Right now

Last week Stan and I took a quick camping trip to Lost Maples State Natural Area. I say quick because those kind of trips are just never long enough. It took me three days to simply stop asking the time. It took that long for right now to become the only answer I really needed.  There is something about being small in a big place. Standing next to large rocks and old trees. The sound of water bubbling up from the earth. The feeling of Fall in the air. Meals cooked over fire. Feeling the ground under your feet as you stand completely still and just breathe it all in. There is nothing like night sounds and falling asleep stargazing through a tent window. Standing in the midst of that kind of beauty, I can only thank the Artist. We should all be humbled this way more often. 

You know it is going to be a good hike when you see this half a mile in.

The flowers wore their party dresses.

If this picture only had audio.

The famous Lost Maples beginning their transformation.

Whenever we thought we were lost, we came across a cairn. I smiled  every time.

Big rocks. Great big rocks.

This beauty grew on a bed of rock.  And we think growth is difficult.

Rocks, trees, and water. These are a few of my favorite things.

I wish you a Fall filled with cool nights, crackling fires, sweet solitude, and appreciation of all blessings, big and small.

I am not a hippie.

I am not a hippie. I wear makeup. And deodorant. I shave my legs and consider myself a Moderate. I am not a hippie. I tell you this because I have been hearing it a lot lately. I have also been called cute, simple, nerd, and dork in conversation with people whom I know actually love me and whom I'm pretty sure, meant those labels as compliments.

I love nature. This is no secret. I like digging in the dirt, the smell of the earth, and the sounds of creation waking up, as well as going to sleep. I regularly stand in awe of the fact that I can plant a seed and with some care and attention, not much later eat of its fruit. That amazes me. I will always rejoice over the first green bud poking through the brown soil, the first bloom of a plant, the kamakaze dive of a hummingbird overhead, and the first hint of a new season. I suggest you do the same.

My ideal home is small with land for a bigger garden and some chickens. And I wouldn't mind if that house was in a tree.  And of course, near water. None of this makes me a hippie. I'm a consumer who is trying to consume less.  I was meant to be a good steward, not an anomaly.

I recently spent a week preaching the virtues of connection--to God, man, and nature. It made me realize I still have a long way to go. But I believe we are on the right path (pardon the pun) when we seek to live a little more the way we were intended to live. Giving more than we take. I want to do more to subdue the Earth, not consume it. Maybe we wouldn't have to create "experiences" to try to connect with God, if we understood a little bit better that He is there if we will just be still and quiet and not so hard to impress. He is there. We just have to turn off the television.

A Caterpillar's Heart

A couple of summers ago, my parsley crop was invaded and systematically eaten down to twigs by caterpillars just like the one in the picture. I was ticked. I considered them pests. And then, as is the case in nature, the miraculous happened. One day they just disappeared and in their places I found several little cocoons. And as if the story can't get any better, after what seemed like an eternity, beautiful Eastern Black Swallowtails began to emerge from those cocoons hanging on the bare parsley stalks.

They came just in time. They exhausted themselves to be born in my garden. And they came at a time when I, too, was exhausted. They were a gift of grace wrapped in gossamer wings and they brought me light when I was wrapped in darkness.

I didn't plant that parsley for those caterpillars, but I have never looked at it the same way since. And yesterday, after yet another difficult week, I looked closely at those plants and found the little guy in the picture. He brought friends and I welcome the havoc they will wreck on those plants. They will work hard and eventually, they will be changed. They are potential incarnate.  I always thought it was the butterfly that brought me hope, but I think I had it all wrong. It is this little striped guy working his way toward something we can't even see yet. That, my friends, is hope. I used to always want to be the butterfly, all light and loveliness. Grace and beauty. But I'm beginning to think that beauty is meaningless if I don't have the heart of a caterpillar. 

"Here comes the sun."

Donald Miller shares a story about how he never liked jazz until one night when he was outside a theater in Portland and saw a man playing a saxophone. He said that the whole time he stood there, the man never opened his eyes. He says that sometimes you have to see somebody love something to be able to love it yourself.

