"Think something of beauty..."

I think something of beauty and human flourishing are one and the same, and the heart of God’s work through Jesus is reconciliation and human flourishing. It is so easy to let anger, self-righteousness and even violence lead, but beauty takes time, thought, patience – something superna
tural – a transformed heart. 

• Sara Groves, from "Why It Matters..."

Noise often drowns it out. A four-wheeler rumbles by in front of my house- I hear the engine vroom and the bass beat thump and the rider shout and the gravel grind as it ascends the short hill. In this season, I hear the rattattats, boys in my neighborhood practicing their drum cadence for the upcoming saint day celebration. Far in the background, I hear a train horn sound a long waaaaank as freight rumbles through town, even though the tracks are almost a mile south. I hear the whumpwhumpwhump of a helicopter overhead. Sometimes I hear the poppoppop of a gun shot in the distance.

Distractions can drown it out. My eye follows the speeding or saggy or sputtering vehicle, but forget to notice the people inside. I see the broken wall, but not the tree blooming beside it. Dust covers the streets, sometimes only browngray dirt, sometimes deep black mud. Trucks filled with garbage, not a garbage truck like from your neighborhood, but dingy pickup trucks overloaded and loaded down with garbage, lose bits and pieces of their load while passing by in front of my house on the way to the dump. Smoke covers the high blue skies in a choky smoggy haze. 

Situation might also drown it out. Boys care for toddler brothers, girls carry diapered cousins, and kids wander the neighborhood in a pack. I don't look far to see substandard housing, walls constructed of pallets, front entryways concealed by blankets not doors, and roofs covered with old billboard canvases. I smell, and regularly see, sewage coming up where it shouldn't. I wonder about the cadre of state police parked on the corner. I pass a group of wide-eyed people wearing life vests waiting at a crossroad.

But despite it all, the beauty, it is always there, always waiting to be noticed, always waiting to be celebrated. Hear the giggles of delight, the high-pitch saludos of a a waving jumping always in motion child, the upbeat tempo of the conjunto sounding from an unseen stereo speaker. See the brilliant pink blooms of the bouganvilla reach for the sun, the irridescent crown of a rooster flash in the sunlight, the wide smiles which cross the kids' faces when they show us their work. Notice the bright yellow door set in the wall you pass every single day, the mare tethered in the field who turns to nuzzle her colt, skies that fade to chalky pastel pink as the sun sets below the horizon. Celebrate the neighbor kids and their casual handshake fist bump greeting, the girl who asks for a bag so her mom can do the art project too, the earnest work of a boy committing the memory verse to heart and then giving his prize to his brother.

Capture the moment in the glow of the streetlight at dusk after finding the friend who moved a handful of streets down the road. Save it deep in your memory and in your heart. Be patient for the hope of change, for transformation, for reconciliation, for restoration. Thankfully praise our God once again, He who is making all things new.   

(photo credit to my dear Kimberly Kaiser)

7/366

The world-making Word had to fuss with the minutiae of making a living. He had family drama and knuckle-headed friends, temptations and distractions to sort out. He spent much of his life making and fixing things that served a purpose and were lost and forgotten. He knew the value and the vanity of toil. The inauguration of the life of the world to come was made up of hard work, simple pleasures, a small circle of influence, and love. The path of the abundant life runs through the otherwise unremarkable.
- Stephen Crotts in "The Abundant Unremarkable Life" at Sayable blog

The photo captures the inside bench of a trash cart here in Aquiles Serdán, making the quote seem especially appropriate. Day to day life here doesn't typically seem very noteworthy. Yet, the days pass and slowly slowly, we notice fractions of change, and indeed, "the abundant life runs through the otherwise unremarkable."

