On Rushing In

The Christmas season has me in a twit. With all of the holiday mayhem comes memories rushing back that haunt me and put me in a clutch. It can seem as though the only purpose of the season is to remind us of everything we have lost along the way. We hear “Christmas is all about family and friends”, but, family and friends can disappoint, let you down, and walk away. If this is all Christmas is about, I conclude that it’s a cosmic setup for disillusionment, and that we are ones to be greatly pitied.

I fear that I’ve fallen prey to our culture’s tendency to rush right into things without preparing, and Christmas is no exception. We love our lights and parties and events and shopping that start on the day of Thanksgiving, but what happened to Advent? Advent holds a flashlight to our feet, showing us the way to Christmas in the dark. Advent is about sitting with our longings for good to come our way; for a rescue, for unconditional love, for wrongs to be righted, for losses to be regained.  Advent lures us to the Word, which tells us that, not only can we have hope, but that hope is the only natural response to all that awaits us when Christ comes again – when “all of the sad things will become untrue” (Timothy Keller).

I’ve decided to “un-twit”; to take U-turn and return to Advent. It extends a hand and invites us to forego the sprint and take a walk towards the new morning of Christmas.  This path will cast fresh light on the season, subdue our hauntings of Christmas pasts and fling open the french doors to a new vision of what we are really celebrating. Will you join? — alg

Bells

 

Fourteen in all.

Black pants and long-sleeved shirts and fourteen red, glittery vests.

Twenty-eight black-gloved hands each hold a bell.

Random arms extend long as bells bow.

Ting-tong; bing-bong.

Ting tong,

Bing,

Bong,

Hand bells at Christmas.

Each musician plays two bells; one in each hand, each bell a different tone.

Without the others, the tones ring in random rhythms, in-between random spaces of silence.

Without the others there is confusion; two tones repeating over and over causing agitation.

Without the others, haphazard hums.

How many bells must play together, in concert to create Lo, How a Rose Er Blooming?

How many bells must play their seemingly erratic rhythms, repeating over and over, to create a Danish Christmas Carol?

Each bell, standing alone, a clanging sound with no explanation.

Together, in concert – Schtille Nacht.

Photo Credit: Megan Gusso

Each bell a torn jacket; in concert, a star quilt.

Each bell, a ceramic sheep with one broken, missing ear; in concert, kids playing with the nativity under the Christmas tree.

Each bell a shard of glass; in concert, a stained glass “O Holy Night” in hues of blue.

Each bell, a widowed heart; in concert, a group of woman sharing their struggles like a safe sisterhood.

Each bell, cries in a fetal position, in concert, an Irish lullaby.

Each bell, a ghost of Christmas past; in concert, distant whispers of Handel’s Messiah, like a light burning fog.

Each bell, a dismembered family; in concert, homecomings on the seaport, as if returning from war.

Ting, tong,

Bing,

Bong,

Hand bells at Christmas—alg

 

Through the Wardrobe

The lion has decided to take me to Narnia.  As Lucy learned, the only route to Narnia is through the wardrobe.

Lucy and her three older siblings were sent away to home in the country during the air raids in London in WWII. The Professor’s house was big, full of hallways and more rooms than one could visit in a day. One of the rooms had a wardrobe, which Lucy decided to explore.

“Looking into the inside, she saw several coats hanging up – mostly long fur coats. There was nothing Lucy liked so much as the smell and feel of fur.  She immediately stepped into the wardrobe and got in among the coats and rubbed her face against them, leaving the door open, of course, because she know that it is very foolish to shut oneself into any wardrobe.  Soon she went further in and found that there was a second row of coats hanging up behind the first one.  It was almost quite dark in there and she stretched her arms out in front of her so as not to bump her face into the back of the wardrobe. She took a step further in – then two or three steps – always expecting to feel woodwork against the tips of her fingers.  But she could not feel it. 

“This must be a simply enormous wardrobe!” Thought Lucy, going still further in and pushing the soft folds of the coats aside to make room for her…..Next moment she found that what was rubbing against her face and hands was no longer soft fur but something hard and rough and even prickly…..A moment later she found that she was standing in the middle of a wood at night-time with snow under her feet and snowflakes falling through the air”.

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe  page 6-7

 

I would be going through the wardrobe to reach Narnia, too; only by airplane.  As Lucy learned, this passage is not for the faint of heart.  I do have the major advantage of traveling with the lion.

The day before we are scheduled to leave, the weather turns bad. My flight in and out of Denver are cancelled. I get on the phone with the airline company to reschedule. My hold time is surprisingly short. I reach a representative. He dutifully searches the system to find another flight for me. Because I am flying Air New Zealand instead of United out of San Francisco, this is a complicated feat, with many “may I put you on hold?”s.

