hold you

Kinley:  “Aw, how cute!  There’s a little girl coming to see you!”

Katie:  “Yeah, but that little girl is standing in the middle of the street!”

I had just pulled up to the curb in front of our house and turned the engine off on the big blue bus, then turned my attention to the pile of debris on the floor next to my seat, trying to figure out how to muster the energy to get it all into the house.

We had just returned from an all-day trip to Denver to WaterWorld for an almost-end-of-the-summer fling for Katie and her friends for which I had taken the day off work.  Eight hours in the baking sun with a crew of teenagers and two of my boys, Will and Noah.  It was fun, but I was feeling my age before we made it home.

I heard the comments of Kinley and Katie coming from the row behind me, and after letting the words sink in for a couple of seconds about a little girl in the street, I came abruptly to attention and turned to look out my window at the street below.

There was Meghan, my two-year-old princess, standing in the street next to my door wearing only a diaper and a t-shirt and signs of dinner on her face, with her hands stretched toward me and sporting that big-brown-eyed, bashful smile.

Her lips moved to the words “Hi, Dad,” though I could hear no sound through the closed window.  I quickly gave up on the debris-hauling logistics and opened the door to the sunshine.

“Hi, Dad,” she said again.

“Hello, Baby, I’m so happy to see my little sunshine girl!”

I pulled her into my arms, weighty diaper and all, and gave her a good squeeze.  She smiled, bashfully again, toward Kinley in the back seat, as I nuzzled my whiskers on her tanned and dirty cheek.

With a pile of kids in my bed this morning, before I arose at Katie’s beckoning that it was time to get moving, Meghan heard Katie talking about going somewhere, and said emphatically, “I go wiss you!”  Minutes later, she was looking for her “fip fops”, and after she had them she came to me again, still wearing her nightgown and sweetly proposed, “I go wiss you, Dad?” 

“No, Honey, you have to stay home with Mommy this time.”

Evidently, she had forgiven me for leaving her behind.

Meghan has been in that phase lately in which she’s not quite sure how to ask to be held by any of us, and most frequently, it comes out something like, “hoedjou,” which is tough to spell, but easy to translate when it comes with outstretched arms:  Hold you is what she means.

It’s an interesting turn of phrase, when you consider that since I’m so much bigger, the only one of us who will be doing any holding is me.  On the other hand, though, it seems most of the benefit comes my way, as if I’m a child crawling up into the lap of my Mom or Dad.

I am refreshed as I’m held by Meghan and my deepest beliefs are confirmed:  There is a God. He knows my name. He makes little girls with lots of sunshine and soft things. Love makes the world go ’round. I can handle much more when I have support.

Meghan is laying here asleep next to me now, as I type this.  She’s had a bath and milk and a story, and I’m convinced she’s the most beautiful creature this side of heaven.  Even sound asleep with her arms stretched out on either side of her, she’s still holding me.

katie sue

Less than 3 weeks past her 21st birthday, Renee called me at my office in the Thrifty Corporation building on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles to tell me that the examination she had just been through at the Kaiser Permanente Hospital in Panorama City had shown that the baby was in a breach position.

The doctor said that since the due date was upon us, and the baby was packed in tight, it was unlikely they could get the baby to safely turn into the right position.  He wanted to do a C-section, and soon.

I shared the story with my co-workers and headed home.  I stayed home the next day and we prepared for the surgery, planned for the following morning.

One of our steps in preparation was to try out a new place for burgers.  The Great Grill was a little shack with only outside seating at a picnic table in the middle of a vacant lot.  We fell in love with those burgers – bacon, avocado, pickles, lettuce, tomato, and everything piled high with fries on the side.  Oh Lord!  That was a good day!

Renee went into labor about the time the cheeseburger was beginning to digest and we ended up in the hospital about 10 hours ahead of schedule.  After Renee emptied the Great Grill contents of her belly into a bowl in the hospital room, the nurse wasn’t at all bashful about expressing her opinion about a woman having a giant cheeseburger for supper when she was showing signs of labor and scheduled for a C-section the following morning.

