Advent Poem: Week One

In celebration and observation of Advent, which is upon us, I am writing one poem per week that recounts the birth of Christ from an unusual perspective.  I am a bit behind–the first week of Advent is nearly over!  I am finding it difficult to have intelligent thoughts these days.  Characterized by diapers and midnight feedings, my profound thoughts come slowly and sporadically!  But, I managed to eek this one out with one day to spare.

A note to the reader: Bethlehem, in Hebrew, is Bet Lehem, [bet ˈleχem], “House of Bread”

Common as Bread: Bethlehem Recounts the Birth of Christ

My streets are narrow, thin
like a beggar’s limbs and dirty as the beasts
children lead.  Donkey and sheep, dust
and dung.  My women
wear tunics sewn of the plainest
weave, chaff of wheat clinging
like a sad embroidery to the hem.
All day long their daughters
sweep and sigh–a dirt floor’s never
clean.  And my men, hands full
of callouses, not coins.  Once, I was
great. City of David, fortified
and strong.  Now I am a city common
as bread.  Least among the least.
Imagine, then, how I rejoiced
the night I heard His cry.
Common as bread, a baby’s cry.
But not His. His was a song.  The stars
recognized it as the lullaby
they’d been made to.  I knew it
as the psalms my king sang, his harp
like a prophet’s tongue.  In fodder
gathered from my fields lay He
whose new-found breath
gave life to Adam’s lungs.
Born here, a baby, common as bread
broken to feed the hunger of every man.

Perhaps it was only the evening’s moonlight
that made my streets, still narrow
and trod by beasts, glow as if paved
by finest gold.  Perhaps, though,
it was not.

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Of the Yet Unnamed

For those of you who have not heard, our baby has arrived.  Born on October 10th at 12:03pm.  I will disclose more details in the later days (I am still, as Mary, pondering it all in my heart.  His birth was quite miraculous and beautiful and feels deserving of contemplation and time).

And, as many may have noticed, we have not released any public pictures of him.  Not because we are trying to be sneaky or stingy or rude. (Quite the opposite! We are so excited to share his life with you!) We have not shared a photo because, even as I write this, he has no name.  Much to the surprise of my beloved and I, we are completely stumped and so are choosing to wait (quite impatiently) for the appropriate name to find its way to him.

It seems strange to post pictures of an unnamed child.  So, we (and subsequently, you) are waiting.  Sorry about that.

But, I wanted to share a little thing I wrote this afternoon during a gifted moment of quiet. Writing this poem put me at peace with waiting for a name.  Writing this poem made me realize why we don’t have a name yet and why it’s okay that we don’t.  So, until then, let this poem be a foretaste of who this new little creature is.  I promise, there will be pictures eventually.

for our son

All fall, we waited.  Watched ditch
flowers brown, burst.  Tiny seed heads scattered
each time the dog barreled through, nose
to the ground. Finches came, packed
their purple bellies with thistle and left, leaving
the feeders to juncos and jays who possess
no concern for the sanctity of song.  And still,
we waited.  Slipping further from the sun, falling
into patterns of early sleep and late waking, dusk
like dust on curtains and panes.
Dawn’s white puff of deer breath, hoar frost christening
the pine’s sap blisters, smoke slithering slowly
from stovepipes.  All of these things
and still, we waited.
We dreamt no more
of tomatoes ripened on tangle vines or of potatoes
pulled like brilliant thoughts from dark minds.
Aspen relented to gold, maple to azure, then both to rot.
Branches, relieved of weight, scratched sky
in search of something. And when it finally came,
those late October rains,
everything seemed too strange
to speak of, too sacred to even name.





Posted in life, love, Truth | 3 Comments

A Prayer for Blindness

Oh, my little one.

Look there, stretched out in front of you: a world filled with kindness & goodness & startling beauty.   So much light.  So much that, at times, you’ll feel like you can’t breathe.


