Category Archives: life

Wine of the World

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I wrote this free verse some years back. Usually communion tells me about the past, but during one communion when I was empty of wine and life, I caught a glimpse of the future–the wedding feast when Jesus said He would drink the wine again.

In the day of Jesus’ first public miracle, it was a disgrace for the host to run out of wine. On that last great day, He, the gracious Host, will have enough for everyone. I share this here for anyone who may be empty, in disgrace, and in need of hope for refilling.

“I have no more wine,”
I say to Him at the edge of the crowd.
Palms up, shoulders hunched.

Conversation dwindling, smiles fading,
The crowd thins.
No sparkle,
No celebration.
We have no more wine.

“Woman, what have I to do with you?”
But His eyes belie the cold words.

“What do You have to do with me?
My Lord! My Maker!
The True Vine from which True Wine comes!
Leave me not alone.
Forsake me not in this disgrace.
Do not deny me dancing feet and songs.
I cannot bear to leave this place of light.
Without You, I will go out into darkness and die.
But You are here, and You are my life,
And I will do whatever You say.”

He commands the water pots to be filled.
Clear, splashing rivers that cleanse and refresh.
Full and sloshing over earthen rims.

The harried, frazzled MC takes a sip in a deserted alcove.
His eyes beam over the edge of the chalice.
Then he shouts.
THIS IS THE BEST WINE IN THE WORLD!
COME, PEOPLE, TASTE AND SEE!
START THE MUSIC AGAIN!

I find Him at the crowd’s edge again.
He says nothing, but
Smiles at me.
The silence between us fills
With music.
Rolling, trilling, glorious music.
It sings of sweetness and life,
Of vibrance and light,
And the guests raise their cups high
To the health of the bride and groom.

The music swirls again, and
Everyone’s feet wear wings.
He is still in the alcove with me,
Watching.
Is He thinking of a grander wedding feast
In another place,
Without time?

Bread of the world in mercy broken,
Wine of the world in mercy shed, *
I pledge my life to You.
You fill the hungry with good things.
I come to You in emptiness and desperation
And You always–always–
Fill, refresh, give reasons to dance.

And on that last great feast day,
I will see You smile again,
And it will be as we said back then:
You saved the best for last!

*These are opening lines from a hymn by Reginald Heber who also wrote “Holy, Holy, Holy.”

Is it Pain or is it Beauty?

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I’ve written about Don Miller before, as in here and here. I follow his blog, on which he posts sporadically.

A couple days ago, I found the post especially profound. There was a paragraph that pierced me. I think it’s truth, though I’m still mulling over it, and there are ways in which I want to disagree because I wish that beauty didn’t have anything to do with pain. I guess that’s what we were made for, but on this side of Eden, the two will be inextricably linked.

…beautiful things are frightening. When something beautiful happens it’s sometimes like an amputation, like your heart is being cut out with a knife. You don’t ever think when you are in extreme pain that you are being saved, chosen, picked for relationship, set aside to be loved. You can never really believe pain. It’s almost always something beautiful transitioning to something better, the whole time masquerading as a tragedy.

Airy-Fairy or Practical?

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“Our people tend to be practical, and don’t have time for dreamers and airy-fairy people. We are terribly practical,” I said.

“No, we’re not,” someone else said. “If we weren’t airy-fairy, we wouldn’t be out here drinking frappes while there’s work to be done inside.”

“We’d be washing the dishes.”

“And filling the canning jars.”

“You’re right–and washing up the floor for SURE before we even THINK about going outside,” I added.

We were four sisters and mom, sitting in the sun-infused grass. They had called me at my house, and knowing the psychological moves to make, said “We’re having mocha frappes outside–but you don’t have to come!”

So of course I came, and drank and sat with them, and laughed and laughed while mom read “The Diet to End all Diets” to us.

I think it’s easier to be practical after being fanciful and airy-fairy first.

A Day in the Life

Posted in Ireland, life by

She’s a little old widow, and I used to see her every day when she came for milk and bread, walking from her house around the corner. Now she lives in town, and it’s probably been a year since I’d last seen her. She looked well, but sad, and in her own world. Was she too old and forgetful to remember me anymore? “Carol!” I said. “I haven’t seen you for ages! I have to give you a hug!”*

I rushed around the counter to her, and as I held her for a quick moment, she murmured against my shoulder, “Oh, I love a hug!”

Then we chatted quickly, because there were other customers waiting, and as she went out the door, she said, “And thanks for the cuddle!”

Oh, Carol, that was the easiest thing I’d done all day.

Later, I was watering the flowers outside and Tony, an older gentleman, a family friend, came up and chatted and told me crazy stories like he always does, and made me laugh and laugh.* Just before he left, his voice softened and he told me of his sixty-eight year old brother who’s an alcoholic and not been well for years. And now the brother met a twenty-five year old girl in the far East, and he’s dead set on going to see her, and Tony is worried for the brother and himself, because there’s substantial money and risk somewhere in there.

