on waiting for bigger, brighter days

I go out to see the Super Pink Moon and I know it is right there. I guess the overcast skies told it to shelter in place. I feel a little bad, though I know that the moon doesn't feel at all. I can see the outline of the moon lined up with the sun, ready to reflect all that light in a moment of glory. There it is, hanging high in the sky, ready for this Biggest Brightest Day of the Year, and then the clouds drift lazy past it. I walk back inside, admittedly, a bit disappointed. 

Seems like that scenario plays out in a many places these days. We're ready for big bright moments, and go back inside, a bit disappointed. My ever present struggle is balancing that line between contentment and complacency, between patience and "I guess this is how it is."

The calendar says that we are at a far away, desert camping, Texas Grand Canyon roadtrip with friends. Instead we meet up on Zoom. They gather at appropriate, socially distanced, spaces in a Midwest backyard. We perch on the futon couch in our Reynosa living room. Seeing their faces and hearing their voices and listening to the good news updates cause us to smile and to laugh out loud. But truth be told, video never completely fills the void. I want to be together. I want to smell the campfire smoke and have a glass of that red wine and look at them face to face. Even so, we finish and sign out with a hopeful "see you soon." 

I confess, in this season of waiting, I am hoping for second chances, for make up dates, and for still planned event to yet happen. I read that we get another chance to see the Supermoon this year, the Full Flower Moon next up in May. But really, the moon will be there, no matter if the clouds show up or not. In a modern version of the Psalms, I am reminded of our God, "his sovereignty as sure as the sun, dependable as the phases of the moon." This, I know, is true. That is where I will choose to rest content.

246/365

"Greetings from Reynosa. I am doing administrative work today and notice that this email address..."
And such started many notes on this day, as I try to reconcile and consolidate several address lists for our missions giving and communications. Through the wonder of technology, we can see who opens our mail, and who doesn't. This sort of business can be a cumbersome work for a natural introvert, an official Enneagram 9, who relies on the goodness and giving of others for the majority of our income. I mean, maybe you really don't want to read our updates and that's totally ok. I understand, really I do. Maybe you just changed your email and we didn't know. Or maybe you have multiple email addresses and our mail isn't going to one you read most often. Or maybe...

I am left believing that this new world of social media and instant communication can prove itself both a blessing and a curse. Surely missionaries in not so many years past wished, "If only I could send out one letter to everyone...," "If only I could see who was really receiving our mail..." Now we can. And not only that! I adore instant access to photos of faraway friends and family whom I would otherwise rarely see at all. The images and updates close the distance. Sometimes I forget how long it's been since I've had an actual conversation with that person because I often "see" them, or at least, their posts and their photos. But then I'll get a real letter, a newsy epistle written exclusively for my eyes, that shares a bit of a dear one's heart, and I remember. Even the best missive cannot substitute for sitting together, face to face.

I live on the edge of two frontiers and crossing from one country to another can be a daily exercise, simple and normal. Yet, sometimes an ordinary update will remind me that I am indeed so far away. Kids who were everyday playmates of my own get married and have their own kids and celebrations go on with out us, as they should. I accidentally discover that I was "unfriended" by someone and I consider why that stings. I often struggle to make small talk with friends stateside. Just a few miles apart, and yet everyday life can look so different from my side of the 'hood. Jesus' command to "follow me" demands and requires so very much more than what we know from being a follower on social media these days.

Only minutes after sending out the first inquiry, I receive a response, "Your newsletters would be welcomed," the kind folks write.  And then another similar response quickly follows. Certainly, I savor the nearly instant gratification, at least for a moment. Which is good, because those two replies would be it. And so, it's back to "Greetings from Reynosa..."

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."

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.

318/365

Something like 13 days and 2700 miles later and there remains only 550 more sky miles until I am home.

Well, sort of.
What is home?

I haven't lived in the town where I was born for 45 years (and actually, that wasn't a town, but officially, an Air Force base hospital, perhaps a sign of things to come...). I have never considered calling that "home."

At Christmas time, I will visit the town where I grew up, where a few family members and friends still live- but I'll spend my days as a guest in other's houses and my nights in a hotel room. Although it is familiar and a favorite place of mine, I no longer consider it "home".

Sure, "home" would be the place where I live right now. But depending on what day of the week, that might change, too. No matter what side of the border I am in, when I leave, I say I'm "going home." I qualify my home by location, but recognize the temporal nature of that, too. I mean, a quick count reminds me that I have lived in at least 20-something homes in my life.

