Tugs We Cannot Name

Cadence in Lala's Rocker. 2008. 

An Overwhelmed Heart

"Do you know what tomorrow is, Cadence?" I asked as I tucked the tiny toddler, not yet two, into the vast queen-size bed in our guest room. He blinked.

"Tomorrow is Mother's Day! And your mommy will be back tomorrow. She's going to meet us after church and we'll all spend Mother's Day together. Can you say, 'Happy Mother's Day'?"

"Appy Mudders Day," Cadence repeated, smiling.

"Can you say, 'I love you, Mommy'?"

I watched as his happy little face collapsed into anguish, deflating my heart as it went. Tears flooded his eyes and raced down his cheeks. I gathered my grandson to me. "You miss your mommy, don't you? It's okay. You're just spending one night with Papa Rich and me, then Mommy will take you home tomorrow. Shhh, shhh," I murmured, holding him close, rubbing his heaving back and rocking the tears away.

After sleep claimed him I tiptoed down the stairs and told my husband what had happened. "Poor little Cadence," I said.

"He didn't have the words to tell me he misses his mommy, but when I asked him to say 'I love you, Mommy,' that missing just overwhelmed his little heart. He cried and cried."

We all feel tugs at our hearts that we can't name, don't we? My toddler grandson wisely attended to the unknown pulling, living it as it came to him, letting it draw tears from him.

This is childhood's gift, thriving because we expect to not-yet-know things, growing because we accept the mysteries that present themselves every day.

And here, being a grown-up hurts me. I have forgotten how to not-yet-know. So when I feel that insistent tugging, I search my mind for its name. And when I cannot name it, I ignore it.

Or worse, I decide it isn't real.

In this new year, I'm going to stop ignoring and dismissing the unknown pulls. In this new year, I will remember how to not-yet-know.

18 I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, so that you will know what is the hope of His calling, what are the riches of the glory of His inheritance in the saints, 19 and what is the surpassing greatness of His power toward us who believe. These are in accordance with the working of the strength of His might 20 which He brought about in Christ, when He raised Him from the dead and seated Him at His right hand in the heavenly places, 21 far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the one to come.
Ephesians 1:18-21 (NASB)

The Right Wrong Number

Answer the Phone!

A Case of Not-Mistaken Identity


The email from my boss flashed on my screen while I was on the phone with a vendor, working out terms of a new contract. "Does the name Susan Swift [a pseudonym] mean anything to you?"

As I listened to our vendor's justification for her "enhanced pricing program" I clicked on our contact management program and searched for the name. Nothing. I Googled "Susan Swift Orange County" and scanned the results while the vendor explained the new "fuel surcharges."

Hitting reply, I tapped back to my boss: "There's a local woman by that name who entertains at children's birthday parties...that's all I found."

A bit later, my boss stepped into my office. "You know," she said, "Today is the sixteenth anniversary of my mother's passing."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"That woman, Susan--she kept ringing my cell phone. And I was thinking about The Scott Incident."

I laughed. Poor Scott had contacted us years earlier about our services. When he called back three years later, I mistook him for a solicitor. Scott had called three times before I finally put him through to Tracy. Now he's our client.

My boss Tracy and I, we remember The Scott Incident.

Never Again. That's our Scott Incident motto. In our line of work, a lot of relationship-building goes into signing a new client. It's not at all odd that a prospective client might call on her cell phone. If this Susan Swift was a prospect, Tracy would want to answer her call.


"Finally," Tracy continued, "She texted me: 'Are you the Tracy who does my mom's hair?' I sent her a reply: 'No. I'm the Tracy who hired you to entertain at my daughter's birthday party.'"

Tracy sat down at my desk and looked me in the eye. "Susan texted back that was trying to reach her mom's hairdresser because her mom had passed away and she wanted to let her know."

"Ooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."  

"I texted her back," she went on, "She and I sent a few messages back and forth. I think she was encouraged."

We were in the midst of annual meetings with our clients. My boss was busy, busy, busy. But she took time to offer hope to a near-stranger who had reached out to her by mistake.

