Dance

Sierra, showing off some dance moves....

...praise his name with dancing

and make music to him with timbrel and harp.

For the Lord takes delight in his people;

Psalm 149:3-4 (NIV)

Maybe it's part of being a mom. I'm just not as interested in my own affairs, as I am in figuring out and enjoying my daughter. Or my husband. Or my dogs. Or just about anyone else who wanders into the orbits of our family solar system... yes, it's Five-Minute Friday and whatever comes into my brain is getting typed and sent out. Eeek!

It's true, though. I honestly am finding other people to be oh-so-fascinating. Maybe it's not motherhood, just a level of maturity... Yes, I can discuss an endless list of 'doings' and 'activities' - but they only touch the surface of this dance we call life.

Dance - it's the word of the day. It makes me smile. Images of my daughter, faithfully executing dance moves in front of the Wii - controller in hand, or tucked inside her zumba belt, riding out the dance on her hips. "It's my favorite", she laughs, as she follows song after song.

They are all her favorite. I've said it before - she's an equal-opportunity-type girl and this is a lesson she's taught me. It's not necessary to prioritize. How freeing is that? When everything brings joy?

I remember thinking of love as an unquantifiable. If you love, you love completely. You can't give just a little bit of love. It's an all or nothing kind of thing. Untouchable. Abstract.

Until you see it in action.

"Remain in my love." 

"I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete."

"My peace I give you."

What wonderful gifts!

What a life we live!

David danced his joy in front of God and his people. He danced out of sheer exuberance and into praise. I don't know how coordinated he actually was - my husband is also a warrior who doesn't necessarily 'dance' - my inclination is that David, dancing with all his might, probably looked a little awkward - at least in Michal's eyes. Michal who judged, right?

"Make a joyful noise to the Lord!" I was given the gift of grace when trying to keep up with a first reading of new music in the middle of a choir of music majors. Ergh! Notes, rhythm, words. How in the world did they get all three on the first go-round? The book says 'make a joyful noise - it doesn't say you have to sing it perfectly' - Grace. From the gentleman sitting next to me.

The point? I believe we were made to celebrate. To celebrate God, to celebrate life, to celebrate each other. We have options. We can stand on the sidelines and judge, or we can participate.

Wholeheartedly. Whole body - whole voice - with complete love, complete joy, and complete peace.

Everything can be our favorite.

You are Here

It's Five-Minute Friday, where I join a community of writers on a one-word prompt. Five minutes. Just five minutes to write, and in that writing, to incorporate the one word. No editing, no rewriting, no going back. The prompt this week is: here.

You are here
Like at the mall
And I'm looking at the shop directory
The map with the yellow star
Just past the Food Court
Fragrance of Cinnabuns
Like fine perfume
I have to find the restroom

You are here
I watch the blue dot
On my phone
Move along a black thread
Untangled from back roads
Hay bundles litter the fields
Furred checkers
On a titan gameboard
Fresh breath of clean

You are here
The U-haul orange
Almost hits the eaves
Ramp clanks
Dolley-wheels squeak
Garage door rumbles open
Empty house
Soon-to-be filled
Smells like emptiness

You are here
My finger points to the number
Chapter and verse
My daughter's bible
On her lap in church
Next to the journal
Where she copies holy words
Of grace and love
I inhale her innocence and
Exhale prayers for her safety

You are here.
On this journey
In this place
Wrapped in His arms
Peace to you

You are here.

Ah...Sunday

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Romans 15:13 (NIV)

Ah...Sunday

Breath of rest

Breath of peace

Early coffee morning

With my girl and my man

Dog warms my feet

Rain

Chapel service

Lights turned low

Voices raised

Faces raised

Joyful tears

This and that

need doing

eventually

they will be done

Without measure

Without limits

Without stress

Moments 

Ah...Sunday

Breath of rest

Breath of peace

Thank you, God,

For Sundays

Joining with Sunday Stillness, and Hear It On Sunday

To Another Village

And it came to pass, when the time was come that he should be received up, 

he steadfastly set his face to go to Jerusalem, and sent messengers before his face: 

and they went, and entered into a village of the Samaritans, to make ready for him.  