The helpful gentleman tells me there is availability tomorrow. He puts me on hold for the final time to confirm with Air New Zealand. He come back on the line and says, “Ma’am, ok,…..”

And the phone dies. It gets cut off. I have no call-back number or name.

I put palms to my forehead, and lament out loud.  I call the customer service line back.

This time, the hold time is about 45 minutes.

By the time I reach a representative, all flights tomorrow are full. They ask if I am able to leave two days from now.  Well, I reason, if the lion isn’t going yet, I guess I have no way there. I re-book, and I’m told it will take 24 hours to confirm my flight because I’m flying Air New Zealand.

————————————

I arrive at Rapid City Regional Airport, and learn my flight to Denver is delayed. Making it on time is needed to catch my connecting flight to San Francisco.  When I arrive in Denver, I run down the floor escalator; my flailing backpack, purse, and pillow tucked under my two sweatshirts wrapped around my waist, texting my daughter “Making it just in time!”

I board the plane, listen to the drone of the safety speech, and then hear the captain speak “Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologize for the inconvenience, but we’ve encountered a delay. A safety light bulb is out.” After waiting our estimated 15 minutes for the mechanics to fix the light bulb, we are told it will be longer than anticipated, and we have the option of de-boarding. I gladly de-board.

After about a 90 minute wait, we are told to re-board.  I begin to gather my bags, queuing up for the last in line; I turn my head away, and the terminal door shuts. The representative taking tickets had left. My adrenaline surged, causing the blood in my veins to shoot into places in my body that blood doesn’t normally reside. I panicked and interrupted the representative at the neighboring terminal. He informed me he really cannot help because he isn’t a real representative, and that it’s probably too late for me to board anyway.

A man with a three-piece suit ran by and opened my terminal door with his bona-fide badge. I told him I needed to board.  “Please wait, ma’am”, and slams the door in front of me.

Shortly thereafter, the boarding representative comes out, and takes my pass, and I board. He must have run into the lion.

Turns out the light bulb was, after all, unable to be fixed, so a TSA official in a three-piece suit needed to authorize our departure. He evidently agreed to do so, given the fact it was broad daylight.

————————————–

I re-board the plane, and find that a Japanese gentleman in a dark blue pin-striped suit with burgundy pocket flaps occupies my aisle seat – the one I sat in after the first boarding. I particularly loved my seat, because it had plenty of leg room for the plethora of items I carried that could address any situation while flying overseas alone. I told the man I think he’s in my seat. Turns out his assigned seat was taken by one of two children traveling with their parents; seated on their own. Not wanting to engage in any further conversation about the matter, and certainly not wanting to split the children apart, I tell him I’d gladly take the available seat across the aisle.

I get situated next to a woman, traveling alone also. She is utterly confused about what she just saw.  I try to avoid engaging in further conversation about the matter by saying it’s a long story and it’s all fine, but she insists on understanding what just happened.  So I engage in further conversation about the matter.

————————————-

When the stewardess comes by for refreshments, she says to me “the gentleman across the aisle would like to buy you a drink”. I see the Japanese man leaning over, looking at me, and says “really, get whatever you want”.   While sitting next to the chatty woman, it became clear to me why he was so appreciative.

————————————-

We land in San Francisco, I locate my gate, and then call the airline company to confirm my flight from Auckland, NZ to Tauranga, NZ, where Megan is staying. I had conflicting information due to the re-booking and needed to let Megan know what time to pick me up at the airport. Once I arrive in New Zealand, I would not be able to communicate with her.  I phoned United Airlines; they told me to phone Air New Zealand. I phoned Air New Zealand, who told me United did not book my flight to Tauranga. They told me to phone United Airlines. I decided to phone no one, ever again.

All of these travel complexities began to beg the question: Will I actually get there? We all know what happens to plans. Am I being opposed by something or someone? By evil, or just by fate, both which seem to buck the thing you want the most? What happens if I lose my cool and begin yelling at a flight attendant uncontrollably about my rubbery eggs? Will I be escorted off the plane in mid-air? Like skydiving, only without the parachute? Or is this what it feels like to go through the wardrobe from Rapid City, SD to Tauranga, NZ?

One thing is for sure.  I couldn’t make this passage alone. I was here on invitation from the lion and holding onto his mane as we traveled.

