Cracking the Building Code

Looking back, the pieces finally started clicking together when our son got his first LEGO® building set – Star Wars The Clone Wars. Of course, at the time, I had no idea...

The sealed cardboard box perfectly epitomized my approach to just about anything creative - cooking and gardening, parenting and disciple-making.

On the outside, there was a high-definition picture – in fact, several pictures - of what I should expect the end result to look like.  Just seeing them made my fingers itch to get this building business under way. 

Look at those slick lines! Check out these cool features! 

The spattering of few odd-looking characters made the process all the more interesting.

Inside, I could find a booklet with clear, step by step, easy to follow instructions and several bags of well-organized pieces. Everything I need to build the pictured model was in that one box.

My job was to open the box, get my pieces together, read the manual, follow the instructions, and in no time, without fail - voila, there comes a model disciple!

It turns out, real life rarely works quite that way. 

Except, perhaps, for those odd-looking characters.

Sure, there is the instruction manual.

Except, the instructions are not as simple, easy to understand and follow.

And sure, there are the building blocks. 

But, not all of them are ‘fresh-out-of-the-box’ nice and shiny.  In fact, hardly any of them are!  Most pieces in my pile are scuffed up and old, chipped and even broken. They all seem to have a mind of their own, refusing to stay put together the way I want them. They go off on their own in a million directions, lurking under the desk or embedded in the carpet, waiting for my unsuspecting bare feet to find them. 

Ouch!

And so my nice little set gets morphed into a big messy pile in the middle of the bedroom, the content of dozens of different boxes all hopelessly mixed together.

I can’t make any sense of that mess! 

There are days when I scratch my head for I am not sure if I am supposed to build an Imperial Starfighter or the Little House on the Prairie.

Or, perhaps, I should just bag the whole thing and go back to Duplos®!

Seated next to the big messy pile, nursing a massive headache, I do know one thing for sure.

I can’t do this on my own.  I desperately need help.   

I must call on the Master Builder!

It turns out, the Master Builder loves to answer. It is His joy to come alongside and help all the flailing junior builders in over their heads.

He always knows exactly where to start. He picks up a piece. He holds it up so I can see it clearly, and says,

This... this piece is the key. It’s the Cornerstone. Whenever you build, whatever you build, make sure you always start with the Cornerstone. 

Do I Know You?

I noticed him while he was still quite a ways away.  

Idaho University sweatshirt, shorts, baseball hat, the Birkenstocks,  heading clear across the lawn in my direction, following imaginary unswerving straight line.

His deliberate moves beg for a question,

Am I supposed to know this guy?

The facial recognition software runs furiously inside my brain, but except for some vague familiarity, all I get is, 

NO MATCH FOUND.

I feel sorry for the guy. Clearly he must have taken me for somebody else. 

I smile, the way you smile at a confused stranger.

By this time he’s stopped at respectable few feet distance.  We are standing face to face. 

Still no recognition. 

He smiles and says,

You are…

And he finishes the sentence by using a simple unmistakable description of one of my side roles, the label so rarely used I’ve almost forgotten belongs to me!  

My eyes pop wide open. 

How does this complete stranger know me?!!?? NOBODY here knows me in this role?

Obviously, it’s my turn now to be thoroughly confused.

I look at him again, and just as he is about to shorten my misery and introduce himself, it finally dawns on me.

I’ve known the man for more than a decade!  His face hasn’t changed much over the years.  Many times we’ve chatted casually about work and school, kids and politics.

But until today all our interactions have always been at the exact same location, same carefully parceled out context, sitting in the same chairs, each of us occupying a clearly defined role. 

As if that's not enough predictability to last you a lifetime, he was always wearing the same thing. A uniform of sort.

White pressed shirt. 

Business suit and tie. 

Carefully polished dress shoes.

Over the years, his gray suit in my mind somehow grew into him, into his skin and flesh, bone and marrow. His suit became an inseparable part of his identity without which he was just a confused stranger.

   

Outside his little ‘pigeonhole’, on an emerald-green lawn filled with colorful plastic eggs and bouncy children, stripped of his suit, he became utterly unrecognizable to my eyes.

I scratch my head over this and then I wonder if this might be why so many of us fail to recognize Jesus when He stands face to face with us?  

