelle has been on my mind. I've been praying about her. I need to honor my promise, so today I will return to the grocery store to look for Michelle.  And I'm wondering:

What do I say to her? What would you say to her? 

I'm also wondering what she will have to say to me.

¹⁵ Instead, you must worship Christ as Lord of your life. And if someone asks about your Christian hope, always be ready to explain it. ¹⁶ But do this in a gentle and respectful way. Keep your conscience clear.
1 Peter 3:15-16 (NLT)

The Artist at Work in the Grocery Store

Ahn's Flowers

"Something for Time:" Work that Endures

Racing through the grocery store I gathered items for my company's open house, scheduled to begin in just over an hour. My cart bulged with party platters, soda, and wine; a huge bag of ice rested on the shelf beneath the basket. 

I returned to the floral department, where Ahn, the florist, was filling balloons that I'd tie to the end of our walkway to direct our guests to our suite. As she fitted the last balloon onto the bottle of helium, I glanced at the floral arrangements on display. 

 

"You want flowers?" She asked.

"Yes. Let me look." 

 

In the refrigerated display I spotted a stately arrangement of white lilies and full-blown yellow roses. The lilies' petals arched back towards their stems, fully open, already giving up their perfume. The roses were nearly the size of my fist, each bloom stuffed full with clear yellow petals. These flowers were ready for display today. They wouldn't last long, but I only needed them to spill their beauty for a few hours.

"I'd like these," I said, pointing to the vase. 

Ahn looked at my selection. "Oh, those are very nice," she agreed, "but a few of the flowers start to spoil. Let me fix it for you." 

While Ahn studied the flowers, I studied her. From her name I guessed she might be Korean. She'd drawn her long hair into a tidy bun, which rested, atop her head, at my shoulder's height. She was about sixty, and slightly plump. Her hands were small and worn, but nimble as they moved among the flowers.

 

And she was working carefully, examining the flowers. She removed one rose whose defect I could not see, and two lilies that bore slight bruises on one petal apiece. Then she turned to me.

"All these flowers are for today. You wait. I add something for time." She disappeared into the back of her display refrigerator, emerging with an armload of lilies, tightly closed, guarding their beauty for another day yet to come.

I watched as she snipped and trimmed and tucked the lily buds into the arrangement. She turned the vase, adjusted the flowers, turned, tucked, adjusted. 

Finally she was satisfied. "Here," she said. "Now these will last awhile. You won't have to throw them away tomorrow. You keep them with water, maybe another week even." Her pleasure in her creation shone in her eyes as she smiled at me. 

"These are beautiful, Ahn. Thank you."

I turned my cart toward the checkstand. As I waited in line I considered her work. 

 

What would it feel like, I wondered, to know that the product of my work would be on a compost heap, or stuffed into a trashcan, in just a few days? Would I be able to muster her passion for her work, her attention to detail, her great care in the quality of the flowers, knowing it would all be rubbish soon?

I was struggling to lift the ice into my car without marring my business suit when it hit me. All my work is ephemeral, too. That newsletter I edit, the accounting reports I prepare, the performance review I complete? They may seem enduring as I carefully save them to the right folder on the server, or print paper copies in my office, but eventually it's all so much dust. 

If I want my work to last, then I need to add value in another way. 

 

When I remember to engage carefully and lovingly with the printer who produces the edited newsletter, with the clerk who files my accounting reports, with the staff person whose work I evaluate, then my work matters.

 

Only when I humbly reflect Christ's love, live by the Word I believe in, do I have a chance to create something lasting in my work. 

 

⁷ The grass withers, the flower fades,

When the breath of the LORD blows upon it;

Surely the people are grass. 

 ⁸ The grass withers, the flower fades,

But the word of our God stands forever. 

Isaiah 40:7-8 (NASB)

 

Woodworking, Cake Baking, and Second Chances

Old Wood, New Wood. February, 2010.

[May 28: I'm linking up with Ann Kroeker's Food on Fridays. I encourage you to visit the delightfulness there!]