———————————–

As I wait in the terminal area, I am taken aback by the oversized jet we’d be riding to New Zealand. This hummer flies overnight, so on both departure and return flights I am only able to get a photo of it in the dark. He never shows himself in the daylight. Kinda like the lion to remain a bit mysterious sometimes. The mural on the plane touted that we were riding The Hobbit, and that we were headed to Middle Earth. “Welcome to Ear Niue Zielindt!”  This is how we are greeted and tucked into this winged bad boy.

———————————–

The ride – 13 hours long – is more than bearable, thanks to seats that were made for flying, unlike every seat I’ve occupied flying within the continental US.  We board at 9pm, eat dinner at 10pm, and then the lights dim for sleeping.  Two hours before landing, the pilot awakens us; we are served breakfast, and given directions to the customs area upon de-boarding.

———————————–

After having my jerky and hiking boots checked in customs, I make my way about 3 blocks away to the New Zealand continental airport. I re-pack my bags – putting the contents of one bag in my suitcase. After first standing in the wrong line, I find out that my best guess about my flight to Tauranga was wrong. Of course it was. They don’t have flights on Sundays to Tauranga at 10am. Air New Zealand likely wouldn’t have known about their regular flight schedule when I called to confirm 20 hours ago, now would they? Now, I’m in New Zealand with no cell service and need to contact Megan to let her know I’ll be delayed by 2 hours.  (She had to make special arrangements to borrow a vehicle).

Here’s the problem with contacting Megan.

I had already used my free 30 minutes WIFI without realizing that’s what I did, and I cannot get the paid WIFI to work.

I try logging onto a computer to access Facebook messaging. She’d see my message this way.

I could not get the paid internet usage to work, and so I had three minutes to log onto Facebook and message Megan.  Perhaps you’ve tried logging onto Facebook when you’re on the other side of the globe. You must confirm your identity by looking at multiple photos and matching photos to names.   Three minutes is not enough time to accomplish this on a 15 year-old, SLOW computer.

So, I make my way down to an old-fashioned pay phone. Since it only takes New Zealand currency, I make my way to an ATM, and then to a local vendor, get the change needed. Now, I must figure out how dial a New Zealand phone number.  Is that a 9 first? The pound sign? Nothing seemed to recognize Megan’s New Zealand number no matter how many times I re-feed the machine.

I go to a customer service window and ask for help. After following her directions and getting no results, I decide I’m starving and order lunch.

A lovely Kiwi woman takes my order, and I speak of my plight. She agrees WIFI is hard to come by in the airport, but gave me a tip: McDonalds, which was close by in the Food Court, has free WIFI.  Finally, an answer!! I make my way over to a table by McDonalds, and find that it does not work due to the number of other people nearby that are demanding bandwidth the same time as I.

I finally decide to give up. I mean, really, give up. I make my way down to the gate where I’m departing from and order coffee. There is no use continuing this escapade.  I might as well enjoy my wait and sooth my frazzled nerves with some heavy cream-filled coffee (the way New Zealand makes it). This friendly barista takes my order, and asks what brings me here. I tell her my daughter is here, and she is picking me up, but I cannot reach her.  She says “Oh, well you can just call her from my cell phone”. I am speechless. I thank her profusely. She says “Sure! I didn’t used to have a personal cell phone, but I got one because so many customers have the same problem”.

————————————–

I sit at the gate for the next two hours with the best coffee I’ve ever had, thinking about what the lion showed me in the last 24 hours.

I learned that passing through a wardrobe can be dark, full of moth balls, and can seem endless.  I learned that when traveling where you don’t have a home, as in, when you are a pilgrim, it’s better to take less than to take enough for every possibility. God didn’t design us to carry a bag full of provisions for every need we’d encounter. He meets these needs along the way.

Further, suffering is the only path for me to free up my baggage to travel lightly. There are weight restrictions for carry-on baggage for good reasons. First, for your own freedom; second, for others’ safety. The looking for things you need, and re-packing, and being able to find the essential things at a moments’ notice – all of this is too much to manage. You lose out on the relationship with the lion because you’ve tried to do his job by preparing for your every need.  This seems to characterize the first flights, or, the first part of your life.  The last flight – the second half – which is only entered through suffering, was the most enjoyable, because I gave up and decided to check in my baggage.

——————————-

Recounting these events nine months later helps me see more clearly what was really happening: I was beginning to taste what life is like in Middle Earth, where you live firmly in mid-air; in complete and utter uncertainty. I found that we must decide if we are going to risk living in it. At times, this may mean taking the risk to breathe one more breath; that if you get to the next breath, there may be more hope there to convince you it’s worth the risk to take the next one.

