The Gospel as Told By a Woman

They weren't present at the Passover meal,

but they might have been the hands that prepared it.

(You can always find them in the story

but you often have to look past the main characters.)

They gathered at the foot of the cross

paralyzed by heartbreak and grief

as the light of the world was snuffed out

and the world became dark.

They headed for the tomb

at daybreak as the Sabbath ended

driven by the need to care for their Lord's body

and became the first witnesses 

of the resurrection,

delivering unbelievable news to the disciples

and really, the world.

What I would give

to hear the story of God's love through Jesus,

told by these woman.

The women who loved deeply enough

to be there, in the midst of the suffering and hate.

Bearing witness as it turned into

the Greatest Love.

Come, listen.

Spare Change

I sat in church on Sunday morning, a welcomed visitor, feeling at home, experiencing worship through music, scripture, and a sermon that took off from where my morning devotions had taken me earlier that day.

Midway through the service I heard it announced that this month's change offering was going to Noah's Ark Children's Ministry Uganda, the place my daughter and her family live and serve. The offering plate was passed around and loose change and bills were collected from the small congregation.

I watched a young boy carry the offering plate to the front of the church, reaching up high to set it on the altar. The image of that young boy transposed itself in my heart and mind to the children I have come to know and love at Noah's Ark. Young boys of similar age, worlds apart, loved by the same Father.

My heart was filled in unexpected ways that morning. God does that.

From the generosity of a small congregation, into the hands of a young boy, pausing at the altar, and landing in the hearts of children whose world is defined and limited by poverty.

The offering plate held more than coins that morning. It overflowed with love and hope. 

Yes, God does that. 

Boz, Bozley, Bosco, Doofus

It didn't matter what name you used - he never came for any of them. 

Twelve years without learning what the word "come" meant. (Yeah, he probably knew. He also had it figured out that we couldn't stay mad long. And he was right. He trained us well and to hear him tell it, we weren't always fast learners.)

He came to us from a rescue agency, four months old. When we arrived to pick him up, he was lying on his back on a couch, all four legs in the air. At first we thought they drugged him and we'd find out why after we got home. Turns out, that was just one of his preferred positions.

As a youngster, he honed his skills at thievery, extending his home range beyond our five acres and bringing home treasures from the neighbor's yards. The one he was most proud of was a self-feeding dog station (almost as big as him). Took a few phone calls to find the owner of that one. Thankfully his zucchini phase was short-lived.

We called him our antidote to an empty nest because he arrived when our youngest headed off to college. Our girls referred to him as Brother. He participated in all family events, but never looked at the camera for group photos. He was the main character in the Great Thanksgiving Day Massacre. (Ask my sister-in-law about that one. It's best told over a beer.)

Together we put on miles and miles in the forest behind our house, or on the trails, and nearby logging roads, so many places. Places I would not have had the courage to explore on my own. (I apologize profusely to all the animals he chased. Refer to paragraph one - he never came when called.) 

He made "Goof Camp" extra fun for our first two grandkids, and stuck around long enough to meet and briefly entertain the next two, mostly by Skype. He was an excellent Uncle to our daughter's Sadie Bear, as she attempted to chew off his legs for no apparent reason, other than they were there.

They were quite the pair and together outweighed me, which made walking them on leashes a significant challenge and often involved cuss words. We had many firsts together, like when he ran me headfirst into a tree. The emergency room doctor acted like that wasn't unusual. (He must have had a similar dog at home.)

Like many dogs, he had an affinity for rolling in all things with disgusting smells and had a ridiculous fear of baths. Although we were told his genetic make-up contained many things including lab, he was convinced he couldn't swim. He was, however, a top-notch wader.

He considered fetching a ridiculous pastime and would not participate. (Sitting on command and other tricks fell into the same category.)

Bozley made friends with everyone he met, and made sure that anyone who arrived at our house left covered in dog hair. He usually moved over a little to accommodate guests on his couch.

He trained my husband to put extra treats in his dog food AND he made him sing made-up songs when he fed the two of them. (This is a man who, at one time, thought dogs belonged outside. And definitely not in our bed.)

He was always, always, always so happy to see us. He hated suitcases. He loved going for rides and sticking his head out the window. He did not enjoy wearing birthday hats. He never held a grudge. 

We tried to let him know how spoiled he was. That not all dogs enjoy the freedoms he had. He listened politely, thumped his tail. And fell asleep.

Now this little house feels awfully empty. If we're being honest, we probably always hope (on some unspoken level) that we'll outlive our pets. But that doesn't make saying goodbye any easier.

So thanks Boz. It was a hoot. You done good ol' buddy. You done good.

Being honest

If I am being honest,

and if you listen carefully,

you can hear it.

My voice mixed in

with the shouts of others.