Tony loves to share his sail boat with his friends, and promised he’d be in touch later in the summer. “When I get the mast back on her, we’ll take her on a spin to the next harbour,” he said.

Listening to his stories, crazy and sad ones, in exchange for a ride on a sail boat? An easy trade, I’d say.

Shop keeping isn’t always that delightful, but these two people came in on the same day this week, and made me smile and made my job easier.

A line from Philip Yancey’s Disappointment with God often inspires/paralyzes/convicts me. It is when he’s talking about his friend who wants to see God, and asks for visible proof that God is there. Philip says his friend will likely never see God’s hand writing in the sky, or some other dramatic move. He will only see me, Philip says.

How can it be, that the infinite God allows fallible earthlings to tell each other that He exists, that He’s not a figment of imagination, that He is the giver of good things? I wonder if Carol and Tony know that God is real, and that I love Him. They will probably never hear His voice thunder from a cloud. They will only see me.

This is why there is dignity and purpose in being a store keeper.

*Names have been changed.

Happy Returns

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I crack up every time I think about it. About six months ago, I was at work, and a business man was outside talking with my dad. I guess they were talking about their families, as family men do, and then they came in and dad introduced me to the man as his oldest daughter.

“Oh, nice to meet you–how old are you?” the man asked me.

In this country, you don’t ask a lady her age, and if you have the audacity to do so, she would still never tell you. So his question took me aback because I’m not used to the question, plus for a couple seconds, I honestly couldn’t remember my age.

So I stammered a little bit, and finally remembered which of my thirties I was in, and because I don’t always abide by protocol, I didn’t mind telling him I was thirty-five.

And then he stammered and hemmed for a couple seconds, poor man. I guess the men had been comparing children and ages or something, and he explained that he thought I was in my upper teens. Which of course was very flattering if unbelievable.

But now every time the big man bustles in, I want to giggle at the funny, awkward memory. But I think I’ve refrained so far.

So yesterday I couldn’t say I’m thirty-five anymore. I still quite enjoy birthdays, and think June is the best time of year for them. I like the chance to look at a milestone and try to take stock of the year, and think about what I’ve learned in the last twelve months, and what I want to aim for next year. I proudly count two new white hair, which I’ve gained by honest means. I’m glad I’ve learned uncountable, intangible things that will shape me for life, and hopefully I unlearned other things.

It was a lovely birthday. My sister worked for me in the afternoon and freed me to go to town and meet two friends for a long, leisurely coffee. In the evening, four of us went to Dunmore, got locally-caught fish, and chips (with salt and vinegar–ahhh!), and ate them on the cliffs in the wind and song of the sea. Back home, we took a good long walk then played a fun round of Scrabble, and at the end, a family from church walked in, carrying a strawberry-decorated bun with a lit candle, singing Happy Birthday, once in English and once in Polish.

I think it will be a good year, being thirty-six. Even if someone asks me how old I am.

What do you do for fun?

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When I was writing my book, I let myself buy books in the name of research. When I was studying massage therapy, I allowed myself a massage now and then in the name of research. And of course I benefited from the good, necessary things that I might otherwise have called indulgences.

Now I am headed to Poland to teach English and with that package comes the necessity to study Polish, and I haven’t found anything indulgent about it. Unless it is to grab random moments to sit in the sun and review vocabulary. I am not like any of my three sisters who have had language hobbies for years, and happily sat in the living room with grammar books and recordings in various languages. I always said I was still trying to master English.

It’s a love-hate phenomenon, this language study. I expect that I’ll keep toeing this delicate dance for the next two years. I’m scared. And out of my depth. Happy for a change of career, and reveling in a challenge.

Taking on a challenge is something I do for fun.

Something to Think About

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When I read this article, it both convicted and inspired me.

It starts with this:

Spiritual formation occurs primarily in the context of community. Persons who remain connected with their brothers and sisters in the local church almost invariably grow in self-understanding. And they mature in their ability to relate in healthy ways to God and to fellow human beings. This is especially the case for those courageous Christians who stick it out through the messy process of interpersonal conflict. Long-term relationships are the crucible of genuine progress in the Christian life. People who stay grow.

People who leave do not grow.

I don’t have any good answers or solutions, but I think Hellerman’s words define much of where we are, and where we should be going as spiritual families who are committed to each other for the sake of Christ and His reputation.

This convicted me:

It is our individualism—our insistence that the rights and satisfaction of the individual must take priority over any group to which one belongs—that has seriously compromised our ability to stay in relationship and grow with one another as God intends.