And they did not receive him, because his face was as though he would go to Jerusalem.   

And when his disciples James and John saw this, they said,  

"Lord, wilt thou that we command fire to come down from heaven, and consume them, 

even as Elias did?"   

But he turned, and rebuked them, and said, 

"Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of.   

For the Son of man is not come to destroy men's lives, but to save them."   

And they went to another village.

Luke 9: 51-56

His mind was full and his heart felt like water in his chest, sloshing heavily as he trudged through the packed dirt and rocks on the road to Jerusalem.  He alone knew what was to come.  His robe was stained from travel, sweat and dust patterned like the brushwork of tides sweeping the floating things from the sea into great arcs along the shoreline of homespun wool.  Sandals, dusty and threadbare, embraced his feet, protection from the heat of the road, from sole-cutting sharp edges, from heel-bruising stones.

His disciples were with him.  As were followers, sometimes tens, sometimes hundreds, softening the silence with talk, and singing.  

It was a penurious group.  Always needing something.  A word.  A smile.  A touch.  Surrounding him.  Brushing against him.  Wanting him - doubters and believers.  To notice.  To affirm.  To talk to them.  To give them hope.  To describe a better life, to promise a better time, to lead them.  To love them.  And he did love.  He loved them all - beggars, widows, thieves, soldiers - all.  Even the priests.  Even the children.  Especially the children.

But today his mind and heart were full of sadness - inexpressible, undeniable sadness.  His face was set for Jerusalem.  And what was to come.  What had to come.  He felt lonely in the knowledge.

Abba, he prayed silently, help me to bear this burden of knowing.  Strengthen me to it.  You are my fortress, my shield.  You are.

Jerusalem.  Not the mountain at Gerizim, near Sychar of the Samaritans, whose village he approached.  Jerusalem. The city his ancestor David had claimed - city of the great Temple of Solomon, sacked, destroyed, and built again - city of towers and walls.  City of priests.  City of Romans.  City of crosses. Where soon he would draw his last mortal breath.

But first, first he needed lodging.  Tomorrow would come in its own time.  In this moment, he needed to rest.

Eyes sifting the crowd, he chose two messengers.  "Go," his chin pointed down the road.  "Seek accommodation there."  The Samaritan village was small, stone walls highlighted in the late afternoon sun, the rays filtered down from the sky in a golden halo.  Yahweh was pointing the way.  Again.

The man thirsted for the freshness of well water untainted by travel-worn wineskins and dust.  He thirsted for renewal, like the country-scape surrounding him.  What had been dry and lifeless now burst with new growth - saturating the land in a tapestry of bright green and threads of surprising color.  Mood lifting, he raised his eyes to the light.  See!  The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.  Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come.  Yes, it was the season of singing.  Thank you, Father.  Thank you for reminding me.  Thank you for joy. 

"Master."

The voice interrupted.

"Master."

Jesus studied the returned messengers.  He already knew what they would say.  He read their disappointment.  Between the lines, in the clenching of fists and the tightness of neck, he also saw their anger.  It was a long road, this mission.  And he wasn't done yet.  

They spit the words out, "They will not accept us.  They do not want anything to do with the Festival in Jerusalem - nor with those who travel there.  They will not accept us."

Anger spread through the watchers.  "Rain fire on them!"  He recognized the voices, James and John, his Sons of Thunder.  He held the twitch of his smile sternly under control - no, definitely not done teaching yet.

He understood weariness.  He felt the rage, barely contained, swaddled in tired like a hungry babe.  He felt the mood of the crowd overwhelmed like beating back flames with a ladle - too easily engulfed in heat, by fire licking at wounds of pride - turned away by Samaritans!  At wounds of want - rest and refreshment.  Fire feeding wounds of oppression.  Wounds laid open on this road to Jerusalem.

