Someday, I want to get Stephen Colbert and an elephant keeper in the same room...

Someday, I want to get Stephen Colbert and an elephant keeper in the same room together and thank them.  At first glance, a video of Stephen Colbert arguing with the logic of a Christian author and a video of a former circus elephant being released into the wild might not seem like they have much in common. But by some chance convergence I ended up watching them both on nearly the same day, and their stories so complemented each other that I came away with a deeper understanding of my own faith.

Stephen had a self-avowed "Christian theologian" who had written a book exposing the supposed "conspiracy" of the writing of the Gospel accounts.  None of his "ground breaking news" was new, and his shoddy conclusions showed a lack of understanding of the most basic of good research regarding primary source documents and how to determine the veracity of eye witness accounts. Colbert, however, did not travel the road of the Christian apologist; he took the road Jesus would have taken: he told a parable. 

Most of you are familiar with the story of the blind men and the elephant. Colbert relayed that story to illustrate the point that each Gospel writer had only a piece of the story. When he finished telling the story, he simply looked the author in the eye, a wry smile on his face, and stated with gentleness, "Maybe Jesus is the elephant."

Which brings me to the elephant video.  A circus elephant, aging and bone weary, was about to be set free into an elephant sanctuary.  Awaiting her, after a 26 year separation, was a much younger elephant who, as a baby, had spent time as part of the same circus.  In the video, the narrator explained that these elephants had been separated since those circus years, and all were wondering how they might react to each other.  You can imagine the touching scene that awaited.

But it is what transpired before the release that captured me.  The elephant keeper who had been caring for her gave her one last bath.  And as he held her aged and scarred foot, which she gently lifted into his hands, he ruminated on the chains that had been part of her existence for decades.  "I don't know who the first person was that put her in chains," he said quietly.  "But I will be the last one to take them off.  She is free."

The footage of her welcome by her young friend was breathtaking.  They embraced trunks and she leaned into the healthier, younger elephant as though they had always been best of friends.  If they had been human, they would have run into each other's embrace and kept kissing each other pausing only long enough to pull away and gaze into each other's eyes with love and gratitude that the journey had finally brought them together.

Then it hit me: this is how it will be when I meet Jesus.  I will run to Him like a long, lost, precious, friend who never forgot me and held me always in his thoughts.  I will rest in His green pastures and lie beside His quiet streams, my pain forgotten, my heart healed.

But before I do, I will have a loving Father and caretaker who will release whatever chains have bound me, wash me one final time, and announce,   "I know who the first person was that put you in chains, and I will be the last one to take them off.  You are free."

Someday, I want to write about the importance of “things”,

Someday, I want to write about the importance of “things”, having struggled to do so because love of "things" is antithetical to my belief system.

 

But then there's the yellow jeep next door. And the father who kept it running on the fuel of his memories and dreams. And the three children that loved it - those three precious children, almost six, four, and two, who are our neighborhood “television set”.

You see, our picture window looks out at theirs, and every moment of life is chronicled by their three faces pressed against the window staring out into the world.  When my husband or I leave the house, a muffled thumping often greets us, and a glance skyward reveals three faces with six wildly waving hands as they send us off on our way.  At the season's first snow, their fingertips massaged the glass, and then, in a flurry of activity they suddenly burst out the door and threw themselves with reckless abandon into the snowy cul-de-sac and began making snow angels.

Their father drove the yellow jeep of his younger years into his current adulthood, a jeep with an engine so loud that he would coast down the street before starting it to keep the neighborhood(and his children) in slumber. He knew that one day, with his careful mechanical work, his daughters would adventure in that jeep, then his son, making memories of their own to carry into adulthood.

But then the unthinkable happened. Avoiding a careless driver, he lost control on the freeway and hit a railing, totaling his beloved jeep. Towed back to his driveway, it sat crumpled and beyond repair even by his loving hands. An ad on Craigslist produced a purchaser with a towing trailer, and I watched three little faces gazing out of the window as Dad cut the jeep loose, his shoulders slumped. No hands waved from the second story window, just three little faces, unnaturally still. Mom said the middle daughter cried when she saw the jeep towed away, taking with it a host of opportunities -  though she was light years from even contemplating driving. On some level, it was just a jeep, past its prime and lacking any status or glory in the world's eyes. But to that family, it was more than a “thing" - it was a symbol of blessed times and lifelong possibilities.

That got me to thinking. Maybe sometimes that “thing” we love is nothing more than a wrapper for what is contained within...