We were young, though, and didn’t really care about the nurse’s opinion.  Those cheeseburgers were good!

With her temper flaring, the nurse quickly hooked Renee up to all of the necessary equipment and prepared her for surgery.  After Renee was wheeled out, I put on my blue scrubs and hair net and headed for the delivery/operating room.

A few minutes later, our first child, Katie, was pulled from Renee’s belly.

On July 19th, 10 days ago, Katie turned 17.

This is not just one of those, “I can’t believe the time has gone by so fast,” moments for me.  This is one of those, “I can’t believe I’ve been blessed with such an incredible gift,” moments, accompanied by lots of those, “Please God, help me to make the most of these next few years with Katie” moments.

This summer, after carrying a nagging feeling in the back of my mind for several months that Katie was getting away from me, I asked her to commit to a regular weekly appointment to meet with her Dad. 

Mondays at 9:30.

The first night, we got into a big fight.  Katie said a series of things that got under my skin, and I unloaded a furious lecture on her that lasted way too long and ended poorly.

I apologized the next day and asked if she would ever want to spend time with me again.  She did, and I did.  In the course of our mutual apologies, we discovered that we didn’t know each other very well.

I know Katie’s life well, but from a distance.  Katie knows me well, but mostly from stories from other people with whom I have shared my life in far more intimate details.  She said she didn’t like hearing things about me from other people and having to reply with something like, “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

We’re trying to get to know each other now.  I want to share my heart with her.  I want her to know how much I adore the woman she has become.  I want to invest myself in her life and learn all I can from the gift of her life and youth.

Katie is beautiful.  Really.  She’s smart and funny, and she loves people. She’s generous and compassionate, spontaneous and driven.  She is a gift.  She is someone worth knowing.

She started out backwards, and hopefully she’ll end up backwards – against the grain of the status quo.  I want to know her in the meantime.  I want to spend every spare moment learning the secrets God has hidden in her life.

trying to make you sing

And I’m trying to make you sing from inside where you believe.  Like it’s something that you need, like it means everything.  And I’m trying to make you feel that this is for real, that life is happening.  That it means everything.  I’m just trying to make you sing.  (David Crowder, The Lark Ascending)

The Lark Ascending, inspired by a poem and musical composition of the same name, is the last track of the album A Collision by the David Crowder Band, which has to be one of the best and most unique worship albums of all time.

While talking to my friend Jim today about my dreams and cogitations about his life and circumstances, I was reminded of those words, and I shared them with him.  They have haunted me all day.

I love those words.  I believe God speaks them to me with frequency.  I believe God speaks them to you with frequency.

For all of you, with whom I’ve had those God conversations, and to whom I’ve asked those intrusive questions, this is my desire.  This is my inspiration.  Weak as it may be.  Absurd as it may seem.  This is what moves me.  This is what I am moved by.

There is more to our story than meets the eye, or even the ear.  There is more inside than we’ve acknowledged.  There is more to life than we have known.  It means everything.  It is real.  Life is happening.  It’s something that you need.

I’m just trying to make you sing.

watering & mowing

The children of a family who stopped having children at some reasonable point have outgrown the giant jungle-gym play set that was in their backyard.

They were looking for a family with small children who could benefit from such a thing without making a big deal out of it.  We’re fortunate enough to have the spread from 17 (in 6 days) to a whole bunch of small children. So, we got to be the beneficiaries of the generosity of the reasonable family.

Renee said, though, that before we brought the new fortress of swings, slides and towers into the backyard we needed a clean up day. Saturday was that day because friends were booked to help bring the thing on Sunday.

Before we began, we had a family meeting to explain the events of the weekend and the benefit coming at the end, and everyone got their delegated duties. Noah was mowing the front, then helping chop down old shrubs in the back. Will was mowing the back, after he finished the trimming in the front. Katie and Hannah were on yard-wide weed duty. The “littles” were under Mom’s guidance to clear the backyard of debris and toys. Ben and I were fixing sprinklers and chopping bushes, and I was yelling orders at everyone.