Again, voices from the crowd - "You have the power - Do as Elijah did - consume them with fires from heaven!"

 He understood.  He felt.  He knew.  Eyes reflecting golden light, he stood, slowly straightening.  Wistfully, he turned from the walls of the village, and once again fixed his gaze on the road to Jerusalem.

"No."  The calm thunder of his voice washed over the flames of emotion.  "We will not rain smoke and thunder from the sky to destroy"  He answered the questions, the uncertainty, the righteousness and judgement in their faces.  His voice, the voice they loved, became softer, echoing from a deep place inside.  "I am not here to destroy, but to bring peace."

And they went to another village.



Such a short story in scripture.  It is one paragraph, and only mentioned in Luke.  I can't help but imagine what Jesus was feeling - what his followers were feeling - and how much farther they each had to journey.  Both literally and figuratively.  At this point, Jesus had been transfigured on the mountain.  His disciples were pretty sure of who he was, and he had already attracted great crowds to his teaching.  He had also predicted his death twice to those closest to him, but the reality of these predictions escaped them.

It amazes me - the patience that Jesus demonstrates.  The love.  Even when he knew what was to come. even when every fiber of his being was crying for the rest and respite the village could offer.  Even when he and his followers were turned away.   The Sons of Thunder, James and John, demanded punishment for the Samaritan village; Jesus reminded them, rebuked them - retribution was not the way to peace.

How many times have we been at a crossroad, have we seen what we thought was a perfect solution, a perfect ending, a perfect relationship, only to be unexpectedly turned away at the last minute - refused what seemed a sure thing - an earned reward - a deserved rest?  How many times have we wanted to lash out in frustration or anger at this thing that we felt was taken away?  Jesus knew what Jerusalem held for him.  How many times have we allowed ourselves to lose focus, allowed ourselves to be led away from our purpose?  

I am amazed at Jesus - fully human - tired and travel-worn, knowing the difficulty - the impossibility of what he would have to endure - just wanting a little respite from the road.  I am amazed because I believe he understood and felt everything, all the emotions, all the turmoil, all the resentment surrounding him.  I am amazed because I believe he chose this turning point - literally.  He not only talks peace, but in the moment - in all the difficulty he was facing - he showed the way to peace.

They went to another village.

Sometimes, we just have to let go and find the other way.  The way to peace.

Heavenly Father, 

Thank you for giving us the Way, your son, 

who taught and showed, suffered, and died to redeem us to you.  

I want, I yearn for peace - but I realize that there are so many things I have to let go of - 

that we have to let go of in order to live and be in peace.  

Help me, help us all,  to choose the right road.  

Even when the sun seems to shine a little brighter on a different choice - 

help us to follow Jesus. 

Linking with friends at #TellHisStory, ThreeWordWednesday, Imperfect Prose, Unite, Soli Deo Gloria

Peace in the Front

I'm leaving you well and whole.  

That's my parting gift to you.  

Peace.  

I don't leave you the way you're used to being left - feeling abandoned, bereft.  

So don't be upset. 

 Don't be distraught.

John 14:27  (The Message)

I love this picture, this scene. 

I don't know how it came to look this way - like a mirage - but look this way, it does.  

I think it's a God thing.  

Let me tell you why.

It looks like the world to me.

The world of steel and machines.  Of power lines, and construction.  Of pipes.
Do you see it?  The world of man?

And then, in the foreground, in focus, the trees - green and lush, foliage of summer - and the ocean, God's creation on the third day.  God's world.

And I think about being in this world,  

and how distractingly the world pulls on us and tugs at us, insists on our attention.

And how it threatens, sometimes, to overcome.
Has it threatened you?

But God sent his Son to save the world.

And we were chosen out of the world.

And everyone born of God overcomes the world.
And know this.

