One Year Down...

The best way to bring in the New Year is with the moments from last.

We opened the Good Times box when I got back from away; marveling at how many slips of paper fell out from the longest of hard years.

Yet there it all is, in black and white, the goodness of our Lord.

In March, Trinity is recorded to say, "meow." Now she tells us long stories.

Three different people wrote to mark the occasion of Dad bringing roses. This was clearly a high point.

We talked about little girls smiling while they danced and Landon writing the "Pappy book." Caiah reading, reading, reading "The Spooky Old Tree." A themed dinner party or two,

Someone thanked God for the power being out.  Another for it coming on. We each are at different stages.

And none of it's big, but none of it's small. How did we get here? One moment at a time, which is all God asks.

 Mom dumped the bits of paper and napkin into a bag to stuff away and there the box sits again, empty.

Every year we wonder what we could ever find to fill it...but God always gives us enough.

Happy 2015, Friends!

~Liv

I'm Not Afraid

When I was littler, most of life was a fear dot-to-dot. It didn't take much. I was afraid of thunder storms. Santa Claus. Martyrdom. Drowning. Something hiding under my bed...or worse, creeping up the stairs.

Some fears, I have found, you conquer slowly through determination. Santa Claus for example, although I might admit I still haven't quite got over it. 

Other times, I've just realized one day that the thing doesn't terrify me anymore. Thunderstorms used to have me immobilized in the middle of the living room, but then suddenly, I was standing on the porch loving them. Go figure.

Either way, one of the delights of my grown up life so far, has been enough awareness to identify  and overcome fears. Afraid of planes, I can choose to get a grip and walk down the aisle to buckle up. Still scared of drowning, I can decide to put on a bathing suit, walk into the lake and trust it to float me. 

Or, I can learn to walk out side after dark.

First time was a restless night when I just meant to walk the orchard then go in. But the stillness of winter had me, so I went to the top of the hill and touched the tree line. I only stopped once, holding my breath in panic because I thought the thumping of my heart was something galloping across the field behind me.

Second time was when Millie and I built a snowman on Christmas Eve, while Dad blasted music through the window. It started to rain, strangely warm and we ran away from the house's lights to lie in the snow. 

Then once Dad and I tried to walk off dinner by a trip up to the old bonfire site. Windy and crunchy and cold, but still quiet. 

And like every other time fear goes, it leaves a present behind; this time the sight of night sky unblocked by house or trees or hill. 

What surprised me wasn't the moon or stars, but the fact that when they are clouded over, they still glow. No matter what, the horizon's a muddy streak with something trying to shine from behind. The moon's a vague light, just a fuzzy spot in the darkness; but always, there is enough to see by.

Make of that what you will, but I see the pictures of those after dark excursions clearly in my head. No matter how dark, there is always a light to come home in. 

And in that, a reason and hope to overcome fear. 

~Liv

V is for...

In the quest for authenticity, we sometimes go to the low points. To share the glory of the Gospel, we magnify our struggle.

Yet there are days when we must only preach victory. Not so we feel falsely secure in self strength, but to remind ourselves we are secure, for real. 

It is the ultimate truth, the final word, and in our tunnel visioned life of failing then praying for grace, we don't see it. We hope for squeaking by, when really, can we say victory enough?

And in the end it would seem, victory looks much like the nitty-gritty. It goes as low and "him exalting, self abasing, this is victory."

This is victory.


~Liv

The Rearview Mirror

It's not the copper hills or blue sky in front that holds me in the Fall.

It is behind, in my rear view mirror, and how the leaves dance behind me as I drive.

They seem possessed with a joy.

But I still keep my eyes on the road ahead. It does not do to dwell in what is past.

Let the Graces that are gone, dance out their dance. And if God keeps us on the road, there will be more sunshine to stir the leaves in.

The glances back on how His bridges hold will keep us living well. And living well, will keep the view in my mirror gentle - slipping through the Autumn air.

 

~Liv

 

When people clustered around, wondering who Jesus was, I did not think I was among them.

They are the others, those doubters.

Yet like so much of life, it is crowded on the moral high-ground and if I'm honest the question comes back at time.