But most of the time, this living means more than just surviving. Will we risk really living in uncertainty? That is the question. This living is being present and being a part of the script that is saving the Shire, and being able to do so because you are not afraid.  And not being afraid becomes possible only by hanging on to the lion’s mane, sometimes gripping it white-knuckled while extreme tears fall.  To me, the passage from safety, through suffering, to really living is what going through the wardrobe is all about.

And as Lucy learned, the only route to Narnia is through the wardrobe.  …-alg

 

Last post in “New Zealand” Series:

Take Me Along: How to Ask for Time off at a Really Bad Time

Related Post:

What My Child Did on New Years’ Eve

Preaching from a Hammock

This morning, I got to see my pastor preach from a hammock.

He swung back and forth, rocked by the fall breeze, sipping apple cider.

Or at least, his soul did.

Red and yellow leaves fluttered and danced around his soul, which was at rest.

His soul was in a hammock, while his weak and pain-filled body, ravaged from cancer, sat supported on a goldenrod chair in front of a microphone and a room full of people of  varied emotions.

Agothos, ἀγαθός, ή, όν, he says.

“God is agothos.” He says, with a weak voice, during what is likely his last sermon.

“God is good. He is good in nature.”

His voice, frail and fragile, deliver words of deep rest that thunder in the room.

“God’s character is 100% good.  He takes evil and arranges it for good.”

Last week, he visited hospice.

This week, my eyes are fixed on a man who, during his time at Rimrock E-Free Church, has invited me, and the other sheep in our church, into a life of deep rest.

We do not need to fear. We do not need to strive.

We can rest because God is good.

Wait, stop. Are we really hearing this?

We can rest….

because…

God is good.

Our souls can swing in a hammock, though our bodies wither,  our circumstances torrent, and our hearts break.

Oh restless, weary souls, come with me to the place from which this man preaches and lives.  Let’s watch the leaves fall while we fall into a good God and rest.—alg

 

 

 

Take Me Along: How to Ask for Time off at a Really Bad Time

 

Mr. Beaver warned Lucy, “ He’ll be coming and going. One day you’ll see him and another you won’t.  He doesn’t like being tied down-and of course he has other countries to attend to.  It’s quite all right.  He’ll often drop in. Only you mustn’t press him.  He’s wild, you know.  Not like a tame lion.” – The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

Megan’s college plan would have been the safe one. But we are not dealing with a safe and predictable lion. The plan to join my daughter at a Young Life camp in British Columbia, Canada about this time last year also seemed certain. I ended up at a coffee shop instead, drinking blackberry artesian tea bewailing my screwed-up plan.

When my daughter decides that she is going to New Zealand, I ravenously want to go.

My self-friend reminds me, however, that I must keep this sort of desire bridled, knowing that the lion always calls the shots.  She continues to whisper in my ear “Remember what happens to plans! They get butchered and strewn about – body parts and all”.

But the middle-aged woman who has learned to lean hard on the lion lying on the riverbank decides to let this idea shimmy about in her head anyway. If the lion had other countries to attend to, I wanted to go with. The trip would be long, but lying face-down in that lion’s mane is a pretty good way to travel.

I start researching airline ticket prices and the Megan’s class schedule in New Zealand.  Turns out the only weekends she has free fall right before a big quarter-end filing deadline at work. And we are short-staffed. So, I drowned the idea in liquid lament. “Responsibilities and unexpected events ALWAYS barricade adventure!” I tell my self-friend. She nods. “Yep. Fat chance this will fly.”

During a short interval when the oxygen-starved idea came up for air, I mentioned the hair-brained idea to a few good folks. My close friend Michele says “I think you need to go”. My gracious co-worker friend says “This is a once-in-a-lifetime-chance. You need to go. I’ll help with the deadline”. And my wise mentors Pat and Connie say “You’ll never be able pencil it out so that it makes sense. Ask God about it”.

—————————

So, I did ask God about it. And then I poured enough courage into a bucket and wheeled it to my boss’ office. I told him about the hair-brained idea, and mentioned that, unfortunately, it fell right before the big fat deadline.  He was concerned about the big fat deadline too, but said he’d think about it, and charged me with creating a plan to meet that deadline in my absence.

So I pored over that plan. And created one that actually might work!

And then,

One of my team members gave her two-week notice.

And three weeks later,

Another.

That plan blew up into a million pieces.

I so I filled that bucket with liquid lament, this time, adding powdered self-pity; remembering that responsibilities and unexpected events always barricade adventure.

Down the plan went into that water. I sadistically held it down, watched it squirm and drown, and buried it in a casket, where it belonged.

—————————–

A couple of weeks later, after a long week, a package from Roamin’ Around appeared on my desk chair on Friday at about five-thirty. In the package : A New Zealand map and a New Zealand travel book. And a note from my co-worker friend saying “go”.

