For the Love of St. Francis ~

I took my 3-year-old terrier-who-knows-what-else-mix mutt to the park last Sunday for the Blessing of the Animals. Maggie’s been mine for about eight months now, and because she’s been such a gift, such a blast, such a comfort and source of laughter to me, I figured, hey, sure, we’ll do the Blessing.

The Episcopal tradition offers me an invitation to remembrances and celebrations that are new to me, and this is one of my favorites - a chance to thank God for the life of St. Francis of Assisi, and while doing so, to thank God for His creation, for the life of His creatures.

Um, yea, “creature” about sums it up. As the good Reverend approached, my gentle, fun-loving, scratch-my-belly-would-you-please puppy dog stiffened, growled, snarled and bared her teeth at the hand that would bless her.

I was mortified. I wanted to yank at her leash and make a quick getaway. I sifted through the excuses that quickly flooded my thoughts, all beginning with “she’s never done that before, I can’t imagine what…” I wondered what happens to dogs who bite the clergy. Sigh.

It didn’t go at all like I had planned. I didn't think the heavens would open and doves would descend, but I was counting on a sweet moment. I’d spent 45 minutes the evening before, brushing her coat so it would be soft and shiny. I got her to the park in time to run off some spunk, chase a few squirrels and sniff about the grass to find her spot.

I’d told her what we were doing, and while I understand she doesn’t know the meaning of my words, (I do realize she’s a dog), I do believe she understands my tone and she knew that this tone meant we were off to do something fun together. She had to know.

Yea, not so much.

When my eyes are open and I can see beyond what I am “seeing”, I find that there a story pictures, snapshots, collages everywhere. Any given moment can present itself like the next page in a pop-up book, springing off the flattened surface with nuance and color and dimension, revealing a bit of truth we may not have otherwise noticed.

I can be a little cranky sometimes, out of sorts, anxious. I would like to receive a blessing, a prayer, a kindness, a bit of light in the dark, a pathway out of a dead-end, but I can’t see beyond the present circumstance to understand that what I long for is actually happening. I can be like Maggie, not trusting that the hand that’s reaching toward me is good and kind, and bearing what I hope to receive.

The gospel of Luke records that Jesus, aching for the people He loved, spoke these words: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem…how often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you would not.” (Luke 13:34)
　
Maggie would not. All the Reverend wanted to do was touch her gently on the head and offer a word of blessing. But Mags would not have it. She would not.

Sometimes we won’t either.

We stiffen, we growl, we snarl and bare our teeth at the One who would simply come near to lay a hand of gentleness on us, but… we… will… not.

She wasn‘t as animated as she usually is about the car ride home, she lay quietly on the passenger seat, and later that afternoon she rested her head on my lap, all “you still love me, don’t you?”, emanating from her big, brown eyes. I rubbed her ears and remembered the blessing the Reverend had offered Maggie, albeit from a safe distance, earlier in the day: “May the God of all creation bless and keep you, and fill those who love and care for you with joy and thanksgiving.” Amen. Yes Mags, I still love you.

We’ll try it again next year. The Reverend is willing, so am I. Hopefully Maggie will be too.

Receiving can be hard. “I will not” comes so easy. We all need another chance to give “I will” a try.

God bless St. Francis, who loved the Creator
God bless the kind Reverend, who loved my cranky dog
God bless Maggie, who got her blessing despite her behavior
God bless all of us, when we are growly, snarly, reluctant receivers of His goodness

I Had a Father ~

"Ask and it shall be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks the door will be opened. For what man is there among you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him?" (Matthew 7)

I had a father who lived at my house
He was my hero, he was my friend
Turned on the lights when the dark left me scared
Laughed at my stories, cuddled and cared
And every good gift that a father could give
Was mine for the taking as long as he lived

I had a father who lived at my house
As I grew older, wiser, I knew
This body I'm in is the same that he wore
He suffered and struggled, he failed and he tore
My father needed a father too
We found the Father we needed in You

When I need my father
You are the One who won't be gone
When I need a shoulder, Your love is the shoulder
That I rest my life upon
If I ask You for bread, You don't go throwing stones
You've given me a home
I've not been left alone
You are my Father, You are my Savior, my Lord
You are the One who loves me so much more

I've lived most of my life without my father. He left us when I was a little girl, and died a few years after that. I saw him just a handful of times in-between.