Why Jesus Wasn't a Baker

My husband Rich loves to build things. It may be in his blood, as his grandfather was a master carpenter. Genetically driven or not, working in his shop satisfies him. It's fun for me, too, to watch as a pile of lumber takes shape as a doghouse, or a bookshelf, or a table. Sometimes, like a scrub nurse, I assist, handing Rich the tool he needs at a given moment.

One Saturday not long ago he spent the day sawing, sanding, driving screws and making things plumb. Meanwhile I was in my shop, the kitchen, baking a cake.

Wood, as a medium, is different from flour, sugar, and eggs. With wood, if the joint didn't come together just as you'd hoped, you can undrive the screws and try again. Your chances to do it again, a little better, a little truer than before, are practically limitless. You can even renew a building, or a piece of furniture, by cutting out the old wood and replacing it with new.

Baking is less forgiving. If your cake recipe calls for two eggs and you add three eggs, You can't unmix the batter, remove one egg, and try again. You have to toss the mess out and begin anew or take your chances with an extra egg in the cake. If your cake cracks, you can't patch in a fresh piece of cake to fix it (though frosting can serve as spackle, in a jam).

I was thinking about this difference on that Saturday, as Rich buzzed through his project in the garage, sawdust dancing in sunbeams, and I wielded my Kitchenaid mixer in the kitchen, creating small clouds of cocoa dust. Wood gives you second chances. Cakes don't.

Wood can be renewed. Cakes can't.

My Shop. May, 2011.

Now I understand why Christ came to us as a carpenter, rather than a baker. He doesn't trade in throwing out messes. He's all for making us better, truer. He doesn't hesitate to cut away the old wood and replace it with new, when I submit myself to Him. 

5 And He who sits on the throne said, "Behold, I am making all things new. " And He said, "Write, for these words are faithful and true."
6 Then He said to me, "It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give to the one who thirsts from the spring of the water of life without cost.
7 "He who overcomes will inherit these things, and I will be his God and he will be My son. Revelation 21:5-7 (NASB)

Television Values

Matilija Poppy. May, 2011.

What's it Worth?

How much is your stuff worth? Lots of television programs address that question.

On Antiques Roadshow, hopeful folks drag their treasures to an auditorium, where experts determine the value of that old painting, vase, or childhood toy. Each episode features one item that's appraised for some wondrous sum of money; usually at least one other item is determined to be near valueless, despite the hopeful owner's visions of wealth.

On Pawn Stars, the play is more complex: People bring Uncle Harry's rifle or grandma's old chamber pot down to the pawn shop, hoping to leave with a wad of cash. The pawn shop staff, though, needs to pay a price that leaves room for profit when the item is resold. The conflict pits the seller's desire for money against the staff's negotiating skills.

American Pickers works the other way around: the show's stars persuade people to let them rummage through the old barn or basement, seeking collectibles. Then they negotiate a price for the found treasures, hoping to buy at a point that will allow them to mark the items up for resale.  

Cash in the Attic takes a more cooperative approach. Mark and Sally decide they need, oh, say $3,000 for the family trip to DisneyWorld. An auction expert comes to their home and together they choose items to sell at auction, hoping to raise the needed sum. Tension develops as homeowners realize that they need to part with things they love if they want that picture of little Joey with Mickey.

The casual observer, or visitor from outer space, could easily conclude that we obsess over the value of our stuff and depend on other people to set that value. And I suppose when we're talking about rusty old Radio Flyer wagons or sooty oil paintings, that's okay.

But what are you worth? What am I worth? And where do we turn for an expert appraisal of ourselves? I've looked for the answer in all kinds of places over the course of my life. Report cards. Words of praise from my parents, or later, my spouse. Performance evaluations. A stranger's admiring glance.

These days I'm less likely to wander down that worrisome path. I think of my bible as the Kelly Blue Book of human life. There, I learn that despite my flaws, my shortcomings, my failures--my humanity, the God of the universe, my Creator, counts me as treasure. He values me (and you!) so greatly that He ransomed us at an impossibly high price.