I have such a "thing" on my desk at work, for example. It is two crudely drawn and colored gingerbread men holding hands, no more than an inch tall. The young man who gave it to me struggles a bit with reading, but his heart contains the world. He walked up one day in late December and handed it to me. "I made this for you for Christmas," he said and his face glowed at his accomplishment. I pictured his rough, stubby fingers cutting the tiny corners and knew this thing was a wrapper for great love contained within.

Other “things” sit next to the gingerbread men.  A young girl brought a homemade drawing and her leftover Halloween candy.  A gift of great love. Someone drew a picture of an alien and wrote "Merry Christmas" at the bottom in flowery letters.  A gift of great love.

Each time, I was reminded of the widow giving her last coin and the lesson learned of giving from your poverty and not just from your abundance. Except, as I thought about it, this was a story re-wrapped. These kids did not give from any poverty  -  in their hearts, they gave from their abundance. It was as if their spirits called out to mine saying, “I am giving you something beautiful.  I am giving you me.” 

 

Those are the kinds of “things” I treasure and the kinds of “things” I want to give this new year.  And I want to give them freely, as these kids did, from a heart filled with an abundance of love… I want them to be simple extensions of who I am and who I desire to be.

I gaze out the window as the New Year begins.  All traces of that first snow have melted, and the faces that stare out the window in the early morning are shrouded in fog. That yellow jeep once held so dear is gone for good. Its shiny replacement is a blank canvas in the lives of the family across the street, awaiting the imprint of their lives and dreams to give it worth.

And so are we all blank canvases at this moment, awaiting the touch of the Artist from whom all good things flow. Maybe this year each of us can make and give a simple “thing” and be able to say, "I am giving you something beautiful. I am giving you me."

Someday I will retire from teaching, that much is known

Someday I will retire from teaching, that much is known.  But the question looming before me these last few years has been, "How will I know it is time?"  Unlike many people, I love my job, at least once the door is closed and I am able to do what thrills my soul: watch the sparks of a love of learning catch a few pieces of tinder and ignite. My husband, ever the fountain of quiet wisdom, has assured me that God will make it clear, but since I am often one of those "ye of little faith types," I have always wanted writing in the sky or at least a sign so unmistakable that I will walk away at peace.  It is never a function of numbers...since we have no savings, no investments and no long range plan.  It is simply this: is it time to walk away from this "thing" and unto the next?

The next "thing" looms large.  There are three novels fighting for time for completion, at least four albums of unrecorded music, and a full length musical about the life of William Tyndale aching to be written.  And then there are these five precious grandchildren whose lives are passing before me and who bring unspeakable joy in the moments we get to share.  So I am not one of those "sit on the beach and drink margaritas" types, though I admire those who are.

But this year, the "sign" happened.  I misread something on the retirement website and thought this could be my last year of teaching.  Literally, I could not sleep the entire night because my heart was filled with such joy.  Though short-lived, I realized that moving on would not be the emotional catastrophe I had feared. Once the truth came out and I realized my time had not yet come, I begrudgingly reconciled myself to continued work and then made another fatal mistake of going to LA for a weekend for a friend's CD release party. Soaking in that creative landscape, which had been part of my life for so long before teaching, filled me with such a hunger for the "next step" that I wept as we closed the door to our hotel room.  It was time to move on.

I had such clarity.  The signs were all there.  And then that "thing" happened, which happens every year.  It is so painful that I think I block out the memory of its existence in hopes that it will not reappear.  But it does like clockwork.  I come in every year staring into these new faces who are so young and inexperienced and frenetic and all that eleven year- olds can be, and I think to myself, "I am too old for this."  It's a bit like being a new mom  who contemplates throwing herself off a bridge for lack of sleep. Then the kid who threw up on you smiles into your face and your heart melts and you are ready to begin again.

That something just "happened" yesterday.  I wish I could tell you what it was, but like mercury that has escaped from a thermometer, it is tough to get your finger on.  All I know is this: I just looked out over that sea of faces, and something in me cracked.   

I picture the young man whose mistake, whatever it was, had caught the attention of the principal.  I picture his tormented face which spoke volumes about his remorse and tried to let him know, really know, that it would be okay and that his soul was good...that we would be there for him as he figured this out.  I picture the young man whose tattered clothes and disheveled appearance bespeak a life of great difficulty...how we talk about hope and I catch a glimmer of belief that life can be better.

But mostly I picture this young woman whom I misjudged.  She came across as surly so often that I labeled her a person with an attitude problem.  That is until one day when she walked up unexpectedly with "that look" on her face, smiled at me, and announced, "This is my favorite class."  I pulled her aside the next day and told her that I had misjudged her and apologized for having done so, as we had had several pointed conversations on the issue.  She stared at me like a deer caught in bright headlights and walked away.  But the next day, she stayed after class to talk.