Early in the mayhem, just when everyone had gotten a good yelling, and we all had a nice sweat going, Ellie, the 5-soon-to-be-6-year-old, with the voice heard round the world says, “Dad? Dad? Dad?! Dad!!!!! Dad? Dad!!? DAD! Why do we water the lawn and then mow it?”

“What, Ellie? What did you say?”

“Why do we put water on the lawn just so we have to mow it later?”

Hmmm. Good question. Of course, I didn’t answer. I laughed. We all laughed. “Good question, Ellie.”

Of course, the answer is that we water the lawn (at least in the high-desert of Colorado) to keep it green and keep it from dying. We also pay too much money and/or time for fertilizer and weed-killer. Then we mow it, so it doesn’t grow too big, and make all the neighbors wonder why the family with all the kids and big vehicles doesn’t take care of their property.

Good question. Watering and mowing?

We want everything to be in order. Not too dead. Not too ugly. We want pretty and lively. We don’t want wild and abundant. The middle is good. Control is good. Right in the middle. Water so it grows. Mow it so it doesn’t get out of hand. Right there in that middle range is good. Have a little fun, but not too much.

Everything in moderation.  Everything?

Why do I complain about my needs, then feel offended at being seen as needy when someone offers to help?

Why do I get excited when my friends offer their time and energy and effort in the heat of a Sunday afternoon to tear down and load up and transport and unload a new play set for my kids, and then apologize for making them low on gas and late and tired and sweaty and overworked?

Why do I go to church on Sunday morning and tell God how much I love him, and that I’ll do anything for him, then spend the rest of the week justifying why I can’t or won’t?

Why do I desire a love that overwhelms and satisfies the deep places of my soul, and then build walls and defense systems to prohibit trespassing in those areas?

Why do I water and then mow?

I only want the green and growth of life on my terms.

Just hold her steady. Yes. I can handle that. A pat on the back for a nice lawn, but not a spectacle.

I wonder if I can put the jungle-gym together myself. Maybe I’ll call different friends to help with that part. There’s no sense in letting that grass grow too high.

molehills

The thought strikes me that in certain instances it may be entirely appropriate to make mountains out of molehills. Some molehills might be mountains in disguise, and mountains are not all bad. Mount Zion may be one example to consider.

To remove the disguise and see a molehill for the mountain it truly is would be akin to having a glimpse into the subtle complexities of a poet’s muse.

Take, for example, my recent rendezvous with a certain young man named Peyton.

About forty miles through the rolling, green hills and dense woods west of Nashville, Tennessee, off exit 172 of Interstate 40, you’ll come upon the village of Dickson. Follow the road north a few miles, past the truck stops and strip malls, the fast-food joints and Wal-Mart, to the auto-parts store on the corner of Walnut.

Take a left on Walnut and go through the old, residential part of Dickson to the second light at the intersection of Walnut and Center Avenue. Turn left on Center Avenue and drive past the aging homes under the archway created by elderly trees on either side of Center, and mark your odometer for a four-mile trip out into the countryside.

After four miles, and a series of three, tightly-wound “S” curves, you’ll need to keep your eyes peeled for a tiny, white street sign with black letters behind the trees on the hill to your left which marks Mt. Sinai Road.

These roads are some of those narrow byways common throughout Tennessee, and the eastern U.S., which were most assuredly built, as my father used to say, by men who were chasing a snake. The woods are thick and the hills, dotted by trailer homes and lined by steep driveways to country estates, are a brightly-colored model for the best roller-coasters in the world.

Travel about half a mile along the narrow way of Mt. Sinai Road to a white-stone driveway just past the row of trees lined up perpendicular to the road like the wall around a fortified city, and park in front of that humble, red-brick building marked neither by sign or story.

