Tuesday Nights

Tuesday nights.  Tuesday nights were breakfast food: dad eating eggs or Grandpa forking Belguim Waffles.  Mom swirled new recipes to dollup oatmeal pancakes and Kelly stirred her famous cheese eggs.  We'd gather at the big wood dining room table and listen to dad tell stories, and eat our "breakfast for dinner" with orange juice and all.  I loved Tuesday nights.

Tuesday nights turned intentional family, when mom watched Jaxson each Tuesday and Josh came for dinner.  I drove in from Grandville or Grand Rapids, and Grandma would often come too.  Tuesday nights were everyone come, everyone served.  Tuesday nights were open table, open conversation, full of lingering coffee and voices mulled and stirred.

Tuesday nights were Josh growing, seeing him blend and become family, flourish at being a dad.  Tuesday nights were his purposed spot at the table, and his chuckle interwoven with dads.

Tuesday nights were Melissa.  Melissa modeling mom to cook and befriending in the process.  Tuesday nights were the two of them preparing and sharing meals, figuring grocery list, and all of us coming to take part.

Tuesday nights were all of us.  Learning grown-up family.  Being together.  Being fed, in heart and body.  Tuesday nights were no one rushing out, were real estate discussed, cars bought & sold, and laughter all around.

One of the most difficult things about getting married, is absense of giving Mark Tuesday nights.  Is the space void of his place at the table, his knowing of our memories, his viewing of how we all reminisce, his understanding of the men's interaction.  I wish I could give Mark Tuesday nights -- for him, and for me.  I wish I could give him the taste of my moms homemade blueberry pancakes, of rides on the quad out back, of hugs walking in the door, of the smell of fresh-mowed Homerich grass.  I wish I could give him wild rides on the boat, where hands grip the handles, and days rocking on the green chairs at the lake.

I wish I could give him Tuesday nights.  I wish I could give him that understanding of me.

To Those Who Say It's Good.

These are the ones I lean into.  They are the stories I long to hear, the messages I take notes from, the carols I memorize to repeat, the friendships I hug into.  They are the words of people I hold dear, the words of wisdom, of smiles, of goodness.  The words of years won, of hands still held, of enjoyment continually shared.

People say marriage is hard.

I know that.  I know that I know that I am naive.  But that's okay.  Let me be that way.

Let me hope for tomorrow.

Let me hope for good.

I watched my parents.  I watched them laugh and share and boat and travel and errand and eat.  I watched them enjoy.  I watched them: I watched hope; I watched good.

Some warn, some paint furrowed pictures.  But I crave and listen in to those who say it's good.