Or maybe, not. I've been on the receiving end of Tracy's encouragement before. She has a gift for helping you to remember that hurts fade, pain recedes, and a new day waits; undoubtedly her messages blessed Susan. Another blessing was wrapped in the opportunity for Tracy to honor her mother's memory by offering hope to another grieving daughter whose loss was raw and fresh.

She may not have been the Tracy that Susan was seeking, but she was the right Tracy. 

14 We urge you, brethren, admonish the unruly, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with everyone.
1 Thessalonians 5:14 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee at Getting Down With Jesus for God-Bumps & God-Incidences. Please stop by!

A One-Night Stand with Fear

Blown Over

Waiting out the Wind


We listened as the wind screeched down our narrow canyon. The reporters had warned us, as breathlessly as if they'd donated their own air to the cause, that this windstorm was to be The Big One: "Hurricane-force gusts," they promised. Through the howl we heard booms and thuds. I half-expected to see a cow fly by, sucked up in the swirling forces at work outside.

Except I couldn't see outside. It was dark. Oh, it had been windy during the day. We'd watched the eucalyptus trees bend to the west, never guessing that wood might be so limber.  But the storm's crescendo rode in under cover of night.

The darkness magnified my terror. What if the roof blows off? What if a tree crashes into the house? What if the power line goes down, whipping like a mad snake across the ground, and darkness marches right into our living room?

Bending under Pressure

I could think of nothing beyond the ferocious tempest that rattled our windows and made the oaks shiver and moan.


I would like to tell you that I prayed to God for His peace, His protection, His comfort. But I didn't. My heart, overflowing with anxiety, was wholly focused on my dread.


That windy, noisy night, I handed my heart to fear, clinging to it close as a lover.

We sheltered indoors like little piggies hiding from predatory zephyrs. Sleep came late and weak that night as snapping sounds invaded our dreams.

Morning came, and light. We stepped outside to inventory the storm's spoils. The roof had held. The flagpole still stood. "Praise God," I said.

Coward that I was, I didn't kick out the fear until I saw that we were safe, Once it left, I felt a little empty place. Then it hit me:

During the night, fear had become my idol. I might as well have knelt before it.

Surveying more carefully, I noticed, down in our sloping back yard, a eucalyptus limb, snapped off like a pencil in the hands of a fretful student at test-time.

 Sheared Off

My husband had said we needed to cut that limb out, as it crowded our roof. He'd studied all the angles, looking for a safe way to get at it. We'd planned to call the tree man, to pay him for the risk we didn't want to assume in the climbing and the sawing and the dropping to earth.

And the wind, that fearsome monster, had torn away that renegade limb while we huddled inside, fearing.

It was good, what we found when the light came.

It was good, to feel my love for God reclaiming my heart.

14 Wait for the LORD;
Be strong and let your heart take courage;
Yes, wait for the LORD.
Psalm 27:14 (NASB)

Christmas Tourists

The Center of Attention

My Best Friend's Birthday

This weekend, believers in Jesus Christ, our Savior, gather throughout the world to celebrate His birth. It was quite the event, seeing as how His arrival split history in two, freed us from sin's bondage, and gave us eternal life.

Love came down to rescue us a few thousand years ago when God came to earth, incarnate. 

He walked among us. He died for us. He brought us grace.

He's my best friend, enthroned at the right hand of God, interceding for me. And for you. 

It's His birthday. 

The funny thing is this: lots of not-believers celebrate Christmas, too. They decorate their homes, exchange gifts, bake cookies, sing carols--they celebrate everything about the season except the birth of the King of Kings. They gather with family. They love each other.

I know a few people of faith who are offended by these people who embrace the holiday while rejecting the Guest of Honor. You might think, to hear them discuss it, that a bunch of scabs had shown up at the Labor Day picnic. These show up at our churches like tourists arriving at Disneyland. They take the prime parking spots. They crowd the pews. And they're coming, not to worship our Savior, but to admire the candles aglow, the children's choir, the banks of poinsettias gracing the chancel. 

But for an hour, they sit in God's house, in the company of believers. 

I don't see an inconvenience there. I see an opportunity.

My prayer this weekend is for the Holy Spirit to tap on those hearts as they admire our wreaths and stately trees, join us in singing songs of adoration, bow their heads as we pray. I pray they'll see where love comes from. Where everything comes from. 