Yesterday I walked out of a hospital with my husband. Hopefully, it was the last hard leg of this journey we have been on for 10 months now. He spent three days isolated in a hospital room, his view little more than a piece of sky and the roof of the neighboring building. Stripped of his belongings, with limited human contact, he waited for the radiation to course through his body on a mission to seek and destroy harmful cells. One little pill can make that happen. I keep telling him it is worth the struggle and frustration.

I know it is worth it. As we walked out from under the shade of the portico into the warm sunlight, I watched him stop in the middle of a busy sidewalk, tilt his head back and let the light wash over him. It was as if he physically melted a bit. I love the sun. I love nature, the outdoors, and the beauty of creation. But I love it all a little bit differently after that moment. You only have to see a man with his face lifted to the sun and tears in his eyes to see everything more clearly. And in the words of George Harrison, "It's alright. It's alright."

Currents

The view from my kayak

A lot can happen in a matter of a day's time. On Sunday, my husband and I decided to take out the kayaks and  head for the river. We spent a few hours mostly letting ourselves be carried by the current of the rain swollen Colorado River. We didn't have to work hard to make our way down river and it was nice to just let ourselves be carried, giving us a chance to direct our gaze to nature. And boy, did she show off. The spring rains provided a lush, deep green landscape full of life. We witnessed turtle after turtle lazily slide off their logs, plopping noisily into the water below them. A pair of baby Teal paddling along the edge of the bank.   Butterfly after butterfly floating effortlessly across the water. We watched a fat Blue Cat rise to the surface, disappearing as quietly as he appeared. And there was the profusion of Morning Glories, cascading down from the very top of a tree, as if a living altar had sprung from the river bank to climb toward Heaven. All of this made me quiet, stilled my soul. I did my best to breathe it all in and exhale thankfulness, trying not to think about the following day. Thankful for an afternoon just to be carried.

Monday's view

Then Monday came. Full of insurance questions and talk of radioactive materials, decay, damage. Risk management. Waiting in admitting. Waiting for a room. Waiting for doctors. Waiting, waiting, waiting. With each step of the process, our anxiety grew. We joked with each other to cover our frustration and fear. I had only to stretch to feel the slight ache in my shoulders, reminding me of the previous day that seemed so far away.   And when I left the hospital without my husband, I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes and cried. Leaving him there to be cared for when that had been my job was harder than I thought. What if they get his diet wrong? What if he has a reaction? What if he is scared? Lonely? What if this treatment doesn't work? Yesterday's gentle current was gone and I was being caught up in the rush of uncertainty. But I stopped myself before I could be swept away by the swiftness of the unknown. Closing my eyes, I breathed in deeply and exhaled thankfulness once again, thinking about our previous day. A gift from a gracious God. Remembering the beautiful blooms of the Morning glories, I was thankful that if we choose to do so, we can carry our altars everywhere. Even when we have to drive away.

Green Clothes

I stood a long time this morning just drinking my coffee and looking out the kitchen window. I had things to do, but I felt as if I owed it to the rain to appreciate it. I watched fat raindrops fall on tender new leaves of the Satsuma tree that I hope will bear sweet fruit this year and I was overwhelmed with gratitude. The image reminded me of  a couplet in The Book of Questions by Pablo Neruda:

Why does spring once again
offer its green clothes?


I know of no answer, but only one response: Thank You.

Look down

 In an effort to cultivate gratitude, I have been making a conscious effort to see and appreciate the little things more than ever. There is holiness in the everyday and I am looking for it. I spent a little time outside on Saturday afternoon and I remembered that to see the miraculous in nature, we often have to bend down and look closely. It is there in the tender buds of the Crepe Myrtle. In the first yellow trumpet of a Carolina Jessamine. The tightly furled fingers of a fern waiting for the right time to unfurl and stretch long and wide. The miraculous is there in the Redbuds that blossom right on time. Their time, not mine. And isn't that the real truth here? There are miracles all around us but we miss them if we expect them only in our time and when we forget to look down. F.B. Meyer speaks this truth:

“I used to think that God's gifts were on shelves one above the other and that the taller we grew in Christian character, the more easily we should reach them. I find now that God's gifts are on shelves one beneath the other and that is not a question of growing taller, but of stooping lower and that we have to go down, always down to get His best gifts.”

"Who am I that You are mindful of me?"