2/365

I wore today like comfortable old shoes that fit just right. I woke up before the sun and slid out of bed and over to the chair in the corner of the room and sat still to listen. I read those familiar words, faithful and true. My guy delivered a latte with a kiss. I got in the car and drove three turns and ended up with two-handed coffee and a most trusted confidant and prayers washed with sacred tears. I packed the car and hugged my girls and laughed as they goodbye'd us with a salute. We headed back to our other home, with a stop for a few groceries and an ice tea along the way. I drove into the neighborhood and beeped at a kid who returned the greetings with a two-fingered (of significance, as he is known to use just one finger...) wave. I wiped off and mopped up two weeks of dust and my house smelled like Mexican pine. I greeted our gatekeeper and greeted our workers and greeted my teammates and sat in my desk chair and made it wheeze when it lowered. I laughed with friends. We watched the sun put on a show before setting for the night and then ate together. 

This morning my reading ended,

And the commander of the Lord's army said to Joshua, “Take off your sandals from your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy.” (Joshua 5:15 ESV) 

Maybe there are days that make us fall on our face to worship, too.

1/365

"Getting old is not for sissies," she tells me as we rise. We have just finished lunch, treating me by sharing the gift card she receives from her kids every year. She celebrated her 75th birthday just a week ago. I nod my head in agreement at her wisdom while moving with hesitation, my tailbone still sore from a hard fall several weeks earlier. I think about my husband, eagerly anticipating having pins removed from his arm in just a couple of days. Certainly, we are beginning to recognize cracks in these mortal vessels.

The new year starts dreary, gray and rainy and wet. It's a good day to sit and stare out the window and reflect. Earlier in the year past, we took time to consider the almost ten years prior. On long pieces of paper spread out on heavy wooden tables, we mapped the journey. We remembered ups and downs, detours and dead ends, sharp turns and roadblocks along the way. In both ministry and in family, we have known celebrations and steep declines and struggles and tragedy, all. 

But back in March and now still, nine months later, I recognize our Creator, Redeemer, Savior God who remains faithful, firm and unwavering. The lyrics of a favorite song play in my mind-
I will build my house
Whether storm or drought
On the rock that does not move
I will set my hope
In your love, O Lord
And your faithfulness will prove
You are steadfast, steadfast
("Steadfast" by Sandra McCracken, Leslie Jordan and Josh Silverberg, with adaptations from Henri Nowen)
That is the chorus this sissy wants playing on repeat in the year ahead.

Reflections

The shades of gray vary only slightly on a hazy February day at the beach. The shadowy line on the distant horizon distinctly divides the sea from the sky. But still, all remains shades of gray, khaki gray sand, green gray sea, silver gray haze, and blue gray sky. The waves roll to the shore, whitecaps splashing one curve into another. A rip current runs parallel to the beach, a speedboat flume spraying out the back, until it collides with the incoming waters. Speed racer bubbles float across the water’s trail until colliding with a speed bump shell and popping into an ephemeral mist. The froth of the wave, foamy white, scurries towards the sand, leveling out until it rolls back, overcome by the following round. The cycle repeats again and again. The unpredictable and yet certain rhythm mesmerizes me. The noise of the surf and the roar of the wind block out the sounds of the people and the cars passing by. I close my eyes and think that I might be alone.

Except there are the birds. I am the intruder here. The seabirds gather just down the shore, spread out in a sentinel line. Gulls and terns stand in the mirror waters, waiting for the signal to move. A pelican flies solo over the gulf shore, looking for the right moment to make his kamikaze dive, a plunge into the sea for his lunch. Tiny sandpipers dart back and forth, following the waves, stopping only to peck an unsuspecting crab before quickly shifting direction once again. A blue heron stands stately until finally making a graceful launch up into the air.

And also, there are the people. A couple of men try to fly a trick kite. The green and yellow triangle swoops and swerves, dipping dangerously towards the water before they pull it back up again, fighting against the wind all the while. A couple on pedaling bikes roll by, their fat donut tires leaving knobby prints in the sand. Two women walk past, talking and seeming not to notice the incoming waves lapping their bare toes or the wind pushing their hair from their faces. Others drive past silently in cars, the roar of the sea louder than that of the engines. 

All this, and yet I close my eyes and think again, I am alone. This year I have entered into a new season, different from any I have passed through before. In taking a time of sabbatical away from vocation and daily community, a good part of my life lately consists of quiet reflection. Here at the beach, my thoughts quickly turn to that of the psalmist who wrote,

What is man that you are mindful of him,

the son of man that you care for him?…

The birds of the heavens, and the fish of the sea, 

whatever passes along the paths of the seas.