You’ve arrived at The House of the Lord. That’s what they call it, and if you spend more than a few minutes inside its walls, you’ll discover the title is nearer to the mark than the humble appearance would seem to indicate; though not so much related to the building as to the people who will be joining you to worship there.

On this Sunday, as on most others, even the few seats found in the sanctuary will be far more than necessary for the number of people who have driven past a few hundred other churches to hold out for a couple of hours inside The House of the Lord.

In fact, at first blush, the little place and the little population may appear to be little more than a molehill.

Then the hugs will come from beneath the smiling faces of folks with heavy burdens, weary bodies, and over-sized hearts, welcoming you into the family and the warm fellowship. These are kick-off-your-shoes-and-stay-a-while people with little concern for the superficial and great concern for the subtle, looking into things unseen.

Mike, the pastor, a real gentleman with a slow-but-sure Texas lilt in his voice, will stand at the pulpit with his electric, hollow-body guitar, strumming a soothing tune, and invite you to pray, fervently and openly, for a few of the many needs of this world-wide family, and the blessing and direction of the ever-present Lord of Hosts, for whatever may come at his leading in the next couple of hours.

With enthusiasm and in unison, the gathering will launch into bold and engaging worship, singing homemade, heavenly choruses full of profound and sincere expressions of faith and passion, exalting and inviting the holy into the audible and visible.

Somewhere along the way, likely through both the audible and visible, you’ll notice a blond-headed cherub, named Peyton, clinging to the arms of Michelle, his grandmother, while his father, Deryk, runs the recording devices in the back.

Peyton was born on December 11th, just last year, the same day as my youngest daughter, Ayda. He represents the fourth generation of his family present in The House of the Lord.

There, among a people possessing the audacity to believe their tiny congregation is connected and contributing in meaningful ways to the transcendent and age-lasting plans of a very big, mountain-making God, Peyton appears to amount to little more than a molehill.

I can’t help thinking, as I reflect on a recent Sunday with Peyton in The House of the Lord, that at least occasionally, it may be entirely appropriate to make mountains out of molehills.

struggling

TracyInLA asked:

What exactly is it that you are struggling with?

My opinion:

First of all, since the question is about me, it seems odd that I should only have an opinion to offer in response, as if someone might disagree with me, and possibly have a more accurate answer.

I think that’s a proper characterization, though. At times, it’s difficult for the one who struggles to see objectively the nature of the struggle – a can’t-see-the-forest-for-the-trees situation. So, if you have a differing opinion on this topic, do tell.

I’ve struggled to answer this question. That is, part of my struggle is to understand the thing with which I am engaged in struggling.

I’m certain that I struggle with all of the usual suspects: weariness, poor mental acuity, hopelessness, worry, fear, anger, pride, lust, illness, weakness, stupidity, envy, general discomfort, disappointment, etc.

I can also be sure of this: I don’t struggle for salvation. I’ve tried to kick it off – salvation that is – and I can’t. I can’t get rid of it, by reasoning or other mental device. I have salvation, of this I’m sure, and in spite of my shortcomings, rather, in response to my shortcomings, salvation waxes strong. I am grateful for this.

In light of such stubborn salvation, I like to think that most of my struggle is for things, rather than against things.

I think I’m struggling for Truth, for abundant life, for the promise of holy rest which scripture compels us to seek. I’m struggling for making the most of moments and days, for words to express the beauty. Mostly, I’m struggling to push the darkness away, to shine the light and live in its glow.

I’m struggling for hope, the very thing for which every one of us struggles, the thing for which every preceding generation has struggled. The ebbing and flowing, yet never diminishing, hope that life is more than paychecks and vacuuming, more than laundry and lawn-mowing, more than broken relationships and broken dishwashers.

I’m struggling to make the most of every moment – not because I’m afraid I’ll lose something if I slack off, but because I’m overwhelmed by the desire to gain all that is available from the last drop of life that every moment has to offer.