Jesus gave us his peace.

So I love this picture.

It puts the world, kind of beautiful in its way, into the background.  

And it focuses on God.

God in Heaven, thank you for the promise of your Kingdom.  

Thank you for your Son, the Prince of Peace.  

Thank you for this reminder of where 

my focus should always stay.

Linking with Still Saturday

A Cup of Cold Water

Do you think I came to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you, but division.

Luke 12:51

"Come to the fountain and drink."  

The maiden was young, and he could tell, shapely beneath her robe and veil.  It had been a long, hot, dusty day for him and he was thirsty.  His sandals were wearing blisters on his feet; it was time to stop and rest.  It had been a long, hot, dusty day.

He watched as she leaned over the low wall, holding back her veil with one hand as she used the other to dip the long handle of the drinking ladle into the water - the clear, cool, soon-to-be refreshing water.  Precious water.  Precious youth.  Precious woman.  Cracks on his lips, the grit of the road on his face, he was tired.  Tired of this journey.  Tired of travel.  Tired of all of the nots he had grown used to.  Not sleeping in his own bed.  Not eating regular meals.  The people who were not understanding his message.  

He shook his head slowly, as much to stretch and work his neck and shoulders as to shake out his thinking.  

She held the ladle toward him, eyes downcast.  "Drink", she said, simply.  And he did.  And it was all he thought it would be.  His head tilted back and back until the cup was empty.  He could feel the change immediately, new strength, resilience even, flowed into him.  Renewal.  Yes.  It was just what he had needed.  Gazing at his men - his followers - he saw that they, too, had been renewed by the rest, by the refreshment, renewed by the view.

They were scattered around the fountain, sitting and standing in clusters, like heads of grain - some here, some there - full and ripe and waiting for the threshing floor.  And he knew what they didn't.  The threshing floor was close before them.  A time of separation.  A time of division, of conflict.  A time of winnowing, cleansing.  He knew the things to come, and they were not easy.  But they were necessary. 

 He was molding soldiers for his Kingdom.  He was preparing the way.  He closed his eyes.  Father, they want it all now, he prayed, they want instant everything: instant riches, instant glory, instant peace.  Show me, help me to make them see how far they need to go, how long and how difficult the road is.  God, like water, flowed through his limbs.  He could feel the power, the resolve.  Standing, he called his disciples to him.  He was about to turn their world upside down. 

"Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth."  

He saw the confusion on their faces, he felt their puzzlement.  The women at the fountain stopped filling their water vessels.  Even the breeze had silenced, as if the world stood still.  

"I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law—a man’s enemies will be the members of his own household.   

Glancing toward heaven, he silently thanked his Father for the words, the words from the ancient scripture, words that everyone knew.   

“Anyone who loves their father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves their son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me."   

Upside down.  On the threshing floor.  Confusion, like a wall, pushed at him from all sides.  But his time was so short, and there was so much to be understood.  He tried to explain again, another way.

"Whoever does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me."

Some of his followers were nodding in assent.  He could sense the wall coming down.

"Whoever finds their life will lose it..."

More confusion.  Upside down.  This was so difficult - one of the nots.  They were not understanding, not comprehending.  He was losing them.  Some of the women had turned away and were beginning again to ladle water - precious, change-making water into their jars.  The clay jars, vessels of life.  He spoke louder, turning toward the women at the fountain.

"...and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it."

He had found life at the hand of the girl.  Renewal and refreshment.  What were they, after all, but vessels of clay, made to hold that life.  This, the people understood.  This, he could use.

“Anyone who welcomes you welcomes me, and anyone who welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me."  He pointed toward heaven, lest there be any doubt.  And appealed to the age-old custom of hospitality.

"Whoever welcomes a prophet as a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward, and whoever welcomes a righteous person as a righteous person will receive a righteous person’s reward."  This they understood.  They had grown attentive again.  He walked, purposefully, toward the young maiden who had given him refreshment.  He smiled at her, encouraging her to look at him, eyes at him.

