Emily Cook's Blog, page 32
August 7, 2013
Wordy Poetry about the Word
My God, my God, thou art a direct God, may I not say a literal God, a God that wouldst be understood literally and according to the plain sense of all thou sayest, but thou art also (Lord, I intend it to thy glory, and let no profane misinterpreter abuse it to thy dimunition), thou art a figurative, a metaphorical God too, a God in whose words there is such a height of figures, such voyages, such peregrinations to fetch remote and precious metaphors, such extensions, such spreadings, such curtains of allegories, such third heavens of hyperboles, so harmonious elocutions, so retired and so reserved expressions, so commanding persuasions, so persuading commandments, such sinews even in thy milk, and such things in thy words, as all profane authors seem of the seed of the serpent that creeps, thou art the Dove that flies.
(Donne, Devotions 1624, as quoted in Fish, How to Write a Sentence p 142)
August 5, 2013
Just a little more time...
Oh Father, these children! Did I let them into my heart only to have them taken out again? Each year brings more letting-go. Kindergarten took three days a week. Then first grade took all of our weekdays. Then activities, friends, and camp take more and more. If this is hard for me now, what of then? What of the day when we live in different states, and get together, maybe, on holidays?
first day of kindergartenDo you feel it mothers? Do you feel the urgency? Do you know how fleeting these moments are? And yet, even we try to pry our hands and our eyes open so that we can receive and hold as many as we can, we know the task is impossible.Can we fill up with moments like we can food? Can we be filled, satisfied, stuffed to the point of sickness? My belly is full of moments, but I am not ready to get up from the table. I am not ready to sell the crib.
Even if we refused to blink, if we pried our eyes open and took every moment into our hearts, they would still grow. And they would stretch out their arms, and they would move away. My greedy hands want to keep them, if not forever, at least for now. I do not want them to go to summer camp. I do not want to share them with grandma, with teachers, with spouses.
But, sister in Christ, these feelings are of the old nature. Our grasping, worrying, pining- these things expose the sin tangled in our mother-love. These things are not born of trust in God. We are not seeking the good of our children when we keep them prisoners in our greedy hands, when we demand that they satisfy our needs with their presence. May God forgive us making them our gods, and for trying to be their gods.
Yet a day is coming, mothers, when even the sin that taints our love for our children will be gone. Christ’s forgiveness burns away the fog in our hearts. The Spirit strengthens our new hearts and teaches them to love with a better love. And we hear the promises of God, given to sinners, given to us.
Truly, truly I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life. John 5:24
Eternal life: think on this with me. Because of God’s grace given to us in Jesus, we have eternal life. Our stories do not start at birth and end with our physical death. God has changed our story arc. We have been freed from that awful ending. We have been given more time- eternity, even. We do not have to seize the day. We do not need to hoard moments. We can let go of their hands. The separation that we experience now--whether they go to kindergarten, grandma’s, college, or the grave-- it will seem like a mere moment, like nothing, when eternity is spread before us; when the fog has been burned away and we see all things by the light of Christ.
Father,Forgive me for the sin that stains my mother-love. Forgive me for trying to satisfy myself in my children, and for trying to be that which satisfies them. Open my hands, that I may receive the good moments as blessings from you, and keep them open, that I may be ready and willing to share these children with the world. Lift my eyes to You, and fasten my heart to Your promises. Teach me to look forward to that day when Your Word is fufilled in my sight. Sustain me until then, Lord, for I am weak.In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.
1 peter 1:3-9
August 2, 2013
A stiff drink
We're not the only ones who forget God, who get swept up in the world, who lose our bearings and have to be resuced like lost sheep. We're not the only ones who receive God's gifts wtih greedy hands and make ourselves sick on them.
Do you ever laugh with delight when you discover sinners in the Bible are so much like you?