Those drops of life are not about worldly success or superficial happiness from the happenstance of whatever happens. Those drops of life can be found in a Sunday afternoon nap, or a deep, sweltering grief. The best of life, the essence of life, is not defined by the content of the experience, but by the presence and recognition of God in the experience.

I’m struggling, therefore, to acknowledge Christ in all my ways, to trust in him with all of my heart, to love him with all, above all, and through all.

In this, I hope that I’m not struggling, or at least not spending much of my time struggling, to do what is right for the sake of being seen as righteous. This is vanity. If it can be attained, righteousness is fleeting, except as it is attained in Christ.

So, I’m struggling to seek Christ, and his righteousness, and in doing so, to hold back the darkness enough to provide others, such as my children, light enough to see by.

I’m struggling, along with an innumerable company, visible and otherwise, to hold up all that is holy and true and right.

I’m not very often successful in my struggles, I’m sure. I’m also sure, though, that small and infrequent success in this struggle is worth an exponential weight in a value I am unable to measure. As grace multiplies my efforts, and overcomes my consistent weaknesses, I’m holding on to the notion that my struggle is not in vain in the Lord.

alive

I believe the hills are alive with far more than just the sound of music, unless, of course, we include the music the angels sing.

In the book Cold Mountain, Ada Monroe is destitute after her father dies in the early days of the civil war.  Ada had been raised in the city, without a concern for cooking or mending, much less farming.  When she’s left alone in the harsh environment of 19th-century North Carolina mountains, the farm falls apart, and Ada is ill-equipped to slow the descent.

Eventually, Ruby Thewes, a hardened, and nearly-orphaned, mountain girl who has been forced from a young age to learn the ways of the mountains for her own survival, shows up to bring the farm, Black Cove, and Ada back to life.

Before the war is through, after a few years of callouses and lessons on the ways of the natural world from Ruby, Ada has been converted from city-girl to mountain-girl.  Finally, she confesses a realization that the world around her, which had been considered merely a backdrop and setting for her cultured life, is actually alive with activity.

She describes how what had once only been background noise had been brought to the foreground – the way the birds fly, the types of trees on the property, the various insects and vermin, the smells of soil and smoke, and plants of ten thousand varieties.  Every square inch of Black Cove is teeming with life she had never noticed because she had never been close enough to it.

Ada had been locked in a world unaware of her surroundings until her desperation for life forced her to find it, with Ruby as her guide.

As Renee and I hiked along Fall Creek in the woods of Middle Tennessee today, and waded in the pool formed by the 90-foot drop the creek takes at Carmac Falls, I felt like my surroundings were alive.  Every square inch of earth became a world of its own.  Tennessee bugs come in strange shapes and sizes.

A rotting log beside the trail is home to millions of creatures including the tiniest plants and moss, ants and strange spiders, and funky little colorful beetles.  The trees were filled with creatures, as well, mostly invisible to my old eyes, but noisily making themselves known.

Renee and I chatted about my recently developed theory that birds are actually the embodiment of angels.  Birds are everywhere and constantly singing, just like the worship that constantly surrounds the throne of God.  I think birds would be the perfect way to hide angels among us.

Of course, it’s entirely likely that birds aren’t angels and that they’re just a bonus of earthly blessing to make the perceptive a little lighter on their feet.  I’d like to pretend they are, though, if you don’t mind.  I’d like to pretend they’re singing over me and singing to my king.

I’d like to go through my days believing the heavenly is as present as the birds and teeming life that surrounds me.

When’s the last time you sat in silence near an open window or in your back yard and just listened for the sounds around you?  When’s the last time you got close enough to a rotting log to see the variety of creatures it hosts?  It’s like natural condos for critters.  You should try it.

Next time you get, or make, a chance, take a gander and a listen.  Find the abundance of life, the abundance of heaven, the abundance of power and beauty, constantly surrounding us, of which the overwhelming activity of nature may be the best representative.

I’m just saying, I’d recommend we do all we can, as frequently as we can, to open our eyes, ears and hearts to the music the angels sing.