"I thought about what you said yesterday," she announced with more wisdom than should be legal in an eleven year old, "I should have just said thanks."  I think that began the crack in the dam that broke today.

You see, I know that I am replaceable.  In fact, one of my colleagues already has an excellent prospect waiting in the wings.  I know to the core of my being that there are younger teachers out there who will have more energy, more enthusiasm for change, more ability to attend more school functions, and more commitment to screaming at pep assemblies.  But the burning question on my heart is this: will they ever love these kids more passionately than I will?  Will their hearts ache at these kids' beautiful broken lives and passionately crave to fill them with hope and inspire them to dream?  Will it matter to them that these kids are on the brink of discovering their best selves, and they need someone to hold up a mirror to help them see their own beauty?

I do not know the answers to these questions but I do know this:  today moments of beauty and grace hit critical mass, and I felt my heart say yet once again, "okay, I will risk loving you."  And that is all the sign I need for now.

Someday you need an unforgettable adventure....

Someday I wanted to try and capture the adventure mom and I had in the road trip disaster of 2013.  At 93, Ur-Oma, our beloved great grandmother, had been wondering if she could still have one more unforgettable road trip.  Her voice was so wistful that I planned an adventure to Jasper National Park in Canada.  Due to constant rain, we decided to come home early, but cut off from outside world while driving the Icefields Parkway, we were unaware that in the worst flooding in over 200 years, Canmore had been devastated and the highway to Calgary destroyed.

Mom at Maligne Canyon



Since my mom was running out of critical medication, I spent the next three days outrunning the floods, the uncertainty of last minute freeway closures, and heavy rains as we worked our way from Banff to our Seattle home.  Though this had become a terrifying adventure,  there were also moments of sweet beauty:  The night we spent up curled up together like small children both suffering from food poisoning...the stories she told as the river raged and the skies soaked us…the nights when we would both wake up and chat ourselves back to sleep.

Though certain I had killed her spirit for adventure, I still asked if she would like to join our mini-family reunion in Leavenworth two weeks later.  She immediately agreed to come, but just "for one day."  Upon arrival though, she stepped on to the patio, gazed at the pine covered mountains in front of her, and announced, "This is beautiful."

 I worried at our first family dinner that her enthusiasm for this adventure would wane in the overwhelming energy of four great granddaughters aged seven and below.   But the next morning when I asked her if she wanted to leave, she announced that she would stay, "A few more days.”  We repeated this conversation each morning until it became clear - she was here for the duration.

On our last night, I came into her room to "tuck her in."  Ever the stoic German, her willingness to submit herself to my hugs and kisses surprised me again as she reached out both arms like a small child for a good night hug.  Excusing myself, I headed out to the patio where great-granddaughters were engaged in serious bubble blowing and chasing.  Calling the girls together, I explained that we were going to sneak in and give Ur-Oma goodnight hugs.



Rolling "snakes" out of  clay

Like a line of fairy sprites, four tow headed girls sneaked into her room to say goodnight to their great grandma, a woman who, despite her willingness to spend hours rolling clay creatures, had remained physically aloof.The first great granddaughter came over and sank into her chest.  "Goodnight, Ur-Oma," she whispered, and I watched mom's face soften as each new hug and kiss came her way.  Her face glowed with light as she experienced their unconditional love, and I realized as I watched the scene unfold that the gap between her and the youngest spanned 90 years.

After they left, she reached out, uncharacteristically, for another hug from me.  I stroked her face and hair as she readied herself for sleep and marveled how these little girls had softened her and brought her so much joy. 

 

Ur-Oma did have an unforgettable adventure, and if it is to be her last one, my heart is filled with peace.  This journey, the grandest of all, has been an adventure of the heart. 

Someday I hope to be rid of the insidious disease

Someday I hope to be rid of the insidious disease that often resurfaces just when I think I am cured.  Most folks would never know I am ill.  There are few outward signs.  But just when I begin to feel fully alive and healthy, it surfaces like a stealth bomber and overtakes me.  The disease?  Judgmentalism.
 
The problem with this disease is that it sometimes comes disguised as misassumption.  For example, one school year, I once found myself musing about a student's hands.  They always seemed to be covered in grime, which seeped under his fingernails.  His pants were ripped at the knees, and he often came to class sweaty and disheveled.  Over the course of weeks, I began to create an elaborate interpretation of his life and tried to discern ways I could help him overcome his “circumstances”, all without ever asking him the reason for his condition.
 
Then one day he approached me before lunch and asked if I would come and see him dance on the playground. When the bell rang, I slipped out to the playground and found him next to the basketball courts standing by himself.  When he saw me, he began a solitary break dance performance, his only musical accompaniment coming from inside his head.