In her commentary on homesickness, Jen Pollock Michel writes,

"As writer Julian Barnes put it in his novel Nothing to Be Frightened Of, we live with “the vicious awareness that this is a rented world.” The grass withers, and the flowers fade: Ours is an impermanent life. At the very least, home is a steadying consolation when the lights go out."

I confess, I am easily homesick. My husband teases that I really can't be away from normal life for more than a few days. I think he exaggerates, but I certainly recognize the truth in that statement. I do love to travel, and I do love to return home...
wherever that may be.

245/365

The sun glows golden and starts to cast early evening shadows as we walk along the shore. We balance the slope between the water and the shore and dash back and forth from the waves, guessing just how far down we can venture before the tide grabs our feet. Raindrops begin to fall, first enough apart to dash between and then, gradually, faster and closer. We turn back towards sidewalk, towards shelter. It always seems to be a narrow margin, that distance between rainbow and storm.

184/365

I once had a friend who, when talking about her growing kids, would be known to say, "THIS is my favorite age!" The rest of us moms finally made her confess that, really, every age was her favorite age. That's how I feel about my own age. Today I was thinking, I love being this age. My family is generally at a good place in life. I have lots of memories and experiences, and have the confidence of trusting our God's faithfulness in those yet to come. I'm ok with "my style," whatever that means, and go figure, my gray hairs are surprisingly hip these days. I have freedom in my days and can even fill in as a babysitter in a last moment pinch. I have even learned to smile at "for everything there is a season...," a place where I have been known to grumble for many years. My favorite age is now.

132/365

Here might be a primary problem with homeschooling-
if you want something to happen, you might just have to make it happen yourself.

Graduation=T-1week

a birthday

We never celebrated a birthday together, since we never lived in the same place. Truth be told, we don't always connect on birthdays, coordinating schedules and phone calls and such. And shamefully, I am often tardy to the post office and gifts don't always arrive when they should. But on this day, I especially remembered the day this guy was born. (I was on a trip to the Mall of America and shopping with friends. The labor took days. We kept waiting on updates and worked hard not to pester. We had lots of time to scour sales racks and amass a small wardrobe for a little guy.)

But today, I grieved that he's not here with us to celebrate. It's been four months and a couple of weeks since Harper died, and no- we're not over it yet. (Yes- I've been asked that. Yes- I've tried to be gracious even so.)

My daughter asked us to share some memories of Harper. You know, Ashley and Tom, how very much we love him. Harper was so very curious. I loved to answer his "why" questions and watch him think and consider the answers (and then challenge me again). I loved to read him stories and hear him debate with his brother the qualities that make one superhero more super than the other. I loved how he would snuggle up right up to my side but not in a demanding or consuming sort of way. I loved how in him I see Ashley, the same inquisitive blue eyes, the same sort of blond cowlicks, the same know-no-stranger friendliness. I loved that he took one more selfie with me at the airport that day.

The memories are sweet, but oh how I long for eternity together.
Happy birthday, buddy.

362/366

A rare day of nothing on the calendar, nowhere to be meant a day fully at home, and much neglected tasks suffer no more. Blinds pulled open, dust flying, papers disposed, vacuum fired up. Linens clean, sheets changed, laundry through the cycles.

And yet, partly cloudy skies are an apt description of my own condition this day, forcing myself through chores in the foggy overcast.

This morning I nodded when I read,
It seems natural enough to protect our hearts from grief—to grimly endure or anesthetize with busyness or distraction or exhaustion. But to protect our hearts from grief is to protect our hearts from love. And that’s no way to live.

I had forgotten. I had forgotten that the opposite of joy is not sadness, but fear. I had forgotten (again) that joy and sorrow are twin eggs of the same nest. I had forgotten that love is always worth the pain—always.

I had forgotten that battered hearts are the most beautiful in the end.

- Lanier Invester, "Seeds of Love," The Rabbit Room blog

345/366

DPP10- Crisp morning, good health, sweet friends, and hardly a care in the world for this litte segment of time; we watched the colors fly up and waited for the rainbow apocalypse to drift our direction. Our post-race breakfast took an extraordinarily long time, and we were all getting frustrated. After waiting and waiting (and waiting), our waitress shared a piece of her story. She was an immigrant from a far away place, mourning the death of her mom, and on this day, very much overwhelmed by the demands of American culture and expectation. We offered her prayers of comfort and hopefully a little bit of grace, yet her words echo in my head and my heart even now.

342/366

DPP7- On this afternoon, the students learn from the teacher's mistakes. Over and over again today, I am reminded of how very impressive is that simple character trait of humility.

