The Land of the Living

Grandson Cadence Pushing the Button to Take Us 500 Feet Underground. Hoover Dam, July, 2011.

Inoculated With Faith

I'll never be a spelunker. Or a scuba diver. I'd rather remain on the earth's surface, in the presence of fresh air. I don't panic when I'm underground, but a faint anxiety wriggles within me like a kitten that's stumbled into a pillowcase.

So during our recent family vacation, I focused on calming my inner kitten as we undertook to tour the power plant at the Hoover Dam. Driving over from Las Vegas, I prayed for an enjoyable outing and a safe return to sunlight and wide open expanses of Creation. "God," I asked, "bless this family time. Keep us safe and fill our hearts with love for You and each other. Show us that You're here with us."

Rich and I arrived ahead of the kids, who were traveling in their own car. We sat on a bench near the elevator, waiting for them to arrive. 

A moment later, the elevator opened and a group that I took for another three-generation family stepped off. 

This family was not having a fine day at the dam. Grandpa carried a girl of eight or nine in his arms, her long blonde ponytail dangling over his elbow as he cradled her. She sobbed. "It hurts! It hurts!"

The man lay the girl on a nearby bench as Grandma arranged a casino-branded tote bag to cushion the child's head. She writhed and clutched at her shin. Mom rushed off to the snack bar in search of ice.

I heard the grandmother comforting the little girl:

"Take deep breaths, Honey, one-two-three in. One-two-three out. Just relax...Mom went for ice. Where are you from? What's your name?"

Suddenly I understood that "Grandma" and "Grandpa" were in fact strangers who had interrupted their pleasant day at the dam to aid an injured little girl, all pink and blonde and teary, and her mother.

Witnessing this act of kindness, I saw Him in the sweet concerned face of the woman, saw that the man's arms held that child safe and strong as God holds me.

My inner kitten slept peacefully as we toured the engineering marvel.

 Elaine, Rob, and Cadence. 500 Feet Underground and All's Well. 

As we surfaced, returning to the hot, dry air of the Nevada desert, I felt Him among us.

Cadence and Papa Rich Looking Way, Way Down.

¹³ I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the LORD
In the land of the living.
¹⁴ Wait for the LORD;
Be strong and let your heart take courage;
Yes, wait for the LORD.
Psalm 27:13-14 (NASB)

Tripping Over the Trinity

Loving on Cadence and Making Pancakes. Las Vegas. July, 2011.

Talking Theology with Cadence

It is Friday morning, near the end of our week-long, three-generation family vacation.  My husband and I occupy a suite adjoining the one shared by my daughter, son-in-law, and grandsons. 

Our lodging strategy has worked well. We’ve spent days together as a family of six, visiting amusement parks and swimming pools, sharing sandwiches and memories. Some evenings Rich and I have headed out for an evening for two; other nights, Elaine and Rob have crept out after putting the boys to bed. With both doors open, Rich and I can watch over our sleeping grandbabies from the comfort of our own room.

On this morning, four-year-old Cadence has wandered over to spend the early morning with me. Everyone else still sleeps.

I am at the computer, sipping coffee and savoring the gift of this shining morning, of these precious days together. I tell Cadence that we can’t turn the television on because Papa Rich is sleeping. Snuggling into a chair beside me at the table, he sucks down a tube of Go-Gurt as I transfer funds online.

“Lala,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Look. I am sawing off your hand.”  Gently, he draws the flattened plastic yogurt tube across my wrist.

“I will cut it off and then you’ll die.”

Puzzled by his cheery tone, I turn to look at him. He grins.

“Well, if a doctor helped me, I wouldn’t die.”

His mind is on another path, so he ignores my attempt to steer our course in this conversation.

“And then…..you’ll go to HEAVEN!!” His face glows as he makes the announcement.

“Yes, when I die, I’ll go to heaven. You will too, so long as you love Jesus.”

“Oh, Lala, I DO love Jesus!” He throws his little arms around my neck and I hold him tight, tight against my swelling heart.

I hold my breath to see where we’re heading.

“Jesus knows everyone’s name,” Cadence tells me.

“Yes, He does.”

“Even strangers?”

