Being In Task, Not On Task

My Office.

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part Five


At my office, late in the day on December 30, I turned to a spreadsheet. The office was quiet, our numbers thinned by holiday vacations and a flu bug. All my more urgent, complex tasks of the week, the month--the year--were done. A spreadsheet awaited me, though. I'd update the monthly figures and provide the 2011 totals to my boss before leaving for my own scheduled vacation the first week of January.

It was a late-in-the-day job for me, this spreadsheet. Since I'm a morning person, I structure my workdays to tackle tasks that demand more complex thinking earlier in the day. I'd rather schedule that important meeting for eleven than for three, for example. I also have a mental "slush pile" of more routinized chores that I reserve for my late-afternoon mental slump. Complete the monthly accounting? Morning, all the way. Put up the resulting statements and reports for filing? Four p.m., every time.

I could do this spreadsheet with my eyes closed. Open the November spreadsheet. Save as the December spreadsheet. Update the title in the header to reflect the proper month. Update each row of figures. Spot check my work. Email it off to the boss.

On this day, though, I chose to do it with my eyes open. And what I saw wasn't pretty. The spreadsheet title wasn't centered over the columns, nor was it flush left. It hung, randomly adrift in the space above the columns.

I might as well fix that, I thought. With a few clicks I neatly centered the title. Hmm. Why are the columns all such random widths? I tweaked the two columns with the 2010 data until the the data fit neatly, but not too snugly, then applied the formatting to the rest of columns for the prior years, all the way back to 2004. Better.


Those column titles don't jump out from the page, I noticed. I tried setting them in boldface; they looked chunky and menacing. But increasing the font size just one notch gave them more presence. Then I added a line between the column titles and the first row of data. Better.


Next I took on a few empty cells, adding a "0" or an "n/a," as appropriate. I put a thin double line around the entire worksheet. As a final flourish, I added the art file containing our company logo to the lower right hand corner.

I didn't usually bother to put our logo on internal documents. But after my digging around beneath the report's utility and unearthing it as a creation, it seemed like the thing to do.

I heard footsteps in the hallway. "Good night, Sheila...and happy new year," the administrative assistant said on her way out. "Same to you!" I called out.

Huh. I'd been so engaged with recreating the spreadsheet, so delighted to add a bit of beauty to this mundane report, that I hadn't yet updated the numbers for the month. And it was time to go home, to welcome a new year, to launch my week of rest.

I sent my husband a text message: "I'll be fifteen minutes late getting out today. I'm finishing something up."

23 Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, 24 since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.
Colossians 3:23-24 (NIV)

The Reunion

My Brother, Cousin Marcia, Cousin Hugh. Ca. 1969.

[Click here to read the beginning of this story. Click here to read its conclusion.]

Walking the Ruins

We pull into the parking lot and panic overwhelms me. I glance at my cousin Hugh in the back seat and see, for the first time, what others see: shaggy beard, rotten teeth, clean but shabby clothing:

He's a bum.

What if they won't let him in? We've come to visit his mother at the nursing home. He hasn't seen her for five years, because it's hard to make plans when you live on the streets. 

"Let's pray," I suggest as we climb out of the car. I hold my cousin's hand, ravaged by years of needle-borne infections, nearly useless. My other hand rests in my husband, Rich's, strong, sure grip. He reaches for my cousin, closing our circle. "Father God, you know the hearts of everyone here. Be with us as we go inside." It's not much, but it's all I've got. I'm counting on the Spirit to intercede.

As we break our huddle I see Lety, one of my Auntie M's nurses, walking through the parking lot. "Lety, hi!" I wave. "It's Sheila, Marlene's niece," I remind her as I approach. I don't visit here as often as I should; I can't expect Lety to place me, especially from across the parking lot. 

I hurry towards her. "That's Marlene's son Hugh with us. We've brought him to visit her." 

Lety's eyes light up. "Ooooh, that's great! I'm on my way out to lunch now. Maybe I'll see you later."

Lety would have warned me, I think, if I shouldn't take him inside. Clinging to that thought, I take a deep breath.

Rich leads Hugh and me through the doors of the nursing home. I smell disinfectant and a faint undertone of urine.

"First we sign in here," I say to my cousin, too brightly. I write our names on a clipboard. Feeling eyes on me, I notice the nurse at the station closest to the door, watching. "I'm Marlene's niece, and her conservator," I say, surprised to hear myself emphasizing my authority. "This is my husband. And this is her son. We're here to visit." 

I turn to my cousin. "She spends the day mostly propelling herself around the halls in her wheelchair. She always kicks off one shoe...the staff calls her Cinderella. Now we just need to find her."