[Noah is] told by God to be “fruitful and multiply” [Genesis 9:1,7] which, Noah translates to mean, “Get blind, staggering drunk.” Noah is an outstanding example of where the pursuit of daily bread leads sinners. It pits man against God. Man against himself. Man against his own family.
Indeed, this daily bread distracts and devours us. And yet God seeks and finds us, feeds and cleans us. For “you were like sheep going astray,” but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls. (1 Peter 2:25)
And this Shepherd feeds us with wild grace, good wine, and rich food. Read, sinner, read and relate; read and rejoice in God's extravagant grace towards us.
Blind, Staggering Drunk on Good Wine
Covered.
Do you ever laugh with delight when you discover sinners in the Bible are so much like you?
[Noah is] told by God to be “fruitful and multiply” [Genesis 9:1,7] which, Noah translates to mean, “Get blind, staggering drunk.” Noah is an outstanding example of where the pursuit of daily bread leads sinners. It pits man against God. Man against himself. Man against his own family.
Indeed, this daily bread distracts and devours us. And yet God seeks and finds us, feeds and cleans us. For “you were like sheep going astray,” but now you have returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls. (1 Peter 2:25)
And this Shepherd feeds us with wild grace, good wine, and rich food. Read, sinner, read and relate; read and rejoice in God's extravagant grace towards us.
Blind, Staggering Drunk on Good Wine
Covered.
July 31, 2013
Green Magyk
Do you understand photosynthesis? Espeically the whole making-trees-and-leaves-and-fruit-out-of-thin-air part? Go blow on that bush. You can't see it, but the bush will turn your breath into raspberry juice. We could improve on the name. Photosynthesis. I've suggested Green Magyk, but no one listens to me.
(Notes from the Tilt-a-whirl, ND Wilson)
Or tomato juice.
Or pizza. My children like to imagine that this is how God grows pizza for us.
The smell of tomato plants reminds me of home-- the old one where I caught earthworms for fun while mom planted flowerse and dad grew tomatoes and rhubarb.
Have you noticed, lately, the miracles that God is doing in your own garden?Or do you reap the benefits of this Magyk through the grocer?
It is no less amazing.
The sun shines, but you cannot simply open your mouth and drink it. You require the help of these- these green machines miracles. They are more impressive than machines.
Broccoli, harvested too late. I feel guilty about that, since it's grown so big.
But there are flowers, and beauty comes even from this vegetable.Grace in my garden.
2 potatoes sprouted in my cupbard by accident.They gave us these:
See the one with eyes?
Green Magyk in God's creation. He blesses our bodies with the fruits and vegetables of the earth. He makes them taste good, and sometimes, for the fun of it, he makes them look funny, too.
Thank you God for the fruits of the earth.
(Notes from the Tilt-a-whirl, ND Wilson)
Or tomato juice.
Or pizza. My children like to imagine that this is how God grows pizza for us.
The smell of tomato plants reminds me of home-- the old one where I caught earthworms for fun while mom planted flowerse and dad grew tomatoes and rhubarb.
Have you noticed, lately, the miracles that God is doing in your own garden?Or do you reap the benefits of this Magyk through the grocer?
It is no less amazing.
The sun shines, but you cannot simply open your mouth and drink it. You require the help of these- these green machines miracles. They are more impressive than machines.
Broccoli, harvested too late. I feel guilty about that, since it's grown so big.
But there are flowers, and beauty comes even from this vegetable.Grace in my garden.
2 potatoes sprouted in my cupbard by accident.They gave us these:
See the one with eyes?
Green Magyk in God's creation. He blesses our bodies with the fruits and vegetables of the earth. He makes them taste good, and sometimes, for the fun of it, he makes them look funny, too.
Thank you God for the fruits of the earth.
July 29, 2013
Haitus (guest post)
Warmest welcome to my sister Amy Orban. Today she writes about writing (and life, of course.)