My prayer this weekend is that all of us--even--no, especially the Christmas tourists--experience the joy, the hope, the peace:

The wonders of His love.

¹ Now in those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus, that a census be taken of all the inhabited earth. ² This was the first census taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. ³ And everyone was on his way to register for the census, each to his own city. ⁴ Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the city of Nazareth, to Judea, to the city of David which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and family of David, ⁵ in order to register along with Mary, who was engaged to him, and was with child. ⁶ While they were there, the days were completed for her to give birth. ⁷ And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn. ⁸ In the same region there were some shepherds staying out in the fields and keeping watch over their flock by night. ⁹ And an angel of the Lord suddenly stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them; and they were terribly frightened. ¹⁰ But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy which will be for all the people; ¹¹ for today in the city of David there has been born for you a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. ¹² This will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” ¹³ And suddenly there appeared with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, ¹⁴ “Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace among men with whom He is pleased.” ¹⁵ When the angels had gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds began saying to one another, “Let us go straight to Bethlehem then, and see this thing that has happened which the Lord has made known to us.” ¹⁶ So they came in a hurry and found their way to Mary and Joseph, and the baby as He lay in the manger. ¹⁷ When they had seen this, they made known the statement which had been told them about this Child. ¹⁸ And all who heard it wondered at the things which were told them by the shepherds. ¹⁹ But Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart. ²⁰ The shepherds went back, glorifying and praising God for all that they had heard and seen, just as had been told them. 

Luke 2:1-20 (NASB)

Jesus in a Mixing Bowl

Elaine and Sawyer Play with Doc. Cadence Plays with Army Men. December, 2011.

More than I can Imagine

My daughter Elaine was four the first year we baked cinnamon rolls together for breakfast on Christmas. This year, she's twenty-nine. Saturday night, for the twenty-fifth time, we'll knead the dough and sprinkle the cinnamon, making pinwheels of goodness for our breakfast on Christmas morning. 

Last year, when I wrote about our tradition, I couldn't imagine an end to it. This year, when Elaine told me that the Navy was sending her husband to Hawaii, I refused to think of an end to it. And as things worked out, our tradition lives for another year. She and her sons have already returned to California; her husband Rob will join us tomorrow. Whether we'll be making cinnamon rolls together next year is anybody's guess, as it appears that Rob's orders will take the family to Guam in 2012. 

But we won't worry about next year. On Christmas Eve, after church, after prime rib, we'll don aprons and scald milk and measure flour and watch as the yeast works its magic, growing a small lump of sweet dough bigger and bigger. Every year, when we return to the kitchen after the dough has risen, we find more in the bowl than we'd imagined. 

That's really Christmas, isn't it? God comes down  not as the conquering king everyone expected, but as a baby. That tiny infant, sleeping under a shining star in the east, was more than anyone imagined: a promise fulfilled, salvation for all humanity. 

One thing I know about my God: He is more than I can imagine. 

This Christmas, as my daughter and I watch the dough rising, bigger and bigger, I'll see Jesus there. 

How about you? Where will you find Him this Christmas?

1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2 He was in the beginning with God. 3 All things came into being through Him, and apart from Him nothing came into being that has come into being. 4 In Him was life, and the life was the Light of men. 5 The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.
1 John 1-5 (NASB)

I'm joining Jennifer Lee at Getting Down with Jesus  for God Bumps and God-Incidences. Won't you join us?

Dream Bigger this Christmas

Kevin and Baby Carly. Christmas, 2008.

Just Ask. 

None of my (suburban, American, well-fed and cared for) grandchildren has ever told me, "I want a rubber band this Christmas." Nor "I asked Santa for a bowl of oatmeal." Nor "I wish for a tube of toothpaste."

No. They dream big: They ask for new bicycles and good books to read and ponies. They want fire trucks and baby dolls with eyes that open and puzzles and new games for their PlayStations. Cadence, the year he was three, wanted "a friendly shark and an ocean to keep him in."

You'll find the rest of the story over at BibleDude.net. Please scoot over and read it. 

Charmed into Joy

My Beautiful Granddaughter, Carly. October, 2011. Photo by Ryan Lagrand.