I feel, and ignore, eyes on us as we make our way down the hallway, checking the dayroom, the dining hall, the corridors. 

Rich spots her first, down at the end of the hallway. 

I suppress an impulse to grab my cousin, half-expecting him to bolt. Instead he quickens his shuffling pace. He's about to see his mother. He's told me that he's afraid she won't remember him.

"Auntie M," I say, "It's Sheila. I've brought the Do-Bee here to see you." 

His childhood nickname draws a flicker from her eyes. She freezes in her chair, stares. My cousin approaches his mother, crouches, reaches for her hand. She wheels her chair around and continues down the hallway. "This is typical, Hugh," I tell him. "She always does this. We'll just walk along with her." 

As I turn I see a nurse watching us, suspicious. "Hello," I tell her. "I'm Marlene's niece. This is her son. He hasn't seen her for a long, long time."

I watch her face relax. "I was just about to change her shirt," she says. "She's spilled her juice."

"We'll wait." 

We stand outside her room and I see the tears on my cousin's cheeks. I walk to the nurse's station, ask for tissue. I can't keep the story inside:

"I'm sorry to bother you, but please, we need some tissue. That's Marlene's son here with us today. My auntie--his mom--well, she lost it back in 2000 when her daughter died of an overdose. Her son took care of her for a long time, then Adult Protective Services came to investigate and my mom had to put her in a care facility. And he ended up on the streets...he's an addict, too. He hasn't seen her in five years."

It never amazes me how quickly I can summarize the destruction of an entire family--my auntie's family. I'm blinking now. The nurse hands me a box of tissue. From some numb place I remember to thank him.

My auntie's wearing a clean blouse now, and the nurse who changed her wheels her back to us. "Look," she said, "I'll put her in the lobby and lock the brake on her wheelchair, then you can sit and visit without having to follow her around the halls." 

In all my visits there, it had never occurred to me to prevent her from rolling, rolling, rolling endlessly through the corridors. 

My cousin sits, holds his mother's hand, talks to her. She doesn't speak. She hasn't spoken for years.

But she stares at him. She holds his hand. She knows him.

Rich and I are sitting a few feet away, balancing our desire to give privacy against my cousin's need for support. I hear Hugh telling his mother about people she knows, old friends. 

Another resident wheels up, parks herself  just a few feet away, and watches my cousin and his mother as if she's bought a ticket to this show. I look up and around and I see several staff, standing discreetly in the hallway, watching. 

They're smiling, melted around the edges.

I look again at my cousin and my auntie and I see what they see: Not a defeated junkie in tatters visiting an demented, silent woman who would rather be endlessly circling the halls. 

It's not that.

It's a man and his mother, loving each other through everything. Even through this. Especially through this.

It's holy. 

21 But now apart from the law the righteousness of God has been made known, to which the Law and the Prophets testify. 22 This righteousness is given through faith in Jesus Christ to all who believe. There is no difference between Jew and Gentile, 23 for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, 24 and all are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.
Romans 3:21-23 (NIV)

I'm sharing with Laura Boggess at The Wellspring for Playdates with God. Please stop by. 

You Can't Always get What You Want, Part Two

Not Too Big.

Trash Can Hunting


All I wanted was a new trash can for our kitchen. My requirements seemed simple enough: it had to fit in our trash can space inside a lower cabinet and have a lid.

Easy, right?

Wrong.


I spotted a can that looked perfect, paid for it, brought it home. It was too tall. I returned it and chose another one, several inches shorter.

It was too wide. I returned it.

Rich measured the cabinet that's home to our trash can. I put a tape measure in the car.

The task had become missional. We visited Target, source of all things plastic. We measured trash cans. None would fit our cabinet, except for a teensy one intended for a bathroom.

We came home empty-handed.
I turned to the internet, because I would not be defeated in my quest for a new trash can. Somehow this mundane household need had become something winnable, and I intended to win.

I quickly found a can that would fit our space. But I wasn't prepared to spend $319 for a trash can.

After a fruitless week I gave up. I abandoned the mission because I resented the time I was pouring into the task. I had other priorities, didn't I? I wasn't going to win the Great Trash Can Hunt after all. We would just live with the broken lid on our old trash can.

A month later, I found it. I wasn't looking for a trash can. I'd stopped at the store to buy paper towels and tissue for the office where I work. And there, right next to the paper towels, was a small display of plastic wares--including a trash can that was short, narrow, and had a lid.

And by the time I got home, I'd forgotten that it was in my back seat. I remembered later, after I'd greeted Rich and the dogs, prepared dinner, and called my dad.