Haitus by Amy Orban
I haven’t written much lately.You see, I decided to take a writing hiatus this summer. I started school again in the Fall of 2013. Now, by started, I mean tackled ferociously, I mean attacked head-on like a starving drooling lion ripping apart a hearty wildebeest. Adrenaline, excitement, pure joy, and the hunger that only a college student can have pushed me through sleep-deprived days and nights. I devoured the nourishment of theological musing to my heart’s delight. Friends, it was pure joy, like jumping into the shocking and brilliant cold of Lake Michigan. Like perpetually being startled by the intense smell which accompanies the rain in the summer. Like that first kiss, like that first time you saw two lines on the pregnancy test. Like when you were a child spinning in the merry go round at the playground and realized it was going too fast and you were about to fly off and get a face-full of woodchips. Most of the year was like standing under a great waterfall, getting pounded by its weight, just trying to grab and keep as many droplets as I could. By late Spring, I was ready for a nap. A summer-long nap. A hiatus. I couldn’t squeeze anymore creativity out of myself, because I was exhausted. Not just a break from the work, because work is not really work when you are madly in love with it. A break from myself. Dearest writers, do you ever need a break from yourself?When I write, I have to draw out of a deep well. This well is an elusive place inside of me, a place that at once bubbles over with gifts and yet has cost for this writer. Before you judge me as an intellectual martyr, whining over the pathetic woes of being so “deep”….well, that assessment would be somewhat true; but nevertheless, please read on. This well somehow captures and keeps those things that I see, the sadness and beauty and grace, the pictures I capture because I know I have to explore them later. It is the storehouse for all of the times when life is so beautiful that I get goose bumps and have to leave the room to cry and gather myself. It is also the storehouse for my alcoholism, for the distorted perceptions I can have, for the heavy weight of life and depression and the way I would still like to escape the feeling of feelings. These things are all mingled together in the well…it seems I cannot have the beauty without the weight of sadness, nor the grace without the lurking ghost of insanity. The well is the thing in me which holds onto that smile on my little boy’s face, so I can slow down and stare into it later. It is that place inside of me which sprung forth tears this summer when I hugged my sister after our family vacation together, and was, in one hug, flattened by the reality that mom and dad are getting older, that our kids are growing up, that we live in different states and that time is like sand running through our fingers. There is beauty, delight, and profound wonder in this well…..but frankly, I cannot live there perpetually. It is exhausting to live in the place of constant deep feelings, reflection, and examination. Feeling feelings sucks the life out of me, and gives me life at the same time. What I really wanted this summer was just some time to disconnect from myself, from the depth and the seriousness of life. Maybe I just wanted to be shallow for a little while. Is that so bad?I don’t think so.Like children, we have seasons for exploring, for wrestling, for growing and examining. And we have seasons of just being. I am just being right now, but even in the being I am storing up gems for later. Sometimes I am afraid that I will lose them if I leave them in the well for too long, but the truth is that the best ones will stay there forever, waiting for me to travel the writing journey with them. (For example, that farewell hug from my sister was in June, and has been living down in the well, crying out to me like a gift begging to be unwrapped, ever since). I read over what I have written so far, and I know without a doubt I sound like a fruit cup to some, but I also know I speak the heart language of others. I am writing today, only because I told myself that I would not write again until it came from a natural spring rather than from a bone-dry desert as I found myself at the start of summer. The spring is beginning to well up, and slowly I will start to draw from the well again.I am always befuddled when people compliment my writing. I feel like this well in me, this place where it all comes from….it was something that just came with me when I entered the world, just this thing attached to me. I have never been without it. So in this sense, writing is much less something that I do, than it seems to be something that just happens to me. I am nothing more than a cup that someone set out on the back porch, and I am collecting precious droplets of water whenever it rains. My hope is always simply that as I filter the water of words through my own channels, they will come out sweetly refreshing to anyone who reads them. Or perhaps I will just be viewed as a raving lunatic, which, after all, sometimes has more appeal in terms of expectations than being called a brilliant writer.