We are so accustomed to keeping Him pigeonholed in a clearly defined, predictable context, all buttoned-up into a suit of our own making.  When he shows up looking different, it’s confusing and unnerving.  There might be some vague familiarity, but no real recognition.  

We are just not ready for His surprise visits.

And yet, He knows us. 

He takes the unswerving straight line across the emerald green lawn, wearing Birkenstocks and baseball hat, and just as I am about to say,

Sir, do I know you?

He looks me in the eye, smiles - the way you smile at a confused child - and says,

I know you.

The Phantom Ear-bud Syndrome

Even though the ear-buds are gone, I still feel them like little lime-green wiry ghosts securely attached to my ears.  

It must be the Phantom Ear-bud Syndrome. 

I can even hear – at first loud and clear, but with time softer and softer – my favorite playlist.

Or, should I say, what used to be my favorite playlist.

For, curiously, I find that what once was a sound of heavenly escape, an oasis of peace and tranquility in the midst of the sea of turmoil suddenly feels more like noise pollution, something similar to trying to listen to your beloved radio station after somebody was messing with the tuning dial causing it to slip a notch or two from the right frequency.

I feel like I need an auditory detox!

My phantom ear-bud syndrome and its little ‘auditory detox’ side-effect make me notice something conspicuous about the people I pass on my morning walk.

They all have their ears happily plugged with their own version of my lime-green buds.

Young mother in yoga pants pushing a double-stroller.

The buffed-up guy showcasing his physique by wearing a tight black tank top.  I can recognize the beat from the way he speed-walks.

A bunch  of sleepy middle schoolers shuffling across the street oblivious to the second bell.

A  health-and-wellness conscious middle-aged couple.

The last two make a particularly curious pair.  They must be attempting to carry on a conversation with their ear-buds in.  I don’t think they realize it, but they look like two raving lunatics yelling at each other from the top of their lungs.  

It's actually quite entertaining. 

The Writer's Choice

At this point in the story, the tension for some of us can become unbearable.

Living with tension is tough. Some of us feel we must resolve it, get the immediate closure. 

We don't want to walk the tight rope.  We want to cut it!

The story, for example, could suddenly take a sharp turn, and even end – happily end - right here.  Right now.

I could, for example, take things in my own hands.  I am an adult, for heaven’s sake! I am in charge. I could  shorten the misery by hopping into the car, driving over to Best Buy and purchase a replacement set  Or, even better, order them on line and have them delivered to my doorstep.  I may even get free shipping.

When the package arrives, I would rip it open, plug my ears back up and  resume where I left off – humming blissfully to John Legend’s All of Me.

I could do that.

Or, perhaps, I could add a little intrigue, a little spirituality and mystique, and have my old buddy-buds mysteriously re-appear on my front door step.  Hung from the faded door knob by an invisible hand, a kind of deus-ex-machina. 

This may imply I have some special connection, special strings I could pull in order to get this vending-machine-god to deliver just what I want just when I want it. Even the great writers like Euripides and Shakespeare resorted to such literary devices. If it’s good enough for them, it certainly has to be good enough for me!

I am honestly tempted to choose one of these two approaches. Some may consider them cowardly, but who cares? If I am happily plugged back into my favorite playlist,  happily deaf to the unpleasant realities around me – who’s gonna blame me?

We could all live happily ever after. End of story.  The end.

I could do that. 

 

But, see, here's the problem. My friend Susan, my wonderful, faithful cheer-leader friend would have none of these shortcuts. She thinks that I need to chose C. 

Not A. 

Not even B.  

But C! 

Shake It Off

I find the four-letter word profoundly offensive.  

I can’t believe my husband even thought much less said the word in my hearing!

Just…???? Just the ear-buds???!!!

How dares he speak of my precious like that?? The repugnant word should never ever have been used in conjunction with my lime-green iPod ear-buds.

For, you see, these are not some ordinary run-of-the-mill Wal-mart clearance sale ear-buds.

No, sir. Not at all.

These are my very VERY special ear buds.

They are my highway to sanity ear-buds.

They are my annoying-noise cancelling direct-line-to-heaven ear-buds.

They are my vending machine of instantaneous peace and happiness delivered on demand like Netflix in the midst of the chaos of my life ear buds.

They are my anchor of tranquility inside the relentless torrent of demands, problems and emergencies filling my world. 