I'm not sure what to make of the trash can hunt. 
Some days I wonder if I was supposed to give up trying to conceal our rotting, smelly trash. I mean really--everyone has garbage, right?

Some days I wonder if I was meant to get comfortable with the broken trash can before I could replace it with an unblemished one.

And some days I wonder what important dreams--winnable things that matter, not foolish vanities like a new trash can--I'm strangling with my clenched grip.

4 Make me know Your ways, O Lord;
Teach me Your paths.
5 Lead me in Your truth and teach me,
For You are the God of my salvation;
For You I wait all the day.
Psalm 25:4-5 (NASB)

Beauty from Ashes

The Rings I Won't be Wearing

"What would you like to drink?" I asked our new pastor as he and his family arrived for lunch at our home last spring.

"Water," he said.


Later the conversation turned to tea. Pastor Robert and his wife told us about some of the teas they had enjoyed in Russia. "We have quite an assortment," I said. "Would you like some?"

"No thank you," Pastor replied quietly. "I've given up every drink but water for Lent."

Lent begins today, and I'm still struggling over what to give up. So many things that come to mind just aren't practical. 


I'm busily running down a list of candidates and seeing something inconvenient in each one. 

My husband loves beef and doesn't eat fish. If I give up meat, I'll be preparing separate meals until Easter.
The internet? All our household finances are organized for efficient billing and payment online. I'd ruin our credit rating. And "necessary use only" looks like a mighty slippery slope to me.
Coffee withdrawal makes me mean. Do I want to expose my family and coworkers to meanie-me?
Chocolate? Alcohol? Too easy.
My sharp tongue? I want to be rid of it, not just give it a rest. 


In the midst of the list-making, I'm convicted. And now I'm feeling foolish.


No practicality inheres in Christ's life. It wasn't convenient for Him to be accused, flogged, nailed to a cross.

He didn't die for us because it suited His schedule. He died for us because we desperately needed a Savior. 


Nothing I could forswear for the next several weeks could compare with His self-denial.

Mark D. Roberts offers some good thinking about Lenten practices. It's part of his series How Lent Can Make a Difference in Your Relationship with God. As I looked through his excellent material, one of the first things I figured out was my ridiculous pride.

Of course my Lenten sacrifice isn't meant to compare with Christ's. 


I'm also heartened by Mark's comment that sacrifices, (or disciplines added for Lent) must be "realistic"--what I conceived as "practical."

And then it came to me, what I could set aside as a symbol of my gratitude for His sacrifice: my jewelry.

I'm not much of a clothes horse, see, and I don't do the makeup thing...but I do love my jewelry. 


On a typical day I'm wearing my Tag Heuer diamond watch, my wedding rings, a garnet and diamond ring that my husband gave me, diamond studs, and a cross--also diamond-encrusted, also a gift from my husband.

I'll wear my grandmother's plain gold wedding band this Lent, because I will not dishonor my husband. I don't think God expects that from me. And each evening I'll poke earrings through the holes in my earlobes to make sure they remain open. Hmm.

Maintaining my piercings during Lent. That's a little odd.

But all the bling I've collected, that gives me so much pleasure each day? I'll just leave it in the jewelry box, thank you. It's a small denial. I'm hoping that it will help me tune to the bigger denials we're called to embrace.

1 Therefore I urge you, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship. 2 And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect.
Romans 12:1-2 (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.

You Can't Always get What You Want, Part One

Feasting at Dorita's House, Fifteen Years Later. 

The Nemesis Sandwich: Pain Coco

"Come on!" Dorita said, "we have to get to Tavana's (governor's) house to pick up our pain coco (coconut bread)!" I slipped on my flip-flops and followed my hostess down the path that led to the gravel road circling our island. We'd been waiting all week--ever since the island's bakery had announced that they'd be baking the special rolls for delivery on Friday. Tavana's wife had ordered dozens of pain coco, enough for the entire village to share, as a leader's wife should. And we were on our way to claim ours.

As we walked up the road, I thought about food here on Tahaa. Many of my colleagues from the anthropology department conducted their fieldwork in regions where food was scarce. I had landed in French Polynesia, where most people had plenty to eat. I was glad to be here, rather than a place where people went hungry.

Because to study starving people, you have to let them starve. The rules of inquiry demand that one arrive in the field self-sufficient. They also demand that one not upset the local economy, for better or for worse.

Food was available here. On the main island of Tahiti, one could acquire almost anything available back in California--at a price. Here on the outer islands, where I was studying, food was plentiful, but variety was scarce.

Pain Coco, like any break in the dietary monotony, was a big deal.