O Lord, our Lord,

how majestic is your name in all the earth!

Psalm 8:4, 8-9 (ESV)

I too confess,

Nevertheless, I am continually with you;

     you hold my right hand.

You guide me with your counsel,

     and afterward you will receive me to glory.

Whom have I in heaven but you?

     And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.

My flesh and my heart may fail,

     but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Psalm 73:23-26

He continues to instruct me and I continue to learn

that the way down is the way up, that to be low is to be high, that the broken heart is the healed heart, that the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit, that the repenting soul is the victorious soul, that to have nothing is to possess all, that to bear the cross is to wear the crown, that to give is to receive,

Valley of Vision  

and that He is enough.

2 years

Everyone experiences grief differently, not a right way or a wrong way, but differently. I suppose we all have ideas of what grief should look like, or will look like, but the truth is, we don't know how we will respond until it happens.

Two years ago on this day, my first grandson died. We lived our worst nightmare that first month. The first year continued to be hard, all the firsts without Harper- Christmas and birthdays and Mother's Day and vacations. But I guess that maybe I thought after that first year it would get easier.

I didn't anticipate that, really, it doesn't get easier. Not really. There will always and forever be a hole in our family. Last month, I sent Advent calendars to my grands, and I had to rip up a card, and then an envelope, when without even thinking, I wrote Harper's name on both. I do that all the time when naming my grands. I never really know what to say when asked how many grandkids I have. I have four, but not everyone knows how to respond when you mention, "but my oldest died." This year, my second grandson turned the same age of his brother, and all of the sudden I realized, "He's going to start doing things that Harper never did..." And such begins a different season of grief.

On this day, I'm a little bit short of breath, remembering my guy. But I want to make sure, I do not grieve as those without hope.  In response to a grieving mother, John Piper wrote about honoring God even in our sorrow, that "at every moment of the lengthening grief, we turn to him, not away from him. And therefore, the length of it is a way of showing him to be ever present, enduringly sufficient."
This I know to be true. 

I think that perhaps, most of all, we want to believe that the loss of our dear one was not in vain. Harper died of a heart condition that was not discovered. But his death gave opportunity for all the kids of the family to be checked for the same abnormality. And so, although we mourn, we were also comforted when Harper's younger cousin was found to have the same heart condition, and had it corrected by surgery. In a strange way, our loss perhaps saved a little one and for that, we rejoice.

But more than anything else, I trust the sovereign God, and respond with the saints of old who when asked "What is thy only comfort in life and in death?" respond, 

"That I, with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ, who with His precious blood has fully satisfied for all my sins, and redeemed me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me, that without the will of my Father in heaven not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must work together for my salvation. Wherefore, by His Holy Spirit, He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me heartily willing and ready henceforth to live unto Him."

Even still, miss you much, Harper buddy.

 

"Hey! Unto you a child is born!"

“The Herdmans were absolutely the worst kids in the history of the world. They lied and stole and smoked cigars (even the girls) and talked dirty and hit little kids and cussed their teachers and took the name of the Lord in vain and set fire to Fred Shoemaker’s old broken-down toolhouse.”
Barbara Robinson, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

No one with the name Herdman will be found in our Mexican neighborhood, but I'm pretty sure that we know their primos. I'm pretty sure that Herdman cousins show up to our community outreach activities every week. I mean, there was Monday night...

There were the big boys, the teens, who come to practice guitar and hang out and then play soccer and torment be with the rest of us. They roam in a pack, rarely still, never quiet. In the two hours they were with us, they managed to crush one ping-pong ball, accidentally pound my teammate in the face with a soccer ball, escape and return, again and again, and again, to bible class, and marginally participate in art class. One boy, who we always think should know better, finished the evening by de-pants-ing (is that a word for anyone except those who work with boys?) another one of their crowd,  and then the whole herd found themselves kicked out dismissed early. 