"And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones who is my disciple, truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward.”

Father, sometimes we want peace now, everything now.  Sometimes we over-simplify.  

Thank you for showing us that conflict and division can grow us in you.  

That understanding sometimes comes from faith.

  

Linked with Monday's Musings

Hear It On Sunday

His Peace

Do not be anxious about anything, 

but in every situation, by prayer and petition, 

with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. 

And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, 

will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Phillipians 4:6-7

How gracious is our God!  It is good to be reminded on this beautiful Saturday - one week ended, one week about to begin.  The school year about to start.  New opportunities on the horizon.

How he loves us!  How he shows us - always - in the big and the small, the loud and the soft.

He lives in every atom, every molecule, every seed, leaf, branch, and flower, every insect, every star, every grain of sand.  He lives in every one of us - we are His children.  His precious children.

And he gives us peace.

Thank you, God, for taking my worries and anxieties and transforming them to eagerness and anticipation.  Opportunity and discovery - discovery of Your plan in my life.  Thank you for peace.

Linking with StillSaturday

Never Alone

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. 

Isaiah 55:12

Alone in the darkness, in her room with the curtains drawn tightly against the glare of the streetlight shining like the moon on a pole outside her window.  It seemed like ages since she'd felt peace - since she'd felt comfort - since she'd been at ease.  Worry weighed on her chest - tight like an overblown balloon - like something caught in her throat - choking, squeezing, pushing.  Alone.  She was alone.

She closed her eyes again, tears seeping at the edges; her lashes were soaked and she could feel the moisture of them resting, hovering on her cheekbones.  In the blackness.  Crying silently - there was no one to hear, no reason to draw attention to her emptiness.  Deep sadness squatted like a toad - a bloated, lumpy, misshapen toad - filling the void.  

Another night of sleeplessness.  Another night thinking, cycling, wishing.  

She knew it would pass - this feeling of dread, of despair.  She knew she would get up, come morning, and go through the motions of the day.  She knew she would smile, and speak, and eat, and drive - she would do and be all those things that looked normal and healthy.  All those things that would bring the day around again.  To night.  When she was alone again.  Another night of sleeplessness.

Divorced years ago - her now-husband, a good man, was gone.  Not gone from her life, just gone from her place.  Sent across the country  - working hard to create a new life in a new location for his family.  Just a little longer and she would join him.  With her daughter.  Hopefully.  

But first, first she had to sever the hold of her daughter's father.  Oh, that she had never met him - the man from her first marriage - the wrong marriage - the wrong man.  Crazy, violent, mocking, unholy.  Like a flesh-eating disease, only this disease had eaten at her confidence, at her self-esteem, at her soul.  He had threatened her life.  I will kill my wife and take my daughter.  At the courthouse - in front of witnesses.  His wife...she hadn't been his wife for over five years... The police had come to the door, to see that she was safe.  She thought of his guns, his background, his paranoia.  His sickness.  And now he was stalking them.  She had seen his car passing by the house - their house - on the street where he had no business but to check on them.  He had given copious notes to his lawyer, disclosed in court, that documented lights on and off in her household - when she was home, when she wasn't - who was there... He had sent a packet of lies and innuendo to the district where she taught - accusing her of abusing her daughter - demanding that she be released from employment.  It was bad.  

He was, truly, mentally ill.  And without him, she wouldn't have her daughter.  Her beautiful inside-and-out, special daughter.  She couldn't wish him away.  So she prayed.  Every night.  For her own safety.  For her daughter's safety.  Her daughter who still had to spend time with him.  Who came back from her visits talking about Daddy's words, and Daddy yell, and Daddy slam the phone.  She prayed for strength to face the days, and she prayed for peace to face the nights.  Soon, she thought, soon they would be away - where he couldn't reach them, where her daughter wasn't exposed, every week, to this subtractive man, to his take-away life.  And she prayed for him.  She prayed that God would place someone in his life who would expose him to Jesus - to the life-changing joy, grace, and forgiveness that was Jesus.  