“Yes, even strangers.”

“How does He know the strangers’ names?”

“He knows everyone’s name because He made them—God made them.”

Cadence blinks twice, blue eyes wide. I see that my reference to the Trinity has taken him onto an unknown stretch of the Gospel path.  I’m not surprised—the Three in One is hard for me to grasp.

Cadence asks for apple juice, which tells me he’s heard enough for this morning.  I pour him a boy-sized serving in a man-sized plastic tumbler, the only suitable cup in our timeshare kitchen.

I return to my online banking and discover that the resort’s mediocre WiFi connection has timed out during our chat.

Suddenly I’m blinking, remembering his trusting arms squeezing me hard as he proclaims his love for Jesus.

He sets down his juice and I sweep him into my arms once again, wanting only to hold on to him, to absorb his innocence and trust, to hold on to this moment.

The banking can wait. My grandson and I are busy imagining heaven together.

 ¹ At that time the disciples came to Jesus and said, “Who then is greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” ² And He called a child to Himself and set him before them, ³ and said, “Truly I say to you, unless you are converted and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven. ⁴ Whoever then humbles himself as this child, he is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

Matthew 18:1-4 (NASB)

I'm going There and Back Again with Charity Singleton over at Wide Open Spaces. Thanks to my friend Jennifer Lee over at Getting Down With Jesus for inspiring me with her post, "Through a Glass, Darkly." If you'd like to go There and Back Again, too, click here for Charity's instructions.

The Button Trust

Grandma Seiler's Button Box. July, 2011.

Rhinestones, Plastic Monkeys, and A Good Marriage

As we prepare to embark on a summer vacation in the desert, I decide to replace buttons that have long since gone missing from two pairs of my husband Rich's shorts.

I ask him what kind of buttons he prefers.

He tells me as long as they're the right size, he trusts me to choose.

Obviously he doesn't know about the treasures of Grandma's button box. 

This metal tin belonged to my paternal grandmother, Alice Marie Seiler, and it holds buttons made from pink, orange, and blue plastic, wood, bone, metal, and shell, along with a stray monkey from a Barrel of Monkeys game.

I've raided it for important family events. When my niece, Allison Marie Seiler, was baptized, my brother and his wife granted me the honor of sewing her dress. I chose a mother-of-pearl button, carved into a rose, to adorn the crown of the bonnet.

And I raid it for routine mending, like the long-overdue button replacement I'm about to undertake.

I open the tin and my fingers wander through the basket. I pick up a rhinestone-studded beauty and remember my husband's words: "As long as it's the right size, I don't care what it looks like."

I think he would care if I sewed a rhinestone button onto his khaki cargo shorts.

Suddenly memories ensnare my fingers as they fondle these old buttons. I'm 16. We're celebrating my grandparents' golden wedding anniversary. Grandma is in brocade and a perfect-lipstick smile and Grandpa wears a tie. The hall is filled with friends, the scent of lavender, and the rustle of ladies' dresses. I watch my grandparents kiss and I see the trust between them.

I put down the rhinestone button and set aside my idea to play a prank by sewing it onto Rich's shorts.

My husband trusts me. That's nothing to toy with.

³ The husband must fulfill his duty to his wife, and likewise also the wife to her husband.
I Corinthians 7:3 (NASB)

Trophy Wife

Sawyer Poses in Daddy's Lap. The Sculptor Sculpts. Las Vegas, July, 2011.

On Display

Vacationing with my daughter and her family before they relocate across an ocean next month, we separate for a few hours. Rejoining them in an amusement park, we find Cadence bouncing in the bungee basejump pit. Across the way, baby brother Sawyer sits in his daddy's lap as an artist creates a sculpture portrait of him.

I eye the displayed sculptures and think of Richard Connell's "The Most Dangerous Game," imagining the portraits lining a mad millionaire's study. 

Cadence scrambles out of the bungee ride and we ask him if he'd like to sit for a portrait. "You would have to sit still for twenty minutes," his mother reminds him. He whispers something to the second sculptor, who sits waiting for his next client. The man looks up at me, puzzled. 

I crouch beside my grandson. "What did you say, Honey?"

"I want one of you, Lala," the boy replies.

