THE WRITTEN WORD

My girls are visiting grandparents in Walla Walla this week so I have found time to clean out those corners that aren't important but bug me anyway. 

The dresser in my bedroom that holds new pencils and Christmas boxes, stamps, glue guns, outgrown t-shirts, old buttons...it's a catch-all place and it drives me nuts.

Not anymore!  It's all tidy, along with the closet under the stairs, that cupboard above the washing machine, the space under our coffee corner and other spaces that get set aside in favor of the urgent and necessities. 

This tidiness was not limited to MY forgotten corners; no, it generously went to the girls closets.  I went through their clothes, swapping out winter for summer and noting items that needed mending or were too worn out to stay.  During this purge, I came across a sunflower chest in Beanie's room.  I hadn't seen this chest in AGES.  It was a gift for my sixteenth birthday and I kept old letters and pictures and mementos inside.  I opened the lid, smelling the cedar lining, and was shocked at the amount of letters I kept.  

There were letters from that boy in high school- the one with the amazing hair and dreamy voice who I met at the roller skating rink.  I even had the mixed tape he made me.  Oh, yes.  

Mixed. Tape.

He even talks on the tape in his dreamy voice about how special I am and how much fun we have together and why he chose each song.

He was downright swooney to me.  (Is that even a word?!)  I couldn't think straight around him and was all kinds of gooey when I was with him. I thought he was the cutest, most interesting boy in the whole, wide world.

Until he told me HE didn't believe in Valentine's Day, but since I did he would give me a bear his brother's ex-girlfriend had given HIS BROTHER on Valentine's Day.

Suddenly he wasn't so interesting.

There are letters from that guy I seemed to date over and over and over again.  He was such a good friend and I laughed remembering that time our car broke down and we hitched a ride with a trucker.  We had spent the day in Moses Lake with my Nana playing pinochle and my car died going up the hill outside of Vantage.  We sat in the car and argued about which direction we should walk to get to a town (these are the days before cell phones) and we argued until the sun was almost down and walking was no longer a great option.  We got out and started walking anyway.  That's when the trucker pulled over and offered us a ride.  I was convinced he would murder us, but was talked into it anyway.  He deposited us safely in  Ellensburg, where we were able to call my dad. 

 I'm glad we survived.

Here is the card from that boy in college, the one I was convinced I would marry.  I found that card in my college mailbox after our second date.  He got me to my dorm after curfew and, at my college, if you got in after curfew you had to pay money.  He had put money in the card to cover my "late charge" and a promise to get me home on time in the future.  I  really thought he was "The One". He was the first person I told that my parents were having serious problems.  

He broke up with me saying God told him to and maybe we would get back together later. 

How do you argue with God?

Next are the letters from Logan.  He was my cowboy friend and I loved him like a brother. So many letters from Logan.  He spent a summer watching sheep somewhere in the middle of the United States and he wrote to me a LOT while he was out there.  He talks about his mom (I have letters from her in here, too!) and the stars and the fields and wide open spaces and sends me quotes about how "the little woman on his arm was made of powerful stuff."  His letters are full of love and encouragement; they are a delight to revisit.

Here is a letter from Mindy, a girl who noticed my kindness and just wanted me to know.  

A Valentine's card from another college boyfriend states that I have redeemed his faith in the female gender.  And here is the letter where he says he doesn't want to grow old and alone with sixteen cats to keep him company.  He wants to know when I'm coming to Colorado.

Poems from the boy I danced under the stars in the orchard with.  

He was a really good writer.

Some funny cards from friends and one from my mom congratulating me on my new apartment.

Stacks of cards and letters written by me to my husband and stacks of cards and letters from my husband to me.

Back when we were dating.  

I haven't had a card from him in forever.  He wrote sweet words.

And we knew nothing.

About each other, love, being grown up, building a life together, any of it.

We were very sweet and very stupid.

My journal from those years is tucked in here. I cringe reading my thoughts on love and these boys.  I wanted them to love me and I wanted to love them well.  I'm sorry for the ways I hurt them and can only plead ignorance.  I also want to know why they hurt me.  

Probably the same reason.  

Here is the Christmas card written seven months after my mom moved out.  It's full of determination and courage and fight- maybe I shouldn't have spent so much energy fighting.  Maybe I should have written in the Christmas card what I wrote in my journals.  I wasn't okay.  I felt like I was hurtling through the air and nothing would catch me.  Ever.

