The Unexpected Life

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.

I turned onto my street this afternoon, just another glorious cerulean, cotton-ball-dotted-sky kind of February day in Phoenix when I passed a man walking his two dogs. Not an uncommon sight, yes? No, I didn’t think so either until I looked closer. One dog, very little Chihuahua-type thing, one lab, almost baby elephant size. The yipper-yapper trotted along as they generally do, tale held high, chest puffed out – Napoleon- complex style. The lab, well, the lab was just being a lab. (If you have a lab, know a lab, been around a lab ever in your life you know what I mean by that.) But this lab was giving it a little extra effort. This lab was skipping along carrying a lime green stuffed animal in his mouth.

I laughed aloud because I always make Jug drop his toys by the front door before we leave, afraid he’ll loose that toy somewhere when he gets bored with it, and Jug, well, Jug always looks at me like I have stolen his joy. But this lab gamboling by my car with his neon toy was wagging his whole body happily. This lab was literally carrying his joy with him.

As I drove the few remaining blocks home I contemplated what carrying joy would look like for me. Do I drop it at my front door before I leave the house, afraid that if I carry it outside with me, I’ll misplace it, hand it over to someone unworthy, or simply let it slip away like a child with a helium balloon? Or, do I carry it with me wherever I go, much like the happy lab, letting my lime green toy show proudly for the world to see? Honestly, I think it depends on the day and what is going on in my life at the time, and this answer fails to satisfy. Why? Because in that answer, I have mistakenly equated joy and happens.

Joy does not equal happiness. Joy grows and flows from something internal while happiness is dependent on our circumstances – things beyond our control. Joy, I believe, is something we cultivate, learn to be comfortable resting in its presence and warmth while happiness requires simply being given a bouquet of daisies or receive a heartfelt hand-written card or, for others, a free trip to Paris or a house in Malibu or whatever else you happen to value.

Joy is a fruit of the Spirit. If we know Him, then we are capable of infinite joy. Indeed, perhaps we are then responsible for carrying our lime green stuffed animals with us anywhere and everywhere so that all may know we belong to Him. Otherwise, what do those who do not know Him see when they look at us – when they look at me? If we (I) fail to possess the joy of knowing Him, of belonging to Him, then what is the point of walking with Him?

I want that joy – that neon stuffed toy – to be what others see when they see me. Maybe then they’ll want their own stuffed animal to carry around, too; they’ll want to know Him and love Him and walk with Him as I strive to do. And that stuffed animal –it doesn’t have to be green. In fact, I think I want mine to be pink.

I’ve believed in miracles for other people. My knees have hit the hard, frigid floor, beseeching the One for whom nothing is impossible for other people. Tears of anguish, tears of hopeful supplication have welled from my eyes then streamed down my face as my heart has been reassured that miracles will be wrought for other people. But for me – well, for me, I mostly limited my vision to the Creator’s presence – the Creator’s work – in my life in small ways, and, until now, that has been enough.

I mostly see God in tiny things: baby fingernails, Mexican poppies, the smell of desert Creosote on the damp breeze, butterflies, rainbows, hot air balloons. I do not look for miracles. That has been to my detriment. I have placed my (and your) omniscent, omnipresent, omnipotent God in the tiny box that I believed He belonged, never once considering that my confinement of Him could be my very undoing.

I have survived some truly extraordinary trials (at least in my mind, and some of which you know), and I have never ceased to be grateful that I have come through to the other side, but there is always a part of my heart – a part of my soul – that waits for that proverbial other shoe to drop. And last week it did. In all truth, it fell with more of a shift of tectonic plates than it did with a simple, muffled clatter. You see, my doctor found a very large, fixed mass where no woman ever wants a mass found.

Monday, I faced perhaps not the most frightening day of my life, but certainly one of the top ten, and I faced it utterly, humanly alone. Absolutely, God was with me, but no human hand was there to hold, and my, did I need that hand. So, in the void of my hands, I stared at a blank future, and found that I could not even utter the prayer lodged in the depth of my aching, terrified heart.

Desperately I longed to be held by arms I could feel, reminded by a voice that I could distinctly, audibly hear whisper that no matter the outcome of the test, I would be fine – I would stay strong enough to face what was coming, what threatened the future for which I still yearned. But there were no tangible hands or arms. Just me surrounded by a waiting room full of women facing down in various stages the same demons.

