Yesterday, I just didn’t have my usual energy. Everything required so much effort, but everything still needed done. Can you relate?
While running errands on a cold, blustery day, I dragged myself from one stop on my to do list to the next. My arms and legs felt like lead weights, but I forged on through the wind and snow anyway.
Halfway through my list was a stop at the bank. I couldn’t use the drive-thru because I was driving Old Blue, a car as old as our daughter who’s in college. Years ago, the aged Buick had the misfortune of being hit by a flighty deer running full-force into the driver’s side door. The deer incident rendered the window inoperable. And though the stuck window may have improved our health—drive-thru fast food is completely out of the question–it is a bit inconvenient. Take toll booths, for instance. Yet I digress.
So I had to walk into the bank to complete my transaction. I stopped at the desk, filled out a deposit slip and took a few steps toward the only open teller’s window. At that point, a lady entered the door, looked my way and picked up her pace, darting straight toward the teller and leaving me in the dust to contemplate the fate of mankind, should such acts of incivility prevail around the world.
Soon I stopped thinking globally to feel slighted locally. Funny how I can get riled up over such little things. But I kept telling myself, let it go…just let it go.
When I started up the old Buick and puttered down the road, I pondered the idea of yielding.
Most of us don’t come into this world as natural yielders. I know I didn’t. But, it’s something I have been learning, sometimes by trial and error, but even more so by watching others who show me how it’s done. My Grampa Clark disciplined himself to live his life as a true yielder.
If anyone came to the door, he invited them to come in and sit down. The TV was immediately turned off, not turned down, and his attention was given whole-heartedly to his visitors. He let the conversation swirl about the house and conveyed he had all the time in the world.
But Grampa yielded in more than just the little things. After many years as a farmer, he went to work as one of many employees on my dad’s nursery. While Grampa was the father, he subdued his will to let his son be the boss. I never sensed resentment, but rather, he was a hard-working man who showed up early every morning and put in a hard day’s work. He demonstrated day in, day out the humility–and the strength–of yielding.
The Bible calls this meekness. Strength under control. It’s turning our eyes from ourselves and looking with sensitivity into the lives of others and choosing, no matter how hard or inconvenient, to do what is loving and good.
Funny that on the heels of my driving and pondering and still trying to “let go,” God had a surprise awaiting me at the next stop on my list. As I walked into the post office foyer, a woman entered from the opposite door. There were two doors to enter the lobby–one for each of us. Great! Yielding would not be an issue this time. Or would it?
She caught my eye, opened the door closest to her and invited me to step through in front of her. I gave her the subtle flick of the hand and the tilt of the head that said, no, no, you go first and started to reach for the handle of the door near me. Yet she responded with warm insistence and I passed through her open door into a bustling post office lobby.
Could she have fathomed what her one, small act of yielding would unleash? Instantly, I was released from the resentment I’d carried all the way from the bank. Instead of trudging, I regained a little spring in my step and felt invigorated by the winter air as I opened the door and stepped out into a curiously brighter world.
“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.” Matthew 5:5 [NIV]
And what a wonderful world it will be.
“C’mon, it looks pretty down here.”
The room—once filled with giggles and chatter—was still. The quiet must have crept in while I’d been preoccupied with picking up doll clothes, straightening books, and restoring order to a once spotless house. I didn’t notice, until I saw her curled up at the foot of the Christmas tree.
Mary lie there, wilted from her simply electrifying performance: hours of directing make-believe action, out-singing Belle and the cup and the Beast two times through, and, all the while, charming her way into my heart.
I stayed with Mary while her mom went to dinner with dad, and, later, sang at Midnight Mass. I’d never heard her sing, but people said that she, too, gave an electrifying performance. When she lifted Ave Maria to the heavens, it sifted back down to sooth everyone who gathered there.
And I’d been entrusted with the care of her little girl on Christmas eve.
Mary was clever. While angelic in appearance, she found conning me out of extra dessert or negotiating a later bedtime thrilling pursuits. She had a keen sense of humor, too. Her eyes sparkled as she persisted in bantering me all night long. I’d respond, much to her delight, with pursed lips and furrowed brow, folding my arms as I pretended to be deeply offended. When I played along and dished up a particularly funny comeback, she’d gasp for air and snort, breaking into a giggling fit.
Some moms are given children who you can’t help but love instantly. And some moms are given children who are complicated and need a little more figuring out. In Mary, her mom was given both.