There were the littles, the under 5 crowd, who come in full of smiles and hugs, who need the sticky candy and hot Cheeto residue washed off their hands before they touch anyone or anything. They take a try at ping-pong and manage to hit the ball everywhere but on the table. They work puzzles on the floor and force grooves that don't fit together and sling the giant pieces across the room when they don't match. One girl tries to build a tower and yells in frustration when the boy plays Godzilla, stomping through the block city and destroying her skyscraper in progress. They color Christmas tree pages in bright primary colors, branches of orange and yellow and red, and look up at us and ask, "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it pretty? Do you like it?" Yes, yes we do, you little Picasso Modernists.

There were the girls. There is the one who has been with us since the beginning, who as she walks through the gate looks at me and shouts, "WHY? Kristy! Why did you cut your hair?!," obviously not impressed with my new do. There is the young teen who comes in with a hood over her head and when greeted offers a hug and a shy smile but who obviously is hurting. She won't talk; she won't answer why. She nods at a "headache?" but we're pretty sure that wasn't it. She won't stay seated in class to save her life. She leaves the room, multiple times, silently asking us to find her. And then when class is over and she finally has permission to leave, she comes back. There's the elementary student who comes in late and when everyone else has left, tells my teammate that she hates school, that the teacher doesn't like her, that the kids don't like her, that it's not worth it to go.

In The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, the Herdman kids learn the Christmas story and help the rest of the community to see it with brand new eyes. I think we are much the same. In this neighborhood, Christmas isn't about Santa, though in bright lights he is flying high over the carnecería next door. Only a few of these kids will have a tree in their house. They aren't making lists and checking them twice. In the book, Imogene Herdman plays Mary in the church play, and burps baby Jesus because, “That’s the whole point of Jesus — that he didn’t come down on a cloud like something out of “Amazing Comics,’ but that he was born and lived … a real person.”  The Christmas story doesn't change these messy stories, doesn't change our chaotic evening at the community center, at least not today. But it does change eternity. Jesus was born and lived, a real person!, and he also died for us and lives again for us- that's the hope that is our consolation and our assurance and the motivation that propels us forward, even on the most challenging of days.  The Herdman kid who plays the Angel of the Lord in the play yells out, “Hey! Unto you a child is born" and his sister responds with "Shazaaaam!" 
So do we. 

DPP 1- It's not yet time

(December Photo Project day 1)

The first of December seems like a good day to decorate for Christmas. I pull out the box of last year's decorations from the bottom shelf. I take the tree off the top of the refrigerator, its home for the last 11 months, and dust it off. I remove the string of lights from my headboard. The Pumpkin Vanilla candle and orange plaid runner and "Give Thanks" sign move to the back of the wardrobe. Evergreen moves in. Well, plastic evergreen; truly, ever green.

I spread out the festive red runner and slide  together the balsa reindeer. I wind the lights around the branches of the little tree. I hang the tiny bulbs with care. I set out the miniature tin nativity scene. I even hang up a few red and green prints over the couch. I turn on the star lights that have been dangling since last year. It all takes about 5 minutes. It looks like we are ready.

But today is but the first day of December. It's not yet time. Advent reminds us of the waiting. John writes at the beginning of his gospel, "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth... For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace."  (John 1:14, 16 ESV) And I believe those truths with all my heart. But I am prone to distraction, prone to forget. My prayer this Advent season is to look again, to remember and to experience that fullness, to recognize that grace upon grace.

(also- this is my ninth year to participate in the December Photo Project, a picture a day until Christmas! Join the fun?)

264/365

My grandpa kept his earthworms in a tin bucket in a dark corner of the garage. My sister and I, we would dig just a little bit beneath the surface and they would start to show themselves, wiggly in the musty peat. He was the first fisherman I knew, my grandpa. He would sit patiently on the banks of New Mexico lakes or wave his fly rod in a slow and rhythmic wave in the middle of cold mountain streams. But as much as he loved his granddaughters, he didn't have much tolerance for us fishing with him. We chattered way too much. We churned up the waters and wasted bait and asked for lunch when breakfast was hardly over. I haven't been fishing in years.

Even so, when the conversation with our neighborhood boys turned to fishing not too long ago, I was all in. "What do you use for bait?" asked Mario. "Sometimes we grab cockroaches and use them." Eek. OK, well maybe I was mostly in. Without doubt, this would be an new adventure for all of us. 