All that means is that I belong to a community too numerous to count, a community of names and faces and stories, a community of children who've lost their fathers. Death, abandonment, neglect, abuse, chasms of emotional distance that seem impossible to bridge, never-knowing-his-name... there are so many ways we "lose" our dads in a world hell-bent on loss.

"When I was a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became grown, I put childish ways behind me." (I Corinthians 13:11) What we see, what we perceive, what we interpret as children can't help but grow into something more as we grow into who we are. From childlike naivete to weathered understanding, the view of my dad as "my hero, my friend", has taken on layers of meaning and perspective in the years since he went away. As I've had to confront and contend with my own brokenness, I've had to confront and contend with his.

Brennan Manning writes: "blessed are those who know they are broken." In knowing this truth about ourselves, about one another, a pathway toward wholeness opens up. I don't think God's promise to bind our wounds (Hosea 6) means that healing isn't going to hurt. Wounds ache, it can sting to apply balm, to change a dressing, the journey toward rehabilitation is painful and long.

I don't think God wanted to be my earthly father. I believe it was His heart, His hope, that my dad would do that. And yet, in that failure, in that loss and brokenness, God has been intimately present, just like He was at the beginning, when I was "fearfully and wonderfully made." (Psalm 139)

I miss my dad, I do. I've allowed myself at times to wonder about the impact of his decisions on my life, to consider what might have been had he stayed with us, to feel the starkness of the empty space where he was supposed to be. And yet, with time and God's grace, I've been able to experience the things that a father can provide: a sense of being cherished, an awareness of protection and shepherding. These good things have not been withheld from me in my fatherlessness. I've not been left alone.

It's not okay that I don't have a dad, and yet... it is... okay.

When I need my father
You are the One who won't be gone
When I need a shoulder
Your love is the shoulder that I rest my life upon
If I ask You for bread, You don't go throwing stones
You've given me a home
I've not been left alone
You are my Father, You are my Savior, my Lord
You are the One who loves me so much more

All Dressed Up ~

I walk through a park every morning on my way to work. It gives me a few moments to breathe in some fresh air, smell the lilac blossoms or kick at the leaves, and watch the squirrels skitter up the tree trunks before I hang my coat on my cubicle wall. The park is just across the street from the courthouse, so people-watching is also available, no extra charge, all day long.

A few mornings ago, a scene in the park caught my attention: a young woman, dressed in a white wedding gown, with the veil pulled back over her head, sat alone on a wooden park bench, her eyes pooling with tears as she held a bouquet of red roses limply across her lap.

It’s not unusual to see a bride in the park; weddings take place at the courthouse every day, simple ceremonies, as well as more elaborate rites. It just seemed out of place to see a bride, alone and sad, at 8 o’clock in the morning. Her body language, her expression told me that there was a story unfolding. Her face was downcast, her shoulders were bowed. As I approached and then walked past her, she looked up and off into the distance once or twice as her fingers absently traced the rose petals in her lap.

I walked as far as the crossing signal, then turned and looked back. A few women, braver than I, approached her as she slumped on the bench. I wasn’t close enough to hear their exchange, but as they bent toward her, as they leaned in with expressions of kindness and concern on their faces, I imagined them asking, “are you alright dear?” “Do you need some help?” “Are you waiting for someone?” “Shall we wait with you?”

The young bride slowly shook her head in response, one of the strangers touched her gently on the shoulder, and they walked away.

I’ve wondered since that morning about that scene in the park. That young woman seemed to share her park bench with the pain of disappointment, the fear of humiliation, the ache of wondering and waiting, the anxiousness of uncertainty.

I wonder how often we feel just like her… all dressed up and nowhere to go. Ready to be the bride, but no bridegroom in sight. Weary of waiting. Bracing for disappointment. Turning the page in our own story to find a twist of character or plot or setting that we didn’t want or anticipate.

It can be difficult in those moments to do anything but look off into the distance and absently trace what feels like a limp hold on our hopes.

When we come to these moments, we have to face a truth that is never far off: the way things unfold sometimes is simply not what we had in mind, not how we thought it would look, not what we had hoped for.