The light in her eyes, the quick wit, and the lilting songs emanated from a frail, little body. Instead of arms that reached effortlessly for her own cookies, her hands snaked awkwardly through the air. Instead of running and skipping and dancing through life, her legs were too weak to stand.
To be deprived in such a way. To never roll a snow man or carve out a fort. To be an angel to others but unable to simply make an angel in the snow. And yet, to still bring so much joy and laughter into the world. I felt honored to enjoy this evening with a child who could do such a marvelous thing.
That Mary’s mom had entrusted me with her little girl’s care paled in comparison with the true wonder of this evening. Mary’s mom had entrusted her daughter to me—as a gift.
Later in the evening, the house was revived with chattering and giggling during Mary’s bedtime routine. Who could have so much fun while wrestling into pajamas even though it required two sets of hands? And with brushing teeth when it was an awkward struggle between weak arms and a bobbing head?
After the umpteenth request for just a little, bitty glass of water, Mary snuggled into her blankets and then, the night grew quiet.
I turned off the lamp and sat in the living room under the glow from the lights on the tree.
I could hear Mary’s voice, C’mon, it looks pretty down here.
And I prayed: Lord, give me a heart that sees beauty, even when I’m brought low. Let me overcome hardship and disappointment so that I can be a gift to Your world. May I be that girl, looking up to the Light, who carries joy and laughter wherever I go.
I’ve never looked at a Christmas tree–or Ave Maria–the same way since.
Merry Christmas. May you discover new joy this year as we celebrate God coming down to bring us the ultimate gift of love. Himself. Immanuel. God with us.
May joy lift you up and carry you through all the preparations and celebrations! And may it come quietly, too, in the still moments that find you during this busy season.
This beautiful version of Ave Maria reminds me of another Mary who reminded me to look to the Light, even in darkness.
[See "at the foot of the tree" ]
My oncologist rattled off the various side effects I would experience over the course of chemotherapy. He sped through them like a fifth grader reciting a list of the U. S. Presidents.
His voice dropped off as he ended with, “…and hair loss.”
Hair loss? The words jumped out from the doctor’s droning, curled their fingers around a fragile part of me and squeezed.
I managed a faint, “All of it?” His words went something like this, “Oh, definitely…you will be bald!” Realizing that this news came out a little too loud, a little too calous, his eyes softened as he offered up an apologetic, yet reassuring smile.
From the day you get that first call–the confirmation–cancer unveils itself in revelations spaced just far enough apart to compound the pain. Each one a direct hit, pelting you like hard rain and stinging your skin. Instead of rolling off your face, off your shoulders and arms, it sinks down into you where it pools and waits for you to wade through its waters late at night. The loss of your hair hits you harder than you would think. For it’s a visible reminder of other losses. The ones carried deep inside. Ones, too overwhelming to express.
My hair was chestnut-brown. It draped down over my shoulders and came to rest at the small of my back. More than a veil, my hair flowed about me as part of my identity. It conveyed warmth, vitality and femininity. In losing it, I feared that part of me would be stripped away.
I left the office with the orders for my first round of chemo in my hand and rested my forehead against the cool glass of the car window on what seemed like an awfully long, quiet ride home.
There are times when you need to cry but tears won’t come. Yet when you finally slide open the door on your thoughts and let them fall into the care of another, the tears break free. This time it happened during a phone call to my sister. I told her the news. It was certain, all of my hair would fall out. There was silence on the other end of the phone line. Not an empty silence, but a time of listening and receiving. It seemed that some of the pain flowed from my hands to hers and I was comforted through the exchange.
After we’d talked for a while she shared that my niece and her friends were growing their hair out so that they could give it away. Their hair would be made into wigs for girls who couldn’t grow their own hair.
Later, I pulled up a website and saw pictures of some of those little girls who lived every day without hair. Girls who were stared at in grocery store aisles and singled out for teasing on playgrounds and in cafeterias. Finally, they had been given cute, full, adorable hair. I say hair and not wigs because it looked like the real thing. I read the stories written by grateful, little girls about how good it felt to have a new sense of beauty and to not be stared at anymore.
My loss could be…would be someone else’s gain. Another revelation–this time, a beautiful one–unfurled in cancer’s wake.
I remember the thick braid of hair lying heavy across my hands. Part of me–my warmth and beauty–would fall across the shoulder of a little girl. I imagined her eyes sparkling as she gazed into the mirror, tossing her head side-to-side, mesmerized by her very own hair dancing up, away from her face. I smiled as I pictured her being startled while brushing her teeth; as she caught the reflection of a stranger in the mirror. A smile breaking across her face as she realized that the reflection was her own–with hair. I liked the thought of her drawing close to the mirror and wrinkling up her nose while she ran her fingers through this new mane, in disbelief.