¹⁸ For you know that God paid a ransom to save you from the empty life you inherited from your ancestors. And the ransom he paid was not mere gold or silver. ¹⁹ It was the precious blood of Christ, the sinless, spotless Lamb of God.
1 Peter 1:18-19 (NLT)

Today I link with Laura Boggess at The Wellspring for her Playdates with God project. Please visit there!

I Could Have Lost My Job

Elaine and Cadence, Cruising. October, 2010.

[I'm humbled that TheHighCalling.org chose to include this post in its weekly list of resources.--SSL, June 6 2011]

Why do I Work?

Last month I discovered a significant error I'd committed at work a few months earlier. While researching a problem that had surfaced, I discovered that back in January, I had failed to forward a critical email to my boss. That failure could materially impact the outcome of the current problem.

I forwarded the message to her when I found it, adding, "You can fire me now. I just saw this."

My boss gave me grace instead of a pink slip.

I did not expect that she would fire me for this mistake. But she could have.

Then I read Bradley J. Moore's post You're Not Being Funny Enough. Bradley writes about professional performance anxiety; as I read his words, I realized that, this recent incident notwithstanding, I don't worry about whether I'm "good enough" at my job.

All the same, my discovery that I'd made a major mistake led me to consider why I value working--and my job.

Our Street. July, 2009.

My thoughts went first to our stuff: Our home, our boat, the means to indulge our grandchildren now and then. My paycheck helps provide for us, especially as we live in expensive Southern California. If I didn't work outside our home, we could manage on my husband's income, but we'd need to make some serious adjustments to our lifestyle.

When I considered my work more deeply, I realized that I love my job. I'm paid to think, to solve problems, to find efficient solutions to tasks. I work with kind people. Ethics are important in my company. It's a great place to work.

Ayden and Me. July, 2010.

But like a late-night infomercial, the deal gets better. That thinking and problem-solving and solution-creating is challenging. Sometimes the work is really hard.

Our office culture calls for godliness, though it isn't described that way in the employee handbook. Whether I'm addressing a major challenge or focused on a routine task, I am expected to work in a way that honors God.

And that privilege can't be reflected in a paycheck.

10 Do not trust in oppression

And do not vainly hope in robbery;

If riches increase, do not set your heart upon them.
11 Once God has spoken;
Twice I have heard this:
That power belongs to God;
12 And lovingkindness is Yours, O Lord,
For You recompense a man according to his work.
Psalm 62:10-12 (NASB)

Waiting for Earthquakes

Roses. May, 2011.

Rosebuds, Burning Bushes, and McLuhan's Fish  

I want to see God’s hand in powerful ways. Who doesn't?  I’m eager to see His big impact, like the disease miraculously healed, or the windfall that resolves a financial crisis.

In other words, I’m always waiting for God to show up in an earthquake. I’m on the lookout for a burning bush. On rare occasions, I’ve experienced those grand moments. Jesus gave me socks once. Another time, a series of coincidences so random that only God could have orchestrated the event positioned Rich and I to help a friend.

But when it comes to seeking God, I miss much when I focus on the spectacular.

Marshall McLuhan wrote, "I don't know who discovered water, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't a fish."

When it comes to seeking God, I'm a lot like one of McLuhan's fish. Because I’m immersed in His creation, I frequently overlook His presence there. When was the last time I thought about air as I breathed?

Last week I read Jennifer Lee’s post, God-Wonders: Three Ways to Pay Attention, and I remembered all over again the value of tuning my heart to His presence in all things.

The revelation followed the remembering. My puny, human judgments of grand or small are irrelevant. Those perfect pink roses singing, "spring, spring, spring" are as glorious as the bush that burned before Moses.

It's all spectacular. Because it's all His.

 ¹¹ And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the LORD. And, behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the LORD; but the LORD was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake:
 ¹² And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.
 ¹³ And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said, What doest thou here, Elijah?
1 Kings 19:11-13 (KJV)

Today I'm linking up with Charity Singleton over at Wide Open Spaces for There and Back Again. Please visit!

And if you haven't already, please read Jennifer Lee’s post, God-Wonders: Three Ways to Pay Attention, the inspiration for this post.