Another night.  She had just spoken with her husband - across the country.  He was excited about the upcoming move.  It was always worse, that sense of loss, after shared conversation... She looked forward to seeing her daughter again the next day - home from her required visit to her father.  Father, she prayed, I know you're there.  I want to feel you, tonight.  Hold me in your hand.  Help me.  Tell me I'm doing right.... Her thoughts drifted off - she was out of energy and that toad was squatting in the emptiness.

I am well pleased...

Her eyes opened.  The voice...

I am well pleased...

"God?"  She spoke aloud in the blackened room.

I will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.

She smiled.  Then her laughter filled the room.  The dark room - not a place of sadness.  Not a place of worry.  She imagined a hand, the palm of a hand, closed lovingly over a treasured object.  God's hand.  God's palm.  Protecting.  Loving.  Not alone.  Never alone.  She knew; she had known.  She was being reminded.  

Years and years ago, the Israelites were held captive.  The prophet Isaiah told of their release from that captivity - how they would be led in peace, and joy.  So much joy that all the earth would rejoice with them.  In the same passage - God's people are told about the Savior, Jesus, who would lead them from darkness into light - and the whole world would rejoice.  

As real today as it was when spoken by Isaiah years ago - we just experience our captivity in different ways...

God, thank you for reminding me of your constant presence - when I had been held captive by my own issues, my fears, my worries.  Thank you for your constant presence, Emmanuel, God With Us.    Thank you for your Son -  your peace and your joy.

Peace in the Valley

Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.

Revelation 3:20

I held his hand in the twilit room - his parchment-colored, papery-soft hand with the perfectly trimmed nails.  He was sleeping.  Gravity tugged peacefully at the age-folds of his skin, pulling them downward, toward the bed, to pool at the place his head and pillow met.  He was sleeping.  His hand was cool to my touch - my recently hurrying, catch-the-airplane-drive-in-from-the-airport touch.  Calm.  His chest rose and fell in time with the machinery in the room, the quiet room, soft whirrs and muted beeps melting on the edge of hearing.  The edge of consciousness.  He was sleeping.

Our family had gathered in this place to see him, my Uncle Norman, to tell him how much he meant to us, to let him know how much we loved him.  Before he slept forever.  He was old.  He was tired.  He was ready.  We had been called, arriving before it was too late.  Urgency in the travel.  Come.  Urgency in the visit.  We heard the knocking - the knocking at Uncle Norman's door.  Come.  Stay for awhile.  Come.

Well, I'm tired and weary but I must toil on
Till the Lord comes and calls me calls me away, oh Lord!

He was sleeping.  I held his hand.  I thought of years past.  Years of vacations to Indiana - to my parents' home - their roots.  Our roots.  Uncle Norman loved to fish.  He had a smile a mile wide.  He laughed from deep inside his soul, and it made his belly shake.  He taught us how to waterski - my sisters and me - first up with two skis, later with one.  Flying across the lake - like waterbugs - he said.  We were hardly big enough to keep the skis on the water when we started - skittering like waterbugs.

Where the morning is bright and the Lamb is the light
And the night, the night is as fair as the day.

I had started to sing, quietly - one of my favorite hymns.  Holding his hand in that quiet room.  We were a family of songs.  Soon, the room was full of music - melody and harmony blending with the whirrs and beeps - whisper-soft and beautiful.

There will be peace in the valley for me some day.
There will be peace in the valley for me, oh Lord I pray.

He opened his eyes, lids barely moving.  There were tears, tears of yearning.  His lips moved with the words.  We were always a singing family.

 No more sadness, no sorrow, oh Lordy no troubles I see.
There will be peace, peace in the valley for me.