As I slid the deep-honey rope of hair into the mailer, I cried. Not tears of loss. These, were giving tears. For in giving my hair to another, my loss was lifted from me and I was given a mantle of joy.
The past few weeks have been particularly hectic. After a late night, I awoke this morning much earlier than I would have liked. As I lay there in bed composing this year’s Christmas letter in my head, I smiled to think that even in these weeks of writing deadlines, speaking events and traveling halfway across the country–God is giving me our Christmas letter without me even pushing myself to do it. Not hunched over a keyboard, but in the quiet of the morning snuggled up in my nice, warm bed.
Morning after morning I’ve been on the go. Not today–this would be a linger-over-a cup-of-coffee morning. Time to rest. It had snowed during the night and now the world outside my window is at last blanketed in white. Have you noticed? How snow quiets life. The sounds that usually fill the morning are softened. The rough edges of life are smoothed.
I don’t usually listen to music in the morning, but today I thought Christmas music would be nice. As I flipped through my Christmas CD’s, none of them seemed quite right for this kind of morning.
Then a CD I hadn’t listened to for months caught my eye: Simplicity. A collection of old hymns played softly, sweetly on a piano. Jesus is Calling, Blessed Assurance, Softly and Tenderly and… His Eye is on the Sparrow.
It’s a CD that arrived in a care package from my sister and her home school group when I was going through cancer treatment. Every time I listen to it I think about the many ways God showed his tenderness to me day-after-day throughout my walk with Him through cancer. Each was a beautiful expression of His love for me and a reminder of His constant presence in my life.
When I was facing a surgery that would be a really difficult one for me–both physically and emotionally–the women in that home school group 1000’s of miles away were praying for me. They not only sent a care package; they not only lifted prayers. But they also flew my sister out to be with me to comfort and care for me following the surgery.
To have my sweet sister there to cheer me–what a precious gift, sent by a God. By a loving God whose ways are tender. They are like that blanket of newly fallen snow that softens the landscape this morning and quiets the day. His ways bring sweetness to even the most difficult times.
“He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing” ~ Zephaniah 3:17 ~
His eye is on the sparrow…and He watches over me.
‘Would love to hear how God has expressed His tender love for you.
My Gramma used to make square chocolate chip cookies. They were her signature fare. No matter how many changes life brought my way, I could always count on that covered dish of cookies waiting for me on her kitchen table.
I remember lifting the lid many a time, peeking in and trying not be too obvious about choosing the one that had the most chips. There they were, nestled together—golden-brown, sweet-smelling and tender—bending slightly, each with a corner or two thrown over the back of another. And they were always square.
Most cookies are round. But not my Gramma’s. When she scooped up cookie dough she didn’t just use a little spoon. No, she reached for a big spoon and pulled up big globs of dough and smiled as she dropped them onto the scratched-up cookie sheets she’d used for years. It didn’t occur to her to fuss and fret over the way they spread out and overtook the pan, melting into each other’s sides.
That’s the way she took to cooking everything. I loved standing on a chair so I could watch her scooping up heaps of soft, white flour using an old chipped cup. She would never have given serious thought to spooning it into a measuring cup and leveling it off with a knife. Some of the best food I’ve ever eaten owed its goodness to a pinch of this and a little shake of that stirred together under a keen eye that could sense when things looked just right.
When I look at how I approach life—particularly writing— these days, it seems I’ve left that inner sense behind. That knowing of when it’s just right, when it’s pleasing to the ear. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time looking to others who seem to have it all figured out. As I compare my square cookies to their perfectly round ones—served up on fine china, no less—I feel like what I have to offer falls miserably short.
And so, I agonize and over-think every sentence as minutes turn to hours, and I come to the end of the day with little to show for my struggle. Little more than a gut pulled up tight under my ribs and a half-written piece with the life and light wrung completely out of it.
I think it’s time to get back to writing the way I used to—the way Gramma cooked.
She didn’t seem bound by the rules of a neatly coiffed Betty Crocker or concerned with emulating the gourmet creations of Julia Child. Gramma had something special inside that trusted a quick taste kissed off the tip of her finger with a sweet, little mmm-mmpt.
Square cookies, anyone?