 Each Thursday, consider going There and Back Again yourself. It's simple. Here is Charity's explanation of the process:


1.) Choose another High Calling Blogger to visit. It can be someone you have "met" before, or do what Charity does, and work your way through the "Member Posts" section of thehighcalling.org to meet someone new.

2.) Visit his blog, digesting the message until it becomes something that you can write about.

3.) Go back to your blog and write about it, being sure to link to the post that gave you the idea so that your readers can visit, too.

4.) Add the button above to your blog so your readers know you are participating in "There and Back Again."

5.) Go back to the Network blog and leave a comment so your new friend can feel the link love!

6.) Complete the journey by returning to Wide Open Spaces, and enter your link so that all can benefit from the new High Calling connection you have made.

Tanagers and Transient Gifts

Western Tanager in Eucalyptus. May, 2011.

An Intrusion of Unexpected Beauty

A few weeks ago I spotted four Western Tanagers in our yard. I watched for a few moments as they rummaged in the foliage of our eucalyptus, their heads as bright as ripe mangos.  It seemed they might visit for a while, so I dashed inside to grab my camera.  When I emerged, the colorful birds had flown away. Instead of capturing an image to save, I'd have to rely on my recollection of the moment.

I sat and considered this gift, an intrusion of unexpected beauty on a Sunday morning.

Apparently I had more to learn from the tanagers, as they came back twenty minutes later.

When they returned my husband Rich picked up the camera. I reached for it, then withdrew my hand as he raised the camera to his eye. I recognized his efforts as a gift to me, so I stood beside him as he sought to bring one bird into focus long enough to release the shutter.

After he'd set the camera down, I took a turn.

As I attempted to photograph the birds, I realized that while I could watch all four of them, once I looked through the lens I could focus on only one bird. I wasn't meant to hang on to this gift, this fleeting, earthly bit of created loveliness.

Only one gift is eternal, and it's safely tucked in my heart. Every other gift serves to remind me of the Giver; every created thing serves to glorify the Creator.

1 Praise the LORD!
Praise the LORD from the heavens;
Praise Him in the heights!
2 Praise Him, all His angels;
Praise Him, all His hosts!
3 Praise Him, sun and moon;
Praise Him, all stars of light!
4 Praise Him, highest heavens,
And the waters that are above the heavens!
5 Let them praise the name of the LORD,
For He commanded and they were created.
6 He has also established them forever and ever;
He has made a decree which will not pass away.
7 Praise the LORD from the earth,
Sea monsters and all deeps;
8 Fire and hail, snow and clouds;
Stormy wind, fulfilling His word;
9 Mountains and all hills;
Fruit trees and all cedars;
10 Beasts and all cattle;
Creeping things and winged fowl;
11 Kings of the earth and all peoples;
Princes and all judges of the earth;
12 Both young men and virgins;
Old men and children.
13 Let them praise the name of the LORD,
For His name alone is exalted;
His glory is above earth and heaven.
14 And He has lifted up a horn for His people,
Praise for all His godly ones;
Even for the sons of Israel, a people near to Him.
Praise the LORD!
Psalm 148 (NASB)

I'm linking up with L.L. Barkat over at Seedlings in Stone for On, In, and Around Mondays. Please visit!

I'm linking up with Laura Boggess over at The Wellspring, too, for Playdates with God. Have a look!

Strung Out On Prayer, Part Two

Prayer Beads. April, 2011.

Working in a Holy Place

When I wrote in March about stringing prayer beads, I mentioned the amateurish knots I'd tied, and that the project ran ahead of me, finishing itself in an hour--less time than I had hoped to devote to it.

Gordon Atkinson, whose post over at The High Calling had inspired me, wisely advised me to give the beads away and begin a new strand. 

His counsel was sound. I gave my beads to my bonus daughter Rebecca and gathered together the materials to make a new strand. I had read about stringing beads in the interim and was looking forward to practicing the techniques I'd learned. 

The first evening I sat down with my beads, neatly sorting them by type and nestling them on a tray lined with fleece to prevent them from rolling away. I played with design, lining up the beads on the fleece, rearranging, nudging the pattern I would create into being.