I would never have a place to land.

I threw away the cards from that season a long time ago.  It was just too hard to keep them.  Scott has the ones written by me from that time.  They seem Pollyanna-ish, but I wasn't being fake; I was surviving. 

I have reached the bottom of the chest.  Surrounding me are piles of paper, some old pictures and a plaque declaring me the "Best Bus Socializer".  

 This is my written history from those years in voices other than my own.  As I read them I feel a little sad about e-mail and text.  I still remember how each one of my friends (especially boyfriends) wrote my name.  On the outside of a note, on the envelope for a card...it was special.  You don't get that with electronics.  Will my daughters get letters and cards to save and stumble over twenty years later?  Or will it all be stored in some "cloud"?  

That seems a bit impersonal and definitely not as romantic.

I'm here with a small plea:  

Teach your kids to write letters.  

Maybe some notes.  

Grab them a journal so they can experience the power of a written word- not typed, but written.

YOU write them letters!  Write them notes!

Show them how special it is to receive a compliment they can save for a rainy day; something to pull out and remind them they matter and that season mattered.

Teach your kids so they can write letters to mine.

 

The Season of Need

EASTER


Stage 4 Cancer.

A two-year old beaten to death by his mother’s boyfriend.

Sudan.

A church in Egypt.



This world is drenched in pain.  Once in a while, the candy coating of “I’m fine’s”

and forced smiles break and we are leveled by the sheer neediness of this world.



We are walking into “Holy Week”; the week leading up to the cross, where Jesus

took all this world’s brokenness and let it break Him.



Sometimes, on this side of the cross, it’s just too much.



Things we love and hold and believe in suddenly turn to death and we are left

looking at a broken and bloody Jesus.



The disciples.  They know; they understand.  They left all they knew about

themselves and let Him redefine their identities.  They watched Him speak to the

storm and it listened.  They watched Him heal the broken, restore sight and

sanity, raise the dead to life.  They saw Him take the small offering of a boy and

multiply it to feed thousands.  They had walked with Him, laughed with Him,

questioned Him and with each passing day found themselves really believing He

was the Messiah- the Promised One they had anticipated for always. They left

their homes, incomes, stability and reputations for Him.  And because He loved

them He warned them: “We are going to Jerusalem and everything that is written

by the prophets about the Son of Man will be fulfilled.  He will be handed over to

the Gentiles.  They will mock Him, insult Him, spit on Him, flog Him and kill Him. 

On the third day He will rise again.” (Luke 18:31-33)



But they didn’t understand.



And suddenly they were standing at the cross and everything they had believed in

was broken and bloody and covered in death.



They hid behind locked doors, denying they even knew Him.  Terrified, these men

who had witnessed miracles I cannot fathom, hid in fear because it was just too

much.



It’s what I do when things are too much.  Just this week I got news that made me

crawl in bed, cover my head and weep.  When my parents divorced, I spent weeks

lying in bed listening to sad music trying to muster the courage to face life again.  I

have friends who have buried marriages and husbands and babies and sometimes

it’s just too much to be on this side of the cross.



The earth quakes and rocks split; the sky goes dark and thunder roars.  Curtains

split and somewhere a voice howls,

“My God!  WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME????”



What do we do with our faith when it comes to this point?  What do we do with a

God that allows these things to happen?  We say He is love and we sing the He is

enough for us, but what about those times when He isn’t?  What do we do when

we come to Jesus and He just looks beaten and bloody and dead?



I think we give space for grief.  We run our fingers over the splintered wood of

those beams; we cry for what should have been.  We pound our fists against

heaven and throw all our questions to the only One who can take it; the only One

who has taken it.



We pour ourselves out to Him until we are spent. 



Then we look in the empty tomb. 



The men weren’t going to go.  They were still behind locked doors.  But the

women knew that things had to be done; life keeps happening and you keep

showing up.  Clothes need washing, people must be fed and sooner or later we

rise and do what is necessary.  That’s what these women did.  They showed up at

the tomb to care for the dead body of their Lord. 



He wasn’t there.



And as Mary stood outside that empty, empty tomb, weeping, bending over,

searching for something that was not there, two angels showed up.



It’s called hope.



She turned around and Jesus was there.  He was right in front of her but her grief

was so big she couldn’t even see Him…but He saw her.



“Mary.”



Once He spoke, she saw Him for who He was.



