Archive for the The Journey Category

The cold wind is roaring outside this morning near St. Charles, Missouri and I feel like an old fool. Just yesterday it was sunny and warm and today feels like a cruel joke. “Silly Margaret. You thought morels (mushrooms) would be popping up. Nope!” Nature has a way of confounding us–perplexing us. One moment there is peace and sunlight; the next, wind and trauma.

But nature often feels like a reflection of my own tainted heart. The storm inside of me has been raging. I’ve been working so hard to quell it with little success. I find little moments of peace and serenity only to see them shattered when the wind picks up.

My husband is yelling again because he can’t find the saltshaker. My boss is lecturing me because my work is too thorough and precise. A sudden hurricane of Lego’s has erupted in my living room because my son is in a fit of rage over a project that isn’t coming together the way he wants. My granddaughter is screaming because her television program stopped. I stand in the whirlwind and wonder how to keep my temper from flaring. I wonder where the sunshine is. And frankly, I’m angry it’s hiding behind a thick cluster of dark clouds.

I’ve been complaining a lot and I’m ashamed. I have so much to be thankful for. The truth is, I have an incurable wound. This dark side of me refuses comfort unless it is coated in chocolate. There are people praying and begging God for my life of abundance and I’m crying over minor abuses at work and too many toys on the floor of the house I own. I seem to like collecting troubles in a heap for display while the mountain of blessings behind me goes unnoticed. What is wrong with me?

Last night I received a text asking for prayer for a friend who is suffering serious, physical agonies. Unemployed and poverty-stricken, a young woman lies suffering with an incurable ailment that causes incessant pain. Her body rejects antibiotics and pain medication so she lies in bed and wets her pillow with tears because doctors don’t know how to fix her. I have other friends who suffer the torment of loneliness and rejection. And there are many who weep over a barren womb. Last week someone asked for prayer that her current pregnancy will endure because the last one didn’t. Jesus said we will have trouble in this world and indeed we do.

Am I a fool to flee to the words of a book written thousands of years ago looking for answers? Will it address the abuse or murder of children? Will it give voice to the mundane irritancies that plague my hours and days? Will it provide hope for a future I’ve given up on? Because the truth is, my worldly dreams are mostly dead. I don’t feel like I have much to look forward to in this life.

“Behold a king will reign in righteousness, and princes will rule in justice. Each will be like a hiding place from the wind, a shelter from the storm, like streams of water in a dry place, like the shade of a great rock in a weary land.” Isaiah 32:1-2

I read those words yesterday from my wind-tossed back patio. Tree limbs were blowing around in clusters and I was holding the pages of my bible as it too tried to blow away. I stopped to think about this man, Isaiah, who wrote the words God told him to but never saw them come to fruition. What must it have felt like to live on hope and prayer and never see the words come true? Many years later the one who wrote Hebrews described several other people.

“These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledge that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, they would have had opportunity to return. but as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore, God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city.” Hebrews 11:13-16

I am reminded again why this world is so uncomfortable. This place is not my home.

The most beautiful things of this world are but a dim and tarnished reflection of that place. And it’s not because the streets are made of gold or because the gates are made of pearls (though the bible says they are). I find that place attractive because my Father is there. My perfect Father and His Son are there waiting for me. Heaven is heaven because once there I will know perfect safety, security and joy. There will be no more tears. No more suffering. No more dark and stormy nights. No more throbbing joints or wounds that don’t heal. I suppose someone will read this and think me simple or foolish. But I believe like the Apostle Paul who wrote to the Corinthian church, “If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied.”

I’ve been crying again because I didn’t meet someone’s expectations of me. I seem to attract men that criticize me and wish to see me apologize and “improve”. Even in the church I find men who spurn a simple conversation with a woman that’s not a sister or spouse and I’ll be honest, it hurts. How many other women long for Heaven because they know that once there, they have a perfect Father who won’t abuse or neglect them? He won’t reject them for dinner that isn’t seasoned properly or tell them they’ve put on a few pounds or tell them they are ‘too emotional’. He will simply smile, open His arms, and welcome us to rest forever in His love. This goes for men too. All of us, really. He is love and He loves us.

The thing is, I am a fool. I’m a fool for Christ. He is every hope and dream fulfilled in the fullness of time. He is all that matters. May the dear reader find hope and assurance in the knowledge of Him today.

“Double, double, toil and trouble.”

This incantation seems to haunt my days. In the morning I wake at odd hours. When it’s dark. When its silent. My thoughts are like ghosts whispering. I am tired but cannot rest.

Can you relate?

Everyone has trouble. Be it work or home, we all struggle with something. Arthritis. Insomnia. Unbridled anger. Chaos in the workplace. Hurt feelings. So, we try to rest and find it elusive.  Worse, we go searching for rest…and get lost.