Haitus by Amy Orban
I haven’t written much lately.You see, I decided to take a writing hiatus this summer. I started school again in the Fall of 2013. Now, by started, I mean tackled ferociously, I mean attacked head-on like a starving drooling lion ripping apart a hearty wildebeest. Adrenaline, excitement, pure joy, and the hunger that only a college student can have pushed me through sleep-deprived days and nights. I devoured the nourishment of theological musing to my heart’s delight. Friends, it was pure joy, like jumping into the shocking and brilliant cold of Lake Michigan. Like perpetually being startled by the intense smell which accompanies the rain in the summer. Like that first kiss, like that first time you saw two lines on the pregnancy test. Like when you were a child spinning in the merry go round at the playground and realized it was going too fast and you were about to fly off and get a face-full of woodchips. Most of the year was like standing under a great waterfall, getting pounded by its weight, just trying to grab and keep as many droplets as I could. By late Spring, I was ready for a nap. A summer-long nap. A hiatus. I couldn’t squeeze anymore creativity out of myself, because I was exhausted. Not just a break from the work, because work is not really work when you are madly in love with it. A break from myself. Dearest writers, do you ever need a break from yourself?When I write, I have to draw out of a deep well. This well is an elusive place inside of me, a place that at once bubbles over with gifts and yet has cost for this writer. Before you judge me as an intellectual martyr, whining over the pathetic woes of being so “deep”….well, that assessment would be somewhat true; but nevertheless, please read on. This well somehow captures and keeps those things that I see, the sadness and beauty and grace, the pictures I capture because I know I have to explore them later. It is the storehouse for all of the times when life is so beautiful that I get goose bumps and have to leave the room to cry and gather myself. It is also the storehouse for my alcoholism, for the distorted perceptions I can have, for the heavy weight of life and depression and the way I would still like to escape the feeling of feelings. These things are all mingled together in the well…it seems I cannot have the beauty without the weight of sadness, nor the grace without the lurking ghost of insanity. The well is the thing in me which holds onto that smile on my little boy’s face, so I can slow down and stare into it later. It is that place inside of me which sprung forth tears this summer when I hugged my sister after our family vacation together, and was, in one hug, flattened by the reality that mom and dad are getting older, that our kids are growing up, that we live in different states and that time is like sand running through our fingers. There is beauty, delight, and profound wonder in this well…..but frankly, I cannot live there perpetually. It is exhausting to live in the place of constant deep feelings, reflection, and examination. Feeling feelings sucks the life out of me, and gives me life at the same time. What I really wanted this summer was just some time to disconnect from myself, from the depth and the seriousness of life. Maybe I just wanted to be shallow for a little while. Is that so bad?I don’t think so.Like children, we have seasons for exploring, for wrestling, for growing and examining. And we have seasons of just being. I am just being right now, but even in the being I am storing up gems for later. Sometimes I am afraid that I will lose them if I leave them in the well for too long, but the truth is that the best ones will stay there forever, waiting for me to travel the writing journey with them. (For example, that farewell hug from my sister was in June, and has been living down in the well, crying out to me like a gift begging to be unwrapped, ever since). I read over what I have written so far, and I know without a doubt I sound like a fruit cup to some, but I also know I speak the heart language of others. I am writing today, only because I told myself that I would not write again until it came from a natural spring rather than from a bone-dry desert as I found myself at the start of summer. The spring is beginning to well up, and slowly I will start to draw from the well again.I am always befuddled when people compliment my writing. I feel like this well in me, this place where it all comes from….it was something that just came with me when I entered the world, just this thing attached to me. I have never been without it. So in this sense, writing is much less something that I do, than it seems to be something that just happens to me. I am nothing more than a cup that someone set out on the back porch, and I am collecting precious droplets of water whenever it rains. My hope is always simply that as I filter the water of words through my own channels, they will come out sweetly refreshing to anyone who reads them. Or perhaps I will just be viewed as a raving lunatic, which, after all, sometimes has more appeal in terms of expectations than being called a brilliant writer.