Is He or isn't He?

It is the question for every hour. For every troubled time. And funny, but it occurs to me that the question also becomes the answer. The answer I prod myself with when my mind wanders to worry.

In forgiveness, can you do it? Well, is He forgiveness or isn't He?

In love, are you consistent? Well, is He lover or isn't He?

In courage, do my knees buckle? Well Olivia, is He Lord or isn't He?


Because if He is Jesus the Messiah, then He is Jesus the King and He alone can strengthen and comfort and love and encourage.

Does it feel like His arms are really just rushing wind as you fall? I will not argue...but I can ask.

Is He or isn't He the one who can catch you?

Yes.

Then wait awhile. He is there.



~Olivia

Twenty Three Going on Two

Whenever I babysit, I'm struck by it at least once. And so during the meltdown or the pouting, I usually sit down and consider.

Is this what I look like to God? I ask myself, and in the stiff legs and tears before me,  I see yes.

Stubborn and sometimes angry. Our instinct is to fight against the hand that tells us no more candy. Or the love that says, this is best. I know.

I think about it too, when we start to sing on Sunday morning. Sometimes it's hard to hear the piano over lusty two year old lungs. We nod and smile and love it, and then suppose that our praise sounds more lovely to a Heavenly ear.

But surely our praise seems much like the babies, with every clue and no clue, taking ourselves quite seriously.

A friend recounted a worship service she attended at the old folk's home the other day. It was apparently complete with camp meeting hymns and the keyboard player wore a wig.

God most definitely has a sense of humour, we concluded. And who knows that our own worship is sometimes not as scattered, funny, hopeful, and given much grace before the throne of its beginning.

He loves us and I sometimes forget that this love is not because I'm managing to keep it together. He is the Father who watches me frown, arms crossed and leads me through repentance and making it right.

He is the Father who hears my voice in song, and smiles because I have so much to learn.

He is the Father...And the lines have fallen in pleasant places indeed, for I am his little child.


~Olivia

Book by Book.

For my 13th birthday, I must have received a plethora of notebooks, because there is one that I still have, for the sole purpose of recording each book I read.

I filled the last page yesterday, writing across the back of the cover to bring this chapter to a close.

I’m turning 23 tomorrow.

Before I chuck the dilapidated thing into a box, I’ve enjoyed flipping through the pages. That many years, means a lot of books.

The first page has a number of titles written in gel pen. The last page’s handwriting is considerably improved.

Books tell stories, sometimes the arc of a lifetime. What I didn’t count on, was the books I read to tell a little tale about me.

A couple pages in, I apparently read three Hardy Boy’s books in a row. A few years later, I was doing the same thing with Agatha Christie novels.

At age 14, I read The Westing Game and then a few weeks later, finished Pride and Prejudice for the first time.

 The teenage years are a funny balancing act, reading Louisa May Alcott, Oscar Wilde, and Redwall. Oh, and a lot of Ramona and Beezus books.

Back and forth… trying to decide whether to grow up.

I’m thinking of independence as I read the titles too. A funny thing, those growing up years, where you read what you’re told (who reads Homer for fun?) and you read what you want. Wodehouse, Sutcliffe, and Amusing Ourselves to Death. A few Dear Canada’s back to back.

 Life, my notebook tells me, is a staggery path to good choices and mature decisions, one book at a time.

Perhaps at times, I was overzealous. Reading The Over-Load Syndrome at 15 years?

The more I look, in fact, the more I see the books I’ve read as dots; dots connecting the grown up moments to the little girl. Some books stand out more than others. I read Gilead and Tale of Despereaux at the same friend’s house. Both profoundly moved me. I remember crying for the first time over a book…Our Mutual Friend, in fact. Reading Stephen Leacock finally solved my age old wonder whether I indeed ‘had a sense of humour.’

And My Name Is Asher Lev was the first book I remember leaving me with no opinion. Just big eyes to look at the world.

It’s been a lot of water under the bridge, a lot of books over the bedside table. I won’t be writing every title down anymore, although I do track my reading progress with friends on Pinterest.

But the words will still be telling the story…of characters, and of a growing up. Of change. Slow.

