Category Archives: love

What We Make Much Of

Posted in community, life, love, women's stuff by

Women often tell me, “I don’t have anyone experienced I can talk to about this.” Or “I’d like to have a mentor, someone I can ask questions of and learn from, but I don’t know how to find one.”

I make at least two deductions from this common theme:

  1. Younger women need older women in their lives.
  2. Older women rarely advertise their willingness to walk beside younger women.

There are a million influencers out there and some of them contribute to some women’s anxiety, FOMO (fear of missing out), feeling inadequate about their house or their children or décor or skin care routine. (Notice the qualifier “some.” Influencers are good if they’re good influences. Obviously.)

But there’s little substitute for real-time, life-on-life connection that teaches, shapes, influences, mentors, shows a way through. You hear inflections in the voice. You see a flash fall over a face. You see a shrug in a throw-away comment. You feel a fingertip on your arm or shoulder. And it all adds up: the influence of an older person’s loves and driving motivation, which informs the younger’s definition of what is good and true and beautiful.

Not many women are going to walk up to someone younger and say “I really like you and I’d love to be your mentor.” That puts it on the younger ones to ask someone to be a mentor.

It also means that the older woman shouldn’t overthink it and feel she’s not a good enough influencer to be a mentor. Unless she has some glaring unrepentant sin, or she fritters her hours away on cat videos or women’s fashions, she’s able to mentor someone in some way.

A mentor, loosely defined, is someone who has more experience in some area of life than someone else and is able to communicate that experience. Mentoring isn’t a new idea. It’s been around for as long as people have wanted to learn informally from others who knew more about weaving or investing or baking or laying stone. The Biblical term for women mentors is simple: “the older teaching the younger.” I tell women to look for someone with gray hair because they’re usually the ones who have the stories to learn from. I can’t tell you how much I benefit from the gray haired ladies I talk to.

But let’s not get hung up on years or age. Let’s think about it more in terms of having more or less experience and more or less time given to a particular interest or cause or love. I know many ladies younger than me who teach me about relationships and life skills, and it’s a wonderful thing. I’m a better person because of what I learn from them. I’m healthiest when I’m in the middle of a spectrum: receiving from the more experienced, and giving to the less experienced.

I wonder how younger women can tap into the wealth of experience and observations of older women. For starters, it means connection, communication, an exchange of stories, ideas, and questions. Most of all, teaching the younger requires engaging the whole person, not just a slice of information that is inserted at choice times.

So how does one become a whole person, equipped to be a mentor and have a voice that deserves to be heard?

I’m privileged to work on a team where a two-year mentoring program is baked into the rhythms of our weeks. It’s a beautiful plan, and I love putting energy into it. But it’s only a program. Mentoring as a program is only as good as the individuals who facilitate it. And even so, it’s not a guarantee that mentees will become the people we or God dream for them to be, because none of us are robots, and all of us make more or less wise or foolish choices.

I’ve heard my pastor John say many times that helping people in matters of the soul is not conditional on having letters behind our names or reading certain books, but on how well we know Jesus. I think he’s absolutely right.

My pastor is writing a book on discipleship (the biblical term for mentoring or following Jesus) but before the book is published, he’s teaching a Sunday school class on the content, and it’s gold.

He began the study by saying “We don’t make enough of Jesus.” And I’m not that old or experienced, but I totally agree.

So it seems the best way to become the kind of woman who can influence wisely is to become a woman who loves Jesus more than she loves anything else. More than managing a designer house. More than curating a large Instagram following. More than pulling off a cute outfit. More than making a stunning loaf of sourdough–though all of those are valid in their place. Especially the sourdough!

I dream of women’s conversations that discuss what they love most. It might be a challenge to turn a conversation there after church or after a meal, but it could be a life-changing, life-giving conversation.

Mentoring and knowing Jesus is not about being noisy or profound. The woman who never says anything in Sunday school may be the woman who could tell you how she’s able to love her difficult husband well. The girl who makes fantastic sourdough may be the one who shares that bread with her neighbors and you never hear about it except to see the shine in her eyes.

To love Jesus supremely, He has to become part of the air we breath, not just time we spend sitting with him and coffee and a candle, though that’s important. Another way of thinking about this is: whatever we make much of will influence others.