No longer bleeding and dying and covered with death.



This is the resurrected Jesus- this is where I put my faith.  The cross is so

important, but it’s on the other side of it we find life; the “Way, the Truth and the

Life.”   I serve a Jesus who is life itself.  He is the One with eyes like blazing fire. 

His voice is like the rushing waters.  He holds the stars in His hand and His face is

like the sun shining in all its brilliance. (Revelation 1:14-16)



“I am the Living One; I was dead and behold I am alive for ever and ever.”

 (Rev. 1:18)



He breathes life into spaces that were dead.  One day He will loose justice on this

earth and everything that was wrong and evil will be made right.  He will wipe

every tear from our eyes and take back His kingdom.  “The kingdom of this world

has become the kingdom of our Lord and of the Christ, and He will reign for ever

and ever.” (Revelation 11:15)



He will ride with the armies of heaven on white horses and avenge the atrocities

that brought us to the cross. (Revelation 19:14)



There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain; everything will be

made new. (Rev. 21:4-5)



One day every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the

sea, and all that is in them, will sing:



“To Him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb be praise and honor and glory

and power, for ever and ever!” (Rev. 5:13)



This world is drenched in pain, sometimes drenched in death.  But when I look

beyond the cross and see the Jesus that beat death to take back what was His…



This, THIS  is Easter.



The call to leave our flesh, with everything it chases and desires, at the foot of the

cross and walk to the other side, letting eternity get under our skin and Jesus

renew our minds so we are actively looking for ways to bring His kingdom here,

now.  Looking for people to bring to the foot of the cross so they can see His love

stretched out and hear Him calling them to real life, real hope.



To let the heartbeat of heaven become our own and discover that our treasures

are not of this world- we can give ourselves over to things that last forever.



To drench ourselves in grace rather than death.



This Easter, let’s learn to walk with the Jesus of Revelation; to stop grieving like

people who have no hope (1 Thess. 4:13) and start living like people chasing an

everlasting Hope.



“Amen.  Come Lord Jesus.



The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God’s people.” (Rev. 22:20b-21)

Dear Forty,

I’m a week away from meeting you face to face.  You have been messing with me for the last six months; maybe this entire past year, and I’m ready to finally just face you and be done with it. Get it over with.

  

What IS this power you hold, this voice in my head, reminding me of all the things I have NOT accomplished.  You are just a number!  Not even a huge one!  But you won’t shut up, shaming me for what I’m not or what I haven’t done.

No, I haven’t been to Paris, roaming the streets with a journal, “finding myself” like Audrey Hepburn in “Sabrina”.  It’s probably a little late for that; if I haven’t found myself by now, I may be destined to be lost forever.

I haven’t written a book; I don’t even blog regularly.

Sigh. 

I haven’t eaten gelato in Italy, or hiked in the Alps, or sang like Maria in Austria.  I haven’t backpacked across Europe.   I’m not Mother Theresa or Princess Diana or even a realistic combination of them both.

      You tell me I have done nothing of importance or notice. 

     
      And I believe you.


          For SO LONG, I have believed you.  Tossing and turning at night, feeling like I somehow missed my purpose; my calling.  Feeling like I missed my window.  Like youth and beauty and hope were only for people under forty, although I have many friends who have passed forty and defy that lie.  Believing that if I haven’t done it by now, I will never do it.


      But today, a week away from meeting you, I’m putting on my fight face and we are going to face the truth. 


Here are some things I HAVE done:

         
      I have kayaked next to a seal in the Puget Sound and down rivers in Hawaii.

      I have flown over the island of Kaui in a helicopter.  It was like riding in a bubble and I laughed like a fool the entire time.  It was awesome.

          
      I have gone swimming under a waterfall and had fish tickle my arms while snorkeling.

           
      I have danced in an orchard, in the headlights of a car, on the dancefloor with Pluto, on a beach and in my living room.

         
      I have sung jazz in a bar with a live band and sang back up, briefly, with James Taylor.  My voice has blended with voices far superior to mine in glorious harmony and I have led people in worship to the very throne of God.  I can't believe that privilege was mine for a while.

          
      I voiced commercials.  Just a couple, but it was so fun!

     
     I guest-blogged!  While my own blog is sporadic, to say the least, I guest blogged and wrote a small piece for a newsletter.  Dare we call that pseudo-published?