A few evenings later I began stringing the beads. Manipulating the small glass spheres, catching them on wire and fixing each one's place next to its neighbors, soothed me. Their smoothness hummed to my fingers as I worked.

More than once, that first evening, I removed all the beads from the wire, reconsidered my design, and began again. It was patience-growing work.

It wasn't until after I'd finished them that I realized these beads felt holy to me in a way the first strand did not.

I thought about that difference for a while and realized why:

I had strung these beads in a place of known holiness.

I'd made my first set of beads while we were traveling on vacation. Our cabin on the Mendocino coast was cozy and charming, but the night I made my prayer beads, I had not yet felt God's presence there.

I had not met the place's holiness.

These new beads I'd strung at home. In our four years here, I've breathed in God's presence while mixing meatloaf. I've felt His steadying hand upon me while fetching the heating pad for my sick husband. I've heard His voice in my heart when I've called on Him in prayer.

God has blessed our home and now I feel its holiness. The prayer beads showed me.

16 Then Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, "Surely the LORD is in this place, and I did not know it." 17 He was afraid and said, "How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven."

Genesis 28:16-17 (NASB)

Update: a Small Miracle

When I drafted this post its not-rightness nagged at me. Originally I'd written from a different angle: I'd focused on the better workmanship of the second strand of beads--no more amateurish knots--but noted that the second strand still contained a conspicuous flaw. In crimping the wire to complete the strand, I'd applied too much tension to the wire, crushing one of the filigree balls.

So the draft was about reaching for perfection and falling short.

It was not right. It pestered me as insistently as a burr in my sock. I set the draft aside and reflected further on the beads.

Finally this story emerged. As I wrote it, I could feel its rightness.

Later I picked up my strand of prayer beads to examine them.

And I saw that the crushed bead had fallen completely away.

My prayer beads remain imperfect, of course. But the disappearance of the damaged bead reminds me that in Him, everything is ultimately perfectible.

The Crushed Bead, Just Beneath the Biconical Bead.

After the Bead Fell Away. Notice how Smoothly the Cross Lies Now.

6 For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.

Philippians 1:6 (NASB)

How Many Cookies?

Seventy-two Cookies. April, 2011.

[May 13: I'm linking up with Ann Kroeker's Food on Fridays. I encourage you to visit the delightfulness there. You'll also find a link to a freebie at Arby's! ]

The Kitchen Pharisee

I indulged in some Kitchenaid therapy the other day, baking chocolate chip cookies. Creaming butter and sugars calms my spirit; the prospect of a session at the oven, refining little scoops of dough into crispy sweet bits, felt like an opportunity for peace.

My husband Rich has the most well-developed sweet tooth I've ever encountered in a person older than seven. Our neighbor Jamie, who sometimes rescues our dogs from a hungry evening in the yard when our days turn unexpectedly long and keep us from home, enjoys them too. I decided to bake a double batch so I could share some cookies with Jamie and have plenty of cookies left over for Rich to enjoy.

As I baked, I wondered how many cookies my baking would yield. I'd never really counted the cookies after baking them.

It reassures me to number things, sometimes.

As I stacked cookies onto cooling racks, I broke one. I think my husband can hear a cookie breaking from the next county, as he appeared almost immediately in the kitchen.

"I'd better eat this one," he said, "before all its flavor leaks out." He graciously dropped in on my project throughout the afternoon to check the quality of my cookies.

Later I loaded our cookie jar and packed up a bag to share with Jamie.

I found myself counting the cookies as I worked. A passing frustration whistled through my mind as I realized that I didn't know how many cookies Rich had eaten. I wanted a fact about these cookies; I wanted something objective, concrete, quantified, replicable to remember. Cookie evidence, that's what I was after.

I considered asking Rich how many he'd eaten. Seventy-two cookies cooled on their racks. Had he eaten three? six? eight? I craved a firm number, an accurate detail. I pictured a ledger in my kitchen, wherein I could faithfully record yields of cookies, numbers of guests fed at our table--the facts of my kitchen.