The jeweler and I huddled over his velvet-lined tray, arranging and rearranging the seven charms. “Where did you get them?” he asked.

“I’ve been collecting them for a few months. There’s a charm for each of my grandchildren. The baby’s name is Sawyer, so the saw stands for him. Ayden’s daddy died when he was two. Every time he visits, he wants to play with army men and wear his dad’s helmet, which hangs on the wall near the flag case.” The jeweler stopped fiddling with the charms and looked up at me.

Read the rest of the story over at (in)courage, where I'm thrilled to be guest-posting today. 

And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.
Romans 8:28 (NASB)

Always Dinner Rolls, Never Biscuits

Dinner Rolls. 

Every Gift is a Golden Thing


"Please pass the biscuits," a relative asked at some holiday family feast, a few years ago. As I lifted the bread basket, I said, "They're not biscuits. They're dinner rolls."

"There's a difference?"

"Oh yes. Biscuits are a quick bread. You mix them up, roll them, cut them, and bake them. They can be ready to eat in half an hour. The rolls take time. I started this morning, mixing the dough. Then it rises. Then I shape them. Then they rise again. Then I bake them. These take a few hours to prepare."

The relative, by now, was munching on a roll. "Whatever. They're good."

Biscuits would have been easier. But I'd measured and kneaded, tucked the dough carefully into a bowl, stood watch against drafts, kneaded again. I'd carefully shaped each roll, settled them beneath protective towels to grow, then watched through the oven door as they swelled and became little golden things.

I'd labored in love to bring my best rolls, my offering for the family meal.

Not biscuits.

Then I got to thinking. How often have I received a gift--a lingering conversation on a busy day, a complex recipe prepared for my enjoyment, an object purchased at a sacrifice--and responded with a casual "Thanks!" instead of taking the time to specify my gratitude? A cashmere sweater hangs in my closet, a gift from my daughter, its green the same green as my eyes. How many sweaters did she reject before choosing this perfect one for me?

And I'd said, "Thank you," just as if she'd passed me biscuits.

This season, my prayer is that I remember, always remember, that every friend and loved one is a gift from Him. Every gift I receive flows from someone's labor of love. My prayer is to accept every gift with the gratitude properly reserved for little golden things, like dinner rolls.

 ¹⁶ Do not be deceived, my beloved brethren. ¹⁷ Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow. 

James 1:16-17 (NASB) 

I'm linking up today with Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays. Won't you hop over and have a look? 

I'm Feasting on Pickles While I Wait for a Baby!

Corn, Hot Roast Beef Sandwich, Pinot, and PICKLES!

Green Olives and the Baby Jesus

Confession: I love pickles. Dills, bread-and-butters, sweet baby gherkins, cherry peppers--I've seldom met a pickle that I didn't adore. Ditto their relatives, the olives. As a child, I often cleaned out the relish plate at the end of holiday meals, mounting one pitted ripe olive on each finger, then savoring their salty goodness.

But I don't generally keep an assortment of pickles in the house. Rich likes dill pickles, so they've earned a place in our pantry. He doesn't enjoy other varieties, though. Since it feels extravagant to purchase food that only one of us likes, I usually skip over the other pickles.

But every Thanksgiving, one of our guests contributes an assortment of pickles and olives to our feast. I indulge in that small extravagance, right alongside the turkey and cranberries.

When the meal is over, I return the leftover pickles to their jars, push them to the back of the fridge, and ignore them. It's almost like I've forgotten about the everyday goodness of pickles. They sit silently in their bottles, neglected, slowly turning to mush. Then I toss them out with no more ceremony than I would a head of lettuce gone brown.

That's pretty silly isn't it? I forget the extravagant gift. I ignore it. Then I toss it out.

Not this year.

This year, I pull out the pickle bottles every evening at dinner time, piling my plate with their tangy goodness. This year, the small extravagance of pickles reminds me that I await the biggest extravagance of all.

Advent follows close behind Thanksgiving. It's a season of waiting for the most outrageous gift ever: God Himself, in the flesh, coming to us as a sweet, soft, cooing Baby. He came to lead us, to teach us, to fulfill an ancient promise. He gave His life to redeem us.


