Monthly Archives: March 2016

Yesterday I left Tucson before the sun awoke. The absolute deep stillness found in the vivid violet of the early morning sky whispered peace to my restless soul. Two to three hours in the car back to Phoenix, and the promise of witnessing one of God’s daily miracles – the rise of the sun – made that trip I normally dread an unexpected blessing.

I sped west on the I-10 toward home and the various appointments scheduled for later that morning, my eyes focused on the horizon waiting for the tinge of mauve then pink then soft orange that would attest to the beginning of a new day, the opportunity of yet another chance to start anew, to shed the sins of yesterday – be forgiven of transgressions of both commissions and omissions, the testimony of the Father’s love and the Son’s sacrifice. Do you see sunrises that way, too?

The sunrise, as ever, did not fail in its symbolic promise, and my heart quickened as I released the deeply held breath that I was unaware lay trapped within my lungs. Tension in my shoulders and back eased, and I prayed to be more grateful, more gracious, more patient, more accepting of my own life as it its, more aware of the pain in the world around me even knowing that those prayers could be my very undoing. Most prayers are so very safe: protect my family, guard my friends, ease my troubles. But the prayers that really count – make me more like you – how very difficult those truly are, how very frightening those can be. Believe me, it took every ounce of courage I could muster to allow those dangerous prayers to pass my lips into the silence of the morning.

As I approached Phoenix, the clouds gathered overhead, threatening rain, but the rain did not fall. Instead, the sun shone through the grey clouds amassed before me. Then off to the left to my somewhat childlike delight, the symbol of the Lord’s covenant – a dramatic, dazzling rainbow – appeared stretching perpendicular from the highest silver cloud straight to the desert floor, and I was reminded of all of His promises to His people. My heart rejoiced that He had placed me on that stretch of highway at that exact moment in time to witness the gift of the reminder of His fidelity; I do not believe in coincidence.

There have been times the last few weeks when I have felt so very alone, that this fickle human heart has questioned His purpose and His will for me, questioned His presence regardless of what His word says. But He knows this; He always knows and always forgives. So, instead of condemning my fears, He chose to grant a blessing in a form I would understand. He sent a rainbow. I never cease to be amazed at the capacity of His Love.

Maybe someday I’ll be able to hold onto that Love when the proverbial torrential rains wash away the foundations of my life, strip away my hopes and dreams, and knock my knees out from under me. Maybe I’ll know how to survive without thinking I need to do it on my own, survive by turning to Him, because that is, after all, exactly what He would have me (us)  do. Until then I am blessed by His sunrises and rainbows, and I’ll take that any day.

Many years ago before I could profess much of a personal faith or relationship with Christ, I attended an Easter Sunday service as a “holiday” Christian at a very traditional church in Virginia. I’m certain the pastor gave a lovely sermon, and I’m equally certain we sang very traditional Easter hymns; it was that kind of church, and I was that kind of woman at the time.   I’d celebrated decades of Easters the same way, and had there not been something slightly different, I’d not be telling you about this particular one, no? So, the difference? This very orthodox church had erected a very unorthodox wire and wood cross next to their altar.

That wire cross stretched unassumingly toward the ceiling, sturdy, sure of its place and position. It did not push for instant recognition, knew its time would come. It simply sat at the ready, knowing – trusting – that the purpose for which it had been intended would be required, and the cross itself had been positioned perfectly for its unique design to be utilized optimally. For my part, I was fascinated as I stared at the wire and wood structure wondering. I didn’t have to wonder long.

One after another, members of the congregation came forward with fresh cut flowers of all varieties and colors and wove the stems through the cross’ wires until the entire cross was full – no hint of wire or wood to be seen. Instead all that was visible were the pink and purple tulips, yellow and peach roses, white daisies, red carnations, pink peonies, white and pink lilies, purple orchids, blue hydrangeas, white and yellow daffodils – so many flowers in so many colors all proclaiming belief in renewed life and hope in forgiveness and faith in life yet to come. It was impossible to turn away, to turn my face from the open adoration displayed before me. The cross transformed as though from the blood and tears of our Savior flowers grew, and if you consider our hearts as flowers maybe that’s not so far off the mark.

Today, as I walked into church and saw the Easter lilies on the altar and the Easter corsages on the ladies wrists and dresses (Love that tradition!) I thought about that cross comprised of flowers, and my heart filled with joy. I may not remember the sermon from that morning so many years ago, but I do remember that cross, and that cross said every word my heart and soul needed to hear.

Happy Easter!

I stood at the kitchen sink this evening washing dishes and gazed out the bay window as a tiny humming bird darted from lantana blossom to lantana blossom then settled gently on a low hanging twig jutting from the pine tree that casts a peaceful shadow on my home. Over the years, I’ve come to think of the hummingbirds who favor the lantana and pine by that window as personal gifts from Heaven and our Creator. As long as I can watch my hummingbird (or birds), scrubbing dishes bestows pleasure. This evening, the hummingbirds’ brand of pixie dust was joined by another scoop of tangible happiness that had found its way to my window sill – a pot full of mini daffodils placed in my hands earlier in the day by a close friend.

