Unlawful Intruders of the Soul

“When our souls are restless, when we are driven by thousands of different and often conflicting stimuli, when we are always “over there” between people, ideas and worries of this world, how can we possibly create the room and space where someone else can enter freely without feeling himself an unlawful intruder?”

Henri Nouwen Wounded Healer, p 90

Father, it's been one of those days. A thousand different and often conflicting stimuli dragged me out of my high expectations for concentrated order and left me in a crowded space where my friends could certainly have felt to be unlawful intruders. I had so hoped to establish a degree of peace to begin my work week. It helps me to be more welcoming.

But the day has been what the day was, and I settle now into my pre-sleep meditations seeking Your Spirit to calm the ideas and worries of this world, and to find my rest in You, and to let this day go like a balloon into the vast vanilla sky of Your perfect eternity. I let it go. And watch it become smaller and smaller until it's completely gone.

And I beg of You to work in me the renovations that will create the space and room You need in me to accomplish the love You've call me to do.

I'm glad You don't sleep.

I'm glad You grant sleep to those You love,

Because I need Your love

And I freely fall into Your sleep tonight.

New Year Happy

I love how these first days of this new year have invited simple joys to heal and fill me.

Harvest's first Christmas. Time to sleep and rest and be, over the holidays. Abby's songs, so spontaneous and true and beautiful that certainly angels have stopped to listen. Zachary's happy clapping when I come in the door, every time. Afternoons that slip into long evenings in the family room, candles and fireplace flickering their nurture and strength into my soul. The smell of a small child freshly awake. Finding exactly what I went for at the gently used clothing store. A lifeguard that sees I've come in late and lets me have a few extra laps in the pool all by myself. Eating well again and staying on track and feeling good. A prime parking spot. An unexpected book. An unexpected kiss. Sunshine.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm looking too large to find reasons to be glad. Certainly, big, hairy, audacious goals are needful for accomplishing the big, hairy, audacious things. And life would be over simplified without them. Mundane even, really. I don't want to skim my life. Like everyone else on the planet, I want my life to have made a difference in something bigger than myself. I need the motivation of gladness in succeeding in what's important.

And I can't ignore that big, hairy, audacious troubles trouble me, too often for my liking. Not to face them, lead through them, stand against them, choose righteousness in the midst of them would be to acquiesce to their evil. I choose not to lay down and be flattened. And this can be exhausting.

But in the fabric of that, there's a collective of simple joy that would be tragically un-engaged if I'm not careful. There's an energy for my bigger living and the greater battles of my life, gleaned from the collaboration of the small things; there's healing, even from the harsh and painful and obvious, in the gentle and pleasurable and subtle.

So I am welcoming these simple joys to begin the celebration that is this new year happy.

2010

For the chance to see all the pennies in one jar
For a gentle home-going for Dad
For the gift of another time in Thailand
For two months of bliss by the water
For books read
For new friends and what they teach me
For the privilege of studying Hebrew
For the arrival of an abundant Harvest
For the lessons of letting go
For the lessons of release
For the deepening still of life long friendships
I am grateful

For known opportunities to become more than I am
For the unknown challenges that will shape me
For the joys that will delight me
For the prayers that will be answered yes
For the prayers that will be answered no for reasons He won't tell
For new friends yet to meet
For still friends who will help to grow me
I am hopeful
And humbly anticipating
All He will do

Us In The Van

It happened because we decided we could all fit in the van.

When it comes to having adult children with partners and families of their own, being together at Christmas has been something we've tried to give realistic balance to. Naturally, especially with grandchildren, gathering is extremely important. It makes us "us" in a way that only being at a table together can do. But being anywhere merely to fulfill an obligation is never more than that, and defeats any noble purpose of family.

To honour that, it has become our gentle policy to ask for and hope for at least one gathering during the Christmas season, with no fixed date or expectations. Anything more than that, I consider bonus.

So when Ken and I, and the two we bore, and ones they chose (minus the one in waiting) and the three they bore, can all fit into one vehicle, car seats included....and when that occasion is the SECOND all together gathering of "us" in this one Christmas season....it's all gravy (turkey pun intended).

And it happened on the way home.

We had spent the afternoon at the home of Ken's generous sister and her husband, with those of us who make up Ken's siblings and who live close enough to make being at that table possible. Shrimp for starters and gifts and kids and phone calls from those who live too far and silly paper hats following loud snaps and way too much food and a dog parked closest to the youngest and messiest of us. And then, when it's all done, we fit ourselves back in the van for the drive home.

And that's when I realized. We weren't all there. Not all of us who should be. But all of us who could be were. And as we wait for the one in waiting, it was enough for me in that moment. For the two of us who chose each other, and the ones we bore and the ones they chose, and the one they bore...us and our kids and their partners and their kids. The "us" of us.

And how many times had we make that drive, too full from turkey, quiet now after all the noise? First just Ken and I, then one at a time our own babies in car seats, and then bigger children, and now new car seats. Thirty two years of driving home from Christmas with Ken's family.

It happened in that moment that I felt contentment and blessing and rightness. And it registered with me as something important because I know I shouldn't be feeling it. Too much is not as it should be this Christmas to make it feel less "us". First time without Dad. Mom moved away. A son-in-law yet to rejoin us.