I wonder what sort of index 33 will have?

~Liv

Coming Home

Some vacations are for seeing and some are for tasting. I think, if I could choose a word, I would say that this one was for talking.

 

Talking on the road, talking on the beach, on the couch…after dark. Especially after dark…

 

 

….and when you get home, you realize what this vacation meant for you.

So you could smell the air a little deeper. Inspect the garden with greater joy. Taste the tap water, and hug the home faces, and remember the creaks in your floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is a testament to the best of friends when their talking sends you back with new eyes for seeing. And vacations are for renewing, and this time…for coming home.

 

 

 

~Liv

 

Making New Normals

Day 1 in the morning: The power being out was annoying.

Day 1 by bedtime: I was resigned to hurricanes being a tolerable way to spend my Saturday. Candles are always fun, after all.

Day 2: No power was more confusing than anything, and I developed an insatiable thirst (of course). I started making a list of electrical things I was thankful for.

Day 3: I stopped reaching for the light switch constantly. Nor did we bat an eyelash when serving peanut butter and bread to company.

And by the time our power came on in the evening of Day 4, I was almost gripped with some bittersweet thoughts. The list had somehow morphed in my mind, and had become an account of happy things from four days without power.

For starters...1. SO. Much. Sleep.

2. BBQ food around the clock.

3. No more excuses for avoiding the weedy garden.

4. Taking soap and towel down to the river afterwards.

5. Remembering to use the clothes line more often.

6. Slowing down, because you can't run up the stairs with a candle.

7. Room temperature water is better for you.

8. The house is entirely quiet in the morning.

9. This. (Makes me chuckle.)

 

 

10. And our fridge and a couple freezers look really clean now.

 

 

Which is well and good. Although really...electricity has its pro points too. Flushing toilets with the pull of a lever?

 

Pretty fancy.

 

 

 

 

~Olivia

Poems from May

A person or two has asked about my poems of last month’s challenge…so I’ve selected some that may or may not make sense.

I found the everyday a place extremely ripe with inspiration.  The only problem is it led to a somewhat cryptic style of poetry. For there are moments that have such weight in one’s heart - but mean little to anyone else. You had to be there, in other words

 

I suppose, however, that could possibly be what poetry is all about?

So welcome to my world. Good luck.

 

May Day

The sun is liar

Wide eyed wind takes my breath

Spring, when will you come?

 

Alone

Despite the morning warmth, rain comes

And despite the love, which wraps

Close, kind, comforting, blessed;

Loneliness will open the door,

And swirl around my ankles, dark.

It does not care that Truth is mine,

That I can speak the words of every promise

My eyes, it wishes to blind,

My heart, it feels the ice clutch.

And hands, idle on my lap, close to fists.

Yet the mists will not rise

Despite their whiteness turning to gray,

With every passing friend,

I still can open palms and wait,

For God to send a butterfly.

Baby

Somewhere, wars, the blasphemy rages on

Somewhere the living fight to live

And the dying seek to rest in peace.

Somewhere the wind only moves ash

Chalky tears of destruction and it will not cease.

 

But that, you baby there in overalls;

Need not touch the blessing of blue eyes.

Let the wind move curls instead

And let you point in peace, over there

A roguish cat stalks the squirrel.

 

Fiddleheading

After winter’s cold, toes trapped

It is good to feel the grit.

And mud splashes up my leg

As I try to jump the creek.

 

Low Country Boil

He’s chuckling, the bearded cook

And brawny arms he brings to bear,

Stirring, sweating, amid the pots.

The two backs bend, to lift and spill

And mouths drop in the cloud of steam,

Like supper, as it tumbles to the table.

Corn, rolling over sausages and

Potatoes, softly breaking in their skins.

A blessing said, the cook must smile

For joy is in the sharing.

And the spoon, it rattles down,

forgotten

In an empty pot.

 

 

~Liv

The Change That Isn't

At times, there is great blessing in the open road. A night away. A new city to stare wide-eyed at.

At times, there is hunger only a lobster roll will fix.

Times when nothing will do, but to watch someone's grandmother dance in front of you - blasting music and she's totally not paying attention to anyone else.