"Then the LORD will create over all of Mount Zion and over those who assemble there a cloud of smoke by day and a glow of flaming fire by night; over everything the glory will be a canopy. It will be a shelter and shade from the heat of the day, and a refuge and hiding place from the storm and rain." Isaiah 4:5-6

Almost every run in my short history of running has started on this street in the picture. It is my safe place. My warm up lasts the length of this street and whether I am anticipating a great run or a difficult one, whether I start out carefree or budened, it is my favorite place to begin. In the heat, the canopy of old oak and pecan trees offers me dappled light and respite from the sun. In the rain, it is a giant, old umbrella of sorts, only letting through a fraction of the storm raining down on me.

And isn't that what it is like to sit under the protection of a Savior? I think I finally understood this idea for the first time last week. As I started down Avenue J, I voiced in my head my thankfulness for the shade. And out of nowhere, I was suddenly struck by this scripture from Isaiah that I couldn't even completely remember.  I was completely humbled to truly understand for the first time what it means to sit in the shelter of God. I have always thought of God as holding me in the midst of storms. I could wrap my head around that thought. I could accept that I would have to bear everything that rained down on me, but at least I could do it if I was being held. It had never occured to me that what I actually experience is just a fraction of the storm. I am protected because I sit under the canopy of God's Glory.

I used to think I had to protect myself, that God had too many other people to protect. And just as dangerously, I thought the enemy wouldn't bother to mess with me because I wasn't worth messing with. I am humbled by the thought that I am worthy of both attack and protection. I have been attacked in the last couple of years in very specific ways. Ways that played on my fear of violence, ways that dragged up hurts I thought were healed, ways that made me feel vulnerable and unsafe, ways that played on my fear of loss and the unknown. But worst of all, ways that made me feel like I had to bear it all alone.

But I am realizing more and more that I am being protected in ways that are making me no longer lean on my understanding. Ways that are making me redefine security. Ways that are making me grateful for the present and vulnerable in the way God wants me to be vulnerable. Ways that are forcing me to rise up when I want to hide. Ways that give me courage and strength and humility. Ways that make me sit in awe and speak with hope. Ways that make me seek refuge. Ways that remind me daily that His ways are not my ways. And for that, I thank God.

Fruitfulness

"It had been planted in good soil by abundant water so that it would produce branches, bear fruit and become a splendid vine." Ezekiel 17:8

Rootedness

I know I haven't blogged much lately, not that there hasn't been much to say. There has been a lot to say, but sometimes I know I need to do less commenting and more listening. This has been one of those seasons. I just needed to be quiet and listen to the people around me who were and are still hurting. To God whom I needed desperately to hear. And to that voice that I normally hear so clearly--the inner one that speaks truth to herself, the cheerleader, the peacemaker. The very one that had grown very, very silent. 

Photo courtesy of Megan Findley.
Blurriness courtesy of a moving boat.


Sometimes silence is a good thing for me, but sometimes it can be dangerous. Sometimes, I stop talking not out of a need for clarity and solitude, and more as a self-imposed isolation.  There is a fine line and I don't always know when I am crossing it. So here I am, purposely speaking to keep that line at a distance.

Which brings me to that tree in the picture. The blurry picture that can in no way be attributed to Megan's poor photography skills. She is a gifted photographer, but boats move and pictures get blurred. We found this tree precariously perched on the bank of the Colorado River. It hadn't grown that way, but storms and the very nature of the river had done their best to take the ground from beneath this pecan tree.

I was amazed that it hung on so well, still growing. But I marveled even more so in the view it afforded us. It isn't often we get to see above and below at the same time. A literal cross section of that which represents life itself. And it got me thinking, if only people could be seen this way. We would be so much easier to love because we could see all of each other. We could see how deep our roots truly go. How far we are reaching out and down to hang on. But also how little we may actually have to hold on with. We could see what is thriving, as well as what is dying. We would know what to offer each other. And having no way to hide, we would reach out to that which is offered.

There is something to be said for having nothing to hide. But perhaps there is more to consider in the why we hide. Maybe we need to take more chances and lay ourselves bare like this tree. Maybe then, the why that infects us, killing us slowly beneath the surface, could be healed.  Then growing deep, digging into the fertile ground, we could find ourselves flourishing and understanding, finally, what it truly means to be rooted in Love.