Tavana's wife, who was also Dorita's aunt, insisted that we stay and eat lunch with her. Once the other villagers had claimed their rolls and left, Dorita went into the kitchen to gather what we'd need. She returned with tinned butter, Nutella, cherry preserves....and a can of Armour potted meat.

"Taste one," the governor's niece offered, handing me a roll. I bit. The bread reminded me of a King's Hawaiian roll--slightly sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. I didn't taste coconut.

"It's good," I said.

"I'll make you a sandwich," Dorita said. "What would you like on it?"

"Butter and preserves, please," I said, eyeing that can of potted meat with dread.

"That's all?"

"That's all."

I left to wash my hands. When I returned, Dorita had buttered the roll, which looked something like a hamburger bun, and spread jam on one side. As I approached the table, she grabbed the can of potted meat, swirled her knife into the goo, and smeared a gob of it all over the other side of the roll.

I felt my smile freeze.

As I sat she slid the plate toward me. "Eat!" she said, smiling.

Tavana's wife sat with us. "Bon appétit!" she said.

"Bon appétit," I fairly grumbled. I gagged down the sandwich, trying to ignore the fatty, pasty spread on the roll. I would brush my tongue after we ate, attempting to scrub off a layer of grease that seemed to cling there.

The tears came later, when I sat at my makeshift desk in front of a window in Dorita's home. A small boy ran up, left a mango on the windowsill--a gift for me--then ran off, giggling.

These people had welcomed me into their community, despite the inconveniences of having a nosy white girl move in for months and months, always poking about and asking incessant questions.

My attempts at self-sufficiency were doomed, because these people shared everything. So often I received more than I wanted, more than I needed.

And I had become so accustomed to their generosity that I felt annoyance when their gifts were not exactly what I wanted.

Departure, 2004.

I almost packed up and went home in shame, that day. 


But I stayed. I didn't go there to learn gratitude, or grace. But I needed the lesson.

 31 Do not worry then, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear for clothing?’ 32 For the Gentiles eagerly seek all these things; for your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. 33 But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.
Matthew 6:31-33 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Laura Boggess at The Wellspring for Playdates with God. She is speaking about our appetites, too. I hope you'll stop by.

The Haircut

Rich and me Before the Haircut. 

What the Hairdresser Showed Me


"So," he asked me, running his fingers through my graying curls, gauging the heft of my hair, "How much time a day do you spend on your hair?"

"About thirty seconds," I said, watching him.

He didn't blanch. "And I don't want to color it," I added. "I'm good with the gray." Now I felt defiant.

"That's great," he replied.

"And," I continued, "I don't want to look like my daughter. But I don't want to look like I'm ready for the retirement home, either.

His smile reminded me that I was here for a haircut, not hostage negotiations. "How long do you plan to go?"

"I dunno yet. I've worn it really short for the past seven years, and I'm ready to grow it out. I know I want it longer than this, but I'm not sure where I'll stop. But right now it's so overgrown...I need a trim to keep it in shape while I'm growing it."

"Well," he laughed. "The good thing is we can always shorten hair."

He picked up his scissors and went to work, pruning back wayward strands that wanted, these days, to leap for joy.

Exuberant. That's a word for my hair.


As he worked we made easy conversation. He told me about his work, how he'd begun cutting hair a quarter century earlier, straight out of high school.

"You like it, then," I ventured.

"I do."

"So many women aren't happy with how they look. If I can help a woman gain confidence, feel better about how she presents herself to the world--well, that's good work."


I nodded and waited. "You, though," he said. "You're confident. You don't fret about your gray. You're comfortable with your hair."

My chest contracted as if I'd been plunged into an icy pool. Me? Confident? About my hair? I couldn't believe he had said that.

"I'm over my hair," I told him, hoping he wouldn't notice that I was gasping for air. "When I was a kid I wanted long, straight, blonde hair, parted down the middle. Like Marsha Brady. Or, if you're old enough, Peggy Lipton on Mod Squad. This hair"--I ran a hand through his work--"doesn't do that."

I didn't mention the years spent attempting to tame my hair. I didn't tell him about the very expensive haircuts my mother arranged for my curly-headed sister and me. I didn't mention the long sessions with the comb and barrettes, trying to extract obedience from hair that was created to rebel. I didn't tell him about how hopeless my hair had been.

I didn't mention that by the time I was ten, I knew my hair was irredeemable and wondered what that said about me.

Irredeemable Hair. Christmas, 1970. 

"When you came in," he told me, "I could tell you weren't all wound up about your hair."

"I've reached a point," I told him, "when if someone is going to form an enduring opinion of my worth based on what my hair looks like--well....I'm not prepared to worry about that."