When my name was called by a radiology tech in hot pink scrubs, I trudged behind her slowly. I submitted to the tests, and waited in desolate isolation already sure of the answer, yet still dreading that very answer. But then came the unexpected – the mass so evidently tactile under my fingertips just the day before was nowhere to be found. I was Gobsmacked, felt my breath catch, had to remind myself to breathe.

“Are you sure?” I had to ask more than once. “My doctor was so sure. It was an enormous mass.   I felt it myself yesterday.”

“The radiologist says there is nothing there, not even anything to indicate that there had been something there to begin with,” the pink-clad tech replied smiling.

I could’ve kissed her, but I was still in shock. (Besides,that would’ve been extremely awkward not to mention weird and completely inappropriate.) I moved from the hard, cold table, face frozen in a mask of disbelief, and calmly walked from the room, changed, and went home. I texted or called the handful of people who knew of the tests, and 4 of them used the word “miracle.” I have to say, that I truly believe that is the only explanation.

One friend says that she believes God said, “Enough.” I absorbed her interpretation into my soul and rejoiced that He loves us (me) enough to know when we truly have reached the point when we have had “enough.” I’ll share now that it is in the past: I had already decided that if my doctor had been right, if what I was facing was (in her words) “an extremely aggressive form of cancer” I was, in all likelihood, not going to fight it. No, I had made the decision to simply, gently let go, stop fighting the battles of this world, and quietly, peacefully go Home to Him. But that wasn’t what He wanted. Maybe it wasn’t my time, maybe I still have work to do in His name, or maybe I’m just being ridiculous. Smiling crookedly now, I can say perhaps it could be all three. I just know that I don’t have to make that decision anytime soon.

To celebrate, I went for a run in the glorious Arizona winter sunshine, and I thanked Him for loving me enough to heal me. I thanked him for my miracle, for showing me that His power is still at work in big ways, and I acknowledged in humility that I had sold Him short. And do you know that I felt in the desert breeze His voice reassure that He loved me even beyond that?

He is truly amazing.

I think I failed to mention this earlier, but Jug got a new car. Our little Volkswagen Tiguan was too high off the ground for him to jump into everyday, several times a day. So, we decided together it was time to revert to our beloved Minis, only this time we decided a Countryman was a better option – 4 doors, bigger backseat (room for the baby elephant to lie down), a bit bigger cargo area. However, as we will be making a cross-country trek this summer, that rear cargo area fails to meet our necessary luggage capacity. (If you’ve seen my shoe obsession first hand, you will understand this problem, and do not even suggest I cut back on the number of shoes. Not the slightest chance in a very, very hot place that will happen.) Besides, baby elephants require quite a bit of gear themselves.

So, yesterday, we drove to our Mini dealership, and bought the rooftop box. The price almost made me faint, but I’m seeing this as a long-term investment. This summer will not be the only time I use this thing, I’m quite sure. One snag: when they sold me the car, they failed to include the key for the rooftop rails, which are, apparently, a necessity. Huh. Never fear. The keys are now on order, and everyone who works for Mini is so amazingly nice that you can’t help being slightly glad you get to go back to see them again even if it’s because someone there messed up. You just smile and nod and wave goodbye, agreeing to come as soon as they call – all of this completely heart-felt legit. You’re almost thrilled at the tiniest bit of incompetence.

Anyway, driving home sans rooftop box and rail keys, I drove past one of Maricopa County’s numerous community colleges, and sitting at the city bus stop across from the school was a young man, 18 at the very oldest, dressed from head (No joke – he had on a fleece hoodie.) to toe in retro green camouflage – you know, the kind all the services wore before the Navy went to blue and the rest went to the computer- graphic looking camo. Even the boy’s backpack was camouflage. I had to look twice, – really, I did. It was +80°, and this boy was in fleece camo from head to toe. And sunglasses. (Well, at least his eyes were protected.)

My first thought was, Oh, son, where is your momma?, because I am now at that age that he really could be my son, and I’m pretty sure I would have raised a kid who knew better than to face the Sonoran desert sun in high-80° temps in fleece. (Do you know how hot he had to be, how bad he had to smell?) Then, I remembered what I learned all those years ago my first day as school nurse at Washington High School just a few miles away from that community college – that not every child grows up with two parents, or even one parent who cares enough to teach them common sense, and I was ashamed of myself and my judgment of the boy.