In an instant I see him boarding an airplane and I cannot refuse his request. So I sit and pose. I'm facing the sidewalk that circles the amusement park, facing the throngs of passing guests. The sculptor begins his work. 

The Sculptor Creating my Portrait. Baldness does not Become Me. 

Families pass by. Young couples stroll. People stop, peer over the artist's shoulder at the work in his hands, then look at my face. I watch their eyes dart back and forth, appraising his work. Or maybe appraising the subject?

It's unsettling. 

Cadence and Passersby Supervise (Scrutinize?) a Sculptor.

I do this so a four-year-old can have a bust of his Lala to take with him to Hawaii. But I don't like it.

I sit still for twenty minutes, squirming inside as a passing parade examines me. I wonder, idly, what they're thinking. Maybe portraits are better made of the young and beautiful, not the gray and wrinkly, like me.

A man looks at the clay, looks at me, raises one eyebrow, and moves on.

I flood with gratitude for the God who made me, Who sees my every move, hears every whisper of my heart, and loves me all the same.

And I overflow with thanks for the sacrifice made for me. When God looks upon me, He overlooks the gray of my transgressions and the wrinkles of my past, seeing only the beautiful subject He created me to be.

¹⁷ But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him? ¹⁸ Little children, let us not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth. ¹⁹ We will know by this that we are of the truth, and will assure our heart before Him ²⁰ in whatever our heart condemns us; for God is greater than our heart and knows all things. ²¹ Beloved, if our heart does not condemn us, we have confidence before God; ²² and whatever we ask we receive from Him, because we keep His commandments and do the things that are pleasing in His sight.
1 John 3:17-22 (NASB)

Urgent Request: We Interrupt this Blog

A Beautiful Church. Tiva, Tahaa, French Polynesia. January, 2004.

Please Pray With Me

Last week my third-millennium friend Charity shared her worry that her cancer has returned. 

Yesterday, she reported that cancer once again has invaded her body.

Will you please do this with me? Close your eyes, bow your head, drop to your knees, raise your hands--assume your preferred attitude of prayer. 

Now listen to the Spirit within you--the Spirit that dwells in us all--and pray for Charity.

My prayer this morning goes like this:

Father God,

We know that Your ways are not our ways and so we trust You, even when horrible things happen to people we love. Today, I lift up my friend Charity to You. Help her, Father, to feel the love we offer to her and to recognize it as a pale, pale reflection of Your sustaining love for her. 

Help us all to remember that her essential identity is Child of God, not Woman with Cancer.

I call on Your abundant goodness, Father God. Heal her body, ease her heart, quell her pain, guide the doctors who care for her.

Make her to feel the mighty power of Your Holy Spirit dwelling within her.

I ask these things in the precious Name of Your Son, Jesus Christ.

Amen.

 I had planned to share something else here with you today. It can wait.

¹ I will extol You, my God, O King,
And I will bless Your name forever and ever.
² Every day I will bless You,
And I will praise Your name forever and ever.
³ Great is the LORD, and highly to be praised,
And His greatness is unsearchable.
⁴ One generation shall praise Your works to another,
And shall declare Your mighty acts.
⁵ On the glorious splendor of Your majesty
And on Your wonderful works, I will meditate.
⁶ Men shall speak of the power of Your awesome acts,
And I will tell of Your greatness.
⁷ They shall eagerly utter the memory of Your abundant goodness
And will shout joyfully of Your righteousness.
Psalm 145:1-7 (NASB)

Within His Grasp

Sawyer, Eyeing the Cross. July, 2011.

Hold on Tight!

Our eight-month-old grandson Sawyer will happily sit in his car seat for long periods of time. But once removed, he will not willingly return to it.

Once he's been set free, he'd rather be held. 

So a few weeks ago when the family went bowling to celebrate his big brother Cadence's promotion from preschool, I leaned over his carseat, which was perched on a table, to play with him while the rest of the family bowled.

I made faces at him. I talked to him. I shook his teether/rattle. I blew raspberries on his cheeks, round and full and soft as apricots.

He reached up to me. Experienced in the ways of babies, I prepared for my glasses to be snatched from my face. 