He squeezed my hand, gently, weakly.  I felt his weariness.  I felt him tired.  He used to call me Jannie - even when I'd had a child of my own.  Jannie.  He put my little sister on his lap in the car and had her steer - on the country road, the lane to his house, the house he'd built with his hands.  They giggled that car right into the ditch.  And then laughed it out again.

The bear will be gentle, and the wolf will be tame,
And the lion will lay down with the lamb, oh yeah!

Years before, he had volunteered to serve his country.  When his country called.  He joined the Navy and left home and family to go to war.  I could see the ghostlines of the old tattoo on his arm.  His still arm resting across his chest, barely moving with his every breath.  I held his hand and his lips moved with the singing.

The beasts of the wild will be led by a Child
And I'll be changed, changed from this creature I am.

He was the oldest of seven.  Farm-raised, farm-strong.  Once upon his childhood, he'd had an older brother, too.  But his brother had passed - from a long-ago disease that in today's world would have been a mere inconvenience.  A disease that, in the old days, meant death for a ten-year-old boy.

There will be peace in the valley for me some day.
There will be peace in the valley for me, oh Lord I pray.

He took us to Coney Island - amusement park in the big city.  He took home-movies - my big sister and I wore matching outfits.  Jungle shorts with alligator shirts.  Matching outfits in different colors.  The movies - full of laughter - like my Uncle.  He enjoyed.  Everything.

No more sadness, no sorrow, oh Lordy no troubles I see.
There will be peace, peace in the valley for me.

I held his hand - the hand I remembered when we played cards.  We played Rook, and Hearts, and Euchre.  Whenever the family gathered - the Aunts and Uncles - in-laws and out-laws.  Cousins.  Gathered around the kitchen table - some in, some out.  We learned by sitting on stools behind the grown-ups - the city cousins behind the country.  Watching.  My grandmother thought my uncles were really drinking iced tea - Uncle Norman loved his beer...

And now he was here.  In this home.  Tired.  Weary.  Medication keeping his pain at bay.  It was almost Christmas and his family had gathered.  We were afraid to leave, afraid we'd miss something.  His last moments, his last thoughts.  He squeezed my hand.  It's ok.  You came.  Be a family.  Celebrate.  I could see the hint of a smile - a shadow of the laughter I'd known, the joy I'd remembered.  He was there, my Uncle Norman, shackled to a body grown too old to function.  He was there, ready to answer the door, the door to the Valley of Peace.  He was ready to go home.

We got the phone call on Christmas day.  Uncle Norman passed, peacefully in his sleep.

Today I need to remember my Uncle.  Brother, father, uncle, son, veteran.  Child of God.  Called home on Christmas day - a gift - peace in the valley.

There the flow'rs will be blooming, the grass will be green
And the skies will be clear and serene
The sun ever shines, giving one endless beam
And the clouds there will ever be seen

Peace

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

John 14:27

Imagine her, at the breakfast table, in the morning - "I'm a big girl, Mom, let me try your coffee," or "I'm old enough to go to So-and-So's boy/girl party this weekend," or even "I want to wear the pink shirt, today; we're all wearing pink."  Asserting her independence.  Proclaiming her impending teen-hood followed by adulthood.  The girl at the table, eating her breakfast, drinking her juice, petting the dog that comes up for a scrap of bacon.  

Imagine the getting ready.  Getting ready for work, getting ready to take the bus, making lunches, packing homework into a bookbag.  Last minute messages - "Remember, I'm going to be a little late from work tonight, Honey, you can make yourself a snack, to hold you until dinner."

"Ok, Mom."

Love, like the deep roots of trees, opens its leaves in the every day conversation.  Every day miracles - leaves - budding and growing on every day trees.  Love.  Taking care.  Daily care and schedules.  Making breakfast.  Packing lunch.  Coming and going in the home.