I wanted enough cookies to share with the neighbor girl who stands in the gap when we're away from home at doggie dinner time and enough cookies for my husband to enjoy.

If I'd baked twelve cookies, they would have been sufficient: Six for Jamie, six for the jar.

So I released my need to number the cookies. Some things can't be counted, but we don't need the number. We simply need to know we have enough.

Grace is like that, I think. I can't count God's grace for me.

But I know it's sufficient.

9 And He has said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness." Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.
2 Corinthians 12:9 (NASB)

Discovering Mom on Mother's Day

Elaine, Mom, Cadence, and Me. Mother's Day, 2007.

Her Legacy Breathes

Rich and I made two trips to San Diego, about eighty miles away, this past weekend. On Friday evening, we hurried to San Diego to attend a surprise birthday party for my daughter Elaine, planned by her husband Rob. Her birthday was yesterday; a Friday-night party prevented her birthday from being buried by Mother's Day celebrations.

She's Surprised!

Watching the house fill with people who love my daughter lightened my heart. Catching Rob's broad grin as he surveyed the scene, filled with balloons, streamers, noisemakers, and joy, delighted me.

Sunday after church we returned to San Diego to celebrate Mother's Day. We stopped to visit Rich's parents, delivering purple roses, carnations, freesia and mums, tempered by white hydrangea, lisianthus and more mums, to his mom.

Then we met up again with Elaine, Rob, Cadence, and baby Sawyer at her father's house. My dad joined us after he'd been to the cemetery where my mother rests.

Elaine, Me, and Cadence. Mother's Day, 2011. Note the Elmo picture, colored by Cadence, on the back of the card I'm reading.

In addition to being Mother's Day and my child's birthday, yesterday marked my parents' wedding anniversary. We now count them as "would have" anniversaries: Yesterday, had my mother lived, would have made fifty-six years.

I chose to spend my day among the living, skipping the cemetery visit. Cadence ran to the front door, shrieking, "Lala! Lala! Lala!" as Rich and I approached. My son-in-law called me to watch as he bathed my infant grandson. Mom would not have wanted me to exchange these moments for a visit to her ashes.

Sawyer, Rob, Me.

I realized, as the afternoon spent itself, that Mom was right there with us.

I saw my mother as my daughter listened to Cadence's stories, as she swung Sawyer high, high in the air, engaging her young sons the way Mom engaged me.

I saw my mother in Cadence's bright-blue eyes.

I heard my mother in Sawyer's baby belly-laugh.

Mom was in the pink carnations--her favorite flowers--that my dad brought to my daughter and me.

Her legacy breathes. It sweetens my grief.

26 She opens her mouth in wisdom,

And the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.

27 She looks well to the ways of her household,
And does not eat the bread of idleness.
28 Her children rise up and bless her;
Her husband also, and he praises her, saying:
29 "Many daughters have done nobly,
But you excel them all."
30 Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain,
But a woman who fears the LORD, she shall be praised.
Proverbs 31:26-30 (NASB)

I'm linking up this morning with Laura Boggess's Playdates with God at The Wellspring.

 

I'm also linking with L.L. Barkat's On, In, and Around Mondays at Seedlings in Stone.

Finding my Place

Purple Mountains. Trabuco Canyon Community Church, February, 2011.

Clarity and Grace

Inspection of my sock drawer would reveal to you that I mean it when I say that I'm not good at spending money on myself--especially if you compared the sock drawer's ragtag population to the shiny trucks and piles of blocks crowding the grandchildren's toy chest in the living room. All the same, I invested several hours and a little money in myself last weekend. I reaped an unexpected return: huge dividends in clarity and grace.

Last weekend I attended the annual conference of the Orange County Christian Writers Fellowship. The 2010 edition of this meeting had blessed me, so I resolved to return.

This year I was emboldened to enter three writing contests. The winners would be announced at lunch on Saturday.

Clarity
After feasting on penne and fellowship, I listened as the contest winners were announced. For each contest, the judge announced third place, then second place, then first place. As the final first-place winner was announced, I surprised myself by releasing a long, slow, cleansing breath, and remained in my seat as another attendee walked to the lectern to receive acclaim.