Some ideas for starters:

  1. How about staying in only Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John for a month’s Bible reading? For a year? Reading them over and over, observing Jesus’ interactions with people, mulling over His words?
  2. How about praying aloud the Lord’s prayer every day? Every day for a month? Every day for a year? How might His words become our words? His goals become our goals?

I wonder. It would be a way to walk toward making much of Jesus.

These are not quick fixes or over-night changes, but ways we can open ourselves to grace, to God’s powerful, beautiful presence that restores, teaches, grows us. Time doesn’t heal all, and learning doesn’t change us. It’s God who heals and changes and grows us, and we, no matter our age, get to choose to join/cooperate/align with Him and His goals for us and for those we love.

That’s true, enduring influence, and we all need more of it.

Join me?

Blood, Red

Posted in gratitude, love, poetry, words by

My pastor says

If we could hear the stories

Of what happened last night

In every house

Within

A two-mile radius from us, it would

Break

Our

Hearts.

 

My pastor’s breaking voice and

The tears of Jesus

Keep me from crumpling

At the chaos, wails, shards

In humanity,

In me.

 

In the garden of agony

He knew last night’s stories.

The olive press, gnarled trunks,

Cracked earthen paths gave

Witness to His writhing.

 

Bankers, bakers, henchmen,

Sharp-ribbed orphans,

Traffickers—all

Mewl, not knowing

They were made for a garden

Of scents, luscious, and

Colors, wondrous,

Brimming with golden shalom

Light years away.

 

I draw a circle on the map—

Its stories shatter me.

 

He holds the circle of the earth

And weeps.

 

The man above time,

Whose pulse beats justice,

Carries without despair

The weight of the world

And the tears of tykes

While

Grief,

Blood red,

Stabs him

Too.

 

 

I wrote a book one time about living well in a place I didn’t plan to be. You can order your copy here!

Summer Pieces

Posted in community, food, gratitude, life, love, music, recommendations, Sunday School by

Well. It’s been summer of staying local, not buzzing away to see far-flung people. It’s been good, even though I’m feeling antsy. My summer priorities were to plug in where my feet are, and I have no regrets. But yes, I’m ready to go somewhere. Meanwhile, I’ll recommend bits and pieces that have fed me and kept me from getting bored and stagnant.

In the spring, I was telling a friend that I’m not going anywhere because I don’t have international travel plans this year. “Yeah, you’re not going anywhere. You’re just going to New York,” she joked. She had a point. “Going somewhere” is fairly subjective.

I went to Brooklyn for my summer break in June. Before I went, I was scared I’d be lonely, but in some mysterious alchemy, that didn’t happen until the very last day. The break in the city was everything I needed it to be: books, socializing, solitude, exploring, favorite haunts, new friends, a few ESL lessons. Next year year, I’ll turn 50, and I intend to celebrate all year, starting now, and I felt that a concert would be a good way to start. I dithered for days. Was it too much money? And who goes to a concert alone? But I got a ticket to listen to the Met Orchestra and Choir sing Brahm’s Ein deutsches Requiem at Carnegie Hall, and in the first 30 seconds, I knew this was the right decision. The music was exquisite and glorious, and I’ll always be glad I went. And it turns out lots of people go to concerts alone. Here is the recording that I listen to often, which is wonderful, but nothing like hearing it live.

Earlier in the year, I had the opportunity to be present for a talk that moved me so deeply that I’ve listened to the recording multiple times. Charles Cotherman spoke on Becoming Human. He suggested that efficiency doesn’t help us be more human, but close community does. And he said we can only serve God in the place where our feet are, a truism that hit me hard. He’s researched the story of Christian study centers such as L’Abri, where Christians formed communities centered around education, and he wrote about them in Thinking Christianly. After his talk, I told him how much I admired the Schaeffers’ work at L’Abri, but he reminded me that they had a work at a particular time and place, and our work in this time and place is going to look different.

I listened to an audio book on Hoopla that had me grinning often and I still live in its aura. This is Happiness is set in Ireland in the 1950’s when the villages were “getting the electricity.” I’ve never enjoyed descriptions of rain so much. The narrator was Irish, which added to the nostalgia, and I was sorry when the story ended. However, the title and its meaning stays with me, and I hope it always will.