He aimed lower. And in that act, he aimed higher. Far higher.

He clutched at the cross that I wear on a chain around my neck. He wrapped his chunky little fingers around it and held on, smiling at me as if he'd claimed a prize.

I whispered to him, 'That's right, Little Man. Grab onto that cross and never let it go."

He rewarded my speech with a spit-bubble, artfully rendered.

And this Lala's heart filled with prayer: "Father, let this infant find You and cling to the cross for all his days. You are the best prize of all. Once he's found You, and You've freed him, hold him tightly in Your grace and mercy. Amen."

²¹ For you have been called for this purpose, since Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example for you to follow in His steps, ²² WHO COMMITTED NO SIN, NOR WAS ANY DECEIT FOUND IN HIS MOUTH; ²³ and while being reviled, He did not revile in return; while suffering, He uttered no threats, but kept entrusting Himself to Him who judges righteously; ²⁴ and He Himself bore our sins in His body on the cross, so that we might die to sin and live to righteousness; for by His wounds you were healed. ²⁵ For you were continually straying like sheep, but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Guardian of your souls.
1 Peter 2:21-25 (NASB)

I'm 

Today I am linking with Laura Boggess at The Wellspring for Playdates with God.

Just What I Needed

 Counting Down

A Perfect Timeline

Today I am guest blogging over at BibleDude.net as part of a group study of the book of Philippians.

I'll provide a link to the post below. But first, I'd like to share with you a timeline.

 June 13: Dan King sends the schedule for the study and invites participants to choose a passage. I sign up to comment on Philippians 4:1-9, noting the post will appear on July 15.

June 28: I consult the calendar and determine to write my post over the long holiday weekend, as we will be on vacation the week of July 15. I read through the book in a few different translations.

June 29: I determine that Sunday, July 3, is my best shot at working up the post, so I block out some time to work on it.

July 2: A household dispute starts our day. It's not a big, bitter, ugly dispute. It's the nagging kind that surfaces on occasion when young adults have returned to the nest, desperate to keep their sense of independence and adulthood intact while parents, equally desperately, seek conformation to household standards.

It leaves a bad taste in my house. I feel wronged. And I find myself, through the morning, prodding at that wrongedness now and then, inflaming into something that smells, just a bit, of resentment.

July 3: A mini-version of the previous day's dispute overflows again. And I poke, again, at my wound.

And then, a few hours later, I turn again to Philippians and I'm stopped short by what I find there. If you hop over to BibleDude.net to read the post, you'll see why. I'll wait.

In the commentary, I wrote:

This passage convicts me and gives me hope. I suffer from a tendency to dig through a conflict all the way to its bedrock, often insisting that my partner-in-conflict grab a shovel and a pick and excavate right along beside me. And it’s hard for a godly spirit to shine through all the dust and mud I pick up while busily digging in that pit.

This episode reminds me that the Bible isn't simply a book. It's God's living Word, intended to guide us, soothe us,...and sometimes rebuke us. The Word delivered exactly what I needed, at exactly the right time.

God is SO Good.

 ⁵ Come and see the works of God,
Who is awesome in His deeds toward the sons of men.
Psalm 66:5 (NASB)

Waiting on Orders

 Worth the Wait and Just in Time. July, 2011

At Exactly the Right Time

In January, when my daughter called to tell me that her husband's new orders were for the U.S.S. Columbus, a fast-attack submarine based in Hawaii, I chatted with her about the wonderful adventure lying before them.

Then I hung up the phone and cried, overwhelmed by the big blue ocean that would separate us once they moved.

Then I hopped online and ordered a t-shirt for grandson Cadence and a matching onesie and bib for baby brother Sawyer at etsy.com.  Two days later, the young mom in Mississippi who would craft the clothes for the boys sent me a picture of the art she'd embroider. I approved it.

Thirty minutes later Elaine called to tell me that Rob hadn't pulled orders for the Columbus after all. I fired off a message to Melissa, my Etsy crafter, asking her to wait on the project. Melissa responded that she hadn't started embroidering yet and offered me a refund.

"Let's just wait," I responded. "His orders will come through soon enough."