Here’s my tribute to the last official day of Summer! Celebrating a season of sunshine, too free and easy to be captured in little boxes on a calendar hanging flat on my wall.
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Caution: Driver Singing. I saw this bumper sticker a few weeks ago. It reminded me of a couple girls we watched while stuck in traffic on a hot California day.
Desperate for a reprieve from triple-digit temps, we were flying down the freeway to escape the heat. After sizzling past Dixon, Vacaville came and went like a flash in the rear view mirror. We scorched on through Fairfield and down the hill, chasing a siren song! It lifted off the cool waters of a distant bay and drifted inland upon the delta breeze.
There, where gentle winds beckoned us onward, our truck slowed to a crawl, bogged down in a mire of commuters, travelers, semi-trucks and RV’s. All converging at the Cordelia interchange, barely flowing through a clogged artery meant to pump life into cities along the bay.
By the time we inched off the ramp and onto 680, traffic had been stop-and-go for at least a half-dozen songs on the radio. My husband navigated our camper-shelled cocoon slowly to the inside lane. While he concentrated on the tail-lights in front of us, I took in the sights all around, marveling at the sea of humanity being squeezed into a freeway two sizes too small.
When life gets hectic and you need a little break–wouldn’t it be nice to open your email and find an encouraging note? Make your eLife a little brighter! Have sweetmarimari delivered to your inbox or reader!
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I have a secret wish. It was planted in my heart many years ago at Mount Hermon Conference Center, or perhaps one of many other lovely places, with cabins and campfire rings, tucked away in the woods of Northern California.
I had narrowly escaped death just a year or so before. That’s a long story, so I’ll just say this, Jesus had stood at my door and knocked long enough. He finally kicked it down, rushed into the burning building—and saved my life! Then, I wandered alone. Well, just God and me anyway. The Cross…and about fifteen-hundred miles lay between my old life and this thing that someone had promised me would be new life. I had arrived in California “a new creation,” but I felt (and acted) like the same old mess I’d always been. I longed, prayed, begged for God to bring me just one person who knew something about this Jesus thing.
God answered. He responded as He often does—Over the top!
He brought all kinds of great people my way. So many friends who lived out this Jesus thing. When I wanted to crawl back into my dark little hole, they coaxed me out time after time. We escaped a few times each year to Mt. Hermon, Mt. Gilead and various pine-scented places tucked away in the Sierras.
One aspect of retreats never changed. There was always a speaker.
Amazing how these people shared exactly what I needed! Many of their stories changed my life! Christian speakers helped me make sense of what God was doing, and showed me what He still wanted to do! From Paul Cox’s “Dangerous Man” series to Charles Stanley’s “New Creation” talk and all the way up to Patsy Clairmont swinging around her crazy mess of rubber bands at Arco Arena! So many speakers—some whose names I may not recall—shared messages I will never forget.
As I experienced impact these speakers had on my life, I longed to share with others what had been lavished on me. But how I could I? I was such a Much Afraid, Hannah Hannard’s stumbling and stammering character who longed to run to the heights but, instead, hid under the bed.
That’s another long story, so I’ll just say this: where I can’t, He can.
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My secret wish is coming true! I have a speaking engagement!
If you’re a Christian speaker, please share what you have learned. Not a speaker? If you’ve been changed by what a Christian speaker has shared with you I want to hear what you have to say, too. Please share your “advice for a new speaker” with me. Just click on Comments at the top of this post.
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Note to self: Do NOT wear this dress Friday night!
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The day I’ve looked forward to for a long, long time is less than a week away!
No, it’s not my wedding day. I ran heart-racing, head-on into the waves of marital bliss years ago. But that exhilarating dance—of peace and excitement twirling around in me—is back! Throw in a little game of leap-frog between faith and doubt every twenty-four hours or so and…you get the picture.
I keep dreaming of how everything will go at my first speaking engagement! It’s not really my first; I’ve been at it for a while now. But this is my first Christian event for women! For so long, I have looked forward to speaking into the lives of women in the same tender, transparent and hope-filled way that so many Christian speakers have spoken into mine. Good words, wonderful words—God has used them to challenge me, change me, comfort me, and move me—all to one end: To know Him, to love him and to live in Him more, and more, and more.
It’s my turn now—and I can hardly wait!
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Event:“The Radiant Christian Woman”Friday, Sept. 11th 6:30 to 8:30 pm
at Scotland Trinity Presbyterian Church
Macomb, IL ~ click on link for details!
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