In a round-about, God-led way, I came across a podcast that was so gripping and beautiful, I gave it as a listening assignment to the women’s Sunday school class I’m teaching. We’re studying John, and this sermon, “I Am The Bread” by Tyler Stanton, fed me profoundly. It’s on Spotify here and on his church’s website here. I usually listen to books and podcasts at 1.3 or 1.4 times the normal speed, which helps keep me focused. But not this speaker! I also loved his sermon on Theology of the Body. And I’m reading his book Praying Like Monks, Living Like Fools, which is solid and convicting.

Another book I just finished is Holy Unhappiness by Amanda Held Opelt. I really agree with her premise: that the prosperity gospel has seeped into our theology and made us feel more entitled than we realize. Her insights about satisfaction in marriage and work seem sound and realistic, which was refreshing, and made me wish I’d read this a long time ago. However, I felt very disturbed at her personal story of medical crisis and how God miraculously healed her after four days. I don’t want to minimize her trauma and suffering, but really? Four days? It felt dismissive of anyone who has wept and suffered and begged God for healing for months and years. I struggled to take her seriously after that, and I need to discuss the book’s message with someone else who’s read it.

This summer, besides good things to listen to and read, there have also been guests hosted and mini celebrations, simple and happy and not overwhelming to plan and carry out.

I hosted a small party to celebrate my healed wrist, and it included pavolova with chocolate and raspberries, which always makes the angels sing.

There was fresh basil to make pesto for a tomato salad at our book club’s picnic.

There were scones to celebrate one friend’s birthday,

and Strawberry Brita cake for another friend’s birthday.

There has been Bible study at jail to prep and lead, and exquisite moments with those strong, brave women in hard places. There have been beautiful choirs that made me cry and worship. There have been meaningful lunch conversations and prayers and Literature Camp with more beautiful conversations and friends. There was an evening of solitude by Lake Erie where I made a piece of art with stones and sand as an act of slowing down and talking with God.

I’m still glad that Guys Mills has roads leading out of it. My feet are still itchy and probably always will be, but it’s been a good summer of serving where my feet are.

Practicing Prayer

Posted in community, life, love, poetry by

Last Saturday, one friend prayed for me over a Whatsapp call, and another sent me these gorgeous flowers. I am moved to consider how I can follow the Spirit in turn. This weekend, we celebrate Pentecost. I love to think about the feminine qualities of the Holy Spirit, how He broods, hovers, nurtures–and infuses with incredible power. I wonder how living with the Spirit’s flame resting on us could be seen in us, in me.

I’d only talked with her once, last fall, over breakfast,

Between catching bites falling off her little girls’ spoons.

On Saturday, over the phone,

Our second conversation,

She was as vivacious as I’d remembered,

As thoughtful and generous

As we planned how we’ll plan

Our time together next month.

At the end of our 22 minutes,

She asked if she could pray for me now.

She’s the missionary, the busy mom,

She’s the one who needs care and support

But she prayed for me, and my day was better by her words.

That was Saturday.

Today is Tuesday, and twice

Since then, in conversations, I felt a nudge

To pray right then for the friend beside me.

Shoulder to shoulder,

Weakness beside weakness,

I got to talk to God on a dear one’s behalf,

To beg for His strength in fragility,

Wisdom in questions,

And declare my handing them into

His great care.

I love them dearly but can never save

Or give what they need most.

But I can hold them and remind them

Of what is truest and best in this

Awful, wondrous universe.

Prayer is a surprise at the end of a Whatsapp call,

An innervating string of words,

An example to follow,

A gift to speak at the Spirit’s nudge.

He hovers over us

With white wings that shade and comfort

As prayer gives wings to words

For each to fly.

Comfort and Forgive

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Recently I’ve been lingering in Psalm 25, particularly verse 18: “Look upon my affliction and my distress [I need comfort.] and take away all my sins [I need forgiveness.]” This pairs with the gospel song with line “He took my sins and my sorrows.”

At the cross, we find both comfort for what’s been done to us and forgiveness for the wrong we’ve done. Beyond that, there’s more at the empty tomb, which I’m still exploring.

Last week one morning, this acrostic poem seeped out of my pen. And yes, I’m reading The Hobbit right now, so that found its way onto some lines as well.