 I watched transfixed as he placed his hands on the unwashed asphalt to execute intricate spins and moves, often using his knees to ground his performance.  He radiated bliss. As I watched, I knew that in his head, he did not dance for his teacher; he danced for a cheering throng surrounding a polished stage where the spotlight shown for him and him alone. His hands and his knees had been sacrificed for beauty, and in that moment, I realized that my misassumptions had painted a picture of poverty where his dancing gifts had created the richness of the Sistine Chapel.
 
However, leaving you with only that picture would not give you a true sense of the depth of my disease, because the truth is, misassumption is a very minor symptom of Judgmentalism.  Misassumption can be rationalized away, but Judgmentalism has no defense.    Gratefully, we rarely notice it in each other, because unless it is voiced, it is invisible to all except the mind of the judge.
 
Case in point: My husband and I recently took my mom to a hamburger joint in a small town.  As we waited for our food, I noticed a woman enter and approach the counter.  When I say "noticed", what I mean to convey is a rigid examination down to the smallest detail accompanied by a running negative commentary.  Her shiny, sequin covered mini skirt would have looked trashy on a teenager, and she seemed to be a woman in her late forties sporting a deep fake tan.  The wedge heeled sandals revealed hooker red toenail polish, and when she sat at a table across from me, I saw a skin tight tank top that left nothing to the imagination and hands that were draped in a collection of silver rings.  Everything about her screamed, "Look at me!" and as I sat there judging her, I felt justified in staring at her and evaluating every aspect of her life.
 
And then I heard a voice ---the gentle, caring, quiet voice of the Holy Spirit--- who spoke to me in the deep recesses of my heart, "You were a much bigger mess when I met you."  I actually laughed out loud.  It was true. 
 
The gift of that moment was simple and profound for me.  A mirror held up by a loving God reminded me that my own reflection deserved as much judgment as the woman across the room, and yet He had embraced me and loved me without reservation and without condemnation.
 
I stared at her again, but this time, I tried to use my new found vision.  I prayed silently for her to feel blessed by this day...to feel unconditional love from every glance, and hopefully first and foremost, from mine.
 
Someday, I will be rid of this disease, but only in the next life, I think.  But until then, I will use what is becoming my new go-to medicine when I feel the disease returning.  I remind myself again and again what I know to be true:  I was a much bigger mess when He met me, and He loved me anyway. 

Someday I hope to be able to say to my father in person, "I forgive you."

Someday I hope to be able to say to my father in person, "I forgive you." I know most people hunger to be able to express love or gratitude, especially on this day to honor our fathers. But the wounds of the past, now thankfully healed, and the fact that my father's life was taken by a drunk driver when I was 16, have confined my expression of forgiveness to a memoir I wrote many years ago called Killing the Helicopter Woman.
 
I think about him often when I hear the debate about whether we should refer to God as He, which to some perpetuates oppressive language. The argument is made that for people like me who suffered abuse at the hands of a father, or for others who have suffered at the hands of rigid patriarchal societies, the image of God the Father further subjugates us to male dominated societies and reinforces our victimization. And so God becomes She or It or The Creator or whatever neutral term serves the message, the music, the reference. It is a well-meaning attempt to help us embrace the concept without the negative baggage a name might carry.
 
As usual, I cannot speak for anyone but myself, but in the deepest part of me, today I wanted to honor my Father, not the one who created the wounds, but the one who healed me and saved me and made me whole. This Perfect Father taught me things that my earthly, imperfect one could not. This Father taught me that I am worthy of being loved regardless of what I had done in the past. This Father taught me that no matter how much I had prostituted myself in the world and its ways, to Him I would always be a beautiful bride.
 
When I despaired throughout my life, He never judged me but only gently held me and wept with me. When I wandered off like the prodigal I am, He whispered the way to walk and rejoiced when I changed direction. When I hungered for real love and intimacy, He taught me how a real Father loves a precious child.
 
This Father gave me the gift of Life, abundant life, and joy and peace beyond my ability to comprehend. But he also gave me two other precious gifts. His Word tells us that God has a name chosen for each of us that only He knows. One day, my husband, my first gift from God, gave me a card in which he wrote that he felt he knew what God's name for me would be. In the envelope was a small white stone on which my husband had carefully written my "new name" ... Beautiful. I have it with me always to remind me of how I am seen by my true Father.
 
But the second gift of my heavenly Father was greater still...the gift of forgiveness. When I received this gift, I was in the middle of writing these words in my memoir...

