I realize that, coming from a Presbyterian, this may sound a little strange, but I don't have words for God right now. I know, I'm from a theological following that shuns scripted prayers and liturgies. I've been told by pastors and teachers that Jesus denounces "vain repetitions" when he teaches us the Lord's Prayer. Bu like a stroke patient in rehab, I can't move my mouth. My heart has no power of speech, it just gives signals for "yes" and "no."
So I go looking, grasping for what I know. Like a favorite tune long-forgotten, I strain to make out the lines of what had been a familiar prayer. Words are old friends I can't remember.
Songs can take a heart by the hand and lead along, lend a prayer when no prayer was there, point you down the path when you are lost, lift you up when you crumple in a heap by the side of the road...
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
it's not here
"Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen."
Being back at my parents for the past few days, I have made a couple forays into Ben's old room--with Mama, with Dan and Anna, alone. Just to look, take in the pile of shoes under the clothes rack, take in the disarray of student work piled about. It's been cleaned, but things are where he left them for the most part--pencils and staples, college textbooks, old Bibles, Air Force pins, worn out running shoes and work boots, doodles and silly sketches...
I found myself looking over things, looking for Ben, hungry for something significant--just one written letter or note, something to hold on to that still radiated his goofy fun-loving personality. Why do you seek the living among the dead? He just wasn't there.
I can't go in there every day like Mama could, so being in Ben's room felt like it should be some kind of special occasion. The last time I spent any time in his room (that I remember) was a special occasion. Ben let me sleep on his bed one weekend when I was visiting with several other people. There were no beds left in the house but he offered to take the couch. He let me enjoy his wool army surplus blanket and sheets… didn't even ask to come in to his own room until I was up and the door was opened. That was special because Ben was still there. Today, by contrast, I felt distinctly the lack of specialness.
What was I hoping for? What did I expect? I was looking for the guy who isn't in his room any more. I was digging around in the husks of a man who shed mortality almost 3 weeks ago. Like Mary, the truth is dawning slowly and I am a slow learner.
When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: "Death is swallowed up in victory."
The hope of the imperishable can't be found in a stack of worn shoes. No, the worn shoes have been left behind --my mortal brother has put on immortality. The seed has fallen and lies dormant; the husk has fallen away and has died. He--like his Savior--is no longer here. The old has been exchanged for the new, awaiting transformation into something new and beautiful.
Being back at my parents for the past few days, I have made a couple forays into Ben's old room--with Mama, with Dan and Anna, alone. Just to look, take in the pile of shoes under the clothes rack, take in the disarray of student work piled about. It's been cleaned, but things are where he left them for the most part--pencils and staples, college textbooks, old Bibles, Air Force pins, worn out running shoes and work boots, doodles and silly sketches...
I found myself looking over things, looking for Ben, hungry for something significant--just one written letter or note, something to hold on to that still radiated his goofy fun-loving personality. Why do you seek the living among the dead? He just wasn't there.
I can't go in there every day like Mama could, so being in Ben's room felt like it should be some kind of special occasion. The last time I spent any time in his room (that I remember) was a special occasion. Ben let me sleep on his bed one weekend when I was visiting with several other people. There were no beds left in the house but he offered to take the couch. He let me enjoy his wool army surplus blanket and sheets… didn't even ask to come in to his own room until I was up and the door was opened. That was special because Ben was still there. Today, by contrast, I felt distinctly the lack of specialness.
What was I hoping for? What did I expect? I was looking for the guy who isn't in his room any more. I was digging around in the husks of a man who shed mortality almost 3 weeks ago. Like Mary, the truth is dawning slowly and I am a slow learner.
When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: "Death is swallowed up in victory."
The hope of the imperishable can't be found in a stack of worn shoes. No, the worn shoes have been left behind --my mortal brother has put on immortality. The seed has fallen and lies dormant; the husk has fallen away and has died. He--like his Savior--is no longer here. The old has been exchanged for the new, awaiting transformation into something new and beautiful.
"He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you…"
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
The eaves are dripping.
"I've come at last, said [Father Christmas]. "She has kept me out for a long time, but I have got in at last. Aslan is on the move…"
--The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
Winter is not forever; Christmas is tomorrow. Melting ice and dripping gutters, blue sky and muddy boots stand as a testament of mercy. After the freeze comes the thaw; after silence comes the Word; into the darkness, light.
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| Calvin shook melting ice off the tree branches and plants with his "quarter staff." |
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| We stopped to admire ice-encrusted cedar berries... |
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| …and the icicle-covered hillside... |
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| Packed for an adventure: thermoses of peppermint tea and volumes of poetry. |
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| What do these two have in common besides coats and handkerchiefs? |
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| Can you guess? Well, can you? |
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