The boys meet us on Friday afternoon, eagerly early, and load up in the van, ready to go. My teammates scrounge up all the rods they have between them and buy the cheapest fish at the grocery for bait. We ladies supply the people food. We load a cooler of water in the back of the van. Seven boys and 6 adults, ready to roll.

We head north out of the neighborhood. Remember, north from our location pretty much takes you directly to the the US/Mexico border, directly to the river. 
"Derecho." our 15 year old guide directs us.
"Derecho."
"Derecho."
"Derecho."
Following the road, straight ahead, straight ahead, straight ahead, we pass a family on the side, walking home from school. Bright green and shrubby growth lines the steep bank of the Rio Bravo (Americans know it as the Rio Grande, but we are on the Mexican side so...). The United States lies just a good stone's throw to the right. Farther down the unpaved dirt road, we pass a brick factory, rectangle mud blocks drying under the hot border sun. We drive past all kinds of abandoned shacks and run-down houses and some inhabited ones, too. Who knew people live all the way out here? Finally, the van dips and curves and comes to a stop in an open field when we absolutely can drive no farther. 

A tethered horse lifts his head as if to check us out, but quickly gets back to grazing. Over the course of the afternoon, we also meet a family of pigs, wallowing and snorting in the mud at the edge of the river. A couple of cows wander by. A herd of goats trot through on their way home at the end of the day. 

The boys string their rods, bait their hooks, and wait. I'm pretty sure that my grandpa would have banned several of them, they way a couple splash and shout. Although the boys tried earnestly, they didn't catch one fish on this afternoon. One boy did hook two turtles, releasing each to scurry back into the water in a hurry. Several times, lines got snagged and caught on river debris and had to be cut and set free. Eventually, one boy went back to his fishing tool of choice, an old empty brown beer bottle wrapped with line, a spark plug tied on for a weight. 

And then, after a longer time than we expected, we caught the attention of the US Border Patrol. We figure we are being watched, and finally spot a camera on a tall pole set back from the river's edge. We see one vehicle and then another pull up on the bank across the water. We watch them as, through binoculars, they watch us. We amuse ourselves, wondering what they might make of this crew, a few gringo and Mexican adults sitting in the sand, a few Mexican boys fishing. I mourn that we live in a place where goofy boys can't go fishing and swim in the river without being watched by officials on the other side.

We scarf down tortas, crusty rolls dusted with flour and stuffed with beans and ham and cheese and avocado, while continually waving away the ever increasing number of flies. The boys start the afternoon mostly dry, but eventually succumb to the heat and to the call of the cool water. They dive and splash until we call it a day and pile back in the van for the return trip home. 

Really, I'm still the impatient and restless girl that my grandpa hesitated to take along on his fishing trips. Nonetheless, just as I knew with absolutely certainty from my grandpa, I abide in the deep love of my heavenly Father. I'm trusting Jesus. I remember back at the beginning of his earthly ministry, we are told about a time that Jesus met some young men fishing. Scripture tells us, 
Jesus said to them, “Come with me. I’ll make a new kind of fisherman out of you. I’ll show you how to catch men and women instead of perch and bass.” They didn’t ask questions, but simply dropped their nets and followed." (Matt 4:18-20, The Message)
We're praying that he's making new fishermen out of these boys, too.

159/365

We started a new thing this spring- a Bible study for boys' in our neighborhood. It seemed like the logical thing to do when the boys who gathered to go to our mid-week cell group study could no longer fit in our car. So, using the same study on Jonah, we started a new group at our house. Not wanting to miss any aspect of the weekly event, we promised that yes, we would have coffee. And we would feed them. 

Guess what? They came, 6 or more boys each week. 

Who says the Bible is boring? Jonah could easily be a made-for-movie story. A disobedient prophet running from God. A hideaway at the bottom of a ship. A tremendous storm. A desperate crew. A confessing passenger reluctantly thrown into the sea. A dramatic rescue by... a Really Big Fish? A remorseful messenger vomited onto the shore. A reluctant missionary sent to a wicked people. A deeply apologetic and repentant city seeking forgiveness. A defiant prophet pouting against the sovereign God. The book of Jonah provides for a lot of conversation. 

