Christmas Eve Eyes

It's a cold, December 24th, and our family heads to downtown Seattle, to the Armory.  The children are bundled with just their sweet faces showing and all the excitement of Christmas upon them, and as we walk past the fountain blaring classical music to the musings of those around, my heart smiles.  So many happy memories from my childhood flood my mind.

We enter the Armory, formerly the Seattle Center, and the smell of kettle corn and hot chocolate infuses my nose, the small model trains run in the distance, and my mouth forms a smile.  Less than a second later, my eyes dance around the euphoric room and land on a man huddling in a corner with a hood over his head, inside from the freezing elements outside.  My heart was sad, but I walk on.  I don't get more than two steps before realizing...THIS IS CHRISTMAS EVE!

Alone.
Cold.

That's not how Christmas Eve should be....or any day of the year.

I keep thinking about this scene, but I soon become distracted by keeping track of the children that I forget.  The kids run over to one side of the train rails to peer in and I pass a few tables of families, laughing, eating and talking...and then one table catches my eye.

A man sitting alone, with his eyes closed and his worn, gray hoodie pulled as far over his head and face as possible.  I look around and wait to see if someone, anyone, is coming to sit with him.  No one.  All alone.  Christmas Eve.  I can't look away.  My heart breaks.  I'm sure his story, if told, would provide a window into his soul and the reason his feet are planted at this time, at this place.  I wish I could hear it.  I can't walk away.  I can't leave this building without doing something, anything.  I don't have my wallet with me, so I look for Matt.  I mention to him what I see, and he walks to the sandwich shop twenty feet away. I walk away, following my family out the doors that lead me home. I stop before I exit, turn in the direction of the man without a name that has now transformed my Christmas Eve, and wait.  Matt walks toward him with a warm meatball sandwich and places it in front of him.  For the first time, the man looks up, and I see a small crease of his lips move upward.  Could it be a smile?  I don't know for I am too far away.

I turn and leave the scene...and a tear falls on the concrete below my feet.  "God," I cry, "this is not what this day should be for so many.  Be their Comforter, their Peace, their loving Father, and hold them tonight.  You came on a cold night for everyone; please come to the so-manys who need You."  

I am moved.  The dichotomy between the joy and heaviness of this brief hour leaves me in thought.

I walk away and ask myself: Do I truly see those around me? What would my life look like if these weren't just moments in my life, but it was the way I lived my life?    

Octave-Lower Quacks

I sit on a cold, gray rock above the dark-watered pond.  Turtles show only their tiny heads above the water, and hundreds of ducks move in uniformity together.  I hear high-pitched quacks that remind me of my kids' bath toys when they were babies.  The older ducks' quacks are an octave-lower, and it seems when they talk all the other ducks follow their motions, almost as if to say, "I know the way, I've learned lessons on this journey, follow me."

Wiser.

Stronger.

Their aim is to teach and protect those under their care.  In our walk with the Lord, it's similar.  As we journey, we journey together, learning from those who have "been there before," whether it be someone like a grandparent, a mentor, a friend, or Jesus' words and the truth-filled Bible.

I am startled. I jump.  The ducks look a little out of sorts.  The little ones become unsure.  For across the pond, a chainsaw has disturbed the peace, the harmony, the symphony.  They scatter away from the noise, some sticking closeby the octave-lower quacks, other trying to find their way alone.

Sometimes in this world the chainsaws of bad news, doubts, distractions, or fears can invade our hearing, consuming us and we lose sight of the octave-lower truths that say: "Never will I leave you. Never will I forsake you (Hebrews 13:5)....I watch over your coming and going (Psalm 121)...No plan of mine can be thwarted (Job 42)....I formed you in your innermost being (Psalm 139)...surely goodness and love will follow you all the days of your life (Psalm 23)..."

May I always strive to stay close to those octave-lower truths.

And as I do....I become wiser, stronger.

"Mom, I Wish This Had Never Happened!"

The sun was shining, Matt was working, Kaylee was at gymnastics, so it was a perfect day for an afternoon bike ride with my son.  We strapped on our helmets, filled the water bottles and set out for a Slurpee a few miles away.  The trail to 7-Eleven is entirely uphill, so my words were primarily ones of encouragement as we climbed, and his gear-less dirt bike made his soccer legs tired as he pumped.  

We made it to 7-Eleven, enjoyed a quite tasty concoction of Pina Colada, Dr. Pepper, and Cherry Slurpee, and saddled back on our bikes to head back home.  On the trail that we ride, there is a part for horses that is dirt, and a paved trail that is parallel to the dirt one for those with wheels.  Cameron thought it would be fun to race me for a mile stretch; he stayed on the flat dirt path while I went on the hilly paved trail.  His legs were powering as fast as he could make them go, and I couldn't help but smile as I saw the joy he had on his face.  The wind was hitting him.  His wheels were going fast.  He was beating me.  He was having a blast!  