And yet.  There is a darkness.  And in this darkness, there is so much sadness & injustice & cruelty & hatred.  So much so, that you’ll think the light has been swallowed by the darkness.  And sometimes, it will be so dark you’ll feel like you can’t breathe.

What to do, little one?  I can give myself over to what Light there is.  I can pray that you will, too.  But there will still be darkness.  It will seep into the cracks of the house I’ve built to keep you safe. It will blow through the windows I’ve opened to let in Light.

And this darkness, it will hurt you.  And it will hurt me.  And it will hurt our neighbors and our friends and all of the 7 billion people who call this strange world home.

And because we are already hurting, it will be so easy to hurt each other more.  It will become as easy as breathing.

So.  I pray for you every night.  I pray the obvious prayers every mother prays for her child: safety, companionship, opportunity.  I love you and I want these things for you.  But when I really contemplate what it is I want for you, these things, these good and worthy things, fall away and I find myself pleading simply for this: a love that is blind.

Not love that is blind to differences.  Differences are to be noticed.  Because they are beautiful and worth exploring and celebrating and loving for their own sakes.

Not love that is blind to reality.  There is no excuse for a love-struck fool who parades around in an alter-universe where injustice does not exist.  It does exist and love demands that you address it.

Not love that is blind to your own shortcomings.  You have many.  You were born into sin as surely as I was.  As surely as each human is.  Do not be blinded (and therefore, ruined) by self-love.

My prayer for you is to possess a love that is blind to everything that would tempt you to not love. 

A love that is blind to fear.  Refuse to let fear into your line of sight.  Fear is the fuel of darkness and it will consume you like a terrible fire.

A love that is blind to ignorance.  See it only long enough to shun it.  Then learn everything you can about what you don’t understand.  As with fear, darkness thrives on ignorance.

A love that is blind to hatred.  Hatred is a sly and cunning serpent whose lies can sometimes look like truth.  Be blind to these lies and you will never mistake them for truth.

A love that is blind to apathy.  Don’t do nothing.  Be radical in your actions, so long as they are gilded, girded and controlled by that which blinds you in the first place.

A love that is blind as Christ was blind.  Jesus, whose eyes I want you (and me) to have, saw only the Redemptive Promise that shimmered in the farthest corner of the darkness. He kept his eyes fixed on It, even as He was fixed to a cross.  Had He shifted His gaze to anything else, had He let Himself be blinded by anything other than Perfect, Redemptive Love, darkness would have won.

But He didn’t.  And darkness didn’t win .  And it won’t win.  Because there is a Shimmer and it is growing.  And if you fix your eyes on it, if you are blind to everything but this, it will guide you perfectly in the ways of Love.

This, little one, this kind of blindness is my prayer for you and for all 7 billion people who call this strange world home.



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In Praise of the Horizon

I live alongside a mysterious lake.  With volume enough to cover all of North and South American in a foot of water, Lake Superior is staggeringly in size, beauty and inspiration. Her scene changes daily: one day there are waves large enough to crash over the break walls of the harbor, the next day a perfect mirror reflects every cloud that passes overhead.

On this particular day, the day we were driving home from a family wedding in Iowa, the water couldn’t seem to tell itself from the sky.  Out my window was a blur of serene white, with no distinction between lake and atmosphere.  The two, stitched together with an invisible, binding thread, were like an obsessive thought that had no end.

To see the lake this way, undefined and virtually lost, was disorienting.  When my eyes span the vastness that hems in 150 miles of Minnesota, I expect to see the horizon, the edge that tells my brain here is the end of one thing and the beginning of the next.  When I don’t see it, I feel as lost and undefined as the water appears.


Because, as much as I might seem to be a free-spirit (whatever that means!) and as much as I am a person who appreciates days without agenda and home decor whose theme is ‘a lack thereof’, I have a deep and relentless need for boundaries.

I need to know one thing from the other.