          I have hugged Mickey Mouse so many times I’m sure Minnie is more than a little jealous; I got to take my kids to Disney.  Pure magic.  I laughed with my kiddos on the Go-Coaster over and over, had a tea party in Minnie Mouse’s house and told Darth Vadar that he was very tall.


          I have stayed married.  After watching so many friends stop being married, this is worth mentioning.  Seventeen years, and he still makes me laugh.  Seventeen years, and I still believe him when he says he loves me.


          I have two amazing girls.  Bringing them into this world was such a holy moment and raising them is a sacred vocation.  I forget this in the mundane of emptying the dishwasher, cleaning bathrooms and doing laundry (which is never done!!), but this is the season I have surrendered myself to; this is the season I chose.  I never regret it.  Having the space to watercolor, dance, read, hold baby crabs at the beach, build sandcastles and stories and watch them grow, listen to them laugh and watch them love…this I HAVE done.  Yes, it is a challenge not to lose myself in this vocation, but I have found such joy and purpose here.  In their smiles and in their little voices quoting “Jabberwocky” and the Psalms.  Oh, forty.  Nothing tops this.  

Not even Paris.


And this is something I DID always want to do.  Two boxes I wanted to check for as long as I can remember:  be a wife, be a mom.  

I’ve done it. 


          I have taught my kids to read!  And to discover the joy of history and music and books and Shakespeare and ballet.  And Jesus- even more important than reading, I have taught my kids about Jesus and His love for them and the people around them.  We ask questions and pray and laugh at the disciples for their laugh of faith while celebrating that Jesus still loved them and had patience with them, so maybe we can have patience with each other.


          I have owned my own business and did well in my chosen profession while I was in it.  I loved my clients and they loved me.  I loved hearing their stories and learning what they were about.  I loved giving them a space to be heard, cherished and cared for.

I have stayed strong and active.  I love yoga and Zumba and dancing. I do this with no medicine. After being diagnosed with fibromyalgia at nineteen, this belongs on my list of accomplishments.                                                                                   

                                                                                                                                                     In your face, forty.

I have moved.  And moved.  And moved, again.  This one, well, this one hurts.  It’s a tender place.  This one is hard.  Something I didn’t want to be part of my story, like my parent’s divorce or post-partum depression. But it IS part of my story and I have done it.  Leaving friends and homes and dreams and plans behind.  I have met new people and discovered new places that feed my soul like Manito in Spokane, the beach here at home, my in-laws house in Yakima, and the Shakespeare Festival in Boise.  I have immersed myself in new libraries, new parks, new worship teams and new seasons.  This last move, I just didn’t quite have the energy for so much “new-ness”.  But God has been gracious. Always.  I have a family member here that I love like a sister.  An old high school friend and his family to share holiday meals with.  Neighbors that I love; neighbors with so many kids that I feel like our cul-de-sac is something from a book!  New friends from the Y, of all places! God surprising me with His love in unexpected places.  I’m so grateful.

I have seen God provide for a lot of my wants and all my needs.  I have been on the receiving end of both the best and the worstof the church community.  I have watched Him say yes to so many prayers…and no to others.  I have learned what raw trust and faith look like.  I have questioned God and been angry at God; I have yelled at Him and sung songs of love to Him; I have believed Him and doubted Him, sometimes in the same day.  I have learned that the more I come to know Him, the more there is to know.  I have loved well and loved poorly.  I have asked for so much forgiveness from the people I love.

    

I know there is more to come.  More life to live, more songs to sing and words to write and people to love.  More tears to cry, more moments of failure and more heartbreak.  More hope.                                                                                                   

I’m not even halfway done, unless something unexpected happens.  Which is always a possibility.  Not to be morbid, but each day is a gift (even the hard ones) and I don’t know when this gift will stop arriving.  This is living, though.  To keep opening the gift with expectancy and gratefulness.  To feel and hurt and love.  To stay open to it, all of it.  To embrace the joy and the pain; the laughter and the tears; the happy and the hard.  To hope and believe that my story has meaning.

  

Forty, do you see?  I HAVE done things.  Some not so important and some very important.

I haven’t done ALL the things, but that’s ok.  In the words of “Out of the Grey”: “So, we haven’t been to Paris and found the café of our dreams, but our table holds a whole world of memories.  We may never get to Venice and stroll the streets of Rome, but we built our worlds together and we got the best of both.”

And, I’m not done.

No.

Not yet.                                                                                                                                                                    I will see YOU in a week.