The next morning, I got a text from my friend Michele asking “What did you decide about that trip?”, and then, “Did you ask God about it”?

—————————–

I asked God about it, again.

And Sunday night, I started re-filling those buckets with liquid courage.

And I wheeled them down to by bosses’ office first thing on Monday morning, all prepared to spill them out and say “I really want to go on this trip. “.

I balanced my buckets and strong coffee through his office door and sat down. He gave me a warm greeting as usual. I took a deep breath, preparing to form words, and then he said, without knowing what I was about to say, “First, about that trip: I think you should go. More quarter-ends will come and go. But this won’t.”

I guess this is how you ask for time off at a really bad time.

I called Megan with the news that I was coming.

—————————–

I came home after work and picked up that travel book. “New Zealand claims to see the sun rise first”, it reported. This was interesting, I thought.

When I told my mom the news, she reminded me that night I’d be in New Zealand over Easter, and will get to see the sun rise before the rest of the world does.

—————————–

Plane tickets still need to be purchased. I needed to nail down the day I’d depart. Sunday, or Monday? So I asked Megan about her specific class plans and requirements for the last weekend I’d be there. She checked in with her leader, and texted later that night. Turns out, they have plans to go to Cathedral Cove that Sunday, and I’m invited to go with.

Cathedral Cove is where the Narnia movies were filmed.

Turns out, the lion had plans to take me to Narnia all along.

Turns out that responsibility and unexpected events didn’t barricade adventure this time. When the lion wants to go, he goes. He grounds his paws hard on the edge of the canyon and leaps over roadblocks to reach the unreachable.

Truth is, He is wild and we never know what his next move will be. Sometimes we feel his claws pressing down into the earth, as if into our own skin, and conclude he’s taking off for another country and leaving us here to attend to the daily grind, again.

And other times, we feel that extra pressure of the hind legs digging in, in a stance for takeoff, because He has loaded extra essentials on his back to take us along.—alg

Sweet As! – The Bay of Plenty

 

The Bay of Plenty – Tauranga, New Zealand

The air was island warm as Megan and I sat on the front porch last summer. It was a Saturday morning in late July.

“Mom, I want to take a year off of college to join YWAM (Youth with a Mission) in Bethlehem, New Zealand”.

That weekend we planned to visit Target to buy furnishings for her college dorm. In two short weeks, we would be leaving for SDSU. This. Was. The Plan.

Everything was lined up: a full-ride scholarship, a great support system of close friends in Brookings, a perfect College Christian Fellowship group, great choral opportunities with a Choral Director she knew, and feathers in our cap for sending our daughter to our Alma Mater.

M’kay, God. What. About. The Plan?

I don’t want to work on another plan. I just. Don’t. This one took hours. And hours. And hours. To orchestrate.

Why, God, the new plan? Is she afraid of college?

Will she lose her scholarship? Will she ever go back to school?

HOW much money will this take? And HOW will she raise it?

And, who are these people? Is their theology solid? Are they quacks?

What about this world that’s filled with terrorists?

Oh, and one more thing: Can I trust you when The Plan completely falls apart?

I had just received another job offer three days prior, and was contemplating a different life change. For me, this sort of thing takes lists and lots of words, brain space, and brain time. There wasn’t enough paper nor pencils to scrutinize Megan’s new plan on top of mine.  Both needed decisions in the next few days.

This God is a ravenously wild lion and will consume your plans for an appetizer and leave you wondering what He plans on for the main course. He’ll defy your expectations and cares not if He acts according to your human logic.

– The Lion, the Middle-Aged Woman, and the Screwed-Up Plan blog post

Questions rolled off my tongue as I sat with her later that week. I needed to know that she wasn’t reacting to fear, and that she knew how this decision might impact her college plans. One side of my mouth jockeyed for control; the other offered the reins carefully and hesitantly.

Megan made her decision and quickly notified SDSU that they wouldn’t see her this fall.

Her gracious boss welcomed her back to her job with a large monetary pledge for the mission. This arrested my attention. She planned to work until January to raise funds.

The next August week was filled with farewell parties for her friends going to college. The reality of her divergent plan began to set in. Days of work, sleep, work, sleep drug on. She loathed her life. January was an ocean away. These unsettled emotions distracted her from the goal, which left the door open for doubt. Halloween passed without fundraising plans in place.