In the Victorian era, flowers were ascribed meanings all their own, a language, if you will. Daffodils meant “new beginnings” and “rebirth” while a bunch of daffodils spoke of “joy.” If you know me, you know I’ve been ill with one of those marathon migraines for over a month and am just now coming through the other side. So, my dear friend’s gift of these unassuming yellow flowers (my all-time favorite flower color, as you know) was quite appropriate in its symbolism as this is definitely another season of new beginnings and joy originating from His healing hands.

Tonight, I turned off the water and dried my hands but found I could not turn from the window. My hummingbird was still flitting about while the sounds of spring came through the open window, and the scent of the desert Sunday– dry, dusty, weekend smells – floated in on the breeze. I stood marveling at the tiny bird that shouldn’t be able to fly as it hovered at eye-level, and I smiled thinking of all the things in this world that “shouldn’t” exist. (I’ll spare you and not detail those things.) I contemplated how very blessed I am to have friends who love me enough to give pots of mini daffodils to me and a Father who loves me enough to send a hummingbird to flutter around my kitchen window every afternoon.

I hope your week is filled with your own version of daffodils and hummingbirds.

I was standing on the cool Saltillo tile of my patio this evening waiting for Jug to stop sniffing at the potato plant while I enjoyed the cool night breeze. On the wind a Great Horned Owl “hoo hooed” in my direction. (In case you think I’ve suddenly become British and taken up ornithology, I only know it was a Great Horned Owl because my neighbor – not British – told me so.) Anyway, I enjoyed listening to this call in the starlit/ streetlamp bright sky with the night air cooled clay tiles under my bare feet, still warm stucco against my back as I gazed up to the trees that hid the screeching bird. I had to admit I was enjoying my noisy feathered neighbor, admit that I was enjoying my brief reprieve from my darkened, cave of a home where my latest migraine had held me captive for almost 4 weeks, with the past 6 days attached to an IV for a good deal of my waking hours. Right at that moment, said IV was finished for the night, and I was almost finished – truly and completely wiped out. It was proving to take a lot of energy to fight off this particular round of headaches, and I did not like that – not at all.

After Jug had completed his exploration of the potato plant, we headed back inside, and he helped me navigate the stairs. That was a huge improvement and reason for celebration. Three days ago, stairs weren’t even a possibility. Little by little the pendulum was swinging in a positive direction. We’re moving back toward the status quo, a body with which I have entered a détente – have learned to live with comfortably, find peace, even find joy and contentment.

I’ve heard from so many people that if I just prayed harder or had more faith that I would be healed from these headaches, these “brain fogs,” these dizzy spells, these night terrors, and all the other attendant TBI issues. I think, as well meaning as these individuals are, they’re sadly off-track. Even Paul had his “thorn;” Joseph was imprisoned; the Isrealites were enslaved; Moses never entered the Promised Land; Elijah prayed for death; Jonah tried desperately not to go to Nineveh. Not everything for which we pray, for which we hope is granted. Some things for which we pray are given but don’t come to fruition immediately. What are we to make of this, because we are told that He is faithful in granting all our prayers?

I’ve been considering this quite a bit, because, let’s face it, other than thinking and writing (and watching hours of Netflix and Amazon Prime) there really hasn’t been much I can do over the past few weeks. What I’ve come up with simmers then boils down to this: we are told to pray unceasingly and to ask for what we want. But what if all that really means is to simply tell God our hearts – seek Him with our truest selves sharing our deepest fears, regrets, hopes, dreams, loves – and not present a laundry list of demands. What He desires from us, what His purpose in creating us to be was simply as a companion and to bring glory to Himself. How much glory is a list of demands? He desires relationship with us – true, committed, loving, faithful relationship, but He also knows every fault and failing in us. So, when we stumble, when we falter, when we fear, He knows and loves anyway. There exists unfathomable beauty in that.

What I also came to understand is that He has never needed anything from me. (Did you get that or shall I say it again?) Let’s repeat for good measure. He has never needed anything from me (or you either.) He is and always has been whole and complete within Himself. Does He want us to love Him, worship Him, bring glory to Him? Absolutely! But does he need it? Not one iota. He has never, ever needed my help in anything He has planned, or designed, or desired, nor will He. As long as I allow my life to be His, as long as I don’t stand in His way, He will make something beautiful out of the ashes of my wreckage, and believe me, there are a lot of ashes. Even should I stand in His way, if I am His, it may take a bit longer because I’m going to force a detour, but He’s still going to get to wherever His endpoint may be, dragging me along behind Him. Oh, but once I am there (and I quit kicking and screaming) I will realize the magnificent glory of His plan that shone through all along.

And that is something for which to be marvelously thankful.