For six weeks one after another, they came to the house, through our front gate, through our back gate, even sliding down the pole from the roof to our porch. One week they came still wet from swimming. We'd bring out the coffee and booklets and pens. We watched a short video commentary on the passage of the week and then we talked about what we learned. We talked about Jonas and about what God was doing in that time and place and people. We talked about running from God. We talked about hopes and fears. We talked about His mercy and justice and grace and steadfast lovingkindness. We talked about Jesus. Of course, it wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

Six weeks later we come to the end of the study, and of course, we must celebrate. We promise the boys that we'll make pizzas the next week. But not at our house- at our community center kitchen so we can use two ovens at once and not heat up the house when it's already 100 degrees outside. A couple days prior, I remind the boys when I see them, and ask them their favorite pizza toppings. Maybe that was a strategic error...

Imagine our surprise when we head to the community center on Friday afternoon to prepare for the group and find a mini-mob of more than a dozen kids that were rarely if ever at the study, all ready for a pizza party. Suddenly our Bible study has grown to include kids we've never met. It now includes a few girls? We laugh. Perhaps there is innocent confusion- because we do have activities including a bible lesson a couple times a week at the community center. Perhaps there is wishful thinking, because after all, there is pizza. We decide to include any boy who attended the study at least twice. I promise the girls we're working on a study for them, too. We turn the others away, this time at least. I wonder how Jesus might multiply pizza dough and pepperoni.

So 13 boys (and one little sister) end up making pies on Friday afternoon. Maybe the next two hours would be best be described as Organized Chaos. Each kid took a lump of dough to a table covered with flour, rolling it flat with a glass soda bottle. We ration out sauce. These Norteños are the original meat-lovers; everyone gets 5 pepperonis and 3 cucharas de salchichas. An adventurous few add mushrooms and black olives. A border pizza might not be complete without jalapeños. They cover their discs with cheese and add some identifying mark to the top and send it to the ovens.

While they wait, Pastor Mario goes over a review of the study, and sure enough, some bit of the previous 6 weeks has stuck. Boys shout out answers back at him. We remind them of starting again next week. We pray for the food, thanking our God for His goodness and provision to all of us. He is "a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and relenting from disaster." (Jonah 4:2)

Then, we eat pizza.

63/365

The good news is that finally, finally, I won a round of lotería. The bad news is that we were playing at the good-bye party for my buddy and office mate so I found my excitement a bit tempered.
And then my husband accidentally gave away my prize.
Alas. Some days are like that.

Does anyone else remember days as good news, bad news? I often wonder, am I the only one who perpetually wrestles with life's opposites? The only one who sees the sides and can't exactly be completely for one or the other? Does anyone else contend with those inner arguments while living very much in the out-there-right-now?

And then I found this essay, and realized, maybe others think on these sorts of ideas, too. Maybe I'm not the only one quite sure she doesn't have all the answers. Loree Ferguson Wilbert writes:

My desires must be for something higher, God himself and his kingdom.  

This is why I glad to not be a registered anything or pledge allegiance to anything on this earth. My allegiance is to God, to his order of things, and my optimism is rooted in the coming kingdom, not in the fruition of all my "disordered loves." The world is in disarray: children slaughtered in schools by people with guns made for slaughtering, mental gymnastics abound by barely clad women talking about objectification, wars and rumors of wars, and everyone thinks they're the real optimist, the ones with the real solutions. But God's kingdom gives us permission to grieve at what is while hoping for what is to come at the same time—to be true eternal optimists.  

It might be on the picket lines that our points are made, but it's at the tables where progress is made. It's there where we can be honest about what is terribly, terribly wrong, but also true about what is beautifully, achingly good. 

Tonight at the table we didn't make much progress. But we ate really well and we laughed a lot and we were together, minus a couple, for the last time for a while. And all of that was indeed "achingly good." I want to keep erring on the side of "true eternal optimist."