Megan’s friend, Carter, was joining Megan on this same adventure. Carter’s mother, Laura, and I decided a trip/fundraising planning meeting was in order. We met in early November. Two graduates at the table; each with a big, fat, scary dream: Three months of discipleship training in New Zealand, followed by three months of outreach in an undetermined country. Two mothers. One laptop. Twenty thousand dollars needed in two months. One apprehensive soul who undeniably believed The (old) Plan would have been easier.

Megan and Carter created a brand for the mission: “Grow.Give.Go”. They designed a blog and sent fundraising letters off a week later with nervous hands and a prayer.

Then, something came in the mail. A handwritten note to Megan from a moved heart, and a check. And then another. And another. Something in this soul stirred. Each envelope invited me to lay down my doubt and to enter into a new plan.

In early December, the four of us met again. By this time, non-refundable deposits were paid. Anxiety and discouragement weighed heavy. Time was short. The stakes were higher than the towering Christmas tree we sat by. One year of college sacrificed. Incoming funds may cover the cost of the three-month school, but perhaps not enough for the outreach. Two strung-out girls; each working two jobs. We closed our time with tears and prayer.   Two mothers digging up the faith we had; offering it up as warm blankets on a cold night.

Next week, we bought plane tickets, which meant more skin in the game. The girls would be flown to their new three-month home: Tauranga, New Zealand, near the Bay of Plenty.

And then, over the next few weeks, I saw it.

The dark horse thundered down the track. Many reading this blog generously bet on the underdog plan, as if conspiring to show me with great animation that God is the Bay of Plenty.

The money was provided. Every penny.   The Plan was blown up, as if by terrorists waging a war against predictability. However, we knew the country of New Zealand was proven safe.

 

 

This New Zealand Derby began to rotate the view from which I see my own prosaic, run-of-the-mill life. Now I know: When The Plan falls apart, He can be trusted to twist your life-lens from top-side up to upside down. There. Now you see the plan worth wagering on. Not the sure-bet, but the long-shot. This is the one where He will surprise you to be the Bay of Plenty.—-alg

 

 

Sweet As!

In New Zealand, if you want to say “Yes! Cool! That is great!”, you say, “Sweet As!”.

My expedition to New Zealand was “Sweet As!”.

The next series of posts will tell of it -the going and the spilling out and the returning-alg

First post in the series: Sweet As! The Bay of Plenty:    https://wordpress.com/post/amysmuddledmusings.wordpress.com/1714

What My Child Did on New Years’ Eve

This New Years’ Eve, my 15-year old daughter and I watched the Chronicles of Narnia, because there is no better way to usher in the new year than with a great story.

It beats a night getting smashed all to heck.

I’ve seen this movie many times and usually identified most with Susan, the older sister; the logical, skeptical, careful one. But this time around, I am Lucy Pevensie.

I walk through the European-style wardrobe into a icy, crisp world with wonder. I am young, wide-eyed; delighting in what is unfolding before me. I am not grasping for it with cold, white knuckles, or trying to create and control my reality. I am receiving it as a child who trusts in Goodness to to protect and nurture me; to fight for me and defend me against harm; and to write me into His age-old, but newly unfolding script – to cast me in a role that was deliberately designed for me; not rushed into, but meditated on since the beginning of time.

I am Lucy Pevensie.

I’m at Grandpa and Grandma Westaby’s house at the VA in Hot Springs.My entire life is before me and is being handed to me daily in gentle, cupped hands. These hands have sifted out what isn’t good for me, and gives me only what is.

I am Lucy Pevensie.

My heart is open, not closed to self-protect. So far, I’ve had no need to do so.  If I get hurt, I run into my Daddy’s chest, and then, He sends me back to play.

I am Lucy Pevenstsie.

I dwell not on the past or fret about tomorrow, like adults; I am a child who unconsciously trusts in Strong Hands to care for me. I awake and think about what I can create today; what I can explore. I don’t think about what lack, or may lack in the future. I don’t worry if I will have tasty food, a warm bed and a sturdy pillow to hold my head, enough adventures to engage me and enough love to steady and assure me. They are just, there, every day.

I am Lucy Pevensie.

I don’t know it’s not safe for a lamb to be near a wolf; that lambs best not lie in the sun next to young lions; that you must not play next to the hole of a rattlesnake, or you will be bitten and need countless anti-venom shots and a skin graph surgery. I’m clueless that the God who holds me incognito has sacrificed much so that one day I can put my hand in the viper’s den, just because I’m curious, and I won’t be bitten.*

I am Lucy Pevensie.

The kingdom of God was made for children like me. Jesus even said it’s hard for adult-minded people to enter the kingdom of God. Not that they aren’t welcome. They just can’t rest and receive, which are musts for living there. Adults want to grab, grasp, claw, and figure out who is important. They go all over the world figuring how to fill the emptiness that comes with growing up to think like the adult they have become. This is why kids like me will be leading the animals in the new kingdom.* Only kids are allowed.