"Soon enough" ended up being April 25. I sent off another note:

Hi Melissa,
Rob finally has his orders in hand. He is to be stationed aboard the USS Charlotte (SSN-766), so that's what I'd like on the onesie and T shirt.

Sawyer is 5 months and weighs 18.5 pounds! I am guessing a 12 month onesie so he can fit?
Cadence is 4 and a half. Is a 5T available?

Thanks! Hope you had a great Easter!

Sheila

On June 30, a package arrived containing the items I'd ordered back in January.

During the delay, something amazing happened. Melissa and I became real people to each other.

When I first placed the order in January, she told me that she would start it in two days, because the next day her best friend would be induced to labor and deliver her first child. We had a little exchange about the joy of babies, and exchanged photos of our own families.

I learned that Melissa had lived in New Orleans until Katrina obliterated her neighborhood. I learned her daughter's dance team marches in Mardi Gras parades.

Then, beginning in May, after I'd sent the updated submarine name, Melissa got pneumonia. Her 90-year-old grandmother was hospitalized, twice. Her mother underwent gall bladder surgery. The best friend, who'd welcomed her first son in January, lost her 55-year-old dad to cancer in June. Melissa's embroidery machine malfunctioned.

And our messages on Etsy flew back and forth. "I'm so sorry for the delay. I'll refund your money."
"No, I can wait."

"Grandma is forgetting to eat. I keep calling her to remind her."
"I'm praying for you."
"I thank God for our friendship."

The items arrived on Thursday, June 30. Melissa included a note: "These will look great on the Fourth of July!" I wouldn't see the boys before then, but I consoled myself  that they'd look good anytime.

A few minutes after I opened the package, a coworker came into my office, heavy-hearted and burdened under a personal crisis. We spoke for a few minutes and I suggested she go home. As she gathered herself up to leave my office, I remembered the package. "Wait," I said, "I want to show you something."

"Is it something that will make me happy?"

"Yup." I pulled out the shirt, onesie, and bib, and watched my hurting friend smile for the first time in what seemed like a long, long time.

That evening my daughter texted, "Mom, did you get my message about Cadence's preschool graduation tomorrow?"

"No."

After a brief flurry of messages, I'd arranged to leave the office a few hours early so I could attend my grandson's "graduation" in San Diego.

Thanks to the delay, in Rob's orders from the Navy and my order from Mississippi, I had a sweet little gift to take to the proud new kindergartener.

And I had an opportunity to lighten, if only for a moment, my coworker's burden.

And I have a new friend, a young woman named Melissa, who is rebuilding her life in Mississippi.

I'm always amazed at the good our God can wring out of life's delays.

Cadence and His Lala. July 1, 2011.

⁹ I will give You thanks forever, because You have done it,
And I will wait on Your name, for it is good, in the presence of Your godly ones.
Psalm 52:9 (NASB)

The Rose Wins

 One Climbing Rose Envelops an Entire Tree. Portland, Oregon. June, 2011.

My friend Sam Lowry took this photo and granted his permission for me to share it with you.

Beautifying the Family Tree

My dear friend Sam Lowry posted this amazing photograph on Facebook recently. "A single climbing rose has fully colonized its host tree," he noted. This marvel grows on the street in Portland where Sam grew up.

The picture captivates me. I think about my own family tree, and how through my life it's been pruned and undergone grafting.

We've lost limbs through death and divorce, stacking the remnants back behind the shed. There it lays, out of sight, so much emotional kindling, waiting for a spark of regret to light it.

Sometimes I dwell on the woodpile; sometimes I ignore it.

Yet we've gained limbs through birth and marriage, hopeful tender shoots reaching for the sky, reaching to help create the sheltering shade that is my family.

No arborist nor genealogist would choose my family tree as the type example of the species.

Still, it is one magnificent tree. Its shape may not conform to any archetype, but it's strong and sturdy.

A single climbing rose has enveloped that Portland tree in sprays of roses, exhaling a gentle fragrance. God's love spreads across my family tree, softening the gnarled angles, sweetening it. We pick up the scent and pass it on, limb to precious limb.

A Bunch of Us. January 30, 2011.