I’ve learned that if I don’t know where I end and where my husband (my daughter, my friends, my family, my neighbor, etc.) begins, I lose myself and make poor decisions.  (I could dedicate an entire blog to my personal history’s outlandish examples of this!)

If I don’t know where the tragic news that defines our world’s reality ends and where God’s sovereignty begins, I am easily swallowed up and consumed by fear.

If I don’t know where tomorrow begins (all its demands & expectations) and where today ends, I become hopelessly blind to today’s moments of beauty, every small joy-detail, every fragile leaf that flutters in the ever-present breeze of grace.

If it all becomes a blur, I am lost.

This is a dire matter, as far as I’m concerned.  Because if I’m not careful, if I’m not vigilant about knowing this from that in the small things, I’m confident I won’t be able to tell this from that in the grand scheme.  If I can’t tell today from tomorrow, how can I be trusted to know the difference between truth & lie, immense life & utter death, the heart’s freedom & its enslavement?

This is a dire matter because this broken world is wrought with forces bent on blurring the horizon line between these crucial opposites. And left to its own devices, this heart of mine is bent on permitting this blur to such an extent that when I survey the vastness, no distinction can be made between these critical polars.

I trust the reader to understand the severity of the situation without the writer waxing poetic on the dangers of a heart not recognizing the distinction.


Before compasses, sailors relied on the horizon and a star’s finger-width distance from it to navigate accurately.  No horizon, no latitude measurement, no sure way of knowing which direction to go.  The horizon was also, and still is, a stalwart and unmoving assurance that helped keep the sailor’s stomach from churning right along with the waves. And I can imagine a horizon line was the promise that made them feel safe.  Like the strong arms of a mother around a scared child, the four walls of a house during a storm.

My journey as a human on this earth is akin to that of a sailor on an open-sea voyage. Where there is no horizon line to keep me sane and assured, there is only confusion, sickness and a desperate, fruitless clamoring to not get lost.

Fortunate for all of us on this rolling, watery tide called human existence, there is a Horizon.  And just because there is a force that delights in blurring Its edge, its existence is not negated.   Look for it.  Ask to see it.  Trust that it is there.

Then keep your eye steadily, determinedly on It.  Because where there is no Truth, no blessed assurance of salvation, no Promise Kept, there is only a vastness of lies, dashed hopes & death determined to ruin the vessel and drown the sailor.

The Horizon is the necessary distinction.



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On a Day Like Today

Holding this little chick in her little hand this morning, this little girl said, “When I hold them, I feel so much aliveness.”

IMG_9135On a day that felt brutally like any other, filled simultaneously with the tragic horrors of our current world and the monotonies of cleaning and breakfast/lunch/dinner.  On a day that was gray when I wanted sun.  On a day when I looked outside and realized my yard was actually a rowdy park for overgrown dandelions and Canadian thistle.   On a day when I’m not moving on to a new place when everyone else around me seems to be doing just that.  On a day when I moped around, mop in hand, and felt sorry for myself because who am I and what am I actually doing with my time on this side of eternity? 

On a day like that, I needed to hear those words from my unpretentious 5-year old more than I needed water or air.

Because, on days like today, my habit is to forget everything worth remembering.

Things like the importance of holding this day in my hand and saying “I feel so much aliveness in it!”

When she said those words, she meant: I feel their potential and their possibility and their promise.  I feel the importance of being right here, right now, witnessing this. 

She is so wise.  And for all my attempts to train her “in the way she should go”, I am ever humbled when she comes along side me and redirects my wayward path back to Truth, back to a narrow way filled with Light.

“At that time Jesus declared, ‘I praise You, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because You have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. Yes, Father, for this was well-pleasing in Your sight.'”  Matthew 11:25-26



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Seagull By Nature

This past week, my beloved in-laws were in town for a visit.  And, please, where I state beloved, read no sarcasm.  They are indeed beloved to me and as amiable a couple as can be found on the wide earth. A visit from them is a delight, an honor and a much anticipated event.