Come closer, friend and savior Jesus
Or I will
Move off the path to where
Foul goblins lurk to
Overwhelm my heart. I want to walk with You to
Rivendell where
Time slows and music lingers in the leaves

And cake and wine heap up but
Not too much to long for more.
Desire and dust

Fill my mouth and still holy water
Offerings will never ever wash or
Rinse the dust and
Grime and wrinkled skin of
Inconvenient, stubborn
Vices
Except you hold my hand and clean and caress each crevice.

After Saturday Night

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Photo by Łukasz Łada on Unsplash

He saw me first.

I saw a garden hand

With grass-pressed tunic,

Soil on toes,

Eyes at ease with a job well done.

He saw my tears yet didn’t flinch—

No garden hand had ever asked me

About that water swelling

In stormy cataracts on cheeks.

They’d taken my Love—He’s

Broken, stabbed, now stolen.

My love is gone, is gone, and

I would wail and run

Five thousand furlongs if only this garden man

Confides to me the hiding place that

Holds my love, my broken love.

He said my name, my truest word:

Mary, once bitter, now sweet.

He was a garden man, but

More—the one I’d lost. I knew

Him by that voice and by

Those eyes, new, knowing.

They caught the morning light and

Calmed my own frantic, swollen ones.

Where had He been? What ablutions

Rinsed crusted blood and water from olive skin and linen?

What had He seen and how did this morning’s Father

Turn toward yesterday’s forsaken Son?

What words had made my sad untrue?

Quiet mystery surrounded, hovered, haloed Him—this

Garden-loving, light-bearing frame of holed and holy clay.

He didn’t tell me where He’d been. (He never tells me everything.)

The rose-gold sky back-lit His frame.

My Love

Had found me first

Again.

An Epiphany About Running

Posted in life, love, travel by

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This is a rerun from the archives of 8 yrs ago. These days, I’m still thinking about impossibilities and miracles and Resurrection. And I love reliving my charmed tourist memories: grainy, zingy zatar–the stinky camel ride and my breathless laughter–glorious Dead Sea swim–Capernaum and the Sea of Galilee and eating a lunch of humus beside it–the ache of the Wailing Wall on Good Friday–the shine of one man’s eyes telling another “He is risen!”–the walk to Emmaus with sunshine, friends, songs, and a turtle. I will never be the same.

Last week I flew from Warsaw to Tel Aviv in order to spend Easter with my friends in Jerusalem. Sound exotic? Yes, it was. I’m still floating. But this is not a travel blog, though I dream of that. This is about an epiphany I’m still living with.

The plane was filled with Polish Jews and I reveled in the beautiful, exquisite atmosphere with the families mingling and smiling and comparing notes. “We’re going for Passover in Jerusalem then rent a car and travel further. What? You too?” Polish Jews have suffered so much in this country, and I could feel the pulsating home-coming atmosphere and was so happy for them.

Wedged between two pleasant gentlemen, one wearing a kippah and editing his movie of a rabbinical school, I opened my Bible to Luke’s account of the resurrection. I wanted to enter into the story as much as possible in the next several days. I wanted to hear and see and smell what Jesus and His loved ones did. (As it turned out, it seemed that I could only see the same sky they did, because not much else is the same, but that’s ok. The journeys of the heart are what really change us, I think, not a physical pilgrimage.)

Luke says the women found the tomb empty and heard the angels say that Jesus was no longer dead, and then went back to tell “all the others” about it. You know how women are when they get to be the first to tell someone their exciting news.

This was the best news that could ever happen, but Luke says that to the disciples, the women spoke idle tales.

Empty words.

Jibberish.

Jesus had repeatedly confided in these men. He’d told them He would die and rise again. He’d done what He could to prepare them for the devastation they would feel, but it did not compute for them. Now this morning they were so crushed that they couldn’t let themselves believe what the women were saying.

Do you know how blankety-blank hard it is to sustain hope? It’s easier to write it off as nonsense and foolishness and tell yourself not to care anymore.

Mark says the disciples didn’t believe the women nor Cleopas and his friend from Emmaus who had walked and talked with Jesus that day. It’s impossible to believe news about a miracle when you watch your naked hopes dangle on a bloody cross in an earthquake.

When everything you counted on is gone.

When you don’t even have the remains of what you loved.

But Peter ran, Luke says. John’s version includes himself in the running. Peter had loved Jesus the most boisterously, the most rashly, and he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard but he had to check, just in case, and neither of the men could wait or walk calmly.