I am Lucy Pevensie.

I receive a gift from Another as if was the perfect thing for me; as if there were no other choices at the store; as if it was hand-crafted for me. I don’t wish I would have received a different gift, or a gift card, or gift receipt, so that I could have gotten something I would have rather had.

I am Lucy Pevensie.

I am curious, and like any other child, ask lots of annoying questions. Adults know everything, but I keep wondering and looking and seeking and asking. I don’t categorize my questions by dumb, educated, philosophical, rhetorical; they just fling out of my mouth and land on whatever lucky soul is listening. I drink answers like hot cocoa, and I quickly see the bottom of the cup, and my Father fills it as many times as I ask. And I never even consider that I’ve asked too much; that I’ve overstayed my welcome.

I am Lucy Pevensie.

I woke up this morning, February 13th, to trees covered in frost placed there by careful hands as I slept in peace.

I am,

Lucy Pevensie. —alg

*(Isaiah 11: 6-9).

 

 

The Lion The Middle-Aged Woman, and the Screwed-Up Plan, Chapter 6 and Final

To the lion’s request to join him for a walk, I say ”   “.

That’s right.

Nothing. I couldn’t believe he asked. I slowly stand up, carefully watching that lion as he gets up too. We begin to walk down along the riverbank, and then turn eastward into a thicket. Brittle branches break and crack as we enter. The air is pungent with moss and pine; the forest floor is clean and intermittently lit where tall spruce lean to allow the sun through.  We jut around deeply embedded rocks, walk around the hillside toward the west into a clearing packed with red raspberry bushes. We stop and pick, and eat, and pick, and eat, and I see him lift his face toward the sun, so I smile at him with red-stained lips. We keep walking, and I grow tired. He picks me up by the nape of my neck and carries me in his jowl. I love being here, because I’m out in front, seeing what is coming before we get there.

Jowl’s View

But this begins to strain my neck, and the day begins to darken, and I sense real dangers hiding behind every bush, and I begin to wonder what I will be forced to face head-on. And my muscles tighten and my blood pressure rises and my teeth grind as I insist to stay here because I feel like I still have some control.

Farther into the journey, I twist my tense neck around to meet the lion’s eyes, and with a lump in my throat I admit that I am so tired, that I no longer need to know what’s coming, if he could just please carry me. So he lowers his back legs and I climb on and we resume the journey – now, my chest resting on his back, arms dangling on each side, face buried in his mane.

I think this is what Mark Buchanan might mean about resting in His character, in His wildness, and “leaning all the way into Him, learning to put our entire weight in who He is and what He does”. I let him lead the way. I realize that being out in front thinking I can somehow control where we go only makes me tired and sick.

This has where the summer has brought me, friends. Face down on the back of a lion. Helpless to control my universe. Forced to make friends with a wild animal. Accepting that plans change. Trusting that wasting my time to make a plan that doesn’t come about is part of, well, this good and prosperous (but seemingly screwed-up) plan that God calls “My plans for you” in the book of Jeremiah. The screwed-up plans are part of the plan. The only way to navigate this plan is to trust the lion. That’s it. You can try any and everything else. I have. And I still do. I’m not the best at trusting. It helps to have others show me how.

My friend Colleen and her senior daughter Alison had plans for September, but their plans changed, and she is now being treated for lymphoma. Their plans changed a few years ago, too, when she received a kidney transplant. I watch Colleen respond to these changed plans that fall into the category of those we can’t explain on this side of life. It’s evident she sits on the riverbank with this lion often and knows him and trusts him.

My pastor Steve had plans to take a sabbatical this fall. Instead, he is in the Mayo Clinic undergoing rigorous treatment for esophageal cancer. I watch he and his wife Marsha walk through this, and it’s clear they sit on the riverbank with this lion too. They’ve done it for years. They trust him despite the fact the outcome is still unknown.

Friends, if you have another way to skin this cat, to pick apart this pickle, to crack this conundrum, to rake this riddle, to understand the unfathomable, I’m all ears. I want to know. Please come find me. I’ll be at the riverbank next to a wild lion.

What will happen if you come near?

I cannot say.

——————–

“Will you promise me not to-do anything to me, if I come?” says Jill listening to the rippling of the stream, dying of thirst but hesitant to come near the lion that lay on the riverbank, in C.S. Lewis’ “The Silver Chair’.

“I make no promise,” said the Lion.

Jill was so thirsty now that, without noticing it, she had come a step nearer.

“Do you eat girls?” she said.