July 26, 2013
Hard Silence
Just before he left I noticed that unpleasant flutter of my heart- what was that? Fear? Panic? Why would I be nervous to be left alone? Haven’t I been waiting for this all week?
So I busy myself with surface things while I wait for him to leave. I check email, chat on facebook, pick up my socks. I learn about indoor gardening and research strength training, because we all know I’m going to start doing these things soon. Even after he leaves, when I am free to create, I read a light articles about becoming a “beautiful badass.”
Why am I afraid of the silence?
Perhaps I will find only dullness. Perhaps there will be nothing to create, nothing to say. Perhaps I will be (horror of horrors) unproductive, and a failure. Perhaps I will be bored. Perhaps I will be empty. Or challenged. Perhaps I will bleed or cry, alone here in the hotel room.
Silence is unpredictable.
Writing is hard.
I must take it in small pieces: this project, and the silence. I will turn off my phone and disconnect from the internet if only for a half hour.
--------How much noise is in your life?
Do you ever shut it all off?What is it like for you?
So I busy myself with surface things while I wait for him to leave. I check email, chat on facebook, pick up my socks. I learn about indoor gardening and research strength training, because we all know I’m going to start doing these things soon. Even after he leaves, when I am free to create, I read a light articles about becoming a “beautiful badass.”
Why am I afraid of the silence?
Perhaps I will find only dullness. Perhaps there will be nothing to create, nothing to say. Perhaps I will be (horror of horrors) unproductive, and a failure. Perhaps I will be bored. Perhaps I will be empty. Or challenged. Perhaps I will bleed or cry, alone here in the hotel room.
Silence is unpredictable.
Writing is hard.
I must take it in small pieces: this project, and the silence. I will turn off my phone and disconnect from the internet if only for a half hour.
--------How much noise is in your life?
Do you ever shut it all off?What is it like for you?
July 24, 2013
Wheatgrass. Really.
What kind of crazy hippy have I become? The kind that grows her own wheatgrass. Yep, that's me.
How to grow wheatgrass.1. Get wheat.2. Put it in dirt.3. Get it wet.4. Wait.
While you wait, magical things happen inside the pot. Sun, air, water, and wheat mold and meld and mix and the nutrients change and the grass grows. Amazing stuff.
Or, forget about it while you go on vacation. Leave it outside, and come home to something like the picture above.
After vacation, who looks more frazzled, me or my neglected wheatgrass?
Why do I throw wheatgrass in my smoothies? Have you ever tried wheatgrass?What's your favorite green?
How to grow wheatgrass.1. Get wheat.2. Put it in dirt.3. Get it wet.4. Wait.
While you wait, magical things happen inside the pot. Sun, air, water, and wheat mold and meld and mix and the nutrients change and the grass grows. Amazing stuff.
Or, forget about it while you go on vacation. Leave it outside, and come home to something like the picture above.
After vacation, who looks more frazzled, me or my neglected wheatgrass?
Why do I throw wheatgrass in my smoothies? Have you ever tried wheatgrass?What's your favorite green?
July 23, 2013
Life Resting
We walk through the air that smells like life and growth. Boys run ahead. The smallest one stays to hold my hand, but only for a moment. He races ahead on the uneven ground, doing the best he can in his little body, in those little, fat shoes.
"Respect the corn!" I say, catching up with them. Respect the corn, the farmers, the life growing here. They slow down, walk carefully.
The warm air is full of life, but behind the bright corn field, I see the shadow. I see the seeds that have been planted in love and in grief; seeds that have not stirred. Not yet. They need more help than the sun can give.
The earth is warm and fertile, and God gives life and growth. He gives to some and not others. Questions ache, and mix with the beauty. The waiting is hard.
Walk softly, boys. Life is resting here.