⁸ Above all, keep fervent in your love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins.
1 Peter 4:8 (NASB)

Missing Persons, Suspects, and Convicts

 My Distinguishing Mark (Written in Dermatographia). July, 2011.

Distinguishing Marks

Driving home the other day I passed police activity at the side of the road. A squad car blocked the bicycle lane, its lights spinning round like an amped-up lighthouse, as the officer spoke to the driver of a compact car with a fat tailpipe and spoiler.

I remembered a time, years ago now, when a rookie cop and his trainer had responded to my call reporting suspicious activity in my neighborhood. I described what I'd seen: people jumping a fence and prying up the wooden hatch on the root cellar of a vacant bungalow two doors down.

The young officer nodded. Then he asked me for my name, place of birth, and identification. As he studied my drivers license, he asked, "Do you have any distinguishing marks? Scars, birthmarks, tattoos?"

I raised one eyebrow and glanced at the senior officer. "Um, aren't those the questions you ask the bad guys?"

"We collect that information about missing persons, too, Ma'am." 

It was an odd exchange, long forgotten. But when it arose in my recollection, it set me to thinking about my own history as suspect, missing person, and convict.

We've all had occasions where we've been suspected of doing wrong. When we're guilty, the suspicion swirling about makes us nervous; when we're innocent, it stirs indignation.

I spent a chunk of my life as a missing person, too, having only a dim awareness of my Father and His love for me. A few years ago God found me and I joyfully took my place in His family.

And then I learned that I'm a convict. My life story is a rap sheet of crimes and misdemeanors committed against God's will.

God knows I'm a convict and He loves me anyway. He knows every blemish of my heart, every scar I've left on someone else's heart--and still He paid my fine with the blood of His Son. From here on, may my salvation be my only distinguishing mark.

 ¹ Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. ² For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and of death. ³ For what the Law could not do, weak as it was through the flesh, God did: sending His own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and as an offering for sin, He condemned sin in the flesh, ⁴ so that the requirement of the Law might be fulfilled in us, who do not walk according to the flesh but according to the Spirit.
Romans 8:1-4 (NASB)

Know What You Know

 Where is the "M" Key?

Faith and Unseen Things

At work recently I needed help with a software program. After fumbling with a few possible fixes, I decided to call the office's expert for help with my problem.

"Let me come and take a look," he graciously answered. A moment later he stood beside me, peering at the display on my monitor.

"I think I see the trouble," he said. "Do you mind if I try something?"

"Please do," I said, yielding my seat at the keyboard.

My coworker looked down at my keyboard, then up at me. "How do you type on this thing? The keys are blank!"

I looked down and saw for the first time that the symbols marking each key were badly worn away.

"I bet you know where the keys are," I told him. "Just don't think about it. If you start with your position on the home keys, your fingers will know where to go."

He raised an eyebrow, then tapped at the ninja-black keys. A smile stole onto his face as he typed.

And in a moment, he'd solved my problem.

I thought about this incident the other day when a friend asked me how I could be so certain of my God. "Have you seen Him?" she asked.

"I see His work all around us," I answered.

"Have you touched Him?"

"I've felt His hand on me," I said.

"Have you heard Him?"

"Well, yes, I have--in my heart," I replied.

"What if you're wrong? What if at the end of your life, there's just....nothing?"

"I'm not wrong," I answered, quietly, calmly. I invited her to call on Him. "Just pray," I suggested. "Pray for a while. See what happens. Invite Him."

She said nothing in response. But the look on her face told me that she wasn't planning to pray.

My coworker was happy to tap away at the black keys, trusting that the desired letters and symbols would result, once I pointed out to him that his fingers already knew the keyboard layout. I'm hoping to find a way to encourage my friend to explore what her heart already knows.

¹⁹ They know the truth about God because He has made it obvious to them. ²⁰ For ever since the world was created, people have seen the earth and sky. Through everything God made, they can clearly see His invisible qualities—His eternal power and divine nature. So they have no excuse for not knowing God.
Romans 1:19-20 (NLT)

Rabbit Runs!

42nd Annual Trabuco Canyon Fourth of July Parade, July 4, 2007.