“I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms,” said the Lion. It didn’t say this as if it were boasting, nor as if it were sorry, nor as if it were angry. It just said it.

“I darn’t come and drink,” said Jill.

“Then you will die of thirst,” said the Lion.

“Oh dear!” said Jill, coming another step nearer. “I suppose I must go and look for another stream then.”

“There is no other stream,” said the Lion.

——————

The End. –alg

 

Read it:

 

http://www.amazon.com/The-Holy-Wild-Trusting-Character/dp/1590524489

The Lion, the Middle-Aged Woman, and the Screwed-Up Plan, Ch 5

Folks, we haven’t chatted in awhile. I’ve been preoccupied with more changed plans since we talked, which has kept this last post simmering on the stove unattended.

Early in the summer, I think I mentioned a trip to Canada that I planned. I may have noted that it was cancelled, and that God seemingly enjoyed watching me squirm so much that he stood by for the free entertainment. It reminds me of when I was a kid. We’d feed our dog peanut butter just because, well, we lived in little Hot Springs, South Dakota.

The day in June that the plane took off without me, I sought a substitute adventure and threw in an application for a different job.

First days at new jobs can be rough. Thankfully, yesterday I got that behind me.

My self-friend says to me: “Amy, if you would have gotten on that plane, you would not have taken this step”.

I reply: “There you again, spiritualizing a screwed-up plan”.

The voice who is not my self-friend says one word to me. “Shush”.

Changing jobs wasn’t easy. This was a knotty decision. While poring over my re-written ‘pros’ and ‘cons’ lists, Megan shared that she’d been thinking over her plan for next year.

It’s a good thing we were having this conversation, I said to my self-friend, because college was only two weeks away.

Surprise, mom, I’m taking a year off and going on a YWAM mission on the other side of the globe.

Now, I’m all about missions trips and responding to God’s calling with “Here I am, Lord, will you send me?” But, what about the plan? This plan was not developed in two weeks, which is about how long it took me to make this job decision. It was more like a baby, laboriously formed in the womb for 9 months; prayed over, planned for, and arranged for via lots of paperwork and appointments, like all babies are.

What about the plan?

What kind of character is running this show called life, honestly? If it’s God, then He really is ok with letting us make our plans for, say, a year or so, or more, and then changing them, or allowing them to be changed, or whatever you call it when you allow your creation to have free will while possessing all the power in the world to override it.

This can all be very exciting if you are in to this sort of thing. Or, if you like watching wild lions be wild. Or, if you have a stellar attitude, as long as the changed plan doesn’t involve losing something like your health or someone like your father.

A year ago, my pastor-friend Bill’s son Nic was infected with an unknown virus that left him bound to a wheelchair. Nic’s plans changed dramatically. Bill has been transparent to us church-goers about how he has wrestled with this. Evidently his God is a wild lion too. Awile ago, Bill shared in a sermon the conclusion he came to.  This story about life is not about us, it’s about God.  Wide-eyed, I immediately turned around to my pastor-friend Pat, who was sitting right behind me, and gave him a horrified expression. Is this guy for real? Who hired him? It’s not about ME? The audacity.

Like Bill, I wrestle with Mark Buchanan’s proposal of resting in His character, in His wildness, and “leaning all the way into Him, learning to put our entire weight in who He is and what He does”. But unlike Bill, I haven’t announced in public that this isn’t all about me quite yet. I can see where hanging around with a wild lion would require one first to conclude that life isn’t about what happens to me next.

But let’s say it is about me, because I’m really not ok with learning how fast a lion can digest a 45-year old brunette woman. Let’s just say it’s about you and me, because we are honest with ourselves in admitting that the only way we can resolve this conundrum is to make it about us until we know we’ll be ok. So here we go: I am left alone in a forest, so to speak, and so are you. Who do you trust to get you from one end of the forest to another, safely, knowing of the potential dangers that lurk? Not free from bruises or gashes, but there –  alive, fed, and cared for? A lion, or a forest fox? Yeah, I might get messed up in menace with a lion, because he’s a lion, but who can I trust to also carry me through it?

This shift of thinking would require that I somehow get to know this lion and begin to trust his wildness. On some days his thunderous roars seem to threaten me to my very core; but by taking enough of a risk to put my big toe in the water and to sit silently on the riverbank, watching this lion in my periphery, I begin to sense an unexpected desire to keep sitting here. Strangely, here, I feel welcome; not in the sense that my Sunday best is welcome, but my Saturday worst is welcome even more. I sit, and I begin to know. I sit, and I begin to trust, just a little. And then, he invites me to take a walk… —alg