15/365

Maybe that’s why in the list of heart, soul, mind, strength, in every time that it occurs in the Gospels, heart is first. Because the heart is not an organ of performance; it’s an organ of preference. The heart prefers, and then we do stuff in accord with our preferences. The first commandment is loving with all your preference. Prefer him above everything. Let him be your gold, your silver, your everything, and it’ll change all your doings.
- John Piper, "The Heart of Love is Delighting, Not Doing," Desiring God blog.

The alarm goes off early. It all seemed so reasonable when I suggested the plan for the day the previous night. But the dark and cool of a January morning make early seem even earlier. Thankful for a hot shower, I dress quickly and settle at my desk with my mug and my Bible, my notebook and my pen. I repeat the keystrokes for the week's memory verse, over and over and they start to stick.

We load up and head out, the light of dawn barely peeking over the horizon behind us. A stop for gas. A stop for a taco. A stop for coffee. I argue one stop would have worked just as well. I think about the day, about the week, about the rest of the month. I play ump-jillion games of solitaire to avoid paying attention to traffic while my guy drives alongside the rest of the morning commuters. 

I'm back at my other desk and making a list of To Do's in relatively short order. Administrative work and plans for teaching, overdue correspondence, and the next day's assignments fill my notecard. One by one, I cross them out, only occasionally distracted by Facebook, by playlists. "Like a boss," I congratulate myself as I strike through another item. I head across the street for the afternoon reading and outreach. I play with kids. I stack and restack blocks and keep big kids from knocking down fragile towers and coordinate demolition countdowns. I sit with a little one coloring at a table full of bigs and encourage her to finish her page, finding whatever crayon she asks for next. It's a day of doing.

In a 1967 speech to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, Martin Luther King Junior said, "As for me, I have also decided to stick with love for I know that love is ultimately the only answer to the mankind's problems." Just a few moments later in the same speech, King clarified, "and I'm not talking about emotional bosh when I talk about love." He certainly wasn't referring to the simple feel-good "love" of Valentine candy hearts. King reminded the crowd of the requirements of 1 Corinthians 13, of the challenge of doing all things with love, and of the potential to become egotistical and self-righteous even in the midst of doing good things.

Ah... right. It's not about the To Do list. It's about how I do it. It's about who is glorified in the doing. I pray that even on days that are full of doing, my heart will always delight the very most in Him who first loved us.

9/365

After a break for the Christmas holidays and a week of short-term team activity in the 'hood, regular activities around here have resumed. Maybe I shouldn't say "normal," because on this day, we shortened classes because the water was turned off due to fixing a leaky outside pipe. Maybe some sort of disruption is our normal?

As we came into the neighborhood over the weekend, a small mob of kids stopped our car as we turned the corner. "See you Monday?," they asked us expectantly (right after the announcement of "It was my birthday! Do you have a present for me?" and "It was my birthday too! I want a soccer ball, too!," even though only one of those kids really celebrated a birthday while we were away). Then on Sunday morning as we opened the gate to leave for church, another one of our neighborhood kids was passing by and asked, "See you tomorrow?"
Yes! See you tomorrow.

No doubt, we missed these kids while we were away. But we haven't always been sure that they might miss us, too. Without hesitation, one of the biggest impacts of being in a place is simply to be there. We want to be here.

There's no getting around the facts- we are different in this place. We look different. We speak with a different accent. But too, we want to live different. We want to love different. Our hope is in a different place, a different person. We want to live and speak and show Christ.

So as we resume "normal" around here, we are examining again how to do all this well. How do we abide in this place and offer ourselves and know our neighbors and love one another well?

Pastor Scotty Smith offered the prayer, 

Father, help us to see how your hand and heart are at work in everything. You are working all things together after the counsel of your will. You are working in all things for the good of those who love you; and we love you because you first loved us. ("Getting, Being, and Staying Still") 

At the beginning of this new year, I pray the same petition.