“In my dream, I see my father walking along a dirt road. I am on a hill, and the wind sifts through the awakening grass around me creating a smell of the turn of winter into spring.  My spirit is light and I watch him for a while as he struggles, bent over and awkward.  He carries a dirty brown bag, tattered and tied with rough rope, and the weight seems to overwhelm him.  I know that inside are all the deeds that shredded my existence...

                You deserve it, I hear myself think as I see him.  But there is something terribly wrong as soon as the words are out of my heart.  He is not all powerful, he is not a giant, he does not rule the world.  He is simply a man, small in stature and ego, full of defenses and mixed up wires somewhere in his brain. 

                As I watch his slow, measured step, I realize that I cannot do anything to help him.  He can not hear my voice, and if we were to come face to face, I already know that his eyes would be clouded with sorrow.  He has suffered enough.  And so have I.

                I start to sing a song in my heart.  I sing it to him across the grassy slope and it travels to the dusty road that carries his steps.  I sing it across the years that have been veiled or lost entirely to the weight of my own guilt and shame.  I sing it 'til the very throats of the world join in the chorus

                                If I were to see you struggling down a dusty road,

                                I would ask Jesus to lighten your load... 

                It is done now...he is free.

                And so am I.”

Someday, I pray that I will meet my earthly father face to face. I want to let him know I have learned that out of the greatest pain comes the greatest blessing. I want him to know that my wounds led me to the Healer, and the Healer led me to my Heavenly Father, who embraced me like the long lost child I was. I want him to know that I am at peace.
 
And I want my earthly father to know that now, in forgiving him, I am finally ready to love him.

Someday...the harmonica player.

Someday I want to have the simple trust of the harmonica player.  I wish I could recall his name, but the truth is, he slipped into our lives one day without an introduction and slipped away just as quickly.

At my 83 year old mom's urging, we had agreed to play a concert for an adult day care program located in the basement of a moss covered local church tucked under a tangle of trees.  As we descended the steps into the musty basement, we were greeted warmly not just by the volunteers, but also by a small group of differently-abled adults who were assisting them in serving meals to several of the seniors also in attendance. 

Since we had anticipated only seniors, we had prepared an hour's worth of oldies but goodies, including the closing sing-a-long "Good Night Irene" in honor of my mom. As we began our set, one of these differently-abled adult helpers pulled out his harmonica.  In a child like voice, he yelled out a request to play along, a request we quickly granted in the casual environment of our basement lunch concert.

He jumped out of his chair and bounded over next to me.  As we led the group in some Pete Seeger song, he began to robustly play along, his harmonica in a completely different key and his skills somewhat less than stellar.  But as the song ended, he looked up at me, his eyes shining, and he announced with a wide, toothless grin, his voice heavy with a lisp, "rock and roll...we did that really good...rock and roll.."

For the rest of our time, he bounced between his role as lead harmonica player in the band and lead dancer for any  unpartnered lunch guest. He worked the room like a seasoned Vegas showman, and when it was all over, he sidled up one last time as we were packing up.

There was a swagger in his step as he took my guitar from my hand.  "I want to carry your guitar," he said, smiling his toothless grin.  "I will help you with the equipment." We walked out a side door and down a small concrete path wide enough for only one person at a time. He led.

"See the gray van towards the end?" I called up to him.  "That's mine."  I expected him to cross the gravel lot and meet me at the van, but he stopped cold at the end of the sidewalk and waited.  When I caught up,  I stepped off the curb, expecting him to follow.  But the only footsteps on the gravel were mine.

A host of thoughts crowded into my mind.  Perhaps he liked my guitar.  How would I let him know that he couldn't take it home?  What if he dropped it?  As I walked back to him, I noticed his face had changed.  It seemed younger, less confident.  I stood next to him awaiting his declaration.  Suddenly I felt his touch.  He had reached down and taken my hand in his.

"I can't cross the street unless  I hold someone's hand," he stated simply. We walked across the lot and loaded the guitar, and then, holding his hand, I walked him back to the safety of the concrete sidewalk. Back on solid ground, he resumed his rock star demeanor and reclaimed his confidence.

"We need to play music again," he called out, " rock and roll..."  As I looked back from the car, he was flashing the universal rock star sign.  

I want to be like him, I thought, full of life and confidence, able to dance and sing unconcerned about my lack of coordination or my inability to carry a tune.  I want to launch  into good deeds with strangers and help carry the burdens of others.  But more than anything, when I face any obstacle, any fear, I want to simply reach out and take the hand of a fellow human being and trust with all my heart that I will be kept safe from the dangers that lurk beyond the safety of the well kept path.

The harmonica player gets it.  Someday, I hope to follow in his steps.