Joel 2:21-27
The word of the Lord that came to Joel:
O children of Zion, be glad and rejoice in the LORD your God;
For he has given the early rain for your vindication,
He has poured down for you abundant rain,
The early and the later rain, as before.
The threshing floors shall be full of grain;
The vats shall overflow with wine and oil.
I will repay you for the years that the swarming locust has eaten,
The hopper, the destroyer, and the cutter, my great army,
Which I sent against you.
You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied,
And praise the name of the LORD your God,
Who has dealt wondrously with you.
And my people shall never again be put to shame.
You shall know that I am in the midst of Israel, and that I, the LORD, am your God and there is no other. And my people shall never again be put to shame.

When I read the prophets, so much of what I read is beyond my understanding. I believe that context matters, and while I am interested in the interpretations of people who are wiser than I am, I just have to keep searching the Scriptures for the same thing I’ve always searched for: a glimpse of God's heart. Just as sheep begin to recognize the voice of their Shepherd, I believe that the Beloved begin to recognize the heart of their Lover.

When I read this passage from Joel, the glimpse I get of God’s heart is that it understands that we have, at times, felt jilted, disappointed, ashamed. I glimpse a heart that feels the losses we have felt, cares about the moments, the days, the years that seem, on the surface, to have been wasted. I glimpse a heart that knows the pangs we have endured, the hunger, the thirst, the want.

And I glimpse a heart that is set to make things right one day, a heart that will bring plenty where there was want, overflow where there was scarcity, and gladness where there was despair.

I don't know why that young bride was in tears on that park bench. I only know that there was something about the scene that resonated with familiarity. We wait and we wonder. We hope and we hang on. We brace ourselves for a twist in our own story.

God is greater than the reasons we sit alone with tears pooling in our eyes. “He is the Lord our God, who deals wondrously with us”, as He spoke to Joel. He will make us glad, He will. He will come to us now, He will come for us then, just as He promised He would.

We’ll be dressed in white, as a Bride adorned for her Bridegroom, and we will have somewhere to go.

When He cometh, when He cometh to make up His jewels,
All His jewels, precious jewels, His loved and His own.
Like the stars of the morning, His brightness adorning,
They shall shine in their beauty, bright gems for His crown
He will gather, He will gather the gems for His kingdom,
All the pure ones, all the bright ones, His loved and His own.
Like the stars of the morning, His brightness adorning,
They shall shine in their beauty,
Bright gems for His crown (William O. Cushing)

You Shall Be ~

I hired a hedge man a week ago. My little yellow house with the purple door is bordered on the south side by a laurel hedge. It seemed like a great idea when I bought the house. I liked the privacy and shade it offered, I liked the sense of security that comes with a hedge. What I didn’t realize at the time is that this hedge has a nickname: Goliath. It’s giant, it’s brawny, it’s mouthy, and it’ll cut me right in two if I don’t take the first swing. A friend recommended a gardener, and by Friday evening I’d made an appointment for Sunday afternoon. My first thought was that I’d better spend a few hours on Saturday trimming the hedge before...the...hedge…man...came…to…trim…the…hedge. I didn’t want him to see how scraggly and overgrown I’d let it become.

A few weeks ago, I gave myself a bit of a pedicure. Pampering? Taking good care of myself? Going all girly? No. Prepping for the Maundy Thursday foot-washing. If anyone is going to see my feet, they are going to be clean and shiny, blister-free and soft as a baby’s bottom. You know, ready…to…be…washed.

I am seeing the dentist in a few days. You know where this is going. Let’s just say that my little box of minty floss and me are spending lots of quiet evenings together.

My mom tells a funny story: when she was a young girl in the 50s (sorry ma), she and her brother had an every-Wednesday-after-school routine. They’d clean up the house, vacuum, polish the stair-rail, straighten the magazines and newspapers, spritz the mirrors, hang up all the clothes, wash, dry and put every dish in its proper cupboard, and sweep up every speck of dust. Why? Because Dorothy Simon, the cleaning lady, was coming by on Thursday to do…just…that. My nana did not want dear Mrs. Simon to think they were a “messy family.”

C’mon, admit it. You do it too. Do your best to “present” yourself.