We manage as best we can in a world filled with cruelty or worse–apathy and disregard for others. People are doing evil things to us and so we end up perpetuating evil in return. I have found it so in the past few weeks that my workplace has become a place of torment. I rise and put on my “good attitude with positive intent” hat but by the end of the day I am filled with disgust and rage. I drive home praying and trying to forgive but resentment has taken room. I am exhausted trying to be rid of it.

Saturdays have become a day of decompression. I clean. I listen to music. I cry. I grieve this world and its hardships. I grieve injustice and selfishness and greed. I long for simple things but sometimes they are hard to find.

This morning I woke earlier than I wanted and there was a thunderstorm of thoughts happening in my head. Sometimes I wish I had earmuffs for my brain. Is there something, anything that will calm the storm? Storms have a way of disorienting us to our place in this world. We grasp at branches trying to steady ourselves and get sucked deeper into the madness. When the storm settles, we find ourselves in a place we are unfamiliar with and have to find our way back.

I found a map this morning by way of Psalm 103.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, who satisfies you with good so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.” 

It’s hard to remember “the benefits of God” while being pelted with hail. When the car is getting dinged and the shingles are blowing off the roof, I begin to question what He is doing. But so often when I am just disgusted with God and sick to death of being smacked in the face with another piece of ice, there is a moment of beauty and grace so sublime, I unintentionally catch my breath.

I’ve had several of those moments this week.

My son and I were on the way home from an appointment when a bald eagle swooped down in front of my car, circled around and flew over us again. It was uncanny. Simple. Stupendous. I slowed down to take in the moment (thanking God no one was driving behind me). It was as if all of the clouds parted, and a bright ray of sunshine broke through on our faces. We were in the heart of the city, but this moment transported us to another world.

The second moment was when I walked out of work and a solitary robin was singing its heart out from a little tree in the landscaping. I stopped to listen and even whistled back. I wondered how a little bird could bring so much cheer to my world-weary heart. But that song–that music from nature–was like an eraser to the evil of the day.

Another day I walked out of work and a flock of Canadian geese were honking at each other. Again, I stopped to watch and listen. The flock were together but in pairs. They were sort of walking around together in pairs with their necks stretched out in front of them. I wondered what they were saying to each other during that show of vocal athletics. The people from work were exiting the building while I stood there and I felt the pressure to move along, but I decided to stay. For a few minutes I just stayed in that moment of beauty of grace.

I’ve been thinking about these moments this morning as I watch the birds from my kitchen window. The mockingbird delights in the walnuts and peanut butter I put out. As does the wren. The titmouse, nuthatch and red-headed woodpecker come for peanuts. And the goldfinches are sorting out thistle seeds. And here I sit crying because they are so beautiful and yet their lives are so fleeting. They eat, and sing, and fly. They build a nest to raise their young. Their life is only a moment. And they are wholly dependent on finding food every day to sustain themselves. One would ask why they even exist if only to be born and to die. It seems a terrible injustice. But God created them, and they are wonderful. I am so grateful for all of them. They make my heart so happy!

And suddenly I am finding my way back. I see the path. It’s becoming more clear the troubles the world throws at me are just raindrops. I see the sun. I see the corner of a rainbow.

“As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more. But the steadfast love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him, and his righteousness to children’s children.” Psalm 103:15-17

Jesus said, “in this world you will have trouble, but take heart, I have overcome the world.”

Because we don’t only have trouble in this world, you see. We have beauty. Kindness. Grace and mercy. We have doves cooing and woodpeckers banging their heads on dead wood. We have people with no earthly reason to show us love who embrace us while we weep. It’s time to stop staring into the darkness and to set our minds and hearts on the light. That is how we get unlost.

We are all dying. We are really no different than the birds. But while we live, we must keep trying to sing. When we sing, we give others hope to help find their way back to the path.

I hope you enjoyed this song. Now go! Fly and sing!

“Christmas means carnage!” – Babe (the pig)

I’m old. I know I’m old because I’m sitting in my kitchen the day after Christmas–ignoring the carnage in my living room–and watching a fat, ugly squirrel steal the peanut butter and walnut suet from my kitchen window. I should be in bed asleep, but I have arthritis and gas. The first wakes me up and the second wakes my husband, so there’s no point hiding under the covers. (No one ever tells a young bride about the agonies of undercover farts–but they really should! Instead of rice at weddings, we should throw gas-x, but I digress.)

I need coffee. I need coffee like a gazelle needs to run. I puttered to the kitchen this morning, stared lovingly at my coffee maker and then boiled water for green tea. You see, coffee gives me anxiety and insomnia–as if I don’t have enough trouble sleeping already. So, I poured a delicate little cup of Jasmine tea with stevia instead, and Friends, it’s just not the same.

But I survived Christmas.