Yet the blood pumps in my veins and I breathe deep. Today, life flows in and around me. I am one of the chosen receivers, one sustained by His Word for this moment, this day, this scene on this stage.
My flesh is unstable, weak, dust. And yet I--what grace!-- I am grafted into the ever-living vine. I receive my eternal breath from Jesus, I drink from my God who is stable and strong, stronger than death.
I will die, and when I do--whether it be in my bed as age creeps over me, or struck by lightning, a meteor, or a UPS truck--when my body and soul find their divorce, His hand will be the one that cuts the thread and shows me the path He blazed through tragedy.
(N.D.Wilson, Notes from the Tilt A Whirl)
Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— "Death has been swallowed up in victory." "Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?"
"Respect the corn!" I say, catching up with them. Respect the corn, the farmers, the life growing here. They slow down, walk carefully.
The warm air is full of life, but behind the bright corn field, I see the shadow. I see the seeds that have been planted in love and in grief; seeds that have not stirred. Not yet. They need more help than the sun can give.
The earth is warm and fertile, and God gives life and growth. He gives to some and not others. Questions ache, and mix with the beauty. The waiting is hard.
Walk softly, boys. Life is resting here.
Yet the blood pumps in my veins and I breathe deep. Today, life flows in and around me. I am one of the chosen receivers, one sustained by His Word for this moment, this day, this scene on this stage.
My flesh is unstable, weak, dust. And yet I--what grace!-- I am grafted into the ever-living vine. I receive my eternal breath from Jesus, I drink from my God who is stable and strong, stronger than death.
I will die, and when I do--whether it be in my bed as age creeps over me, or struck by lightning, a meteor, or a UPS truck--when my body and soul find their divorce, His hand will be the one that cuts the thread and shows me the path He blazed through tragedy.
(N.D.Wilson, Notes from the Tilt A Whirl)
Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— "Death has been swallowed up in victory." "Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?"
July 21, 2013
Recommended Reads
I'm in St. Louis this week, with ample time to read and write.
I don't mean to brag, but it is delightful.
Here are some of posts that are worth your time, in no particular order.
Reflections: Portraits of the Elderly as they once were.
Teach us to number our days.
What happened to God's agenda?Battling the flesh is not a matter of keeping "them" out. Every one of us will have to keep up the war against our flesh until God dissolves our flesh at death. What does this mean for the church's agenda? It means that the world's agenda lives in every Christian and can creep into our churches through our own fleshly mouths.
Enemies with benefits
their presence in your life is a constant reminder of how deeply and madly you are in love with yourself.
ragmanIf you have never read this, read it. If you have, read it again, and read it to your children. Beautiful.
What's wrong with the new evangelical?Think about it.
Blessed in the Journey
My friend has a new blog! Check it out and join her journey!
What would it mean?
I relate to Katharine, and the way she wanders around with her camera, collecting beauty.
A little bit of coffee and a whole lot of Jesus
Nice devotion to start your morning.
Sermon Review: “Jesus Restores that Demon Possessed Man” by Pr. Jeremy Rhode, 6/28/
LISTEN TO THIS!Baptized for this moment By Rev William CwirlaA paper given at the recent LCMS convention. Worth your time and careful study.You no longer live, but Christ lives in you. And the Christ who lives in you is Christ wearing an Adam suit that doesn’t quite fit and whose sinful reflexes aren’t up to the business of holiness. Outwardly, we are wasting away, sinful, dying. Inwardly, we are being renewed day by day. Inwardly, we have the mind, the will and the Spirit of Christ. God is actively at work in us both to will and to do according to His good pleasure. But this new man in Christ is buried in, with and under an outwardly uncooperative body of death.
I don't mean to brag, but it is delightful.
Here are some of posts that are worth your time, in no particular order.
Reflections: Portraits of the Elderly as they once were.
Teach us to number our days.