We can be such a mess sometimes. What a relief to say it out loud. I’m a mess sometimes. You’re a mess sometimes. We’re a mess sometimes. This is not news. It just takes a few “let me clean this up” episodes for us to recognize it. And those episodes are available, well, “on demand”. We demand to be seen in a certain light. A light that’s lovely, a light that masks our most obvious flaws, a light that says, “ooh, would you take a look at her, at him.”

The truth is, we are known and loved and accepted as we are - as… we… are. There is a Redeemer, and He’s had his heart set on us since before the foundations of the world were laid (Ephesians 1:4). A heart set to love and transform, heal and redeem. His heart is set, but ours still wavers now and then. We’re not always so sure we’re what He had in mind… so we trim and primp and mop up so we can be presentable, loveable, worth it.

Through the prophet Isaiah, God lays out His kind invitation: “Come, let us reason together”, says the Lord. “Though your sins are as scarlet, they shall be white as snow, though they be as crimson, they shall be like wool”. How, exactly does that happen? I don’t know. All I know is that there is an invitation with our names on it. And this is no black-tie affair we’ve been invited to. “You shall be white as snow”. Seems to me that God understands His invitation is to the messy. "You...shall...be..." This helps me breathe a bit, and loosen my grip on the “do-it-myselfing”. We respond to His invitation. He transforms us as we respond.

Transformation comes in time, it does. We’re all at one point or another in the “becoming” process. Transformation takes some growing into. So does accepting the truth about how we are seen by the One who invited us to be transformed.

The hedge will need to be trimmed again next spring. There will be more blisters between now and the next foot-washing. And I have to go back to the dentist. This “becoming” isn’t over, not quite yet.

We show up mouthy, blistered and un-flossed… and find ourselves welcome and embraced.

White as snow, white as snow

Though my sins were as scarlet,

Lord I know, Lord I know,

I am clean and forgiven

Through the power of your blood,

Through the wonder of your love

Through faith in You, I know that I can be, white as snow

(lyric by Leon Olguin)

Vigil ~

A poem for the night
before the Morning

Have I come too late to the cross?
Such regret
They’ve taken You
They’ve carried You,
They’ve cradled You so tenderly
Across this savage hillside
To a tomb

And there, with myrrh and aloes sweet
They bathed your head, your hands, your feet
Balm for fatal wounds suffered as ransom,
Your life for mine

They’ve shrouded You, enveloped You
Buried You behind a stone
I am undone
I am alone

Have I come too late to the cross?
Such regret
That all that I had meant to say
Might now remain unsaid
I was silent
You are dead

I fall upon my knees and press my face against this stone
And cry out to the night
That I was loved, that I was known
That I was lifted from my shame, my guilt
To stand beside You,
Lover of my soul
You called me friend, You called me bride
That I had found my shelter in the strength of your embrace
That I had tasted mercy
That I had tasted grace
And though You said You’d die for me
I died, with your last breath
There is no life for me if not for You,
I am bereft

I beat my fists against this tomb that tears your life from me
And whisper what I pray that You can hear

That I believe

Making Allowances ~

It’s an old joke: patient says to the doctor, “Doc, it hurts when I do that.” Doc says to the patient, “well, don’t do that.”

“Don’t do that” makes a lot of sense sometimes. Why would we do what we know might hurt?

Vulnerability, exposure, a keen awareness of need, these aren’t the things we are naturally inclined to give ourselves over to.

This Lenten season, these are the very things I am choosing. In seeking to reflect on Christ’s sufferings and hold a mirror up to my own heart as we experience these days before Holy Week, I considered that my best practice would be to make some allowances… allow for vulnerability, allow for exposure, allow for need.

It’s not that these things aren’t present in my life, in all our lives. They are ever present in a broken and waiting world. But it takes some intentionality to see weakness and frailty with their noses pressed against the glass, and to open the door and say, “ok, you can come in.”

We get awfully skilled at keeping our guard up.

I stood outside Buckingham Palace a few years ago, peering through the iron gates with my touristy binoculars for the lightest twitch, the tiniest breath, the slightest budge from the Palace Guard. My hands and eyes got tired after awhile, and eventually, I walked away. I’ve suspected at times that some fuzzy-hatted soldiers keep watch outside my heart, not twitching, not breathing, not budging. And why would they? They are simply following my orders, to guard my heart, to keep me safe, secure, and out of harm’s way.