Now that's extravagant. Ridiculously extravagant, when you stop to think about it. Please don't forget the greatest Christmas gift. Please don't ignore it. Please don't toss it out.

⁶ For a child will be born to us, a son will be given to us; And the government will rest on His shoulders; And His name will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace. ⁷ There will be no end to the increase of His government or of peace, On the throne of David and over his kingdom, To establish it and to uphold it with justice and righteousness From then on and forevermore. The zeal of the LORD of hosts will accomplish this. 

Isaiah 9:6-7 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee over at Getting Down with Jesus  for God-Bumps & God-Incidences. I hope you'll drop by Jennifer's place.

No Cheap Christmas Gifts!

Cadence, Filled with Joy. Christmas Day, 2009.

We're all Bazillionaires

I was startled, some weeks ago, to find this subject line on a message board for Christian writers:

"CHEAP CHRISTMAS GIFTS!!!"

Surely the person who posted this meant cheap in the sense of  "purchasable below the going price or the real value," but the phrase struck me as ironic, all the same. 

We all know the economy has devastated many, many families, communities, and regions in our country. And we tend to think of Christmas gifts as things we buy, wrap, and then ship, deliver, or slip under our very own Christmas tree. When you're unemployed, or underemployed, the season of Christmas can feel not so very merry.

But when I hear "cheap" I don't think "inexpensive." I think of its other meanings:

a : of inferior quality or worth: tawdry, sleazy <cheap workmanship>b : contemptible because of lack of any fine, lofty, or redeeming qualities <feeling cheap>c : stingy <my cheap uncle>

Nobody wants to give a contemptible gift. Nobody wants to feel stingy. But when the newspapers, broadcast ads, and even your email inbox conspire to assault you with exhortations to buy expensive trinkets, touting them as The.One.Thing that will make Christmas special...well, it's easy to succumb to that viewpoint.

And when you don't have the money to buy those gizmos, it can throw a cold, wet blanket over your Christmas joy. 

But here's the thing:

No matter what kind of poverty reigns in our wallets this Christmas, in our hearts, we store wealth beyond measure. 

We're celebrating the birth of our Savior, who came down, God Incarnate, to walk and breathe and minister to us. He entered this world the same way we all do, squeezed and bloody, to redeem us at an unimaginable price.

And that price He paid? It makes us all rich, rich, rich!

It's a great year to give heart-gifts. You know what goodies you carry in your heart. A long conversation with a friend, a tray of cookies, a walk through winter to admire Christmas lights, an afternoon spent at the library, choosing a pile of engrossing tales--these treasures can't be bought for money. 

Here's the thing: Anything we can wrap up and deliver to a loved one pales in worth beside the gift we all received on that cold night in Bethlehem a few thousand years ago. We're not going to top the original Christmas gift. We're not going to match it. 

The closest we can come, this Christmas, or at any time, is to give from the storehouse of grace in our hearts. It overflows. Always. 

Merry, merry Christmas.

⁵ For there is one God, and one mediator also between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, ⁶ who gave Himself as a ransom for all, the testimony given at the proper time.  

1 Timothy 2:5-6 (NASB)

The Dream Barista

Teacup, Coffee Beans, French Press.

I Dreamed I was in a Cold Place


This city was big and foreign. I walked its strange streets, looking for an address, the wind scathing my skin and my spirits. My legs grew heavy. I'd been wandering the dark streets so long the cold had moved into my bones, bringing an ache.

I'd been wandering the dark streets so long I couldn't remember my destination.

I longed to step into some warm place and rest. In the curious provision we find in dreams, a place appeared as soon as I thought to stop: ahead I saw a coffee house, its lights pouring friendly yellow rectangles onto the frosty sidewalk.

Tugging at its door I found it heavier than I expected; I had to grab the handle and lean away from it to budge the door. Once inside, I believed I'd entered the wrong place. I expected to see a counter, to hear the welcoming hiss of an espresso machine, to smell coffee, deep and smoky, inviting me to linger. Instead, I found three small wooden tables, the varnish worn to a dull glow. Two chairs flanked each table. The white walls were spotless and bare. Cafe doors at the rear of the small room led to some other place, beyond my sight.