So, I moved on to my second thought, What are you hiding from? Military camouflage is designed to help protect service members by blending into their surrounding environment (or that was the original idea). Thus, “desert camo” and the Navy’s blue camo. So, camouflage clothing is a method of hiding. In dressing in fleece hoodie and fleece pants – yes, fleece pants – in retro green camouflage, to green shoes what was this boy trying to say? (Could totally be a simple fashion statement, but we are not talking a Kardashian in a camouflage mini-skirt. Not that I’d have seen that as any less of a cry for help. Actually, I pretty much view everything a Kardashian does as a cry for help.) Was he trying to fade into the background, become just part of the scenery of his very own life? And that thought brought on a wave of anguish for him. I’ve known countless kids who longed to do just that, and maybe their lives and psyche turn around, but not without mature adults in their lives who truly care for them; I’m making a calculated gamble here – if that boy left his home dressed like he lived in Omaha with the Phoenix weather forecast days in advance smack-on accurate, there probably weren’t many adults in his life who cared that much to help turn him around.

I could’ve been completely and totally wrong. There could’ve been a loving mother and father, aunts, uncles, grandparents, youth pastor, etc., all surrounding this “camo kid.” Maybe he was just “cold-natured,” and really, really needed that fleece. I do realize that in 2 glances I could not know his life story, and that snap judgments can be devastating. I’m just telling you what it looked like. But, I’m also going to say that I know in some ways we all hide, we all don camouflage – maybe not to the extreme of our friend at the bus stop, but to some degree we each put it on every single day of our lives; it’s a form of self-preservation.

The easiest example I can think of is women and make-up. Oh, boy, do most of us love our make-up! (And if you think make-up as camouflage is a modern invention, please see “History: Ancient Egypt.”) We are so careful to keep someone else, everyone else, from seeing our flaws, the very things that make us human, that form our authentic beauty. We are afraid that if we took off the camo, if we uncover what is underneath, come out of hiding, we’d instantly become unlovable. Now, here’s a maybe not-so-revolutionary thought, but what if taking off the camo drew in the people who would truly love us for who we are, stand by us despite the hurricanes that blow through our lives, hold us up through the earthquakes that tremble and separate the fault lines of our worlds? Are we ready to do that? Are we ready to allow others to see the stripped down versions of ourselves? My own answer: it depends. (Not very committal am I?)

I want to be genuine in my approach to others, in what I show, but honestly, some people just aren’t safe. I want to show the real “me” to the world that surrounds me, but I have felt the keenest forms of rejections and am not really enthusiastic to rejoice in them again.  Even as I write this, it occurs to me that we have been promised that we will be rejected, we will be hurt, we will be broken, and these should be counted as joy. Can I find the joy that redeems these aches? Can I count these denunciations as blessings? Mostly, at this point, no, but I believe I’m learning, and that’s something for which to be grateful. Someday, if I am open enough, I will reach a place where I can find the blessing in the refutations, and truly, that will be a day for celebration.

Meanwhile, please, do yourself a favor and just say “no” to head-to-toe fleece camouflage.

Love – an emotion with multiple synonyms and its very own holiday – Valentine’s Day. In 2014, Americans spent over $17 billion on Valentine’s Day just to say, Hey, you’re still the one; you are the one, or you could be the one. I’d guess you’d say that we really, really value our romantic notions of love, or maybe we just don’t want to be alone.

But this year, Valentine’s Day fell on a Sunday, and at our church that meant expressions of a different form of Love. (Please notice the capitalization.) We celebrated baptisms. As I sat folded quietly in the pew watching the public professions of faith with Jug snoring quietly on my feet, I contemplated love as we offer it with flowers and candy and jewelry versus Love as He offers it through Christmas and Easter and grace.

Now, my perceptions of human romantic love may be a bit skewed. I can admit to that, but who hasn’t experienced some sort of drama/trauma at the hands of Cupid? (Could someone please explain how a toddler with a weapon is an emblem of love anyway??? That symbol might need to be rethought.) However, even knowing that I may not have an exactly “spot-on” view, I’d still tender this thought: we are flawed, broken people who don’t know how to love well. Separate from being taught how to do so from the Father and Son who offered the ultimate sacrifice – the ultimate gift of Love, we’re never going to grow into the selfless individuals it requires to make a life-long commitment like marriage work. Let’s back off from the life-long and go for just the day-to-day because, really, isn’t that what marriage or long-term relationships take – a daily decision? Now these issues may never again apply to me, but, still, let’s do something about Cupid. (He really, totally creeps me out.)