They are my oasis of calm and joy in the tumultuous sea of life’s depressing realities…

They are my fire-exit, a sure escape route from the madness around me into a carefully crafted playlist of songs that make me forg…

I almost choke on the last word because, smack out of the bright-blue sky, suddenly I am struck by a thought soo outlandish… soo unbelievable…. Way waaaaay too ridonculous to consider…

I want to shake the silly thought off… just shake it off…

But for some utterly inexplicable reason, I don’t seem to be able to.

No Wasted Suffering

I understand that I haven’t necessarily earned a Medal of Honor, or anything like that, but giving up both my favorite lime-green ear-buds AND a big fat grudge against God, all in one day, deserves, I would think you would agree, at least some recognition.

Like,

Oh, wow!  I am so very sorry for your loss. If that happened to me, I would have been mad at God for at least a month. Maybe even a year! You must be a saint.

Or,

That REALLY stinks.  Will you allow me to buy you another pair?  I know nothing can ever replace your precious lime-green ones, but at least I can try? Would Beats do? Perhaps we can stop by Marble Slab afterwards, just to make it up a little bit for the pain and grief you’ve endured today. And while we are eating waffle bowls with extra toppings, you can tell me all about how difficult it must have been to go through such turmoil, all in one day!

I don’t think I am expecting too much. It's just... it's just that I want my suffering to count for... something.

Because, there is nothing quite abhorrent in my book as wasted suffering.

When my husband comes home that night, before the front door is quite shut behind him, I greet him with,

I lost my iPod…

And his eyes grow really, really big, and he takes in a really really big breath…

But before he exhales, or explodes, whichever,  I quickly finish my sentence...

… my iPod ear-buds. The lime-green ones.  My favorite! 

My voice quivers a little, and I get misty eyed a bit, re-living the trauma.

He exhales a huge sigh of what sounds to me like… relief?

He resumes his normal breathing patter before he drives the final nail into my coffin:

Just the ear-buds? Right? Not the iPod? Just your iPod ear-buds?

Let It Go

The search for the forlorn ear buds ended the moment I slam the front door behind me.  Stubborn as yours truly may be, even I don’t consider going back the third time. 

When the rattling of the door blinds finally stops, I know this is it.  

My favorite lime-green ear-buds are given up.  

For Lent and For Ever. 

I feel like somebody just placed the heel of their foot in the pit of my stomach.

With no one else around, I find God an easy target to pick on.  I continue grumbling about how much I resent when a place of sacrifice is chosen for me. I remind Him that, Lent or not, I prefer sacrificing on my own terms rather than having my stuff randomly taken from me.

He is not responding to my ranting and raving.

I suspect He must have His ears plugged with perfectly fitting, annoying-noise-blocking lima-green iPod ear-buds. That used to be mine.

Still I am getting pretty exhausted with this one-sided conversation and begin wondering if, perhaps, I need to switch my playlist.

I start by telling myself that it could have been much worse.

What if God needed not only my lime-green ear-buds but the entire iPod – and everything in it – all the apps, all music, all photos which I still haven't backed up from two years ago! - the entire dang thing including the Lifeproof case?!!!

The thought sends shivers down my spine.

Indeed, it could have been much much worse!

Fully convinced by the imaginary scenario, I sigh a huge sigh of relief.  When I exhale, I think that not only did I finally let go of the ill-fated ear-buds but also of that big fat grudge against God. 

I can honestly say that I am genuinely thankful that God didn't need my iPod!

The great feeling last for the entire afternoon, until....

And for Lent I give up...

Call it coincidence, call it providence, but just as I was reflecting on what I could/should/would-like-to give up for Lent – on the morning of Ash Wednesday – I lose my absolutely all-time favorite lime-green iPod ear-buds.

I don’t find this particularly amusing, because I want to have a definite say in what I give up for Lent. I don’t want things just taken away from me without my explicit consent. I feel like I am being picked on for trying to do a very nice thing and everybody knows that’s just not nice.

Too discombobulated to do anything else, I re-trace my path not once by twice, fine-combing my way through the neighborhoods looking for the lost ear-buds as if they were my hearing aid. The weather is wonderful and I am provided ample time to grouse and puzzle over why God who owns everything might be needing my lime-green ear-buds.  As I meditate on all of this and more, I remember various lost articles mentioned in God’s Word.