They ran, and I weep over their eagerness and their stunning courage. They ran head-long into the place that held the potential to break their hearts even more–if it’s possible to break a heart that’s already shattered. There was no precedence for what Jesus did, and they had no proof of the women’s words being true.

Except they had Jesus’ words earlier, which is life and power but they didn’t know that yet.

Wedged in a tight airplane seat, I tried surreptitiously to wipe my tears on my scarf because I didn’t want the men to get worried about me crying.(“No, no, I’m ok–I’m not scared of flying—everything’s ok!” I would have said.) But I can’t stop crying about it even now. There is maybe no other scene that speaks so powerfully to passion and longing and life than this one–of the men running toward what they couldn’t believe.

There are a thousand things I hope for myself and those I love. Sometimes I get a tiny glimpse of how things could be. How a miracle would change things for them or me, how we could enter more fully into what we were created for.

But it feels so impossible, so far away, that I write it off as pish-posh. Or I believe the lie that I don’t deserve these miracles. Or we’re not one of the lucky ones and God is handing out miracles to others but forgot about me and my people for awhile .

And lies and fanciful tales don’t sustain and don’t give life. In fact, they starve me. Poison my system. Shut me down. Keep me from running.

With the power that woke Jesus from the dead, I want to run toward His miracles. Not wait around and see what happens. Not discount it as excitable women’s words.

The best thing that could happen had just happened, and it was impossible and Peter couldn’t believe it, but he still ran, and by the Lion’s mane, I will too.

The Awl

Posted in love, poetry, words by

Photo by Victoriano Izquierdo on Unsplash

Some months ago, I was in a battle of wills with the Almighty. One Sunday in share time, a brother reflected on the ceremony of the awl and the pierced ear. He said, “That slave must have really trusted his master to be willing to stay with him the rest of his life.” I knew then it was mine to trust, not fight for my will to be done, and I went home and wrote this poem.

Then his master shall bring him to God, then he shall bring him to the door or the doorpost. And his master shall pierce his ear with an awl; and he shall serve him permanently. Exodus 21:6

He stands at my shoulder,

Awl in hand.

His eyes speak what His words

Have always said and what

I know is truer than true.

 

I voice my yes, so I can hear tomorrow

When my heart wanders:

“My Master, yes.

Yes to never owning but always having enough.

Yes to living under Your roof over Your furniture.

Yes.

Yes to safety You’ve proven these seven tenuous years.

Yes to plenty and to peace, to eating like a child at home.

Yes to Your care and not another’s, to a home not my own.

Yes.”

 

My eyes sweep over His turbaned head and out past tiled rooftops,

Mountain Hermon, the Jordan, and towns beyond.

But it’s here He invites me to stay and I say

Yes.

In His weathered doorway I lean

After the awl,

Hole held in His fingers that

Drip blood.

A Blessing For This Weekend

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Photo by Achim Ruhnau on Unsplash

May you see spring birds puffed up on branches to stay warm as they forage seeds, and may it remind you that God provides and cares even more for you. May you see diamonds in rain drops on buds and leaves. May your baby plants flourish with the promise that summer is coming.

May the weekend give you golden moments to be less efficient and more human, and may your inefficiency include walks in blowing snow and naps in warm blankets and conversations in real time. May someone hear your heart under your words, and may you listen to someone else in a way that helps them feel less alone.

May the strong arms of God, the compassion of Jesus, and the comfort of the Holy Spirit hold you.

A Benediction for Your Weekend

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Because I believe that Christians should be people of benediction (bene: good + diction: speaking) here’s one for your weekend. I hope to be dropping benedictions here and there (blog, social media, cards) the next while.

May sweet, glad birdsong surprise you on your walks. May golden light highlight greens and whites, and if golden light isn’t happening today, may it fall on you sometime this week. May you eat enough fluffy carbs to make your soul happy, and enough protein to make your brain strong.

May your bones not break, and if they do, may you receive so much support and care that it makes you cry. May your grey hair stay well camouflaged, and if they spiral out in odd angles, may you remember all the goodness that brought you to this good age. May you take time for at least two naps.

May your heroes be people who love God supremely, love you like Jesus, and make you a better person. May the skin tones you see and the languages you hear give you a sneak peak of our eternal home and the wedding feast that will never end.