He nodded, picked up a comb, judged the length of a lock.

New Hair.

And I realized that he had pulled a truth from me. I want to look nice, yes. But whether my hair or my shoes or my laugh is acceptable to you really doesn't matter that much to me, these days.

I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but it's happened:

I know, not just in my doctrine-absorbing head, but in my Christ-worshiping heart, that I am acceptable, despite all my flaws, to the only One whose opinion really matters. 


I laughed outside, feeling, maybe for the first time, what it means to be free. And it was the hairdresser, of all people, who showed me.

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)

Special Thanks:


My friend Deidra Riggs wrote an amazing hair piece (no pun intended) that posted on The High Calling the day of my haircut. I'm sure her work inspired me...though what I came up with cannot be blamed on her. I hope you'll her story.

Dave Mazza at Champions Hair Salon provided me with a trauma-free, even pleasant, haircutting experience that resulted in a haircut I love. His interest was clearly in serving my needs, rather than convincing me to become hair-obsessed. I recommend him.

The Image is from Inside

Frosty Winter Morning. Photo by Bob Coller.  

My friend Bob graciously granted me permission to share this amazing photograph with you.

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part Four 

My friend's photo made me shiver, though I sat snug, this February, in my Southern California home. The bare trees pleading, the empty tables honed with frost, the morning light creeping upon the earth: I felt the Michigan cold as I studed Bob's work. "How did you do that?" I asked him. 

He said what photographers always say.

It was all about the light.

But then he went on. He told me how the long morning's walk had drawn him into cold mode, where he could "easily focus on a surrounding image that communicated the inner sense." Then he added another thought:

We see in the world and communicate to others the state of our inner being.

I read his words three times, slipping the idea on for size like a new coat. I remember a Saturday afternoon spent being, wrapping myself in a blanket of rest, and the simple beauty I found all around me that day. 

And I remember that busy day when I stormed the grocery store, grimly searching for fresh mushrooms, late and frenzied and determined to complete my mission and move on to the Next. Important. Thing. on my list.

No one smiled at me in the store that frantic day. 

I study my friend's wise words again. Inner being. 

Bob had to let the cold inside to really see the cold. 

And me? I had to let Jesus inside before I could really see Him. 

Wait a minute. 

Christ dwells in me. I bear His image. 

What Bob taught me about cold, I'm applying to Jesus.

Today, I'm remembering that He dwells in me. My job is to be, to let that indwelling Spirit move me. We'll see what we'll see. 

 9 However, you are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if indeed the Spirit of God dwells in you. But if anyone does not have the Spirit of Christ, he does not belong to Him. 10 If Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, yet the spirit is alive because of righteousness. 11 But if the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit who dwells in you. 

Romans 8:9-11 (NASB)

A Cherry Pie Birthday

Cherry Pie. 

A Sister Celebration


One week ago my sister Elaine celebrated her birthday; it comes exactly one week after mine. When we were children, our parents made it a point to mark each occasion separately (except for the year we each chose one special friend and went to Knott's Berry Farm). As adults, though, when our schedules permit it, we gather and share our days.

Some years, schedules don't permit it.


This year I got lucky. We carved out the evening of the Saturday between our birthdays and planned a casual meal at her house. She's my big sister, but her boys are younger than my girl, so her day was basketball-busy.

I made Mom's potato salad and brought wine. She provided tri-tip, beans, chips and dip, and dessert.

Dessert. I knew what she wanted when I first saw her text message:

What shall we serve for "cake"? 


As girls, we asked for cherry pie for our birthdays, preferring it to cake. Mom always accommodated our requests, right along with preparing favorite meals to mark our days: teriyaki for me, chicken and dumplings for my sister. But Mom's been gone for three years, so we plan our own menus now.

We are ready for cherry pie again.


She phoned me the day of the party. "Costco doesn't have cherry pie! They told me they only carried it once, two years ago!"

"Wait. You're at Costco? Can you grab something for me while you're there?" Just like that, I switch our agenda to my needs. And my big sister goes along with the detour. I need a big bottle of antihistamine. She promises to get it.

I report the pie emergency to my husband. And here, I should mention that though Rich is a major fan of most things sweet, cherry pie is not his favorite.

The drive to my sister's place, fifteen miles away as the clouds float, is an hour long, following freeways around a nuisance of a mountain that lengthens our trip. Rich searches out Marie Callendar's locations, identifies one along our circummountainous route, calls to confirm. Yes, they have plenty of cherry pies.

And so we leave a few minutes early to drive around the mountain to my sister's house. Because we need to stop and buy a cherry pie.