6/365

The heavens declare the glory of God,
    and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
Day to day pours out speech,
    and night to night reveals knowledge.
There is no speech, nor are there words,
    whose voice is not heard.
Their voice goes out through all the earth,
    and their words to the end of the world.
In them he has set a tent for the sun,
    which comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber,
    and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy.
Its rising is from the end of the heavens,
    and its circuit to the end of them,
    and there is nothing hidden from its heat.
- Psalm 19:1-6 (ESV)

Most of the day fills with that too familiar pull of here and there, of then and now and what still will be, of already and not yet, of out with the old and in with the new, of often seen but not really known. At a certain point, and I'd be hard-pressed to explain why even to myself, I felt the hot sting of salt fill my eyes and I turned to move away. How do we move gracefully, gratefully, through the ups and downs and curves of life? 

We finish the last hour of daylight completing the final errand of the day. Expectantly, I look for glimpses of glory along the way. The pastel wisps of clouds change gradually, vibrantly, into brilliant hues, the Creator's jewel-tone colors across the western canvas. The visible reminder, the "no you are not in control, and that's all ok; there is yet better," comes in the afternoon change of sky.

I too want to be like a strong man and run the course with joy.

4/365

Psalm 130English Standard Version (ESV)

A Song of Ascents.

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!
    O Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive
    to the voice of my pleas for mercy!

If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
    O Lord, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness,
    that you may be feared.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
    and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
    more than watchmen for the morning,
    more than watchmen for the morning.

O Israel, hope in the Lord!
    For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
    and with him is plentiful redemption.
And he will redeem Israel
    from all his iniquities.

365/365

Dear 2017,

Let's be honest- we had a hard start. Already reeling from tremendous loss in December, we mourned yet again in January. We didn't really recover, not exactly, but we learned to lean in hard on our Savior. We saw his grace and mercy new, time and time again, and in this crazy economy of Already, Not Yet, we kept looking forward. Here it is, the final day of the year, and yes, we find ourselves finishing the year still worshipping the One who is making all things new.

In the in-between months, we were given so much to celebrate- birthdays and graduations, anniversaries and births and announcements of a baby to come. We traveled to new places. We experienced the delight of a beignet and cafe au lait at Café du Monde in New Orleans' French Market. We took in the rainbow hues of Guanajuato homes stacked on a hillside. We oohed and aahed over the orange and golds of the Midwestern change of season.

We heard hard stories in our Reynosa neighborhood, stories of hurt and pain and loss and fear. We heard hard stories in our own families and in families of loved ones, stories of doubt and anxiety and uncertainty. We watched a hurricane come ashore just a 160 miles north of us, and experienced that strange pairing of thankfulness and grief. We followed the news of the world and of our nation, and we often shook our heads. We grieved for families we didn't even know, for tragedy that seemed senseless, for faraway places beyond our reach. And yes, sometimes we were angry- over injustice and over ignorance, over violence and over hate.

Yet even with the hard of all of that, we laughed together. We sang songs together, old and new. We shook our head at the crazy of this world, and at the reality of life that you just can't make up. We played games and watched games and were game to try new things. We know that there is adventure and joy yet to be found.

The greatest experiences yet to come will certainly be found while living another year as a Christ follower, by grace, by faith. I think my prayer on the last day of the year echoes exactly the Valley of Vision prayer for the New Year:

O LORD,
Length of days does not profit me except the days are passed
in thy presence, in thy service, to thy glory.
Give me a grace that precedes, follows, guides, sustains,
sanctifies, aids every hour,
that I may not be one moment apart from thee,
but may rely on thy Spirit
to supply every thought,
speak in every word,
direct every step,
prosper every work,
build up every mote of faith,
and give me a desire
to show forth thy praise,
testify thy love,
advance thy kingdom.

I launch my bark on the unknown waters of this year,
with thee, O Father, as my harbor,
thee, O Son, at my helm,
thee, O Holy Spirit, filling my sails.

Guide me to heaven with my loins girt,
my lamp burning,
my ear open to thy calls,
my heart full of love,
my soul free.

Give me thy grace to sanctify me,
thy comforts to cheer,
thy wisdom to teach,
thy right hand to guide,
thy counsel to instruct,
thy law to judge,
thy presence to stabilize.
May thy fear be my awe,
thy triumphs my joy.

Thank you and good-bye, 2017. And welcome 2018. We are eager to know you.