Suddenly they swung. A man emerged. He wore a long waiter's apron and his eyes were of a color I couldn't name. He motioned to a chair. "Sit down," he said.

I sat. "What can I get you?" As he smiled, I noticed that his face was smooth like toddler skin. But his hands showed age. His hands were worn, weathered, and scarred, the hands of a man who had labored long.

"I'd like a big mug of coffee," I said. He searched my face with those eyes. "I don't know where I am," I said. "I went walking, looking for a place, and then darkness fell and the wind came up and now I can't even remember where I wanted to go." I wished he would look away. It seemed I couldn't escape those eyes. As long as he looked, I'd continue to babble.

"I'm cold," I continued, helpless under his gaze. "I came inside hoping to warm up. I'm achy and lost and I would really, really, like a big mug of coffee."

"Very well," he said. Relief swirled across me as he turned and disappeared behind the swinging cafe doors. I relaxed into the wooden chair, leaning gratefully against its straight back.

A moment later--a dream moment, nothing but a blink, really--he returned. He set down an ornate pink teacup.

It was filled with coffee beans. He turned to disappear through the swinging doors.

"Wait!" I cried. "I want brewed coffee. I want coffee that is hot and liquid and soothing, in a big steaming  mug that I can hold to warm my hands. They've turned cold and stiff in this weather."

"This is what I have for you tonight," he said gently, leveling those compelling eyes on me. "Come back in the spring. There will be more, then." He picked up the teacup full of coffee beans.

Before I could reply, before I could beg him for coffee, hot and steamy and soul-satisfying on a bitterly cold night in a strange place, he turned and slipped once more through the doors.

Another dream-blink and it was springtime. The frost had retreated from the sidewalks but the wind still blew cold. I pulled on the heavy door.

"I knew you'd come," he smiled as he emerged from the back of the coffeehouse. He wore the same apron and carried a wooden tray. "Here." He set the tray before me. I saw that same pink teacup, filled with coffee beans, and an empty French press.

I avoided his eyes, remembering. "I really want coffee," I whined.

"Come back next year," he said. He picked up the tray and left me alone.

On my next visit, a whole dream-year later, he brought me the same teacup, the same beans, the same French press--and a coffee mill. Maybe, I thought, he'll bring me some hot water. I dumped the beans from the teacup into the coffee mill, reached for its crank.

"No! You mustn't grind your own beans. I am the one to grind them. Next time."

Once again I found myself standing at that heavy door, tugging. The breeze was warmer now, and it wasn't quite so dark. I figured it must be summertime. He strolled through the cafe doors before I'd taken a seat, wearing the familiar apron and carrying the same wooden tray.

I sat at the same table, the one nearest the door. He set the tray on the table. Wordlessly he poured the coffee beans into the mill and turned the crank. As he ground the coffee he watched me, as if I, rather than the coffee mill, was the object of his work. I smiled as the dusky aroma of the ground-up beans rose to my nostrils. I'd waited all my life for that cup of coffee. Never taking his eyes off me, he removed the plunger from the French press and poured in the coffee.

Usually I couldn't keep from speaking when he turned those eyes on me. Tonight, I was mute. He turned and looked to the table beside me. Following his gaze, I turned my eyes to it, too. I realized that since my first visit, I'd never looked around the room. I'd simply gone to the table closest to the door and sat, like a horse in blinders heading for its familiar stall.

And now, as I lifted my eyes to look at what he saw, I gasped. The table beside me held a two big red earthenware mugs. Beside the mugs, steam rose from a teakettle. It began to rattle, then whistle, as the water boiled. Cream filled a pitcher. A silver bowl of sugar rested beside a line of perfect spoons.

They've been there the whole time, my heart sang.

I looked back to my host, confused even in my dreaming. He'd sat in the other chair at my table, the same quiet smile, the same sublime eyes, the same battered hands, the same impossibly smooth face.

But now, as he rose to silence the squealing teakettle, pouring the water into the press, his face began to glow.

I couldn't stay in my chair. I stood. Then I knelt.

"Come, sit with me," he said. "I've prepared coffee. Let's drink it together."

*****

Praying that you dream of Him in the waiting of this season.