Freedom, Truth, and Dependence

Summertime in our little canyon brings adolescent wildlife into view. Last summer, our Labrador, J.D., faced off against a young squirrel. He'd pick up the squirrel in his soft retriever's mouth, then spit it out when the squirrel began to wriggle. The squirrel, all bluster, would rear up on its hind legs, puff itself up, and hiss madly at the dog. My husband and I watched from the deck for a moment, amazed at the six-inch squirrel's ballyhoo in the face of a ninety-pound dog.

Then Rich turned on the hose, distracting our water dog long enough for the beleaguered little creature to escape.

A few mornings ago as I drove our canyon road on my way to my job in town, a half-grown rabbit darted out from the shoulder, on course for a crushing introduction to my truck's Goodyears. With no place to swerve, I gritted my teeth, expecting to feel a tiny thud beneath my tires.

At the last possible second, the rabbit veered, zigging back towards the gravel shoulder. Some saving instinct fired off in its brain; in an instant, it turned away from catastrophe, running back into the cover of the oak forest.

I enjoy sharing my world with these creatures. I think of them as wild and free.

Today our community will stage a parade, celebrating our nation's independence--its freedom. We'll thank those brave men and women who've defended our freedom and glory in our sovereignty as a nation. We gather to celebrate our history. And our future.

 Local Heroes.

I will join in the celebration, grateful to call America my homeland, grateful for the sacrifices that preserve our way of life.

All the same, Independence Day draws me to reflect on the great paradox of my faith: my true freedom comes from dependence. I have a resource beyond my instincts to guide me, to help me turn away from calamity, to save me from the jaws of a deadly beast.

I have God. I seek to trust in Him, depend upon Him--only Him. Always Him.


It's a challenge for my prideful heart and I fall short.

But by His grace, I'm freed.

¹⁵ For such is the will of God that by doing right you may silence the ignorance of foolish men. ¹⁶ Act as free men, and do not use your freedom as a covering for evil, but use it as bondslaves of God. ¹⁷ Honor all people, love the brotherhood, fear God, honor the king.
1 Peter 2:15-17 (NASB)

Strung out on Prayer, Part Three

 Jasper, Resin, Czech Fire Polished Glass, Sterling Silver. June, 2011

Each Bead is a Bite of Prayer

Compared to most of the world's people, I am blessed with days that roll along as if mounted on low-resistance tires. Sometimes, though, a tire goes flat: some unexpected challenge punctures the surface as surely as a pothole flattens a tire.

And when days scrape and bump past slow hours, I have an unfortunate tendency to hurry through evening prayers. When exhaustion has invaded, I abbreviate: Instead of naming names and struggles, I'll whisper, "Father, You know our needs, You know the needs of our family, our friends--I lift them all up to You and ask for Your will."

I am not fond of mass uploads, my term for these truncated chats with my Father.

But sometimes, when the day's demands drip through the still of its hours, collecting, drop by drop, at its end into fatigue, I drink of that strong bitter cocktail. On those nights, I fall back on these feeble prayers like a drunk collapses into a chair.

My prayer beads help me remember to be specific when I come before my God. I've written twice before about praying with beads. A few weeks ago I gave my beads away and made another strand.

Creeping through my local bead store, Lake Forest's Bead Station, I choose supplies. The atmosphere is soothing and I see promise hanging in hanks on the walls. I'm offered help, but free to browse until I'm ready to consult with an expert. It's a lovely shop.

I imagine I'm in the produce department, picking ingredients for a fruit salad. It's easy to see the colors that appeal--a crisp glass bead, pale as iceberg lettuce, offset by an artichoke-green stone, interspersed with dark resin beads as dusky as fresh blueberries.

And then I remember. I select fruit with my nose. I must choose these beads by touch. I take up a candidate strand, run my fingers over the beads. Just as I make that salad with a mind to attractive colors and well-married flavors, the beads that I choose need to soothe my eye and charm my fingertips.

It's the beads beneath my fingers that slow me as I pray, each bead a bite of prayer I offer up to God.

¹⁶ You did not choose Me but I chose you, and appointed you that you would go and bear fruit, and that your fruit would remain, so that whatever you ask of the Father in My name He may give to you.

 John 15:16 (NASB)