In this season of planning, in this particular time of preparation, what I am most thankful for, is those who say it's good.

~~~
Thank you Bekah and Patricia and Kate and Amy and Rachel and Heidi and Aunts and Sisters and WLT...  all those, who say it's good.

Waving Transition.

I live a life of transition.  Always moving, always changing, always growing, rarely knowing.  In a 10 year span, I moved more than 30 times (move=unpacked into drawers), lived in 3 states, traveled to 5 continents, endured family reconfiguration, and worked 13 different full-time jobs.

I used to feel jolted by every transition.  I can remember crying the days I packed boxes to move from one house to another.  Now, life has taught me to brace myself, and ride the waves of transition.

I stand in camp between multiple phrases.  Between single and married.  Between teacher and nanny.  Between roommate and lifemate.  Between individual and couple.  The cognitive shifting, the psychological process, the physical preparation all live in limbo between what was, and what comes, and struggles to find a sandbar of what is.

Files fill boxes of school supplies to keep, rooms are tested with paint color to rotate, budgets are examined and restructured, weekend activites move from "me" to "we", student letters are stashed in binders with degrees, registries for new lead to releasing the old, and I live between what was, and what will be.

What was, what is, and what will be.  The transitions find me in waves, both in the pace of the flow, and in the depth of thought.

Yet, I have learned to "wave" at the waves.  Not clutch for shoreline, or sink in overwhelm, but feel the movement, then raft on faith.

Transition has taught me, is teaching me still, to wave from waves.

Grace.

Grace.  Its a word I'm coming to know.  I'm coming to learn.  Grace is it.  Finished.  Done.  There is not more of it.  There is not less of it.  There just is: Grace.

Grace is God.  Grace is His stamp.  Grace is His offering.  Grace is His love.  

Grace is his answer to my self.

Grace.

I sang in church last Sunday, word chorusing from my lips, but my mind far off, dwelling on grace.  Hearing the word "Redeemed" like an embossment, over me.  Redeemed.  No more, no less.  Done.  He has redeemed it: me.  

He hasn't asked for more.  He isn't waiting for more.  He's isn't skeptical with a check list.  He isn't waiting for me to fail.  He isn't measuring my identity to the standards I measure my own.  He isn't comparing to my forayed image of perfection.  He isn't asking for performance, or productiveness.  He isn't judging the use of my minutes, my hours, my moments, my day.

He is Grace.  Done.

The word is prayed over me, known over me.  She speaks, "Satan is telling you that...  If God wanted you to be Ghandi, he would have made you Ghandi."  And she prayer His Truth over me.  His desire for relationship.  He's words, "Be still and know that I am God."

She writes, "But for now we need to see that we begin to rest in God when we cease to keep up fronts and pretenses with Him..." (The Glorious Pursuit) with her encouragement.


I read, "...trusting God's grace to overcome that inadequacy... to accept that we will never measure up, but that we do not have to... anything that makes me feel discomfort with God's forgiving love is also a cruel deception." (Grace Notes, Phillip Yancey)


I ponder, "It is by grace you have been saved..."  (Ephesians 2:5) and "there is now no condemnation in Christ...."  (Romans 8:1).  Do I even begin to understand this grace?  To know there is no greater love?  There is no greater Truth?  There is no greater, final acceptance?


And so I begin to understand the living, the loving, the accepting of Grace.

Weekends are for...

I find myself sitting, with instrumental music playing softly in the background, my body bundled against the April chill in layers, a microwave-made molasses cookie in my dish, a cup of hot Teavana steaming in my palm.

A writer I know posts each weekend, "Weekends are for..."

I write, Weekends are for... Grace. Friendship. Adapting.

Soul Strength.

What was in Ghadi that made him follow through?  What was in Martin Luther King, Jr. that pushed him forward even after his family and house were in jeopardy?  What was in Hudson Taylor that urged him despite his surroundings?  The souls of men that did not falter.

I sometimes stare at the wall and marvel at them, then self-defeat myself into inward oblivion, casting curses on myself for who I am, and who I am not.  There are these posters and billboards which echo men's names.  Champion of a different sort.  Those who pushed against and for diversity, justice, truth, change.

I never recovered.  I always thought I had it in me to be "one of them" but after April 17, 2009, it just never quite came back.  That inner strength gives way to falter, the tired of my soul weakens quickly, and the stamina that once was, has very little surgance.

So I look at these other people and wonder, with filtered jealousy.  What was in them that kept them pushing?  What was in that them outlived their call?  What was in them that pulled them out of bed in the morning, squeezed them past the afternoon slump, and left them still prevalent to fight at night?

Growth.

I walked out this morning to see my first gardenia bloom of the year popping bright and white. How fitting, I thought, that today it boast in brillant resurection, like proud joy. Just yesterday, I had watered it, but today it bloomed.

A few years ago, my friend Sandy sat down with me amidst my tears and spoke that God was tilling up the soil of my heart. It was a painful process. A tearing, ripping, straining, yanking, scraping process. But the soil was tilled. My soul was tilled.

Over the next season, a process of pruning began. Figuring out friendships, family, relationships. Analyzing and picking apart the ones that bring green, that spur new life, that flourish. And, then cutting away, or cutting back, the ones that don't. This too, was hard. Difficult. For me, and the relational branches that beckoned to take away the nutrients to my heart. But the pruning was fruitful. It shed to bring full bud to new friendships, and fully care for old ones.

And in the recent season, I see blossom. I see fruitful colors leaping up all over the place; the garden of my heart is full! There are vibrant pinks and yellows and purples, like flowers bursting to the sunlight -- my home, my church, my friends, my fiance. They are grown and grounded, rooted and reaching.

Today, as I walked out and saw that first gardenia, I saw growth. Today, as I see the Gardener's work in me, I see growth.

Age is Artificial.

"Age is an artificial line" she said as we sat gathered, twelve to the table, gourmet chicken salads overflowing our plates and crispy grain bread slathered with brie on the side. Crystal Light swirled pink in our glasses, our laughter and hearts the same. We were women united, women of faith. Beyond time and experience and age.

I once found myself having a conversation with my mom about this. About how I tend to unite more with women a generation older with me, than those my own age. She said, "That doesn't surprise me?" For, what is age?

What is age when your passions are the same? When your heart knows the same language? When your ministries align? What is age when you are tough, and tender and listening and endearing? What is age when you are learning and grieving and growing and knowing? What is age in the embrace of hugs or tears or hands or grace?

Age is an artificial line. I am thankful for women whose love bypass age.

Upstage.

Upstage. The focal point. The most captivating. The catching.

At a wedding, the bride is supposed to be upstage. The white dress. The shimmers or silks. The curls or swirled do. The make up, the lipstick, the crowning glory.

It dawned on me this week that I may be upstaged. That someone's dress may steal the talk of the ceremony. That one girls' hair may be more intricate. That one persons shoes will surely outspeak mine.

To admit my reaction is embarrassing. I look at my self through the naked eye and feel and hear my own head and heart reactions. And yet I picture my friends stealing the look of every male eye. And my sister stunning and glamourous. And bridesmaids so flowy and lovely.

And then... there's me. Just a white dress. Just looking like... me. Nothing unique, nothing interesting. Nothing but one more fashion version of a white dress.

I'm ashamed of my thoughts and can't believe such trendles of conciet flowed through my mind.

The embarrassment of such perversion raised my consciousness.

And then, a new thought came to my mind.

The wedding isn't about who is upstaged. The wedding is about Who is Upstage. Is God glorified? Is God the center? Is God the one that is noticed, glorified, honored, praised?

A white dress will box or ruin. A photo will last fifty years. A conversation will last a night, or a memory. But Christ glorified will last eternity. God praised will carry forevermore.

In the day, in every part of the wedding, the marriage, the union, the gathering, may God be praised. May He be Upstage.

Midwestern

Some days I miss being Midwestern. Today, I do.

I miss the rolling cornfields. The tall red silos. I miss hearing the voices of my cousins and the laughter of my aunts. I miss water and lakes all around. And trees and forrest that abound.

Some days I miss being Midwestern. I miss family who gets "lake days" and children camps galore. I miss women who shovel soil and farm and get dirty planting the ground. I miss lake towns and cute cafes and boutique-lined streets.

Somedays I miss being Midwestern. Today I do.

~~~~~

And this is where I must post, some Pure Michigan... :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9airTfXqd8k&feature=relmfu

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bZ8Sj-ow_wI&feature=relmfu

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgfE5xNiEz4&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7Ow2cEqbmE&feature=relmfu