⁶ The LORD of hosts will prepare a lavish banquet for all peoples on this mountain; A banquet of aged wine, choice pieces with marrow, And refined, aged wine. ⁷ And on this mountain He will swallow up the covering which is over all peoples, Even the veil which is stretched over all nations. ⁸ He will swallow up death for all time, And the Lord GOD will wipe tears away from all faces, And He will remove the reproach of His people from all the earth; For the LORD has spoken. ⁹ And it will be said in that day, “Behold, this is our God for whom we have waited that He might save us. This is the LORD for whom we have waited; Let us rejoice and be glad in His salvation.” 

Isaiah 25:6-9 (NASB) 

I'm linking up today with Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays. Please stop in for a nibble. Or a cuppa.


I'm also linking up with Laura Krokos for Brag on God Friday. I hope you'll visit there. 

The Grief-Tested Car

Elaine and me, Quietly Happy Together. Tahiti. January, 2004.

Reunions, Funerals, and Oil Lines

My daughter Elaine, grandsons Cadence and Sawyer, her husband's sister Crissy, and Crissy's baby Annabelle land at LAX in ten hours and twenty-five minutes. 

Not that I'm counting or anything. 

The U.S. Navy sent my daughter and her family to Hawaii in August; the U.S. Coast Guard sent Crissy and her family there in May. My co-grandma, Judi, and I will converge on the airport prepared to claim the most precious cargo on that flight: Our two daughters and our grandchildren. With our two SUVs stowed in the parking lot, we'll stalk the baggage claim, watching the hallway for two tired moms, three children, two strollers. 

I think I may shriek. I'm sure I'll cry.

Since they moved, Cadence has turned five and started kindergarten. Sawyer is a year old now; I'm told he walked on Thanksgiving. My son-in-law Rob has been promoted to chief. Elaine has settled her family in a new home, earned a SCUBA certification, called her mother faithfully. 

But today--later today--I can hug her. I can smell her hair. I've missed the smell of her hair. I can cuddle Sawyer and hopefully, still sweep Cadence up off the floor and into my arms.

We'll caravan south from the airport, two Toyotas packed with rejoicing grandmas and girls come home with their own babies, stopping for carne asada burritos along the way. Elaine and Crissy have been craving them all these months in Hawaii. We'll talk as we drive, catching up on details of our lives, planning the coming weeks. The children, maybe, will nap, snug in their car seats.

Our plan was that Elaine would have the use of one of our cars while she's on the mainland. So we have an intricate plan in place, wherein Judi and I drive to the airport to collect our kin, then as we pass through Orange County, my husband meets us for dinner. Then I hand off the car and ride home with my husband. Elaine drives off in our second car. Then we spend a month being a one-car family.

On Saturday, Rich and I took this SUV for a drive. We were headed for Corona, about 35 miles away, to pay our respects at the memorial service for my cousin Dale. Now, I must say this: while my heart rejoices that my cousin knew our Lord and is resting, even as I write this, in the loving arms of Jesus, my heart hurts for the wife and children left behind, for my cousin's brothers, for his parents. For me. Forty-nine is way too young.

Anyway, as we were driving, the car started billowing smoke and a horrible smell wrapped itself around us. Rich stopped the car and a cursory inspection, which Rich performed carefully, being dressed in his mourning clothes, revealed that an oil line had let go.

I called my father, who was traveling to the same destination from a different direction, while Rich summoned a tow truck. A short while later, a tow truck was dragging our broken car away and we were tucked into Dad's red Honda, continuing on our way to this important family event. We arrived only a few minutes late, despite the unexpected complications in our travel.

It didn't hit me until later: if we hadn't driven to the memorial service, the car might have failed while I was en route to the airport to claim my girl. Worse, it could have left her stranded beside the road, waiting for help while two small boys sat in the back seat, confused, or rambunctious, or scared.

But that's not what happened. Nope. The car failed on our watch, providing us with a chance to send it to the shop. Later today, when I hand the keys over to my daughter, I can rest easy, knowing the vehicle has been inspected, repaired, made true for her use.

I can't wait to drive to the airport this afternoon. 

And all the way I'm going to be offering thanks for my family's return, and for the heart-peace of a reliable car to offer to her.