As Rev. Jennifer reminded us at St. Luke's a few Sundays ago, the Bible tells us not to be afraid so many times because God knows it can be scary out there, He knows that sometimes we do feel afraid.

So, trusting His “knowing”, I am trying to live these Lenten weeks with my guard down, with my sentries dismissed. I am making some allowances:

I am allowing for vulnerability… this came in a difficult conversation with one of my sisters, a talk we both needed, but one that left us both feeling a bit bruised for a few days. Telling the truth, hearing the truth, instead of relying on our mousiest “oh, it’s fine”, or our squeakiest “no worries.” Letting it be okay that everything was not okay.

I am allowing for exposure… I was with a group of people recently, some strangers, some friends, when my large self tangled with a small bench and both of us went crashing to the floor. I wanted to find the nearest door to run through, or at least the nearest rock to crawl under, but instead, I had to allow for a strong hand to help me up, kind eyes to look into mine and scatter the shame that had begun to call me names, I had to allow for gentle voices to assure me that everything was alright.

I am allowing for my need… this came as I rejoined a group of women who can speak truth and hope into a place of weakness for me; a group I had decided I could do without, preferring instead to claw after change and growth without the benefit of community.

These instances could have taken place on any day, in any season. Being ready to welcome them instead of stiff-arm them behind a wall mortared with pride and fear is the difference.

The prophet Jeremiah tells us that God’s mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). I imagine there’s design behind that truth: we are people in need of mercy every day.

What I am experiencing this season is the same truth I experience anytime I let my guard down: Jesus is with me. His sufferings, His own willingness to allow for vulnerability and exposure and need, make Him my true Advocate. As we taste a tiny bit of suffering, we experience that His suffering prepares Him to be with us to repair and comfort, shield, rescue and console. He comes to us at our most exposed, vulnerable and needy, and offers His mercy.

Making allowances can feel a little scary. As the apostle John writes to a group of believers, the love of Christ is a perfect love, a love so perfect it casts out the fear that keeps us from letting our guard down. (I John 4:18)

Perfect Love casts out the fear in me
And sends the darkness to hide
Perfect Love tells me that I have found my refuge at His side
Perfect Love will never leave me, He has promised to abide
And be my Strong and Perfect Love

Making allowances… for vulnerability, for exposure, for need. It’s an open invitation to the true Keeper of our hearts.

Maggie ~

I ended my “petlessness” last Tuesday afternoon. I brought Maggie home.

I’m dog-people, and God bless all the cat -lovers who tried to talk me into coming over to the kitty side of things, I just couldn’t do it. My heart was set on a someday-dog. And someday finally came.

I’ve wanted a dog for the longest time. I just haven’t given myself permission to do it. I live on my own, and, until I convince my boss to implement a bring-your-pets-to-work policy, I knew I’d be leaving someone at home all day, and I let the guilt stall me. I kept deciding that it would just have to be later, that I’d get a dog when my circumstances changed or when I had a different living situation, one that would be less worrisome. But time just kept going by, and, I can’t really explain it, all I know is that toward the end of this past year, I just decided to give myself permission to let it happen. Conversations with friends, seeing the blessing a little dog has been to my mom, allowing little connections with people that contained thoughts of hope. I let little seeds of how this might work be planted instead of pushing them away. I let them out into the light and air so they could sprout a bit. A friend said to me, “Kathy, what are you waiting for?” I couldn’t come up with a good answer anymore. So I let myself start looking.

I saw Maggie’s picture on the Humane Society website last Monday night. She had “possibility” written all over her two year-old, terrier-mix face. When I read her bio, she was described as a little anxious, a little nervous around people she doesn’t know, and in need of a little extra time to build trust. I thought “hmmmm, who does that sound like? Oh yea… me.”

I had already made another commitment for Tuesday morning, so I knew I wouldn’t be free to check into her availability until later. I looked at her sweet little face again, and whispered a little prayer. I asked God to save her for me if she was supposed to be my dog. Later that morning when I made the call, I was told that two other parties had already made appointments to meet her, so I’d need to wait a bit for the outcome. I did what I could to keep my mind off that sweet little mutt with the big brown eyes for a few hours. They called me in the early afternoon, and said if I wanted to come take a look, she was still available. I grabbed my mom and we drove to the pound.