For certainty, she has cheesecake and carrot cake. I text her: "Pie mission success!"

We drive on, deliver our pie. My sister remembered my antihistamine. Big sisters are good at remembering things for their little sisters.

I'm standing in her warm kitchen as she stirs beans and I put pickles on a platter and my dad and his dog watch us, our husbands chat, my nephews return home from neighborhood hoops.

Watching her I remember why I named my daughter for her, this only sister of mine. I remember shared bunk beds and cereal squabbles. I remember tears and secrets and how she chauffeured me through adolescence in her orange Volkswagen bug. I'm trying to figure out how we landed in our fifties in two blinks. Now we're singing, silly, shouting over each other as we reach the line, "Happy Birthday Dear..." as the rest sing "Elaine and Sheila." I want it to be about her.

And she wants it to be about me. 


She's slicing pie and I aim my camera and she says no, so I photograph the cherry pie. You will have to trust me when I report to you that my sister is an exceptionally beautiful woman.

I'm wondering how it could be that we've allowed schedules to preempt this celebration. I make a vow.

I'll make sure we have cherry pie. She will remember the antihistamine.

For through wisdom your days will be many,
 and years will be added to your life.
Proberbs 9:11 (NIV)

On Figuring out Where to Look for Stuff

Old and Chipped.

A Brand New Mug


I am a maladroit shopper. I don't experience the thrill of the hunt; cunning store displays don't woo me. So I wasn't surprised when I had trouble finding a suitable replacement for my big blue-and-white sailboat coffee mug, the one I use at work.

I looked and looked, but I couldn't find a mug to suit my specifications:

Big.
Not too tall (no latte mugs near the computer for this clumsy woman!).
Microwave-safe.

After browsing the mug selection in several stores, I grew frustrated. It seemed that we'd found our home with less effort.

Could it really be this hard to find a new coffee mug? 


One morning I watched as Rich refilled his favorite mug, the brown one his son Ryan gave him.

It's big.
It's not too tall.
It's microwave safe.

It's from Starbucks.

In one of those "A-ha! Water is wet!" moments, it occurred to me that a coffee house might be good place to shop for a new coffee mug.

The next day I rolled into Starbucks, brimming with confidence. Within a few minutes I'd made my choice, paid the price, and was practically skipping out the door, delighted to have crossed the coffee-mug-replacement task off my mental to-do list.

New Mug, with Vespa.

How many times in my life have I made my choice and then paid the price? The outcome isn't always as satisfactory as my mug hunt proved to be.

Sometimes I don't like my selection, once I've lived with it for a while.
Sometimes my choice hurts other people.
Sometimes the price is higher than I had dreamed.


And so this morning, I'm wondering how to apply the mug-shopping lesson to other choices before me.
I'm looking for life-analogies to this:

When you need a new mug, shop at the coffee house. 


How about you? Do you have an analogy to share?

10 “They will not hunger or thirst,
Nor will the scorching heat or sun strike them down;
For He who has compassion on them will lead them
And will guide them to springs of water.
Isaiah 49:10 (NASB)

I Do: The Project

Mudding over the Drywall Tape.

Imagining Something Better

It's early on Saturday, the morning just stirring under its blanket of darkness. I'm writing at my desk, upstairs, when I hear it:

The whining buzz of a power tool slices through the stillness. 

I leave my keyboard and coffee, race downstairs, into the garage. "Rich! It's six o'clock!" 

He understands, sets down the belt sander. "I didn't think it would be that loud with the doors closed," he mumbles.

"I could hear it upstairs," I say. 

He sighs, sets down the tool, follows me inside. "I'll make breakfast," I promise.

I'm cracking eggs while he sips coffee and I think about this work he's doing, building himself a shop space inside our garage. I'm remembering his enthusiasm as we roamed the lumber department, ticking off the items on his bill of materials, sighting down the two-by-tens to ensure they're true. I'm patient as he chooses.

Good materials draw the work smoothly from his hands, I know.

He had shown me his plan, explained the benefits of the workbench design he'd selected, the value of the sturdy shelves he'd build. "I'll mount the grinder here," he said. And "I've never hung drywall before."

I hear his eagerness to tackle a dream, to shape it with wood and gypsum and screws into something he sees. 

After we've shared eggs and toast, after the sun has risen and hopefully the neighbors too, after the informal overnight noise-curfew lifts, I hear that buzz-whine again, and I smile. When Rich decides to create something, he devotes himself to its making. Pleasure glows from his sawdusted skin as he builds the thing seen-but-not-yet-being. 

He's good at making stuff because he can imagine something better than now. 