During a rare moment when Sparrow was not vying for Grandma’s undivided attention, my sweet mother-in-law, Linda, and I lingered over coffee at a local shop in town. Fortunate to have caught the otherwise rainy June sky in a state of sun, we sat outside and relished in the sights of the harbor.  Moored sailboats bobbed like apples in the calm water.  People ambled along the narrow path leading to the lighthouse whose paint and vibrance has worn thin by wind and too many tourist snapshots.

We spoke about critical things and nonsensical things; of love and its rewards and subsequent heartaches; of marriage and friendship and childrearing; of regrets and unequivocal grace.

And then we turned our attention to the sky.  Overhead, a seagull was attempting to chase a bald eagle out of its harbor territory.  Likely trying to protect its young, the seagull was relentless, pursuing the eagle so high into the sky’s endlessness that we could barely make out their silhouettes.  The eagle was ambivalent, easily staying just ahead of the seagull until it finally grew bored and exited the scene.

We went back to talking.  Moments later, the eagle returned and the whole desperate escapade resumed.  We watched the same scene at least three different times, each chase ending with the eagle disappearing only long enough for us earth-bound mortals to snag a sip of coffee and give our eyes a break from the sun’s glare.


Likely, I should’ve been disgusted with the eagle.  And in a way, I was.  What despicable behavior to taunt a desperate seagull determined to protect it’s young.  But, it was the birds’ movements that struck me.  For every nonchalant pulse of the eagle’s enormous wings, the poor seagull frantically flapped.  While the eagle effortlessly soared on invisible air currents, the seagull’s wings beat ceaselessly, pounding the air in search of a strength it never seemed to find.  The difference between the two birds was stark and staggering.

I will admit this: I’ve spent most of my life being a graceless seagull.  If you know me well, you will nod in agreement.  My default setting is frantic flapping; I find it virtually impossible to effortlessly soar.

And yet, I’m promised the ability.  I’m not sure how many times I’ve heard, read, written or sung the phrase from Isaiah 40 that assures that those who wait on the Lord will soar on wings like eagles.  But somehow, I’ve missed what this verse actually implies. Maybe it’s because the unfortunate counterpart to the eagle is missing.  If the verse had said “those who wait on the Lord will soar while those who choose to wait on their own strength, ability or gumption will tirelessly flap their wings like a seagull,” then maybe it would have dawned on me.

Or maybe I missed the implication because I just don’t want to admit that there is a better way to move through this life.

Those who wait on the Lord will soar.  They won’t be free of worry or heartache or tragedy or hardship or boredom or discouragement or, to be more concise, free of reality. But they won’t have to work so damn hard to get through whatever life is currently handing out.

He will exchange our inadequate, puny seagull wings with wings that can ride the air currents of His mighty strength.  

I’ve made a bad habit of control; it’s my drug and I’m disgustingly addicted.  I read once that gambling addicts will gamble in their sleep and wake up unaware of their behavior. I’ve been on this earth for 33 years and, looking back with honesty, I can say I’m right up there with my sleep-gambling friends.  Control and desperate attempts to muster through life on the merit of my own strength has defined me.  Just ask my mom.  Just ask my husband.  Just ask the God who sees everything I do.

So when I read this promise I think: Sweet relief.  Yes please. And then I immediately think how can I pull that off?  Oh irony!  Oh helpless human who doesn’t see the obvious error in her ways!  I can’t pull it off.  To pull it off myself would be to rely, as per usual, on my own strength.

But if I can’t do it myself, I’m not exactly sure how to do to it.  Maybe it’s as simple as waking every morning and asking pleading for my strength to fall away so that I will have no choice but to rely on His.

If I do this, I have a hunch He will do it.  My experience is that this prayer, the refine me, Oh Lord prayer is one that He answers almost instantly.  Just utter the words make me reliant on You and, if you have your eyes open, you’ll begin to see evidence of His response.

And, if you’re anything like me, when you start to panic and are tempted to revert toward bad habits of control and frantic flapping , meditate on the few verses previous, when the prophet reminds the reader that “The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.  He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom.”  