First it joins from the edge

of the procession, 

shouting "Hosanna!" 

in a cacophony of hope.

And then, later, 

you can hear it again.

But this time is comes from

a place within me that 

I like to keep hidden.

(Where you find selfishness,

envy, and greed.)

Perhaps it is only whispered,

but still, it comes from my lips.

So ugly I can't even write it down.

Thank God this is not

the ending of the

story.

The Prayer of a Sixty-one Year Old

 Dear Father,

Thank you for every single one of

my sixty-one years.

I hope for more time on this earth

because I truly love seeking the things not of this earth. 

A spiritual paradox.

Faith, family, and friendships grow stronger 

as relationships grow deeper, roots intertwining.

Thank you for the people in my life

(and for those I have yet to meet).

May I listen to their stories with gentleness and compassion.

Life is different at sixty-one. 

I notice reverence has become a more constant companion.

Everything is holy and sacred when you remember to notice.

Be still. And know.

I try.

Even though it startles me at times,

I thank you for my gray hair and wrinkly skin,

reminders that I have lived.

That I am alive.

This place in my life finally allows me to recognize

it is the questions I love discovering.

Having the answers is not so important.

Adopting a posture and an attitude of seeking.

Counting on your promise that when we do that

you will be found.

My perspective and my capacity for understanding 

change with time but you remain constant.

For that I am so very grateful.

Learning to lean into your love. Again and again.

And then again.

Releasing and receiving, both.

I think about the plans you had for me

when my mother first held me in her arms,

and I wonder how many times I have resisted those plans. 

How many wrong turns taken.

Missed opportunities.

And still, 

you motion for me to come into your arms

in a loving embrace that I will never outgrow.

Now I begin each day

trying to be more careful and intentional.

Trying to notice you at the center.

Trying not to waste the moments.

Sixty-one years.

The world has changed.  And so have I. 

But not you.

Thank God.

One person

I don't know how to help

and that is paralyzing,

creating fear so great

it threatens to snuff out hope.

(Yes, you feel that too?)

The pandemic is tightening

its grip in so many places

while here we are happy

to be able to finally return to normal

and do our best to forget about it

because we are "so over it."

(Except for the people who lost

loved ones, lost businesses and jobs, 

lost their health... it is not a mere 

shifting of attitude for them.

And don't forget the people who live 

where vaccines are not available.

Where are their choices?)

We are not taking care of the Earth

and the repercussions are

being felt in so many ways.

What possible difference

can one person make in a crisis so big?

How do I move from reverence to action?

(You ask that too?)

People are starving,

while so much of our country struggles with

the ill effects of too much.

Of just about everything.

White privilege is something

that makes me uncomfortable

in my own skin, 

but I can't seem to find my role

in the effort to end systemic racism.

(Do you share the same questions?)

Children die every day 

from illnesses that can easily be treated.

Every child lost has a name

and a family who mourns their passing.

People show up on our nation's doorstep

fleeing violence and poverty

and we can't figure out how to 

put hope into their future.

(I see it breaks your heart too.)

Yes, it's such a long list and

this is only the beginning.

The answers are so very complicated.

I am one person 

living in a small town in America.

The only thing I know for certain is that

I am not doing enough.

Please, tell me what you do.

Show me how to help.

It can be the smallest of things,

just please help me see.

And in doing so, 

you will be giving me hope

so that I might pass it along.

The Brave One

I watch my daughter climb up into

the large faded-red truck, her water tender, 

to drive over the mountains,

carrying the responsibility of burn boss

along with drip torches, tools for a prescribed burn.

Pouring down rain here at home,

unseasonably dry on the other side.

"Be safe" you call out,

as she heads out the driveway,

knowing she can't hear you over the noise of the engine.

Not ready to fully consider

another daughter's desire to rappel

from a helicopter to gain access to a wildfire.

An experience that must be earned.

"Don't give me the details until the season is over,"

you say at the end of a long hug,

even though you have already stoked your

imagination with YouTube clips of shoulder taps

signaling the next rappeler's exit 

Not being even remotely prepared

to have more than two years go by without seeing 

your grown up little girl who calls Uganda her home.

One trip after another 

pushed back by the pandemic.

Grandchildren growing up before your eyes,

pixelated on the computer screen.

"I miss you," implies the hope of a reunion,

and the emptiness of the miles between.

Not thinking too closely

about our oldest who finds joy

in being lifted off high places by the wind 

paragliding on the thermals.

"Have fun," you say, wondering what 

it must feel like soaring so high, 

knowing you eventually need to come down, 

but not thinking about that part now.

When you think too closely 

about any of this,

you begin to see all the shadows

where the worries like to hide.

And so you pull your chair

into a patch of sun, close your eyes

and feel the warmth on your face.

Letting go

as best as you can.

Maybe that makes you the brave one.