A Little Bit Goes a Long Way

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It was probably about ten years ago, in a long, dark winter when SAD and normal life threatened to swallow me into its vortex, and I decided to decisively, consciously think about the things I was thankful for. Every night I listed at least one thing that showed me God’s smile that day. It became part of my going-to-sleep routine, and I’ve filled several notebooks of dates and lists.

One season, I thought I was beyond that exercise, was mature enough to rise above whatever was around me, didn’t need to concentrate so much on being thankful. Gradually, the threatening vortex came back. One day I was sad and depressed that I couldn’t be a reunion that my friends were at, 5,000 miles away. My friend (who calls herself my pancake turner because she reaches into the corners of my soul, flips over and exposes whatever hides there) said, “Anita, you HAVE to give thanks NOW, for THIS. If you don’t, you’ll become a bitter, miserable person.”

I burst into tears, and said I don’t want to be bitter and miserable, and she repeated that I have to be thankful now and here. So I took baby steps to feebly give thanks again. Every night. I didn’t know that it was an Oprah Winfrey thing to do. I only knew that some nights I waited for a long time before I could come up with something to write, but the exercise kept me sane and focused on good things.

I’m learning to never say never, but this one thing I plan to never do: never stop writing my thanks journal. In the last year or so, I’ve noticed other people are promoting the idea too. And today, I saw an extension of the idea here. (Go read it today because tomorrow you have to pay to access the archives.) The article was good, but missed the point of giving thanks to God, the giver of all gifts.

At the end of the day, it’s great to come up with a list of things to be thankful for, but the best thing is that there’s Someone to say “thanks” to.

Love’s Strength

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It came to me when I was reading John 10–that this Jesus is big enough and good enough to trust because He sacrificed a lot. I am the Good Shepherd; the Good Shepherd gives His life for the sheep.

Giving His life is sacrifice, and proves His love. The lines from Ugo Bassi come to mind: Love’s strength standeth in love’s sacrifice/And he who suffereth most hath most to give.

It is (relatively) easy to act as if we love someone. One proof of love is in its sacrifice. But I Corinthians 13 says I could sacrifice, give away my belongings or give up my life, without love. And I have seen selfishness masquerading as love.

So what is love? Is it only sacrifice? Jesus must have expected the question, because He explained the difference between Love and Apparent Love: the hired man runs away because he doesn’t care about the sheep, but the shepherd stays and offers his life.

Love doesn’t run away, doesn’t detour conflict, doesn’t look for an easy escape when things get scary. Paul defined love as suffering long–quite the opposite from running away. Christ’s sacrifice and His tenacity prove His love. God sacrificed, gave up, risked endlessly, at incredible cost.

My only reasonable response is worship: love, surrender, sacrifice. The proof of my love for Him is when I am finished with meeting God as if at a drive-through window and ordering super-sized pleasures. Instead, I must meet Him an altar (the place of sacrifice) acknowledging His love, and pledging mine. And I know that I can never out-love Him.

My Commander in Chief Weeps about War

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Recently a friend and I were talking about reading the Bible, and we wondered what we’d think about it if we’d only now read it for the first time. Would we find all the doctrinal points that every church holds so dearly? Would it make sense to us, and would we be persuaded that it is Truth?

So these questions are often in the back of my mind when I read my daily portion in the book I wrote about here. And very recently, while reading through John, the light clicked on in my brain, and I thought to myself, Yes! This Jesus is a man I would follow and I would believe what He says. If I would have heard Him speak and interact with people, I would definitely have been part of the crowd that followed Him.

There was something fresh and liberating in coming to that conclusion, acknowledging that this decision of following Christ is part mystery, part wistfulness, part staunch, glad faith.

Then another friend was telling something about the political shenanigans in her country. I listened because I like to hear people tell me their perspectives about politics even though I never follow the news about it. Then she asked, “So what do you tell people when they ask why you don’t vote?”

My answer went something like this: I have become acquainted with wonderful person of Christ, and He is my hero and I am following Him. He lived in very unstable political times, and He had lots of chances to start His own kingdom/political party but He didn’t. He said He was calling people to the Kingdom of Heaven. This is a place where Love dwells, not war or violence or deceit or pride and one-up-manship. I don’t have a lot of answers on all the details, but I just know that His kingdom is where I want to put my allegiance and time and interest and energy.

Then this morning I read several blogs that extolled the armed forces because of today being Memorial Day in the US, and I wanted to weep. How can violence bring peace? How can killing be laudable? I believe that there are soldiers in the military with soft hearts who want to follow Truth. But they’re part of a ghastly machine and support a kingdom that opposes the one Jesus leads.

He has won me by His love, not His power, and thus He demonstrates that Love, not guns or bombs, is the most powerful force in the world. I follow Him. Falteringly, feebly, but convinced that He is the one who deserves my allegiance. I do this because I have heard His voice in the Gospels (it IS good news) and His is not the voice of a smooth-talking politician but of a healer whose face is streaked with tears.