There is something about fireflies over the stage and a clear sky slowly getting darker. Music at sunset. And when you feel the cold coming, you lean back between the people on either side. Know them or not, all it takes are your shoulders wedged together to get warm again.

It's the lift of spirits when you're laughing, moving and thinking it is kind of funny you are here at all.

It's the sound of people singing sweet. And you know you were singing along,

There are times, when you have to have some change.

But if there is one thing that I always find...even in the new scenes and streets...it is that change is never really change.

To find that God's love is as long as it is thick.

To see that He keeps His hand across borders and states and crowds as far as you can see.

To know that He is the God over old men, egg-shakers, the blues and double bass.

The God who made someone with wicked navigating skills...and people who love prayer.

And I learn again, that He is Alive, He is Good, and in the best possible way, nothing really changes.

~Liv

Words

I love books. Packed book shelves in my bedroom will attest to this fact. But, I don’t just collect books. I read books. Books are meant to be read, underlined. We are meant to draw in the margins. We are to tear them apart, lick them, chew on the corners. Books are meant to be used.

It’s all in the experience, really. I am not morally opposed to e-readers. They just…bother me. You can’t underline the words that seem to jump out at you from the page with a scratchy pen, slightly crooked. You can’t dog-ear pages. Cheese salsa stains never appear. The pages remain smugly free from defect – until an accidental finger punches a delete key and the precious book suddenly disappears from existence. Another reason I like physical books: with the exception of sneaky forever borrowers and house fires, they stay put.

Reading books is an anti-social, subversive, strangely still activity. Let’s just sit here, thin sheets of digested trees stacked in our hands, while our minds are whirling faster than the speed of light to interpret squiggles on said trees into ideas, people, stories, other worlds, emotions, life itself.

I sometimes wonder if I am in danger of worshipping books. I don’t think so. If I was a worshipper of books, I would consider e-readers a sin, not just a rather strange and non-pleasing proposition. I would fear the extinction of books like the plague. I would picket on street corners. I would hoard books and not lend them. It’s not the book, itself, in the form as we know it. There is nothing holy about a pile of paper bound with glue and filled with ink squiggles.

It’s the words. I worship the words. I worship the Word. “And the Word was God.”

In the beginning, not only the “word was with God,” but the “Word was God.”

 

“Let it be”

And it was.

The Spoken Word Reigned.

There was a time when books weren’t an everyday item. Before Gutenberg and the printing press (an invention that some book lovers decried as a trivialization, by the way) books were rare jewels. The everyday man relied on memory. He relied on the words out of his mouth. He sang songs. Stories were told around fires, at night. The spoken word reigned.

Words. Just sounds out of a person’s mouth. Just squiggles on a page. What can they do?

Mark 4: 35 – 41.

“Peace. Be still.”

And it was.

The spoken word reigned.

 

“Child, believe.”

And I did.

The spoken word reigns.

James says that what we say matters. Of course, he knew that. Anyone who has ever written anything knows that. Words matter. But why?

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory.”

The medieval peasant who couldn’t read – he knew that words mattered. He knew when he heard the words of the priest speaking Mass, when he made his marriage vows, when he told his children a story, when his lord said “come into the castle walls because our neighbours over the hedge are going to try to kill you.”

Promises matter. Just try to break one.

Stories matter. N.D. Wilson says, “Stories are the closest our own words can ever come to being made flesh – gifts unwrapped in the imagination.” (From “Death by Living”)

Vows matter.

I attend a wedding and good old single me smiles as the couples around me in the crowd of witnesses rub backs, hold hands, remembering vows made and recalling what came after: entwining of two lives into one. Years of making words flesh.

And me, I think back to other vows – membership vows, vows to the children of my church to help raise them. I said “yes” on those days. To make words flesh, I must say “yes” everyday. I look around on a Sunday morning at all the vow bound – we must say “yes” to each other everyday, not just the one time.

What does “I love you” mean without action?

Names matter. God told Adam to name all the animals, to name his wife. Did she ever curse him for his choice? Names identify us – they make us part of the here and now. There is no nameless one because the nameless one is “The Nameless One.”