Isn't that why I married him? Because I cherished his conviction that something better can made? We walked into this marriage in mid-life, each with prior failures stacked behind us. A few heads shook, a few fingers wagged. But he knew. And I knew.

The Master Builder always imagines something better. All we have to do is submit to His sander, knocking off the burrs of selfishness, His planer that trues the warped places in our hearts. Our marriage is a dream we pursue every day. It's a patient project. Some days we misread the plans, drive a nail where none belongs.

But the One who dovetailed our hearts, He yanks the miscreant nail, putties the hole, sands smooth the small wounds. 

And all the while, He's building something better between us. Of us. 

37 But in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him who loved us. 38 For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, 39 nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8:37-39 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Jennifer Lee over at Getting Down with Jesus for The High Calling's series on marriage. I hope you'll stop by. 

I'm Coming Out Today

Grandpa's Desk. Bookcase by Dad. Both Renewed by Rich.

Letting a Book Happen


We're doing things a little differently around our house these days. Over the holidays, Rich repainted our bedroom to obliterate the color that I'd selected a few years ago. I believe its name was "Wrong Green."

Don't paint your bedroom Wrong Green. You'll be sorry.


We've relocated my writing space from the desk in our kitchen, the pulsing heart of our home, into a corner of our bedroom, a sanctuary. I spend at least an hour each day alone behind the closed door, and I write.

Writing is an act of obedience. And I've been stalling.

It's been just about three years now since God sat me down and reminded me that this thing I have for words is a gift from Him, provided for His glory. A year ago, in a premature burst of confidence, I sketched out a proposal  for a hokey, gimmicky book. I took it with me to my favorite writers conference where it was received, with, um, restraint. This response was a gift, though I didn't see it at the time.

No. Then it just led to paralysis. I chatted with God: "You told me to write this book, didn't You?"

"Yes, but have you heard Me say anything about publishing it, yet?"

He had me there. I stewed, simmering up a more authentic outline for the work. I joined an online critique group, where I received advice so conflicting I retreated into paralysis.

Finally, I felt the nudging again, understood this new course. It was time.

So during the first week of January, after my husband had lovingly renewed a quiet space for me to write, I took vacation. Along with enjoying my family and relaxing after the holidays, I had a secret agenda, shared only with God and Rich:  I would establish the habit of a writing hour. I would return to the book.

I began by reweaving the words I'd written before.

Midway through that week, I noticed this post by a friend on Facebook.

JoAnn V.

Are you waiting for earthquakes or....

listening for a still small voice? I was waiting for earthquakes instead of listening for the still small voice. I didn't learn to listen until I was starving. Tuning my ear is a work in progress. Yet as I learn to listen, He speaks. The earthquakes—the banquets—are few and far between. Each...

These words came from my website. They're from my book. 

The same day, I found this post from my friend Sandra.

Once I turned to obedience, the encouragement flowed from every direction.


JoAnn's post was a gift. Sandra's post was a gift. My  husband created a beautiful, quiet place, then let me exclude him from it for a time, every day. One day I asked him to watch this amazing video that my friend Laura created.

Afterwards, I said, "I wanted you to watch it because that could have been me, talking."

He gave me a "you think I didn't get that?" look.

And I realized, right then, that he understands the writing the way a husband understands the monthly call of the moon on a woman's body.

Writing happens to me because of who I am.

Other writers, people who are farther up this trail than I am, have left cairns along the way to mark the turns. Laura's video? It's a signpost for me--and a waystation.

Today, the direction of my story isn't the one I expected, outlined, planned on, so I'm waiting to see what's next.

But while I wait, I let the writing happen. 

Will you help me, Friend? Will you pray for me?

Will you pray that I will listen faithfully, and follow the steps where they lead? 


And would you also consider liking my Facebook page? It encourages me to see your face there. I've added a button in the sidebar here to make it easy for you to find, if you're so moved.

Thank you.

7 So the craftsman encourages the smelter,
And he who smooths metal with the hammer encourages him who beats the anvil,
Saying of the soldering, “It is good”;
And he fastens it with nails,
So that it will not totter.
8 “But you, Israel, My servant,
Jacob whom I have chosen,
Descendant of Abraham My friend,
9 You whom I have taken from the ends of the earth,
And called from its remotest parts
And said to you, ‘You are My servant,
I have chosen you and not rejected you.
10 ‘Do not fear, for I am with you;
Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you, surely I will help you,
Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’
Isaiah 41:7-10 (NASB)

Patience, Grasshopper

Green Grasshopper

The Incredible Sweetness of Being, Part Three

I'm up and away from my desk, waiting as my husband installs a bookcase that he's renewed with care for my use. Wandering onto the front deck. I breathe deeply of the winter air, not-too-chilly in California. I glance at the spent tomato plants, their cages empty cells, as if the prisoners have been sprung.