What happened to God's agenda?Battling the flesh is not a matter of keeping "them" out. Every one of us will have to keep up the war against our flesh until God dissolves our flesh at death. What does this mean for the church's agenda? It means that the world's agenda lives in every Christian and can creep into our churches through our own fleshly mouths.
Enemies with benefits
their presence in your life is a constant reminder of how deeply and madly you are in love with yourself.
ragmanIf you have never read this, read it. If you have, read it again, and read it to your children. Beautiful.
What's wrong with the new evangelical?Think about it.
Blessed in the Journey
My friend has a new blog! Check it out and join her journey!
What would it mean?
I relate to Katharine, and the way she wanders around with her camera, collecting beauty.
A little bit of coffee and a whole lot of Jesus
Nice devotion to start your morning.
Sermon Review: “Jesus Restores that Demon Possessed Man” by Pr. Jeremy Rhode, 6/28/
LISTEN TO THIS!Baptized for this moment By Rev William CwirlaA paper given at the recent LCMS convention. Worth your time and careful study.You no longer live, but Christ lives in you. And the Christ who lives in you is Christ wearing an Adam suit that doesn’t quite fit and whose sinful reflexes aren’t up to the business of holiness. Outwardly, we are wasting away, sinful, dying. Inwardly, we are being renewed day by day. Inwardly, we have the mind, the will and the Spirit of Christ. God is actively at work in us both to will and to do according to His good pleasure. But this new man in Christ is buried in, with and under an outwardly uncooperative body of death.
July 19, 2013
Our Arms Cannot Contain It (Lake Michigan freewrite)
“Mama, are we going to go to the big lake while we are in Michigan? Can we please, please, please?”
“Oh honey, don’t worry about that… if we don’t find time to go to Lake Michigan I’ll probably shrivel up and die. We will go.” She looks at me with big eyes, suddenly not knowing this mama who speaks with such drama. I smile, and turn up the music—a pop song. We must go, or I will shrivel up and die. The thought spilled out of me as if I were my teenaged self, prone to jokes about death and hyperbole. Just thinking about the lake makes that person want to rise up in me- the girl who jumped off the pier even though it was against the rules; the girl who ran down sand dunes, flailing and yelling like a maniac, in a body full of life that had not yet carried life.
Friday comes, and we go, and as I drive I can feel the lake approaching even before I can see it. My feet are restless to shed the shoes and run in the soft, smooth sand. I remember how the sand squeaks when you walk just right, and I wonder if my children will notice.
But the stuff must be carried, and so we carry the stuff. As I carry I breathe, and the air is sweet and full of memories and water and youth. The children hobble on sand with arms full, bare feet awkward but happy. They finally approach the water front, drop all things in a pile, and they run. They run with arms spread wide and fingers splayed, as if they could embrace the vastness of the beauty. Their arms cannot contain it, and their small legs are slowed by the weight of the water. They flail and fall, and the water is freezing.
The sand is so soft, and my son has noticed. He sits and lets it fall through his fingers, over and over. This is exactly what I would like to do with glorious days like this one. I want to let them run through my fingers, to examine them in my hand, to set them down and pick them up again.
But new blessings come to distract us both. The sand is forgotten and he runs for the pier.
I watch them with mother-eyes, seeing the danger that was once invisible to me in this place. These eyes cannot be closed again, and there is sadness in the realization. But, as the memories of this place play before my eyes even as I watch my own children, my mother-eyes see a new depth in the memories. They see little me, protected with sunscreen and a hat and a lifejacket. They see my own parents struggling with the tension of letting-go and holding close. They see a child oblivious, yet loved. They see prayers answered and grace poured out.
I see my dear mother with her wind-blown hair that matches mine. What is it like to look through grandmother-eyes? Does she see layers upon layers?
Memories flood, and my face flushes, but this time, not from the sun. I see the danger with which I flirted, and the boys. I wallowed in more than just the lake when I was a teenager.
Remember not the sins of my youth, Lord, I pray with David.