My lack of understanding in His ability doesn’t render it less true or less possible or less wonderful.  Regardless of my opinion on the matter, His current can carry me.

Here’s to shedding my inner seagull.

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Eve, On Desire.

Over here, in the corner of my mind where I try to write poems that matter & poems that aren’t autobiographical (I’m sick of myself!), I’ve been pondering the idea of writing poems from the perspective of Bible characters.

Writing a poem in the perspective of another character allows, even requires, that the character become real to the writer (and hopefully the reader).  I often forget that the characters in the Bible were real and as a result, I usually fail to learn from them.  It seems an awful shame not to learn from the men & women whose lives help to tell the love story of the God I worship.  So, in an effort to make the characters come alive, I’m going to put forth an effort to write their lives in poem form.  Maybe I will learn a thing or two. Maybe you will,  too.  Maybe in studying those who came before us, we’ll learn more about the God who goes before us.  The God who was, is and ever more will be.

What do you think of this idea?  Have any of you done anything like this?  If so, would you be willing to share your character sketches?

Here’s my first, a short poem inspired by a comment my pastor made about desire and Eve’s tragic mismanagement of it.  It strikes me that her desire to see what wasn’t yet hers to see left all of us unable to see at all.  What a grave and horrible reality humankind as endured a result of her desire to know right now.  It leads me to consider where in my life I am guilty of pushing and prodding to see and know more than what God has given me right now. How does this practice hurt me?  How does it hurt those around me?


On its branch, the fruit
was nothing.
In my palm, it was a galaxy

and I needed
to see the stars up close.

Oh, how my retinas burned.

until all the children
went blind.


Artwork by: Denis Nunez Rodriguez


Posted in art, Truth, writing | 3 Comments

Fiddle-heads That Know & Hearts That Are Still Learning

We’ve been waiting.  And finally, it’s here.

Everyday (for the last two weeks), Sparrow, still in her pajamas and with sleep still clinging to her wispy hair, has tromped down the hill to the creek in search of marsh marigolds.  The first of spring’s yellow-eyed wonders, these whimsical flowers litter the lowlands of our property.  Drawing from the river that borders one side and the dappling creek on the other, the marigolds manage to hug the ground yet touch the sun.  They are delightful and an object of Sparrow’s constant attention.

And a few days ago, they arrived.  She’s picked them by the hordes, every flat surface of our house adorned with a vase.  I relish in her obsession.


And today, we took a much anticipated walk across the river in search of fiddle-head ferns. Until today, the river was too high to cross.  Certain that she would miss the glory of the fern’s unfolding, Sparrow fretted over the water level and even resorted to bargaining and pleading with us to ‘just carry her across’.  Somehow, she survived the perilous wait and somehow, the water level receded.  Today, we crossed and found, in abundance, the emerald heads of ferns tilting up and out to greet us.

She was obsessed and so was I.  I didn’t need to relish in her delight; I had my own.  A fiddle-head fern in its art of awakening is like a profound poem being scrawled on a page.


So spring has come.  And we are in rejoicing.  We aren’t just rejoicing.  We are in the rejoicing.  It has somehow become us and we it.  So that we cannot separate our bones from its song, our way from its way.

And through this, we are drawn ever closer to the heart of the Creator, who made it all for His delight and instructed us to rejoice in it.  How simple a command: rejoice in what I’ve made.  How simple to obey.

And yet, I find myself tripping over an aspect of this.  The Bible is riddled with verses reminding us to rejoice.  Always, in all things, in suffering, in the Lord, in today, in truth, in His word, in our salvation.  I could go on but will stop short and conclude that it appears as if we are to rejoice continually, because of and in spite of everything. 

Fiddle-head ferns?  Easy.  Marsh marigolds?  Obviously.  Spring?  Effortless.  Sparrow & her effervescent zest for all things flora and fauna?  Like breathing.