The Jews asked, “Are you the Christ. Are you Elijah? Are you the Prophet?”

“I’m the voice of one crying out in the wilderness.”

“Well, glad we’ve got that straightened out. We had to name you. We had to put words to your flesh.”

Flesh to words (I read). Words to flesh (I write). Word become flesh (I worship). And we see his glory in the words.

 

- Millie

 

 

John 1: 1 – 23.

N.D. Wilson, “Death by Living” page 31.

What I Wrote in May 2014

During the month of May, my sister, Olivia, and myself embarked on a poetry challenge. The goal was to write one poem a day for the month of May. (A friend helpfully pointed that the above statement rhymed. How handy!) Seeing as I had only written maybe two poems before, this was an interesting challenge and, admittedly, some of my poems were no more than two lines long. I also quite conveniently read somewhere that beginning poets should not attempt to make their poems rhyme. Unless you are quite practiced, your rhymes will no doubt sound cliché and over-used. (See already cited rhyming sentence) So, needless to say that was a good excuse to ditch pretty much any attempt at rhyming.

So, instead of sharing my usual lessons learned post with you, I thought I'd show case some of the highlights of my poetry journey.

In writing poetry, I was inspired by many subjects.

I wrote about poetry itself:

"I read a book
about writing poems.

I do not understand
Iambic pentameter.

But I know that
words are daggers

To the heart, so:
I writhe and write."

I was inspired by books I'd been reading: (The first two lines of this poem comes from Lois Lowry's "Gathering Blue.")

"'I need all of you.
We need each other.'
The words fairly
jump out of the page
demanding their worth
of my attention.

It's true, you know?
The soldier looks across
the grimy bunker
at his pals,
dragging on cigarettes.

The business man
thanks the butcher
who thanks the farmer
who thanks his mother.

And you
behind me in the pews
I need you all
And yes!
You need me.

Maybe just to give us pain,
make us stronger than we were
before the ceiling fell on our heads.

Maybe to pray,
'Lord, help her.'
Maybe to bring banana bread
to back door.

But, please don't turn you face
to greener facades of life.
You? I need you.
Me? You need me.
Yes. And so the cry goes.
'We need each other.'"

And this based on a quote from "All Quiet on the Western Front."

"We are in a good humour because otherwise we should go to pieces. Even so we cannot hold out much longer; our humour becomes more bitter every month." - Erich Maria Remarque

"Hold hard
and fight mean, boys.
We can't hold on much longer.

The memory is dying
of a life that used to be.

So fix the bayonets, my boys.
And fire the guns all free.
The laughter's getting wild, boys,
I'm losing sight of me.

They've taken away our decency,
our honour and our pride.
They've stamped upon our comfort
Took our futures in their stride.

But you know what will defeat us?
Whether we win or lose the war?
If they take our sense of humour
Then they've shook us to the core.

So fix the bayonets, boys,
and load up your guns.
We'll die with smiles on our faces.
We are the dreaded Hun."


I wrote about events in my life:

A Teacher to Her Students

"So long, my loves,
I send you into the world
as the days lengthen to
embrace the blackflies.
Perhaps you didn't listen
when I gave you homework
for the summer.
Maybe some of you did.

I said, 'This summer
do something to make
the world more beautiful,'
like the Lupine lady.

And with gifts of twigs and twin,
I sent you all off into that great
orb.
None of you heard me,
but into the May wind
I called,
'Goodbye. God bless you.
My love to you all.'

I experimented with different forms of poetry, like this acrostic poem below, dedicated to my inner-nudist friends (you know who you are.)

Polite
And
Nice.
Totally
Superfluous.

Writing poetry was a good exercise. It was good for my writing and good for me. But, it was hard, too. This is the final poem that I wrote:

"As I struggled to put into
verse,
everything I felt
on every subject
possible, I,
quite understandably,
faltered and,
indubitably,
failed.
For life, in all
its many faceted magnitude
cannot be fully expressed,
though it can be summarized,
in a few lines.

Thus, instead of poetry,
I endeavour to live
my whole life,
as it was meant to be -
as a poem."