Seashells on the Seashore

On Saturday, I got to stand at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico and feel the cool water wash over my feet. This was the first time I have stood on the sandy shore of the beach all summer and I didn't take it for granted. I hunted seashells with some people I love and whom I know without a doubt, love me just as much. I don't take them for granted either.

We hunted shells and we gave each other our very best finds without thought of keeping them for ourselves. Isn't that how love should always work?

As we hunted, I thought about those shells and how even though they weren't all perfect, most of them were cracked and showed the wear and tear of being tossled about in the deep waters, they were no less a treasure in our eyes.  And when we found them, we scooped them up, rinsed them off, and held them up to be admired. I also thought about how many times we find ourselves tossed about in the deep waters--the dark, treacherous waters. And when we finally make it to shore, instead of staying still, instead of letting ourselves be scooped up and washed off, we throw ourselves back into the deep, dangerous waters. It seems as if we would rather be tossed about than washed off. Maybe we prefer the deep waters to the safety of the shore because we can't really be seen in the turmoil of the water. Maybe we are afraid that if we stay still on the shore, that we will be passed by because we aren't good enough.

But maybe we should just be still and take a chance, let ourselves be examined. I don't know about you, but some of my favorite shells are the broken ones because I can see what they are really made of. And it only makes me treasure them more.

Maybe we should all stay still so we can be picked up.

All Things New

This morning I watched the sunrise. I just don't take the time to do this enough. To truly watch the day blossom right before my eyes. I watched this daily miracle unfold through the windshield of my car as I made my way through early morning traffic in Houston. I was on my way to pray with a friend and then wait as many other loved ones did today in hospitals everywhere for whatever is broken to be fixed. For another kind of miracle.

I couldn't help but be even more appreciative of the miracle of a beautiful sunrise as I praised God for the miracle of life, for the beauty of my friend, for her courage, for her new beginning.  I found myself overwhelmed by just how much God loves us, each one of us. I was reminded once again that He trusts us to each other's care. He gives us to each other to love.

Alexis is easy to love. She has a great big heart--that now has a little generator to keep it on track. It is a heart full of love for the least of these. For sick children. For the broken and broken hearted. For family and friends she loves like family. I'm incredibly thankful God gave her to me to love and I thanked Him for her all day today. I'm sure I will think of this day the next time I watch the sunrise. And I will remember the miracle of the promise God holds for us: He makes all things new. Everyday. We just have to pay attention.

Ribbit...Rrrribbit..rrrr....

Call me a nerd, but I get really excited over stuff a lot of people might just shrug their shoulders at. I've been known to do a happy dance when I see a Bluejay at my bird feeder. Or clap my hands when I see a beautiful butterfly. I still gasp at rainbows and have been known to get eye level with a giant slug to try to get a picture of its face. I just think nature is amazing and I hope I never outgrow the wonder it took me a lifetime to grow into.

So yesterday when I went out to turn on the sprinkler, I had to blink twice and then move closer... and then even closer to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. And then I had to make sure what I was seeing wasn't actually a frog that had somehow got into some paint or...something. I stood in awe when I realized that what I saw was actually what it really was: a white frog (or toad--I don't know the difference).  Of course, my first instinct was to run inside as fast as possible and get my camera. Which I did and used to capture, for immortality, the amphibian in its natural habitat (said with an Australian accent).  Pictures which I then sent to people whom I hoped would appreciate this anomaly as much as I did, or who would at least hopefully show the pictures to some little boys who might get excited. 

My second instinct was to capture the creature and put it in a jar. After much conversation with myself, I decided not to do it. Somewhere in the conversation I reminded myself about the pale, bald headed, sensitive young man in the movie Powder. Then I thought about The Elephant Man. Yes, this frog, this

 little creature, hanging out on a damp Ginger leaf had somehow become the protagonist in a drama unfolding on a natural stage. And I just couldn't do that to him. I couldn't lock him up. I had to let him "run free." I had to let him live.

I know, know. Maybe I'm a hippie. Maybe I'm a nerd or a romantic with a flair for the dramatic. I can live with that. And there is at least one little frog out there showing his true colors in a world full of plain old brown and green frogs. Hop on little guy. Be yourself. Life's too short to be anything else.