Then, the rock.  

His tire hit a rock.  I heard him scream, "Mom," and looked over just in time to see him fly off his bike skidding onto his knees, elbow and hands on the rocky dirt.  The sound of his lungs working made me realize that this was pretty dire.  I got to him as quickly as I could and his knee was bloodied and filled with dirt and little rocks.  This is a boy who doesn't do well when blood is present, and I had forgotten the small First Aid kit that usually accompanies us on our bike rides.  I didn't have anything to clean the wound except a bit of water (at which he vocally let me know that was not going to be okay).  I didn't have anything to stop the blood.  

All I knew was: I've got to get him home.  

With blood dripping down his leg, he let me know that he was not walking or riding his bike.  I realized I would have to take off my shirt, fortunately wearing a sports bra underneath and knew in this moment that was my only option, and wrap it around his wounded knee.  I figured if I could get his mind off of the blood then we could get home.  We still had a mile to go with two major intersections to cross, but it was all downhill.  With tears flooding his cheeks, I coaxed him bravely back onto his bike, and we made it home.

"I wish this had never happened," he said when we got home as I walked toward him with the items needing to cleanse his wounds in my hands.  I thought about that for a second.  

"I wish this had never happened."  

I know I've said that before.  

I begin to understand his heart.  

I clean the small rocks out of his tender skin.  A flap of skin hangs from a deep wound and I go near it.  He flinches.  I don't touch it.  He trusts me, but it's still painful.  The thought of me touching it makes him hurt.  I've been there before.  

"Why do you have to do this?" he cries.  

"Because it's part of the healing process.  It won't heal properly if we don't first clean the wound.  I've got to get all the gunk out, the stuff that's not supposed to be there.  Then, I've got to put some cleansing liquid on it that is going to sting.  It won't feel good at the time, but if we don't deal with this now then when it could be healing it will only be hurting you more.  You've got to continue being brave.  The pain will end soon."

His body stiffens and he cries more.  The pain penetrates through every part of him as the Hydrogen Peroxide does its job.  

"I wish this had never happened."  There it is again from his mouth.  This time I respond:

"I know, Son.  I know," I say looking into his dark brown eyes.  "But it did happen, and now we must work on restoring your knee.  It will soon become a scab, and then you'll have a scar that will remind you of this moment, but hopefully you can look at that scar and smile, knowing the healing has taken place."  

As I place the gauze delicately on his knee, I think about my own life.  How many times have I been hurting, but haven't let the hand of the Healer cleanse my wounds?  How many times have those wounds festered and become swollen and infected instead of enduring the sting and healing power that comes from the process albeit difficult and painful?  

And in this sacred, unpredictable moment as I put the last Band-Aid on this precious, hurt knee, I thank the Healer for His healing touches in my life, for His tender love that looks deep into my eyes and says, "I am with you in the process.  Continue to be brave. You will be okay."    

Grandma's Socks

Her tender legs and feet lay limp, too weak to lift them.  I reach my hand under her left leg and gently lift it off the white sheet of the firm hospital bed.  My sweet Grandma looks at me with a smile, deep in thought yet the words are distant from her mouth.  The stroke has stolen then, but she communicates clearly without words.

Minutes before this scene, I had walked into the stark room feeling overwhelmed. As the stories and snapshots of me and my Grandma ran through my mind like an old reel, salty tears stained my cheeks.  I was trying so hard to be strong, but, alas, I realized I didn't need to be.  I could just be me...exactly what my amazing Grandma had taught and showed me. I composed myself after a bit and moved closer.  I gave her a tender hug and sat down next to her frail body.  This beautiful woman who had taken care of me and countless others through her glorious 90 years of life is now under the care of many people.

As her left leg is held in the air by my hand, I carefully take off her brown hospital sock and see the most beautiful sight: A foot creased with age and lines that tell me stories.  Stories of where these feet have trod...through frozen snow, teeming jungle, Amazon waters, homes of people who needed the hope of Jesus, bustling streets of Belem and Sao Paolo, Osoyoos roads walking arm-in-arm with a awkward teenager trying to figure out life, in her kitchen where (in my eyes) magic happened, skating rinks to cheer me on, and on and on and on.  I slip on her new red, soft socks over her toes, her foot, her heel and up to her ankles.  I rub her calf and the glamorous wrinkles that give me so much history.  I set the left foot down, pick up the right, and start over again.

I am overcome by gratefulness at the gift of this beautiful woman and all she means to me, and a joy-filled tear runs down the side of my face.  I look up to see Grandma smiling, and I smile back.  In an obscure, unforeseen way, this is the meaning of joy. 