But praying for one thing and getting another?  I admit I’m still on the yellow-brick road to the Emerald City of Rejoicing on this one.

I do believe I ought to divulge to the reader what prayer and answer I’m referring to.  I hinted at it here but unless you are in my face-to-face community of friends and family, likely you didn’t know what I was referring to.  So I will tell you: I am pregnant.

Now, before you judge me and say under your breath, How can she find it difficult to rejoice in such perfectly wonderful news?  A baby!  New life!  allow me to share the back-story of my emotion.

Andy and I had been open to but not pleading for a second child for nearly five years.  In honesty, we always felt our family was complete as a unit of three but we felt uneasy about shutting off the possibility altogether.  That seemed too hasty and too short-sighted. So we said to ourselves if it happens, it happens.  If it doesn’t, fine. 

Those nearly five years passed by and lead to a conversation in which both Andy & I admitted to each other that we were ready to be closed to the idea.  After so much time never becoming pregnant, we felt it wasn’t in the cards for us to have a second child.  And frankly, we had great peace about that.  I dare say we even rejoiced in it.  We were blissfully happy, madly in love with our daughter and ready to move on to the next chapter of our lives (aka, the chapter in which we were parents of an independent, sharp-witted 5-year old as opposed to the chapter in which we were indentured servants parents to an infant/baby/toddler.)

So, (and I apologize if this is too much information), we agreed to use vigilant protection during intercourse while we looked into permanent solutions.

During this, we also determined that I had an abundance of free-time that would only grow as Sparrow did.   Believing whole-heartedly that time is a resource to be tithed just like money, we thought it prudent to ask God how He would like me to use my time.  So we prayed and prayed.  We fasted for many days.  We sought and asked for discernment.   I met with a dear missionary friend and talked about the needs in the over-seas mission field.  I researched various graduate programs awarding degrees in everything from Global Public Health to Seminary to Creative Non-Fiction and Poetry.  I reconsidered starting a wood-fired bread bakery.  I considered writing a book.  Writing songs.  Volunteering at the food shelf.  Starting a non-profit.  Pretty much anything.  And all the while, I day-dreamed about what the answer would be.

Well, friends.  God was faithful in answering our fervent pleas for direction on how to tithe my time.  Thing is, His answer wasn’t at all what I expected.  Nor was it what any where close to what I had day-dreamed.  And, to be dreadfully honest, I almost found His answer offensive.

After 5 years of nothing and 6 weeks of intentional avoidance, we were going to have a baby.

I can’t really express why this was so distressing to me.  But it was.  After holding out almost every option I could think of and saying pick one for me, God, the sovereign Creator of the universe chose the one thing I had left off the table and handed it to me. And forgive me for saying this, but I didn’t want what He had to offer.

I realize I can still do any of the afore mentioned things with a baby, albeit ever so much more challenging.  But, it was the principal of the thing that I struggled with.  I felt as though I had said: I can be anything, Lord! What do you want me to be?  And He (in His infinite wisdom) said I want you to suffer under the weight of pregnancy, the despondency of labor and the arduous, unforgiving and seemingly endless fatigue of parenting an infant….

when He was really saying I want you to be the mother of one of my precious, immortal souls. 

But I couldn’t see that at the time.  And, to be honest yet again, I am just beginning to see that.  It’s just in these days of spring, as I witness the world erupting with life and newness and the intended change of season, that my heart is able to understand that whatever my God ordains is right.  

He draws the fiddle-head from its slumber at just the right moment.  The marsh marigold opens at His beckoning call.  He has given the symphony of seasons a tempo and they have willingly followed since the beginning of time.  I have come to trust this.  Sparrow is learning this and trusting it, too.  Spring will always come after winter.  Always. Even if it appears hopeless.  Because He has ordained it, so it will be.


So, little heart of mine.  If He is the Gentle Creator and you are but dust, does it not seem that what you too will awaken from slumber at just the right moment?  Does it not seem that He knows what you need and when?  Can you not trust the symphony He is making of your life?