But there was still an "us" gently, strongly. In the van. And it was very good.

And I wanted to sing.

Kristyn and David have both told me that one of their favourite childhood memories is rides home from family things and me singing.

I should have sang. Next time.

The Holy Hush of Readiness

There comes a time in the happy rush of preparation when it all comes to hush in a holy readiness. When that happens, it is best to sit still for a bit. Feel it. Joy in it.

I am sitting in that hush right this moment. It smells good, this hush, like freshly baked cookies. It feels warm, like your thickest, newest fleece wraped around your shoulders, folding down to your feet. It sounds big and full and hushed and worshippy, like the candle-lighting rendering of Let It Be swirled around a carol. No-el, it says. Israel's King is born. Awe.

And I'm ready. Ready to let it be Christmas, and to joy in the now of it. Ready to lay down the work and weight of a confusing, pressing fall, and Sabbath my soul for a quiet string of days. Ready to just be with those I love so. Ready to receive - again - all the unspeakableness of the Incarnation, and revel in the fierce loveliness of the new born Child who turns out to be God Almighty.

I wish you readiness, and the strength of spirit to receive it deeply. I pray you will hush yourselves in its smells and sounds and warm wrappings. Be comforted. Be re-filled. Be re-born on this Birthday.

Because He heard you asking. And He came.

Waiting for the Story

I admit to a certain addictive fascination to my current studies in the Hebrew language. The decoding of construct chains and perfect strong verb paradigms bends my brain in new, albeit agonizing ways, stimulating (I hope) new synaptic pathways that will help me know my Bible better. That's the idea anyways. It's the whole point of pursuing these seminary academics - to understand more of the story of God.

I was feeding my addiction at the dinner table on Saturday morning. Grandkids were playing happily in the chaos on the floor around my feet, while I laboured over the translation of a passage from Exodus 1. It's slow work. Strange markings. Complicated grammar structures. Any given text only comes clear after tedious effort with lots of trial and error along the way.

Leaving her farm animals, Abby climbed onto my lap to see what I was doing.

"And a new king will rise up over Egypt who will not know Joseph, and he will say to his people...." I read aloud the part I had worked through so far, and stopped, squinting. Was that a vav consecutive? Abby sat quietly, looking at the scribbles, both Hebrew and English, sprawled on the page in front of us, expecting me to keep on reading out loud. When there was too long of a pause, she said, "I'm waiting for the story, Gramma. What comes next?"

"I don't know yet, Honey. I'm trying to figure that out."

Reading God's story is like that, I guess. Not just the written Hebrew words. Not just the words in my English Bible either. Although careful translation and diligent study do give us an understanding of the whole big story God has written down for us. And like I said, that's why I'm studying.

But it's the honest doing of it that writes another story. My story. God's story for me. And to be honest, at various points along the way, and especially right now, I don't understand that story very well either. It seems at times to be composed of strange markings with complicated structures and foggy interpretations. I labour to make meaning of the events and interactions that make up various "sentences" of the story, squinting to try to piece together anything that sounds like something I might understand, anything that might make sense.

We have been told in class, over and over, that this Hebrew thing will happen for us if we're patient, diligent and consistent to work at it a little bit every day. And it's true. Remarkably, I find I'm actually getting it. I can actually read simple Hebrew sentences by now. And eventually I was able to finish the sentence Abby was asking about.

So I guess if I'm not "fluent" in the story God is still writing for me, especially in the middle of the complicated parts, I shouldn't be surprised. It's still being written, only coming clear a little bit every day. I can wait for the story with God, my Author, patiently, diligently, and consistently, and only in the little bit He gives me for this day.

One day my story will be complete. I will read all the words of it and it make sense enough to me. Then I will speak it fluently. And I will rest in it fully.

Coming Up For Air

I felt it on the way home tonight -- that lighter sense of my spirit, lifting mostly off my chest and shoulders. I was playing a song on a CD that a dear and spiritually sensitive friend has loaned me because he knows I've been heavy of late. This wasn't the song he marked for me. I am blessed and enthralled by it too. But at this moment, it was one song that opened up the space between me and the release.

The music was loud. Sometimes I need it loud in the car.

He is jealous for me
Loves like a hurricane
I am a tree, bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy

All of a sudden I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory
And I realize just how beautiful You are and how deep is Your affection for me

And Oh, how He loves us
Oh, Oh how He loves us
Oh how He loves

The artist is David Crowder but the Voice of the Spirit speaks deeply into mine through these words and melodies, and I am suddenly unaware of my afflictions because of the glory strongly around me in the moment.

These past seven weeks have provided for me again those opportunities to press hard into God and find out what I'm really made of. It's been smothering at times, washing over me in pounding waves of confusion and anger, and I am not at all pleased with myself. Not at all. The stresses reveal the best and worst of me it seems. The taking away of something fragile and treasured that is now not safe, is infuriating and terrifying and wrong. I have been lain flat with helplessness, crushed.

But Oh, how He loves me. Some days it's been all I could hang on to, this knowledge that my God loves me. My God loves me. When nothing else has any sense to it, this does.

My treasure is still not safe. But loudly in the car on the way home tonight, my spirit drank in the power and presence of God Who is healing me and Who is bigger than any force that would come against me or the ones I love.

And I breathe in lightly and deeply and loudly this love.

Love wins.