songs that take you by the heart

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...

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.

"He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you…"

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. 

Calvin shook melting ice off the tree branches and plants with his "quarter staff."

We stopped to admire ice-encrusted cedar berries...

…and the icicle-covered hillside...

Packed for an adventure: thermoses of peppermint tea and volumes of poetry.

What do these two have in common besides coats and handkerchiefs?

Can you guess? Well, can you?

A Smile.

God gives little blessings all the time--in the form of a moment to capture, or an extra-special little something that says "Child, you are loved lavishly, extravagantly, above measure, running over..."

This picture is an example. Today I was working on a painting project with some kids at my table, when I was accosted by a 6-year old child on an iPad2. 

"Mih Fitsow, Smow!" (He majors on smiles--not good articulation).

I smiled. Later on during the day I found a KidBlog entry entitled "Ms. Fisher" 

The words were, "Ms. Fisher is My sdrdgB." He read it to me--it said, "Ms. Fisher is my teacher." He sounded out the word "teacher" all by himself. 

Yesterday, the smile came in a bouquet of yellow mums. Sweet smells first thing in the morning. "I have a surprise for you!  Here!" Sunny smile was gleeful, and announced confidently, "If these die, just let me know. I have more in my garden!"

Then there's the moment I look down at two writers, heads bent together over a clipboard and I overhear one saying to the other, "No, don't write the word there. You need a space… ok… now we are writing the word 'it.' You are going to have to sound this out. First write '/i/'…that's lowercase…then "/i/-/t/. There's a /t/ at the end… good..." 

And I thank the Lord for the child who didn't let his buddy copy, but patiently guided him through every letter and sound and space. And what's more, the other child let him help! Amazing. 

Then there was the friend of mine who came by this afternoon and cut out 25 sets of sight word cards--60 words each--and wiped down tables with antibacterial spray, and sharpened all the pencils, and got a good music jam going in the mean-time.

Then there was my dad, who laughed his head off the other day as I recounted workplace drama; laughed himself to tears, in fact, while I repeatedly said (being completely tied in knots, of course), "Yes, I know it sounds funny--except that it's really happening!" and I remember for the millionth time why he makes such a good administrator himself. Because he sees humor in the predicaments of politics. And then he moves on.

God doesn't always wait for me to ask--sometimes He gives good things that we didn't even know we needed or wanted. Unlooked-for flourishes that come home like a letter from a friend, or a like gift when it's not my birthday.

Prayer for the Broken-Hearted

"O blessed Jesus, may we find a covert in thy wounds. Though our sins they rise to meet us, how they fall next to the merits of You!"

Sometimes I'm surprised by the fact that I'm a sinner. First I screw up. Then I scrape my self-respect off the pavement, trying to save face after saying something arrogant, or criticizing one of my colleagues, or gossiping, or one of those other "respectable" sins that I fall into so easily.

Maybe "surprised" isn't the right word. It's just that someone with my excellent character can't fathom what just happened when the evil let loose. That was sarcasm, in case you didn't catch it dripping... What should be remorse for sin boils down to the feeling that I am quite a good person, and quite proud of it, and therefore there shouldn't be any sin. In fact, the appearance of any imperfection is annoying at best, because it affects my reputation and temporarily smudges the crystalline self-image that I have of myself.

And this is where the prayer for the brokenhearted comes in--as David says, "A broken and contrite heart, O God, this you will not despise." Confession is God's love language. He falls for it every time! While my pride, arrogance, and self-exaltation make show of stubborn independence, repentance drives me back into God's heart. No day in my life has passed that hasn't proved me guilty.

And yes, today I've been proven guilty. Today I have nothing in my hand to offer God--no respectability, dignity, self-worth, sound judgment. I don't even have the self-control to make myself feel and think and discern the right things--especially in the face of people that I know to be wrong. I have criticism. I have pride. I have gossip. That is my native language. My "mother tongue" is self-righteousness.

But Jesus demands that I shed that righteousness for His, that I shed the ways of the old country and humbly ask for what he offers. I come from a place that is graceless--a place where even I can't accept grace because I try to be good on my own merits. Christ in his grace asks me to relinquish this, in order that He may conquer all in his own name. Though our sins may rise to meet us, how they fall next to the merits of You!

A princess came to the door.

We invited her in, poured her tea from a teapot, seated her in our singular blue armchair, and watched Miyazaki together. 

What a pleasure and honor to have such fancy friends as she.

A Child's Heart

Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? 
Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? 
For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, 
it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe.

There is nothing more fantastical, spectacular, and otherwise unbelievable than the story of Christ. By all known accounts He was conceived of God (not by a man), born into poverty as God himself in human flesh, knew the law and prophets from an incredibly young age, performed the miracle of raising Lazarus out of his tomb, fed 5,000 people on a couple loaves of bread and some fish, was killed by crucifixion at the age of 33, and raised from the dead (scars still intact) only to ascend into heaven triumphantly. 

This is the crazy but true story that God has used to make foolish the wisdom of the world. No wonder he says, "Only if you have faith as a little child." 

This morning while sitting with my mug of tea, stewing over a problematic situation with a parent of one of my students, I was listening (absent-mindedly as always) to songs playing on the stereo. "Good to Me" by Audrey Assad began to play, and somewhere in the stew the words crept in.

I steady my soul on the ground of your goodness.

I am beloved of God. Peace washed over like a wave as I remembered that indeed, He has set his love on me. How do I know? Because of this crazy, fantastic, unbelievable story we call the gospel. I can't be too grown-up to believe in those stories. God has made foolish all that we call wise, and is pleased to save those who believe... through the folly of the good news.

Hold on to the promise--the story is true.