I see the green grasshopper. I'm startled, as he rests just a few feet from me, clinging to the tomato cage, and I took no notice.

I turn my eyes to the garden. I ask them to become noticing eyes. 

Right away I see him, sitting on the silvery finger-long leaf of the Echium candicans.

The Patriarch.

He is the patriarch of all grasshoppers, with his walrus face. I imagine that if he begins to scrape those legs, one against the other, his song will fill the canyon. It's worth interrupting my husband. it's worth getting the camera. He rests still, regal, unperturbed by my going, my calling out, my returning, my flashy camera.

Then I notice a twig stuck in the silvery fingerlong foliage, a souvenir of recent wind.

One Twig.

I remove it and find the spent pods of seeds, left behind as their charges burst forth, or maybe drifted, down to earth that only seems indifferent.

Seed Pod.

I wonder what will grow from these seeds, and where.

A speck of color caught my eye as I unwove the twig from silvery fingerlong foliage. I return to investigate.

Ladybug and New Growth.

Returning with my noticing eyes I see a ladybug, tucked deeply into the shrub's rosette. I see, too, the fresh green tips sprouting on the Echium. Soon she'll unfurl her purple flowers again, renew her promise that winter will end.

Echium Bloom.

But today, I wait still on that promise. The time is not yet come. Beneath the growing tips hang the entitled beards of last year's growth, orthodox.

Beards.

Now Rich is calling me to come admire my renewed bookcase. I hurry upstairs to exclaim over his labor on my behalf. 

I notice that I feel as if I've napped. I'm restored, ready to return to my own labor. 

And I remember: We were given eyes to see.

The next day, as we tuck in another Sabbath, I return, late in the day, to see again.

Still Present.

The patriarch remains. He's moved to another place amid the silvery fingerlong foliage.

18 On that day the deaf will hear words of a book,
And out of their gloom and darkness the eyes of the blind will see.
19 The afflicted also will increase their gladness in the LORD,
And the needy of mankind will rejoice in the Holy One of Israel.
Isaiah 29:18-19 (NASB)

Really Slow Bread

A Boule. 

Bread in the Plan

Searching for uses for my new enamel-on-cast-iron dutch oven, I came across a bread recipe that requires about twenty hours of rising time. I was intrigued. The recipe calls for just a tiny bit of yeast. The dough isn't kneaded; you just mix it up, cover it, and then wait.

For eighteen hours.


Then you shape it into a loaf and wait some more.

I began this recipe on a Saturday afternoon and we enjoyed the loaf for dinner on Sunday. That's a whole lot of waiting. But you know, waiting isn't hard when you expect to wait. I didn't need to be thinking about the bread; I didn't need to tend to it.

All I had to do was wait.

After I'd mixed the dough I went to the grocery store. I photographed insects. I napped. I wrote for a while. I prepared and served dinner. Rich and I watched a movie together. We slept. We rose on Sunday morning and went to church.

Meanwhile, the yeast shouldered its burden and the bread prepared itself for the fire. 


Most of those intervening hours, I didn't think of the bread. I might lift the towel swaddling the dough for a quick peek if I happened to be in the kitchen, but for the most part, I didn't bother with it.

Waiting on the bread meant simply doing other things while the bread made itself ready.

Sometimes life is like that. I'm waiting for something and I really, really want it. Maybe I really, really dread it. But nothing I can do will hasten the time of its occurrence. It's beyond my control. The yeast will do what yeast will do, in the time it takes yeast to do it. Life will happen as life will happen, in the time it takes to happen.

My preferred timeline for life carries no causative impact.


But the waiting's not so bad when I can set the desire aside, in that little "pending" corner of my heart, and get on with other things. Christmas will come this December, and I'll need to prepare my home, prepare gifts, prepare my heart. But in February, I needn't fret. It will come at its appointed time.

I could miss a lot of living if I sideline myself in the waiting. 


When I pulled the bread from the oven, I could see that the loaf was worth the wait. Its crust was complex and crispy, riddled with cracks. Inside the bread had the substance and texture of something wrought in an old, old oven, pulled forth by a sweating man.

This bread taught me: waiting well is a gift. 

31 Yet those who wait for the LORD
Will gain new strength;
They will mount up with wings like eagles,
They will run and not get tired,
They will walk and not become weary.
Isaiah 40:31 (NASB)

I'm linking up with Ann Kroeker for Food on Fridays. I hope you'll stop by her place. It's always a treat!