And then the world is turned upside down.  Destroyed.  Annihilated.  Reduced to unrecognizable rubble.  Trees stripped of their leaves - families stripped of their homes.  Those miracles of growth and life taken in an instant of incredible, unbelievable wind.  God in the wind.  God in the trees.  God in the home.  Sovereign God.  Almighty God.  Terrible God.

I do not give as the world gives. 

The stories are coming out of Oklahoma.  Devastation and loss written hand in hand with rescue and heroism.   The pictures are coming out of Moore, Oklahoma.  Homes like matchsticks scattered on ground scoured by wind and storm.  Metal siding twisted onto trees like apocalyptic sculpture.  Snapshots of destruction.  Snapshots of hope.  A mother whose face can't hold all of the care and worry and love she feels for this child - carrying her daughter, her too-big-to-be-carried daughter - the girl at the breakfast table - the girl in the pink shirt - across a landscape of debris - homes in the faded background - honor guard of the American Dream.

How does one quantify the loss?   Great columns of debits and credits written in red and black.  How does one quantify the love?  Poured out by strangers - parents - teachers - first responders - soldiers... How does one answer the whys.  My daughter watches the news and looks to me in horror - why?  What did they do?  Those people in Oklahoma?  Why them?  Why there?  Then she looks outside at the grey sky and the drizzle of rain - and I can read her mind.  What about here?  Will it, could it happen here?

And I do the best I can.  To explain to her.  To tell her what to do.  To get her phone - to get her helmet - the one she uses when my husband takes her for a ride on his bike - to go to the little bathroom - to close the door and call me.  To call my husband.  We will come home.  And I remind her of the time when we went to a closet and sat, waiting out a warning - she had the helmet, I had a comforter pulled over the two of us.  Sitting in the closet, giggling and laughing like school girls, because it was the best we could do.  Love, like leaves, in our conversation.  Until the sirens stopped.

I do not give as the world gives.

I think, sometimes, that if I could choose - life would be easy.  Full of easy things - clear answers pointing the way to right decisions.  No stress.  No worry.  The news would be full of happy stories - stories of joy and laughter, healing and help.  But then I think about the hard times, difficult choices, even unexplainable tragedy and loss.  And I am pulled, kicking and screaming, to the realization that there really is no easy.  Our God - the creator of the universe - our Father in Heaven - is a sovereign God.  There is no explaining.  There is no justifying.  He IS justice.  He IS explanation.  He is beyond our comprehension.

Jesus tried to teach us.  He tried to help us understand.  He tried to bridge our emotions to the circumstances of the world.  Peace - Shalom.  A greeting and a farewell.  A blessing - be at peace, be of good health, let your soul rest.  From Jesus it becomes more than a greeting, and definitely more than a farewell.  He knew the circumstances of his impending sacrifice and death.  He knew the pain he would bear and the sorrow he would leave.  He also knew how to comfort.  His peace - that blessing he gave - that He continues to give - was a  gift of pure love.  His peace.  In the midst of his circumstance, knowing as he knew what was to come, he was at peace - he was a tranquil lake in a hidden place.  He was gentle rain on thirsty ground.  He was the morning dove in the hushed light of dawn.  He was the rising star on a quiet evening.  And he gave that gift - that peace, that sense of balance, that ability to hold off fear - he gave it to his disciples.  And he gave it to us.

I will never understand the tragedies of this world - caused by man or by nature.  I will never understand the whys of them, or the why nots.  I am a child.  I learn.  I grow.  Hopefully, I mature.  Jesus gave us his peace.  I choose to accept it.  Today I will hug my daughter tightly, and I will tell her how much I love her.  Today, I will kiss my husband to work.  Today I will love on my kids at school - precious children to their parents and families. Today, I see hope in the images from Oklahoma.  I will not let my heart be troubled or afraid.  Today I choose joy.

Abba, Father, God - you are.  You have always been.  You will always be.  Thank you for your Son.  Thank you for your peace through Him.  Thank you for hope and joy -