God managed to drag something good out of a funeral for a man called home way, way too soon. 

¹⁷ The LORD is righteous in all His ways 
And kind in all His deeds. 
¹⁸ The LORD is near to all who call upon Him, 
To all who call upon Him in truth. 
¹⁹ He will fulfill the desire of those who fear Him; 
He will also hear their cry and will save them. 
Psalm 145:17-19 (NASB)

I'm linking up with my friend Jennifer Lee over at Getting Down with Jesus for her brand-new community. Won't you stop by?

Coming Home for Christmas

A Little Christmas Shine

Like I Never Left

My husband Rich lugged the boxes up from the basement and I unwrapped the familiar adornments, easing off wrappers of crinkly tissue paper as if I was helping an elderly friend out of her winter coat. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and we were decorating our home in anticipation of Christmas.

Here were the beautifully clumsy ceramic Christmas trees his children had made, years before. Another box yielded the porcelain candle sticks that spell "J-O-Y," a chubby cherub clinging to each letter. They'd belonged to my grandmother. I collected five packets of ornament hangers and resolved that this year I would not buy another package "just in case I couldn't find them in the Christmas boxes." 

I festooned garland from the stair rail, fastening each sweep of greenery with red velvet bows embellished by a trio of jingle bells. Out on the front deck, Rich strung twinkling lights on the eaves. The ceramic trees took their places on the mantel. I placed three burgundy candles in Grandma's candlesticks. I removed the collection of decorative boxes that sits on a secretary in the corner, making way for our nativity. 

When we stopped for a leftover-turkey lunch, I looked around, satisfied. "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," I said, pulling out the same corny line I dredge up each year just as if I'd stowed it in tissue alongside the angels and stars. 

Driving to church on Sunday morning, I wondered what we might find there. We'd joined a new church in January, so we couldn't ransack our stock of Christmas memories made there.  

We arrived at church to find the little sanctuary graced by wreaths, garland, and a magnificent tree. She shone, this home of the bride of Christ, made beautiful as if she were ready to recite her vows. Our pastor greeted us, wearing a red necktie. "Merry Christmas!" he said. 

"The church is gorgeous," I told him. 

"Usually we decorate the Friday after Thanksgiving," he said. "This year our youth group kids put everything up on Tuesday night."

"They did an amazing job," I told him. 

As we settled into the pew, I gazed about the room, enjoying the gold star glittering atop the tree, the wreath hanging above the pulpit, the merry garland traipsing along the perimeter of the sanctuary. And then I saw it.

Sitting on the table before the pulpit sat a wreath. It held three purple candles and a pink one. 

Advent! Our new church home celebrates Advent! I remembered my childhood church, its spacious sanctuary made enormous by my six-year-old perspective. I remembered wrapping cans of food in white tissue paper, walking shyly up the aisle to place them on the chancel steps when the minister invited us to give our "white gifts" for the needy.

And I remembered the wreath holding three purple candles and a pink one, sitting on a table, presiding over a growing heap of canned goods donated by the children of the church to serve those in need. 

Later, our Sunday school teacher told us that the candles were to help us remember to get ready to welcome the baby Jesus. She helped us to make paper chains of stiff construction paper, one link for each day until Christmas, the sticky paste coating my fingers as I glued strips of paper and thought about a baby, born in a manger. 

All those memories made the advent wreath in our new church more precious to me. 

See, it's hard to prepare when I can't remember. Those three purple candles and a pink one are a touchstone.  They fill me with memories.

And so I prepare. Not just my home, but my heart. 

² “But as for you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, Too little to be among the clans of Judah, From you One will go forth for Me to be ruler in Israel. His goings forth are from long ago, From the days of eternity.” ³ Therefore He will give them up until the time When she who is in labor has borne a child. Then the remainder of His brethren Will return to the sons of Israel. ⁴ And He will arise and shepherd His flock In the strength of the LORD, In the majesty of the name of the LORD His God. And they will remain, Because at that time He will be great To the ends of the earth.  

Micah 5:2-4 (NASB)

I'm linking up today with the Advent writing project hosted by my friend Charity Singleton for The High Calling. I hope you'll stop by and read more perspectives on Advent.