I cleaned the house, bought the presents, baked the cookies, cooked the feast—and everyone left happy. There were no family fights, no eye gouging, no hair pulling and only minimal dog anxiety. And that was because one of my son’s asked me to dog-sit his giant blue tick coonhound puppy while he went with his girlfriend to their family celebration. His poor pup thought he had moved to Alaska to hunt Moby Dick and was never coming back so he ran around the basement peeing all day. Or barking. he also thought he was a Bumpass Hound (see A Christmas Story) and kept trying to steal the turkey off the kitchen counter. So, when we sat down to eat dinner, I locked him in the basement with my boxers and he lost his ever-loving mind. Best Christmas memory, my 14-year-old blessing the meal while the dog barked and bellowed loud enough to shatter our eardrums. My son later told me this is why they own a shock collar. Funny how he left that at home. (For all you animal lovers out there, I’m not saying I would have USED it. At least, I don’t think I would have.)

Right now, there are some folks thinking I’m a stinky Christian because I should probably be expounding the merits of Jesus incarnation but I’m sitting here nursing a sinus headache while bellyaching about greedy starlings. These damnable birds are destroying my feeders and what they don’t steal, the squirrels get. That might be why my son and I enjoyed watching the Cooper’s Hawk pluck and devour one unfortunate speckled varmint a few days ago. Serves it right for existing. If you don’t have a bird feeder–think of starlings as the avian playground bullies that steal your lunch money every single day. Everybody is happy when they get their comeuppance.

The thing is, I love Christmas. I love it the way I love running–it feels awesome when it’s over. I just lay there panting and nursing my hip. Wait, my hip didn’t hurt before Christmas! Am I really old enough for an aching hip? Good grief.

I did enjoy watching my granddaughter open her jammies and hat. I didn’t even bother to get her toys this year. The parents always go all out for a first child, and she is no exception. She could swim laps in all the gadgets and gizmos she has at her house and I don’t feel the need to compete. But I did have a philosophical moment amid the frenzy of wrapping paper and cosmic exclamations; we sure do know how to ruin the future Christmases of every child in the world. How, you ask? By making everything so stinking wonderful. It’s all downhill from here, folks. After a person reaches ten or twelve, it’s all over. Like my Uncle Dan said (in a well-timed Christmas text), “Santa’s not real. It’s your parents.”

How’s that for Christmas spirit?

Right about now there is somebody reading this thinking, “There goes that privileged white girl prattling on about the luxuries of sitting in a warm house with plenty of food and presents while some unhoused person is shivering in the cold with a hungry belly.” Send him to my bird feeder. He or she or THEM (after all, I want to be sensitive to those whose pronouns don’t match my own) can fight the starlings for the peanut butter and walnuts outside my sliding glass doors. They can stand on the warming mat I put out for the possums. If they’re really stinky, I’ll let them in for a bath–but don’t try to use the bathroom sink, my husband won’t hook up the vanity (in my only bathroom) because it doesn’t match the new tile he installed four months ago. That’s probably why I’m sick. I have to walk all the way to the kitchen in my house to wash my hands–with no water pressure. Did I mention my husband is a handman? He promised he’d hook it up for the holidays but…he got sick and stayed in bed for two weeks. See, this is the difference between women and men; when men get sick, they lay in bed and moan for days and years while women take some Advil and decongestant and do what needs to be done. Sorry, digressing again.

Not that I don’t believe in “the Christmas spirit”. I still get that “magical feeling” when the tree lights up for the first time. I truly love when I don’t have to make a trip to K-Mart to buy new Christmas lights (yes, I am miserly enough to keep fixing old strands of lights). I even got three whole ornaments on the tree this year and two of those were ones I forgot to put away last Christmas. The third was a gift from my mother. (Thanks, Mom!) As much as I hate shopping, I enjoyed foraging through aisle after aisle of crafts shows over the past few months for those special things ‘hand made with love’ by some other old ladies because I work for a living. My personal favorite was the goat milk soap. I was so excited about that I asked the Goat Lady how she makes it. She replied with glee, “First, you milk the goats.” I’m still chuckling over that one. And nothing puts one in the Christmas spirit like baking Christmas cookies. Every year I say I’m not baking cookies because I can’t eat them and then I bake them and eat all of them between December 26th and New Year’s Eve. Did I mention Christmas mean carnage…? Carnage on my waistline, that is. But maybe I’ll do better this year. Maybe I’ll learn discipline this year–after all, I’ve got a whole week left. If that doesn’t work, that’s what New Years Resolutions are for.

I did do a lot of praying over the holidays. These were truly reverent prayers, “God, please help me not to murder my son or my husband this year. Help me to forgive as I’ve been forgiven.” This was especially reverent as I gave my son the gift “not throwing away every single Lego on the floor of every single room in the house.” One would think the floor was made of metal and Legos were magnets.

And that, my friends, is how I survived Christmas. Prayer. Advil. Green tea. And while I know I will soon find myself in a luxuriously hot Epsom salt bath with an old boxer dog slurping up bath water while I listen to a Voddie Baucham sermon, I will cherish the gifts this Christmas is still giving to me; mom’s homemade fudge, the memory of my son grinning over the new shelving unit I spent hours shopping for on Christmas Eve, and my friendly little neighborhood wren. He reminds me that no matter how many starlings steal the peanut butter and walnut suet, he just keeps singing. And so will I!