- Millie

Your Parent's Parents.

As it happens, I have fond memories of both sets of my grandparents.

One used to bring us Timbits and licorice nearly every week, and we still have the glass jar of Splenda he used in his coffee, long dusty and unused.

The other side always seemed to have a more careful approach to grand-parenting; sleepovers where we had snacks of chips, precisely five M&M's a piece, after which we got to bed on time.

Since there was never any mutual annoyance between the grandparents and myself, I was never required to look past their most obvious good qualities and dig deep for the gold. Perhaps what I never expected was when I became an adult, to discover them all over again as new, surprising, interesting...people.

And now, I'm amazed to see my grandmother doing crossword puzzles while she listens to the radio and to discover that we have a mutual fondness for Johnny Cash. Funny, buy we laugh at the same things in a way I don't remember at those sleepovers.

Now I realize another grandparent as a woman and personality, far more determined than any other person I have met. Yet she needs affirmation, and we say "I love you" in a way we never used to.

And I see the love of more than a grandfather, but a man and husband, who overcomes his natural quiet and comes to the rescue when she's forgotten.

If nothing else, human beings are the most complicated combinations you will find of character contradictions and deep seated propensities.

It appears that grandparents are the same...So love your grandparents. Love your elderly folk.

They are as special as they come.

~Olivia

Hard.

You know what?

 

Being single is hard.

 

You know what?
 

Being married is hard.

 

So is barrenness. So is having kids.

 

Working with your hands.

 

Working with your creativity.

 

Loving the lovely when they make you feel inadequate.

 

Loving the unlovable, when they push back your best efforts.

So.

 

"...walk in a manner worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, eager to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace."

 

 

 

~Liv

It's coming.

In some worlds...in our world, it isn't 'if it snows' but 'when'.

Sometimes it is long lasting, and you sink to your hips in the powdery piles.

Other days bring only enough to tip over your boot top. Just enough to got your feet wet.

Some years, the snow disappears early and we congratulate each other, grinning on the porch with bare legs and white feet.

Other winters linger long...long...And there are times when you forget what warm wind feels like.

Yet there is a promise...and it is the longest and most bitter winters that have us holding on to it tight.

For Jesus says, My child, be still. Spring is coming.

And it will always come.

All now mysterious shall be bright at last. This truth...yes. Yes.

Spring  is coming.

~Liv

Is it Well?

Well. The word that holds reason and conclusion together. The word that is cool, murky water below the ground. A hole in the ground. Like the holes in our souls.

Yet we know that those must be well, too.

We know it when we see them…the hurts and the lacks. We know what is wrong with this world…but who has the way to make it well?

There is a quote that travels through my mind these days. It falls like a lullaby…”all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”

I feel there are people who see wellness as a matter of theory. What works for you, what works for me – always something different.

Perhaps others feel there is no way there at all. Too hard. Too far.

And then there is the line that says, “I was told by Jesus all was well…So all must be well.”

All must be well.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that the words of wellness I notice, are the ones that give us little room to disagree.

Could we be left no choice? Has the way already been set, and does it say Well? Is it something outside of ourselves? Something we can’t scrape up on our own?

We are not the fatalists, only living to throw up our hands in resignation.

But instead, surely, we must be the humble - who believe. Believe that there is confidence so sure, that the worst circumstances will not shake. Or if they shake the walls, the foundation is certainly safe.

And do we believe that when we say, “It is well with my soul,” that it is? No matter what we feel like, no matter what valley we walk.

For His love, and His covering, His assurance, is too deep to let us go.

Deeper than the reason for a conclusion. Deeper than the ice-cold water pulled up by the bucket. Deeper a fountain, than our cups will ever be able to hold.

So it is Him. And He will make all things well.

 

~Liv

On Giving Thanks

      We made picture frames out of old barn boards, pulled right out of the rambling building that used to be glorious and now is decidedly not. And the boards were covered with aged manure.  I meant to chip or sand it off. At the time we joked that it was symbolic, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

     I embroidered “Give Thanks.” The words were etched in the middle of a pretty scene of a house and flowers. And I love it, by the way. Then, I punched this scene right into the middle of manure caked on dark stained wood. Did anyone say real life?