I am not by nature competitive. I want to do my best, but I want everyone else to do her best too. On this day, other people's bests were judged better than mine. And it felt....

....freeing.

I'm grateful to receive confirmation of my understanding that I have lots of growing room left as a writer, that the path before me stretches on for some distance. The GPS in my writer's heart is properly calibrated, after all.

Grace
Sunday morning I awoke at four o'clock, dog-paddling across a rip current of insights. The eddy continued in my wakefulness, energizing and exhausting me. I couldn't discern the current's direction and the shore looked unfamiliar. It was a little disorienting, but I knew better than to fight my way out. I chose to keep my head above water and drift, waiting for the place I was in to identify itself for me.

Later that morning my husband Rich and I went to worship. Our pastor had included a lovely note in the bulletin, thanking the congregation--us--for helping to prepare for and celebrate Easter. His note continued into a second paragraph:

Remember Easter is not just an event - we are called to celebrate Easter every day...living in light of the triumph of Jesus, spurring one another on to good works, bearing with one another in love. Remember because of Him we can go boldly before the throne of God. You might want to check this out. http://www.godspotting.net/2011/04/jesus-jesus.html.

My tears surprised me. After the growing, the clarifying, and the insights that had occupied me through the weekend, Pastor Robert's decision to share something I'd written with our congregation was a cloak of grace.

As I wrapped myself in it, the rip current ceased and the shore became recognizable as a familiar place.

It is my place. It is a seeker's place.

7 Hear, O LORD, when I cry with my voice,
And be gracious to me and answer me.
8 When You said, "Seek My face," my heart said to You,
"Your face, O LORD, I shall seek."
Psalm 27:7-8 (NASB)

When God Designs the Seating Chart

Mariner's Church, Irvine, California. April, 2011.

Table for Eight

Friday night I watched God arrange a dinner party. As one might expect of the perfect Host, the company was excellent--and everyone at the table had something to offer to or learn from another guest.

Rich and I arrived at the Orange County Christian Writers Fellowship's annual conference dinner and faculty panel discussion and chose seats at a table occupied by two women. Daniella, a newlywed, writes for children. So does Kathleen, who spent forty years as a missionary in Brazil. Both ladies were first-time attendees at the conference. When they discovered that I'd attended last year, they asked questions about the conference process and I helped them orient themselves.

The next two people to sit down were best-selling and prolific children's author Nancy Sanders and her husband, Jeff. While Nancy, Daniella, and Kathy discussed writing and publishing children's books, Jeff chatted with Rich and I. He graciously illuminated his supportive role in his wife's writing career, helpful information for us.

Next to arrive was Lois, a published author from Los Angeles who had mistakenly bypassed a toll booth on her way to dinner. Jeff explained how she could contact the toll road operators to rectify the error and Rich gave her directions to return to her hotel without ending up on the toll road.

One seat remained vacant as we rose to queue up for dinner. As we stood in line I saw our friend Jeff Norbert, whom I'd met through the writing ministry when I attended Saddleback Church. Jeff appeared to be alone; Rich and I pointed out our table as we returned with our food. "I think we still may have a seat if you'd like to join us," I said.

As the seven of us enjoyed our food I marvelled at how beautifully everyone's interests and needs dovetailed in our little group. A minute later, a woman claimed the last vacant seat at our table. Jeff had been noncommittal about his intention to join us, and my mouth was full, so I said nothing.

About thirty seconds later Jeff approached with his plate. We offered to pull up a ninth chair, but Jeff declined and made his way to another table.

Our new dinner partner proved to be Jenni Burke. As an agent, her contributions to the conversation were especially welcome.

But I felt a pang of guilt for Jeff.  I'd invited him to join us, then I'd failed to save his spot.

I scanned the room and found Jeff--sitting with a table full of like-minded speculative fiction writers. He'd found just the right dinner partners for his interests.

God is much better at table arrangements than I am. He gathered us together at that table, perfectly arranged to share the gifts He's given us with one another.