We met in the play-room; we walked around one another and played a bit, getting a feel for it. In no time, I was scratching her belly, she was licking my hand. I looked into her brown eyes and asked her if she’d like to come home with me. When the pet-handler said that Maggie could stand to lose a few pounds, I knew I’d found my dog.

We’re figuring it out as we go along. She does not like the baby-gate that keeps her in the roomy kitchen and dining room while I’m at work. She does like 94% reduced-fat microwave popcorn. She does not like the vacuum. She does like to ride in the car. I’m getting used to having someone underfoot, being stared at and licked. She’s getting used to trusting that I will always come home after work and free her from the baby gate to romp around the house and get all the belly-scratching she wants. I left her to roam the house on Sunday when I went to St. Luke’s. She was on her own until I got back from my Sunday after-church trip to Trader Joe’s to get my groceries for the week. I got home and everything looked fine, no damage done. I made some lunch, left the door open to enjoy the springy-feeling afternoon, worked on my NY Times Sunday Crossword and listened to “A Prairie Home Companion” while Mags chewed on a doggie-treat right beside me. I could get used to this.

I turn on the news every morning while I get ready for work and sip a first cup of coffee. I catch the weather forecast to see how wet or cold it might be as I wait for the bus. This morning I saw the purple and yellow and orange of the sunrise on Clinton Street. I heard the birds chirping in the cherry blossoms that started showing off their pretty-pinks mid-February. I felt the chill of the morning air on my waking-up face.

I was walkin’ my dog.

Complications ~

I was sitting in my living room with my little piano student a few weeks back. We were in the middle of our lesson, reviewing the quarter note and the half note, calling out the names of the white keys and brushing up on our fingering. I scribbled a few notes in her assignment book while she twirled on the antique piano stool a friend had picked up for me at a yard sale.

We were just about to turn the page and begin our next piece when she looked up at me with her big blue eyes and asked, “Kathy, what are the black keys for?” We hadn’t gotten to the black keys yet. I’m a new teacher, she’s a new student, so we’re taking this nice and slow. I thought for a moment, and not wanting to confuse her or jump ahead too far, offered the simplest answer I could muster in my gentlest, beginning-piano-teacher voice. She slowly looked down at the keyboard, and then looked back up at me as her eyes widened and said… “whoa, this is gonna get complicated.”

Oh sweetie, you have no idea.

I’m new at this teaching thing, but I think we all understand intuitively that the response can be as important as the question. When my little gal said “whoa…”, it mattered to me, in that moment, how I respond. I didn’t want to look back at those big-blue eyes and say “oh, no, it’s not complicated at all.” I’ve been playing the piano since I was 6 years old, and I know different. I wanted to tell her the truth. There are some complications. There are key signatures and dotted-quarter notes, rests and dynamics, chords and flats, sharps and accidentals, half-steps, clefs and tempos, fermatas and, last time I checked, about 88 keys.

A few lessons into this, I knew it was way too early to mention too much of that, but I also wanted to honor her question. She’s eager, she’s curious, she’s giving herself a chance to become a pianist. So I simply said, “you’re right, kiddo. There are some things that will be complicated, but we’re just going to take this one lesson at a time, I will help you, and then, someday, you will be able to put together all you’ve learned and play whatever you like.” I said that with confidence, because once I was a little girl just learning how to play the piano too. I worked, with lots of guidance and help, through some of the “complications”, and now, I can play. I told her the truth. She smiled, seemed satisfied, and twirled around one last time.

Her “whoa” really struck me. We’ve all heard children land squarely on the truth – “out of the mouths of babes”. And I’ve thought, since that evening, that if I can sit at my piano next to a spunky little girl and offer her assurance about what she doesn’t yet understand, what she hasn’t yet experienced, I can surely sit next to my Father and allow Him to teach and encourage and assure me. Lean in and listen for Him to tell me the truth. After all, He knows what He is doing with my “becoming”.

We come to God over and again with our questions, and sometimes we respond with what sounds like a “whoa”… “this is too hard, this hurts too much, where are we going, it’s too late, are you there?”

The Psalmist writes that “God desires truth in our innermost beings…” (Psalm 51:6). As His children, we were designed to desire the truth as well. Even if it’s complicated.