     It’s easy to give thanks when things are going in a way that meets our definition of good – when the harvest is great, the baby is thriving or you’ve just met the love of your life. These are good things and blessings and we ought to give thanks – and we do. These are moments of joy and we should let ourselves fall into a sea of praise and laughter marvelling at the providence of Him who gave us air to breathe.

     But what if the money in the bank is growing thin? What happens to joy when babies die, or are killed…when no eligible man is to be found within a twenty mile radius? Give thanks? This isn’t good. This isn’t a gift from God. Satan whispers “it’s a curse.” Can “no babies” be just as much of a blessing as a baby bump? If you choose to believe that God does not curse his children, if you choose to believe that “all things work together for good” then giving thanks never stops. It was read from the pulpit on a Sunday  –  Psalm 116: “I will offer to you the sacrifice of thanksgiving.”

      I will give thanks even when it hurts.  I will give thanks even when the car won’t start and I’m late already. I will give thanks when I fail tests. I will give thanks when the dirty laundry pile is higher than me. We live in a world where children are abused, people are killed for their faith, and words are flung like arrows to wound sensitive hearts. These are moments of sorrow and we should let ourselves fall into a sea of praise and tears wondering at the providence of Him who gave us air to breathe.

     Really? Give thanks in the midst of this dung caked world? Yes, really. Because thanksgiving is a form of prayer and prayer never stops. Prayer does not change God but it does change you. It changes tiny definitions of “good” and narrow views of providence. It does not make us happy all the time. It does not always take away sadness and anger. And death is always an effrontery.  But thanksgiving makes the difference between seeing the curse and seeing the blessing. Thanksgiving, with the work of the Holy Spirit, tears away the blinding scales off our eyes and makes us read and remember what comes before Psalm 116: 17 – “You have loosed my bonds.” Can we trust the One who saved us from hell and has promised everlasting life when the casserole is burnt to a crisp? Can we give thanks even when we don’t feel like it? (Begin by thanking God we don’t have to do this alone. The Spirit is there. Let him help.)

     And so I leave the frame caked with manure just the way it is, and the flowers stand out all the brighter. 

 

- Millie

 

 

 

Imagine.

"The Christian is free to have imagination. This too is our heritage. the Christian is the one whose imagination should fly beyond the stars."

 

~Francis Schaeffer

Not only our freedom, but our heritage.

Imagination.

That thing that we cannot force through any door, and when it comes, it does not knock.

The stuff of dreams and flying with both feet on the ground. Fairy stories, ogres, Medusa and Jo March.

Some cry "lie," but are we sure? What is truth, but the first words, "In the beginning." Who saw? Yet we believe.

And when you think of what in all our souls we rise and sleep on - what have you actually touched?

The God became man. Real. But do we smell or taste forgiveness, sacrifice, atonement?

The very rocks we are built on, in fact, are the intangibles. There, but not there.

So then.

Why do we tell them, "no such thing?" Why don't we shoo the monster out of the wardrobe? Say "is that so?" rather than "it is not." Wonder aloud if the stars are singing.

Why shouldn't we teach them that the invisible can be true, and the untouchable real?

L'Engle says, "The world of fairy tale, fantasy, myth, is inimical to the secular world, and in total opposition to it, for it is interested not in limited laboratory proofs, but in truth."

The "real" world will rear it's head soon enough and we will know it...but it is Truth that sets us free.

So we train ourselves by grace to look past what we see, the Shadow Lands, to the ultimate Real of Heaven. What we now see in a mirror dimly, where a dwelling place is built on walls of beautiful, holy, invisible love and the perfect comes and the partial passes away.

Imagine.




~Liv

In Which I Ask a Question

So I need your honest answers.

The question came to me as I glanced in the mirror on my way out the door...and maybe I caught someone's eye as they stood behind me...or maybe it was a twinge of adult conscience....

But does everyone smile at themselves when they look in the mirror?

And I don't mean a smug closed lipped affair...But like you're meeting yourself for the first time and you think you're cute.

Please tell me the answer is yes.

~Liv