Friends, pray this for me.  Pray that I will trust, in abundance, the workings of His mighty hand.  Pray that I will rejoice in His perfect ways.  Pray that, since I had the nerve to ask, I would have the grace to accept His answer.  Pray this for me, please.  And I will pray it for you.  We are all learning, in various degrees, what the fiddle-head already knows.

“You visit the earth and cause it to overflow; You greatly enrich it; The stream of God is full of water; You prepare their grain, for thus You prepare the earth. You water its furrows abundantly, You settle its ridges, You soften it with showers, You bless its growth. You have crowned the year with Your bounty, And Your paths drip with fatness. The pastures of the wilderness drip, And the hills gird themselves with rejoicing. The meadows are clothed with flocks And the valleys are covered with grain; They shout for joy, yes, they rejoice & sing.” Psalm 65: 9-13


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Confessions of a Gift-Reciever

I’ve had a bitter heart these last few weeks. Described as ingratitude at best and at worst as blatant disdain for the circumstances God has given me, I’ve allowed myself to wallow in self-pity believing I would eventually run the bitter well dry and resurface in search of joy. The problem with a bitter well, however, is that it is bottomless. There’s always another cup to draw up.

Yesterday, while driving along the largest body of fresh water in the world, my heart realized this about bitterness. I’d been drinking poison while clear, cold water lapped at my feet.

The God I worship gives His children good gifts. I know this to be true. Even when what I’ve gotten isn’t what I asked for, I cannot deny that my life has been testament to this fact. Even when the gift is grossly different than what I’d been pleading for, even when it hurts, it has always proven to be right. I am the beneficiary of His perfect giving.

And still, in these last weeks, I find myself cursing what I’ve been given. Driving along that endless lake yesterday night, the verse about fish and snakes, bread and stones came into my mind. It says “Or which one of you, if his son asks him for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a serpent? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!” (Matthew 7:9-11)

I thought about this verse and I wept. I’d asked, even begged and then, in my foolishness and sinfulness and conceitedness, had the audacity to curse what I’d received.

In the remaining miles of my drive, I wrote this as a confession and plea for forgiveness. Fortunately for me (and you and all who call on His name) “as far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us.” (Psalm 103:12)


The grave assigned to me held
Your body, Your bones
while I staggered by the cemetery gates
wailing about my life–how it wasn’t
the life I thought that I should have.

And everywhere around me
the trees awoke. Birds pulled
the sun closer. Snow receded
in song. You rose like a crocus
from softening ground, reciting
a poem about Love. There was dirt
in Your hair and nails but no sarcasm
in Your voice. I memorized
the stanzas, wore them like jewels
around my neck.

You turned to go. I followed, a hungry child
begging for crumbs. From Your pocket, You pulled
a beautiful loaf and, reciting
the poem, held it out for me.

Forgive the child
whose mouth is saying stone
while her hands are clearly holding bread.


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Gleanings From the Syrup Season

There is a crystal clear sap hidden in the long, slender bone of a maple tree that holds the promise of a sweet, golden syrup.  This fact is reason enough for me to recognize and devote myself to the worship of One True God.

maplespilewildfoodism2That it takes hours of painstaking labor to haul the sap, patient and excessive hours of tedium spent over a wood stove and even more spent over a cook stove with sticky spoons and malfunctioning thermometers to behold a jar of syrup, is experience enough for me to realize the person this One True God has in mind for me to be is no where near the person I currently am.

IMG_8901To know that it takes 30-40 gallons of that clear sap to make one gallon of coveted syrup means I am learning to admit how much of me needs to be given to the fire before what is worthy can be revealed.


But when it is finished?  The hours, the labor & stress & time & energy & minutia of an endeavor that produces a small collection of maple syrup, this small life of mine…Was it worth the cost?

I am trusting the answer to be yes.  

A million times & eternally so.


And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.  Phillipians 1:6


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