4 For just as we have many members in one body and all the members do not have the same function, 5 so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another. 6 Since we have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us, each of us is to exercise them accordingly: if prophecy, according to the proportion of his faith; 7 if service, in his serving; or he who teaches, in his teaching; 8 or he who exhorts, in his exhortation; he who gives, with liberality; he who leads, with diligence; he who shows mercy, with cheerfulness.
Romans 12:4-8 (NASB)

Concierge Service at Big Lots!

Our New Conference Room. April, 2011.

It Felt Like Nordstrom

I found myself at Big Lots! last week, purchasing a serving cart for the conference room in our newly-remodeled office. My boss had spotted the cart and sent me a photo of it from her iPhone; I drove over in my pickup truck to buy it and haul it back to our offices.

We were busy preparing for important meetings in our offices. I dreaded my trip to the discount store, expecting to hunt down an employee to bring the cart, in its box, from the warehouse for me. I regretted that I hadn't begun the search for a cart sooner, when we had time to order one online for delivery to our offices.

I had more important things to do than to chase down a clerk at a discount store, then linger as the clerk retrieved a cart from the warehouse.

John dissolved my dread.

In the furniture department, I spotted the serving carts and pulled out my cell phone to review the photo my boss had sent. Once I'd identified my target, I scanned the aisles for a clerk to fetch one for me from the warehouse.

Just fifteen feet or so away, a man stood holding two six-foot sheets of particle board on end as he assembled a bunk bed. "Excuse me," I said. "I'd like to buy a serving cart. Where may I find someone to help me?"

"I will help you," he smiled.

"Oh!" I said. "I can see you're in the middle of a project. I was only hoping you could point me toward someone..." my words trailed off, as he had already laid down the particle board and was walking beside me to the cart display.

"Which one?" he asked.

I pointed. "I'm wondering," I said. "We'll be using this in our office, not in a home. It looks like the towel rack on the end bolts on. Maybe we could leave it off?" My boss and I had worried together whether the towel rack made the cart look too "homey" for our conference room's cream-leather-and-aluminum-chairs and glowing espresso table.

He studied the cart, opening a cabinet door to examine the construction. "It bolts on," he reported. "You could leave it off and fill the holes with wood plugs. Shall I bring one out for you?"

 I nodded.

"I'll be right back," he said.

My eyes wandered to the nearby garden department. I mentally calculated my line of sight from the pots and trowels back to the clerk's expected point of reemergence, planning to browse while I waited. I'd worked at a home-improvement store as a teen and expected a wait as he searched for the cart.

I'd taken two steps when I heard the faint rumble of wheels on linoleum. I turned around. The clerk was approaching with my ready-to-assemble cart loaded into a shopping cart. I reached for the shopping cart, preparing to push it to the checkstands near the door.

"I can ring you up right here," he smiled, as he called a cash register to life at a counter near the warehouse doors. "Is there anything else you need today?"
"That's all for today," I told him.

"Now pull your car up to the front of the store and I'll meet you so I can load this up for you."

"Thank you," I said. "You've been so helpful!"

"My name is John," he told me. "Any time you're shopping here, I'll be happy to help you."

I practically skipped to my truck, relieved to have completed my mission so quickly. John pushed my cart through the store's front door just as I pulled up to the curb. I watched in my rear-view mirror as he lowered the tailgate, slid the box into the bed of my truck, then latched the tailgate, giving it a tug to make sure it was secure.

Then he approached the driver's side window. I rolled it down. "Thanks again for shopping with us," he said. "Have a wonderful day."

John's professionalism and courtesy surprised me, as if I'd been greeted by a maître d’hôtel at McDonald's.

Kindness Came with the Cart.

I mused as I drove back to the office. Was John an underemployed victim of economic brutality working at Big Lots! as a last resort? Was he bucking for manager? Was he the manager?

Or was John simply a man who strived to do his best?

7 With good will render service, as to the Lord, and not to men, 8 knowing that whatever good thing each one does, this he will receive back from the Lord, whether slave or free.
Ephesians 6:7-8 (NASB)

I'm linking up today with L.L. Barkat. This Monday I remain in a place of delight.