The past can chafe like wet sand if it is not washed away. How often I have prayed such a prayer? And my patient Father has answered, once for all. His answer came once in His Word made flesh, and His promises echo through history to me on this pier on this day. The sins of my youth, the sins of this morning, all have been laid on Jesus. My “stuff” has been carried for me, across the sand and onto the cross and through the tomb and into the depths of the sea.
The memories mix with the present moment, and the cool breeze of God’s grace blows through everything. This day, this God-- it is all too big for me to get my arms around.
I see my children running ahead as we return from the edge of the pier. They run, looking for the place where the pier meets the sand, where the running-jump makes a heart leap before a body hits the soft sand below.
Arms up, free, open heart and arms and splayed fingers, we jump.
Jesus said,
“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind,to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”
Luke 4:17-19
“Oh honey, don’t worry about that… if we don’t find time to go to Lake Michigan I’ll probably shrivel up and die. We will go.” She looks at me with big eyes, suddenly not knowing this mama who speaks with such drama. I smile, and turn up the music—a pop song. We must go, or I will shrivel up and die. The thought spilled out of me as if I were my teenaged self, prone to jokes about death and hyperbole. Just thinking about the lake makes that person want to rise up in me- the girl who jumped off the pier even though it was against the rules; the girl who ran down sand dunes, flailing and yelling like a maniac, in a body full of life that had not yet carried life.
Friday comes, and we go, and as I drive I can feel the lake approaching even before I can see it. My feet are restless to shed the shoes and run in the soft, smooth sand. I remember how the sand squeaks when you walk just right, and I wonder if my children will notice.
But the stuff must be carried, and so we carry the stuff. As I carry I breathe, and the air is sweet and full of memories and water and youth. The children hobble on sand with arms full, bare feet awkward but happy. They finally approach the water front, drop all things in a pile, and they run. They run with arms spread wide and fingers splayed, as if they could embrace the vastness of the beauty. Their arms cannot contain it, and their small legs are slowed by the weight of the water. They flail and fall, and the water is freezing.
The sand is so soft, and my son has noticed. He sits and lets it fall through his fingers, over and over. This is exactly what I would like to do with glorious days like this one. I want to let them run through my fingers, to examine them in my hand, to set them down and pick them up again.
But new blessings come to distract us both. The sand is forgotten and he runs for the pier.
I watch them with mother-eyes, seeing the danger that was once invisible to me in this place. These eyes cannot be closed again, and there is sadness in the realization. But, as the memories of this place play before my eyes even as I watch my own children, my mother-eyes see a new depth in the memories. They see little me, protected with sunscreen and a hat and a lifejacket. They see my own parents struggling with the tension of letting-go and holding close. They see a child oblivious, yet loved. They see prayers answered and grace poured out.
I see my dear mother with her wind-blown hair that matches mine. What is it like to look through grandmother-eyes? Does she see layers upon layers?
Memories flood, and my face flushes, but this time, not from the sun. I see the danger with which I flirted, and the boys. I wallowed in more than just the lake when I was a teenager.
Remember not the sins of my youth, Lord, I pray with David.
The past can chafe like wet sand if it is not washed away. How often I have prayed such a prayer? And my patient Father has answered, once for all. His answer came once in His Word made flesh, and His promises echo through history to me on this pier on this day. The sins of my youth, the sins of this morning, all have been laid on Jesus. My “stuff” has been carried for me, across the sand and onto the cross and through the tomb and into the depths of the sea.
The memories mix with the present moment, and the cool breeze of God’s grace blows through everything. This day, this God-- it is all too big for me to get my arms around.
I see my children running ahead as we return from the edge of the pier. They run, looking for the place where the pier meets the sand, where the running-jump makes a heart leap before a body hits the soft sand below.
Arms up, free, open heart and arms and splayed fingers, we jump.
Jesus said,
“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind,to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”
Luke 4:17-19