Leaving the sanctuary yesterday did not leave His Love behind. Instead, it drifted on the bright Arizona morning winter sunshine to the Children’s Building with me. Half an hour into my behind-the desk shift a friend carried a 3-week old beautiful baby girl into the lobby and passed the tiny human into my arms. I drank in the perfect miniature ears and feet and hands and, then – my favorite – her tiny, perfect fingernails. I cooed, and rocked, and smiled into her yet un-focusing eyes, and I saw the face of God in the infant in my arms, and I felt His arms around me reminding me that even when I feel my loneliest, most unlovable, I am loved beyond my wildest dreams.

My heart – my Valentine’s Day – though popular culture would tell you I should’ve been sad and miserable (and there were a few moments of self-pity, none of which hit Bridget Jones proportions btw, for which I am not proud), was, overall, content and complete. I hope your heart and your day was, too.

Happy Belated Valentine’s Day.

The church lobby vibrated with the frenzied activity of a show about to “go on.” The annual Children’s Ministry Talent and Variety show was moments away, and performers shuffled around with excited anticipation. In the sanctuary, the performers’ parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and friends hugged, chatted, and laughed. Then, the lights went down, and the crowd fell silent, all eyes focused on the spotlighted stage.

One after another, dancers, singers, comedians, and musicians took their places, performed their numbers, and were rewarded with legitimate, enthusiastic applause. No hint of inauthenticity murmured its way through the open room, only true appreciation for the efforts presented.

And then came the highlight (at least for me) of the entire production. A trio of early-teen brothers with guitars took their place on the far right of the stage. The three boys sat on low stools set in the bright white of the spotlight, and the oldest boy softly counted down from three. Then, together they lifted their voices in praise as they began the opening measures of “Blessed Be Your Name.” My heart soared with their voices, and I thought that I couldn’t possibly enjoy the moment more. Oh, but I was wrong.

A second later, in a glance across the aisle my eyes fell on T, the 4-year old daughter, of my friend. T, a darling Teutonic-looking platinum blonde with long plaits down her back, was completely lost in the song. Just barely inside the pew, one little foot almost in the aisle, T stood, her focus entirely on the boys on stage and their song. As she observed them so very intently, her little bow of a mouth formed the words along with the brothers on stage. And the Spirit inside me swelled at this precious one’s worship.

T stood in open adoration of her Savior, her small face raised toward Heaven, her heart clearly revealed to anyone who cared to look her way. And looking at her shining in her obvious love of her Lord brought not only joy but also the twinge of a challenge. Could I be that open in my love for my Savior, that open in my worship and praise? Could I reveal my heart with such abandon?

I think mostly my honest answer was a very clear “no.” (What do you expect? I’m a restrained Southern woman.) But there are some days – some Sundays in worship, sometimes singing in my car, sometimes dancing in my kitchen – when I can manage to match T’s enthusiasm. And I find those days – those moments – are beautifully glorious; I’d hope He thinks so, too. My continual prayer is that there will come a day when nothing in my heart or head will intervene in my worship, that I can manage to routinely reveal my heart as fabulously uninhibited as a lovely 4-year old. And, as He is faithful in answering all of His Beloveds’ prayers, I trust this will happen. On that day, I will sing and laugh and dance and praise (and, in all likelihood, cry). You just may not see it, but it’ll happen.

I got to hold a crying, drooling, fussy, teething baby this week, and it was pure heaven. (Yes, I am that woman who finds all babies fabulous.) As we strolled the lobby at church, rocked, swayed, and bounced (and he continued to cry) I felt a complete sense of peace even if he didn’t. I talked to him in that sweet, slightly outlandish, soft voice all adults get when faced with a screaming human less than 1/3 of their size, explained that Mommy would be there soon, wiped his itty, bitty nose, and smiled down into his bright red face. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d won that last billion-dollar Powerball. With that screaming baby in my arms, my heart and soul felt complete. Then my moment with him was over, but the feeling of contentment remained for just that much longer, and while I had the gift of that, I relaxed into it.

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