Jesus wasn’t big on sugar-coating. He warned of sorrows and aches, brokenness, loss… complications. And yet… He also spoke the truths his Father wanted us to hear, so that we could believe, so that we could trust and follow – the truths of his Father’s presence, his Father’s intent and desire. He offered us a look into the heart of God; a heart as revealed through the prophet Jeremiah: “For I know the plans I have for you”, declares the Lord. “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to bring you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

I chose the curriculum my little student and I are using because it’s interactive and fun, it’s full of color and whimsy. I also chose it because every lesson includes a student-teacher duet. Even if we’ve just taken the tiniest musical step forward, we get to hear, at the end of our lesson, how it sounds. It’s a favorite moment. I put my hands right next to hers on the keyboard, I guide and encourage and help her. We end our duets with a cheery “wahoo!” or a high-five or a great big “we did it!” She brings what she is learning; I bring what I know, and it is music.

Anne Lamott, a favorite writer of mine, said once: “how is it that you can play one note, and then another, and then your heart just breaks wide open?” I keep that in mind as I teach. My little student will experience that one day. I know she will. Despite the complications.

We’re not alone in our questions; we’re not alone in our quests. God is with us, His strong and tender hands covering our own, guiding, encouraging, drawing out of us what He first sang into our souls before the foundations of the world were laid. Songs of joy, songs of peace, songs of hope, songs of life.

The Hopes and Fears of All Our Years ~

I was just meandering along this Advent, Christmas season, spending my days, minding my own business, when it seemed a few times, my breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t tell, by how I felt, whether I was meant to laugh or cry.

The old woman in period garb, hammering out an ancient carol on her dulcimer. My breath caught as she played in the cast of a million tiny lights on a windy night at The Grotto.

The young students of the St. Olaf choir, singing “Beautiful Savior” in brilliant, gentle harmony. My breath caught as they sang : “Truly I'd love Thee, truly I'd serve Thee, light of my soul, my joy, my crown.”

The little kids, walking the ceramic Mary and Joseph statues a bit closer to Bethlehem each Sunday morning at St. Luke’s. One Sunday I arrived early, and found Mary and Joseph set on a small table near the back, with a shiny nickel lying between them. My breath caught as I smiled and wondered which child had left an early gift for the baby Jesus.

As we worshipped together the Sunday after Christmas, we sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem”. I sang along as I played the piano, and got as far as the last phrase, when my breath caught again: “the hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight.” I couldn’t sing, but could only mouth those words, sure that if I sang it would sound like a cry.

The hopes and fears of all our years. Sometimes they shout, sometimes they whimper, making their presence known. And when they do, our breath can catch as we consider what they bring along with them, what they uncover: what we’re afraid of, what we regret, what we long for, why we laugh, where it hurts, how we’d do it differently, who we miss, why we still believe.

I can’t manage my hopes and fears on my own. Given the time, the day, the circumstance, I may handle things with grace and openness, with a hopeful heart. Or, I may be a mess and shut down, over-react, or simply take my ball and go home.

To find that I have a companion in Jesus, in whom all of my hopes and fears are “met”, is breath to me. A deep, life-giving breath.

In her book, “Listening to Love”, Jan Meyers writes that responding to Christ, responding to His voice in our lives can often come as a simple question... “is that you, Jesus?” A few years ago some friends and I read through this book together, and began to ask ourselves this question as the “hopes and fears” of daily-ness came knocking: a disappointment, a surprise, a loss. A change, a tension, an ache. A disruption, a joy. “Is that you, Jesus?”

Jan Meyers goes on to write that every longing, wrapped up in hope, wrapped up in fear, is actually, at its center, a longing for God. I want to live with that kind of Presence, with that understanding that I am never alone, never unknown, and that what makes me catch my breath sometimes could very well be the Spirit of God.

An ancient carol at the Grotto... a tune recognized by saints and angels that I long to sing in chorus with them.

Beautiful Savior... an ache and a hope to see Him with my own eyes.

The journey of Mary and Joseph that reminds me of my own... will I find my way, will I have what I need, will promises made be promises kept?

There’s a reason, I know, that I couldn’t sing that last “O Little Town” phrase on the Sunday after Christmas.

There are hopes, there are fears. Moments when things catch in our throats and we don’t know whether to laugh or cry. What we can know, is that we are met. In every hope. In every fear. In every breath.