Symbiosis...A Lesson from a Nine-Year-Old

The kids and I were driving home, and we were talking about Kaylee's 2nd slumber party that, by her own definition, was not successful.  She stayed up way too late due to the fact that her friend sleeps with the TV on.

Pony-Tailed Daughter: "Next time, Mom, I'll close my eyes and bury my head in the pillow." 

Inquisitive Son: "Yeah, your friend and the TV are not a good symbiotic relationship." 

Me: "Okay, define symbiotic relationship." 

Inquisitive Son: "Two things that go together and need each other.  You know, like moss on a tree and a tree that has moss.  Papa told us when we were on a hike in Oregon last summer." 

After I closed my jaw and digested the definition, I thought more about healthy symbiotic relationships; the things vital to our very being, our very existence. The bad habits, the lies of the Enemy, the deception of this world, are the relationships that make pieces of us die.  But the life-giving relationships of marriage, deep friendships, Truths, authenticity, family, to name a few, is what keeps us growing taller, stronger with roots that give stability, depth and sustenance.  May we always strive for symbiosis in our lives.

Birds and Freeways

My feet hit the hard pavement on the walking trail near our church office, and the warm sun beats down above me.  As I run, I pray for clarity.  I pray for stillness in my mind and heart.  I pray to just let go.  With each step, I start listening on this quiet trail.  As I run east, I hear the constant humming of the busy freeway to the south that is taking people places at a high speed from here to there, consumed with where they are going next.  To the north, I hear the chirping of sparrows as they swoop and sing against the landscape of the burgeoning wilderness, consumed with the freedom to fly and soar…and sing. 

I hear the pitter-patter of my feet, and I think about my life.  The life that teeters in both worlds.  The life that craves the pace and noises of the north but is often pulled into the pace and noises of the south.  The life that hangs in the balance. When we lived in Kenya, it was easy to hear the birds more, all the time; life is slower there.  But when we moved back to Southern California, it seems the freeway pace of life is always there.  There's always somewhere to go, something to do, or so it seems.  However, we have a choice as to how many freeways we get on, the speed at which we travel, and if we choose to take the off-ramp to slow down, stop, and refocus.  It may be saying “no” to good things, figuring out what is best in a world of good choices, or it may be getting away from the cacophony of noises that can deafen a heart to just, simply listen. 

This morning, I listened.  I heard.  “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith (Hebrews 12:1-2).”  

 For me, it’s about focus.  It’s about priorities.  It’s about running with perseverance.  It’s about listening.  

 It’s about learning to live in the freedom to fly and soar…and sing. 

The Art of Releasing

In art, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  Most art, to be honest, I don't get.  But each piece has a story, and often in the story lies the value, the understanding, and the beauty.  Therein lies the power of art, the artist.  There's a form of art that is part of life that requires courage; that's the art of releasing.

 On the eve of Kaylee entering Kindergarten, a first in the line of many future releases as her mom, and on the day after finding out Grandpa passed away, the last release of loved ones this side of Heaven, my heart struggles with the art of it, yet my mind embraces this as part of the way life works.

One one side of my easel is a compartmentalized picture of this as part of life, thankful for the journey and the memories and knowing this is how we grow, learn and deepen.  The hues are pastel with sunlight shining down.  On the other side are scattered lines, darker with an artist that seems bewildered and processing.  The pastel side is a complete picture; it makes sense.  The artist has a peace that is portrayed in the artwork.  The other side is full of struggles, trying to swallow one of life's difficult blows.

So, I stand, looking at both, contemplating both and putting the paintbrush down, trusting the Creator for His perfection despite not understanding.  I release my little one to Kindergarten, to learn to grow and to thrive.  I release Grandpa to Heaven where he is whole, but sad for the hole in our hearts until we meet again.

And I stand there, processing the art in front of me.

Written on August 7, 2011

In The Hands of the Painter

My life is in the hand of the Painter, allowing Him to stroke the canvas with hues and depth that I often quite don't understand, but He is good and His plans are perfect.  When I try to take the paintbrush from Him to paint, the canvas blurs...I must hand the paintbrush back, relinquish, release, trust. And as soon as I do, it all seems to make sense again. Truth is revealed.  Anxiety dissipates.  Perspectives shift. How long does it take to learn? He wants to make my life into a masterpiece. 

Each of us is given a canvas. We don't know how long our canvas will take to paint, each day is a gift.  My hope is that when my last breath is taken on this earth, the Painter can stand back (for He already knows when that last breath will be), put down the paintbrush, look at the painting, smile, and I can fall into His embrace.  This is my cherished canvas.

Cherish [cher-ish], verb
1. to hold or treat as dear
2. to care for tenderly; nurture
3. to cling fondly or inveterately to