314/366

On the morning after the election, I woke up and sat at my desk, like every other morning. I turned to the reading of the day, and read, 
I know that the Lord will maintain the cause of the afflicted,    
and will execute justice for the needy.
Surely the righteous shall give thanks to your name;    
the upright shall dwell in your presence.
I believe those words true. I pray that my heart will reflect His. And on this morning, I ponder over and again that idea of dwell, 
to abide and to remain. 

I'm thankful for
my husband and my everyday morning latte,
dancing boys who fall asleep in a moment,
the sweet greeting of recognition at the door of Sam's,
girls who laugh with me,
checks on the to-do list,
the deepdeep ruby reds of cranberries popping,
ordinary grace,
love of every love the best.

271/366

Tuesday blessings-
"He always gives you Himself,"
weather for my fave shoes and a long sleeve shirt,
a French press shared,
tables and chairs in place,
dinner in the crock pot,
afternoon quiet visits,
prayer,
returning students,
citizenship!,
cheerful helpers,
GIFs that make me laugh out loud,
His delight is not in the strength of the horse, 
nor his pleasure in the legs of a man,
but the Lord takes pleasure in those who fear him, 
in those who hope in His steadfast love.

263/366

I spent the afternoon in sewing class for the young ladies from the deaf school, helping to bridge the gaps in communicating from English to Spanish to Mexican Sign Language. We watch our master seamstress check the work of the girls since she has been away, measuring distance between darts and looking for the straight stitch and judging seam allowances with a critical eye. The girls wait for the critique, knowing the high standards of their teacher. We see their faces light when told "well done."

There are four brand new girls, just beginning to learn the signs for the craft and the habits of the seamstress. They move to choose fabric for their first project and feel the weight of the cloth carefully, rubbing it between their fingers, judging if it has suitable heft to be transformed into a bag. They measure, and then measure again, and perhaps again, before cutting. They check everything, and have everything checked.

Measure twice, cut once declares the old adage for carpentry. Yet, some traditions say that it was originally said measure seven times, cut once. I keep thinking, how much better off we would be to adapt the same caution in much of life, to plan and then execute, to think before speaking. I remember the correction and then thoughtful praise of the instructor with her learners, how the girls respond to her expectation of excellence.  The girls are not the only students today.

258/366

Staring at the water about to boil, I think, How is it that the same circumstance affects each of us so differently? Eggs harden while the potato softens. Some cry, some pout, and some retreat in private silence. One sees challenge to be met while the other fears defeat.

You can give yourself to love, to forgive, to confess, to confront, to trust, to persevere, even when things are hard because "he gives more grace." 
- Paul David Tripp, New Morning Mercies

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152/366

Three weeks and more than 3000 miles of road.
It was a lot of miles, and as much as I love to travel and as much as I love a good road trip, I love to get home.

Reflections on a road trip...
I love the Midwest and I love our Midwestern family and friends.
Our blood has thinned and high 50's is now winter weather.
The United States is so very diverse and so very beautiful.
There is just an awful lot of Very Tasty Food in this world.
Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb!
There are so many good books yet to be read.
Traveling with two teens is infinitely easier than traveling with 5 preschoolers.
If in doubt, go classic rock radio.
I am embarrassed at how many classic rock lyrics I know and the songs I can identify only three notes in.
Did the inventor of car air conditioning win some sort of Nobel Prize?
Culture shock comes in the most unexpected places.
There's no place like home.
There's no place like Home.

151/366

"I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White citizens’ “Councilor” or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate who is more devoted to “order” than to justice..."
- Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr in "Letter from a Birmingham City Jail," 16 April 1963

(photo from the National Civil Rights Museum, Memphis, Tennessee) 

289/365

There is in the universe a higher kind of beauty. It is the beauty of sacrifice, of giving up for others, of suffering for others... The beauty of sacrifice is the final word in beauty.
- Frank C. Laubach, Letters by a Modern Mystic (written in 1937)

106/365

The home we owned in Omaha was constructed in 1924. When our family moved in to the house in 2004, we were surprised to learn that in those 80 years, only 3 other families had lived in the house before us. We loved that house, and we loved our neighborhood. We even knew of one lady down the street, Miss Alice, who was born and lived in the same house her entire life!

One year in Omaha around Christmas time, a kind lady we did not know knocked on our front door. When we opened the door, she rather apologized, but explained that she had grown up in the house, the daughter of the very first owners. She was visiting town for Christmas and wondered if she could look around. She was able to tell us about some of the changes that had been made over the years, and tell us what the neighborhood had been like when she grew up. It was a sweet visit that gave us a rare glimpse of the history of our home.

I run past the house in the photo frequently. Nearly always I wonder, "what stories would those walls tell?" And it always reminds me, no, this place is not our home. (Hebrews 13:14)