Lost sheep.

Lost coin.

Lost son.

I notice that all these have a big, blow-out happily-ever-after party at the end, which makes me wonder if I might be unconsciously trying to rig the Scriptures in my favor.

Not that any one of us would ever dream of doing anything as heinous as that.

I share the bad news with our crossing guard who, kind and thoughtful as he may be, simply doesn’t understand why you can’t just go to Wal-Mart and buy a new pair.  A tardy-for-school teen, standing next to him waiting to cross the street overhears my sob-story. He seems to get a kick out of my plight (a tardy slip waiting for him suddenly doesn’t feel like the end of the world).  He is truly empathetic, though, and suggests that I get Beats wireless as a replacement.  

Clearly he is too young or his parents are too rich to comprehend that if I can’t be trusted with a $20 pair ear-buds who in their right mind would risk $200 Beats with me?!!

The Place of Love Revolution

The message of love is clear.  Every citizen of the country whose native language is love understands this message without a need for an interpreter.

But in the process of making it public on the sandy beach on this side of the ocean, some rules got broken.  Spelling mistakes were made.

For, you see, when you live on the delicate intersection of two such vastly different worlds, trying to bring them together, trying to spell out with your life this strange bilingual identity, you are bound to make mistakes. You are bound to mix things up.

I sense the Editor and the Critic on the inside, squirming a little. They can’t help themselves, they are so well trained in spotting the mistakes and red-penning the mix-ups.

Strangely this time, perhaps for the first time ever, they appear disarmed, stripped off their red pen and correction fluid, taken in by something much greater than immaculate sentence structure, purist grammar and perfectly followed syntax rules. 

She grins for she knows that no small accomplishment has been achieved here, then trots off, hopping from cloud to cloud, sprawled endlessly along the beach.  I eventually catch up, take her by the hand and we walk back together.  It’s getting late but I have to see the epic message just one more time.

What I discover when I go for that one last look takes me completely by surprise. 

When she started spelling her heart out, hers were the only broken-shell-carved words marking the pristine blank page of the sand.

But now, everywhere I look, all around me, there are countless new messages of love, scribbled in the sand by strangers, turning this glistening heaven-on-earth beach into a giant love letter!

I chuckle, because I know she has no idea that she started a love revolution. 

I hesitate, wondering if I should point it out, draw her attention to it, but something stops me. 

It's better to leave it this way.

It will be our little secret. 





Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God; and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. The one who does not love does not know God, for God is love.  I John 4:7-8

The Place of Vulnerability

She would rather be caught dead than admit that she is anywhere close to being like her mother. She proudly carries her father's resemblance everywhere she goes. His brilliant mind.  His perfectionism. His methodical attention to details. 

She is also independent. Adventurous. Carving her own way, making her own mark on this earth. She is frail and strong, cautious and brave.

She insists she is not a writer.

Her own essays begrudgingly submitted to the Language Arts teacher laugh in her face.

If she can’t find a pen a stick will do. If there is no stick, she’ll use a broken shell.

And the entire beach becomes her very own blank page.

One by one, she writes out the letters.  So focused.  So intent.

The birds scoop over her head, but she is undistracted by them.

I watch her curved back, as she moves sideways and backwards, stringing letters like beads on a necklace.

When she is done, she straightens up, turns around and looks at me beaming.

Her unfurled scroll now reveals a message for all to see although I might be the only one on this planet who really understands. 

She grew up on a delicate intersection of the worlds where her mother tongue is not her first language.  She is fluent in the language of the country where she is born and where she lives. But she knows that there is another country she also belongs to, her mother belongs to… where another language is spoken. The language she understands very well but she is still learning to speak, just learning to write. 

Today, for some inexplicable reason, she decides to take a leap, she chooses to take a huge risk of expressing herself, of exposing herself.

She must consider this risk worth taking, because she wants her mom to know… perhaps she wants the whole world - the heaven and the earth - to know… that the language of that country is the language of love.

The Place of Encouragement

These heaven-above-heaven-below, walking-on-clouds endless shallows are so mesmerizing, so inviting, so beautiful and safe and welcoming, my soul suddenly pops out, all cramped and wrinkled, from the confinement of its button-hole. 

It wants to park and live right here, sprawled out unashamed on this endless beach. 

Forever.

Not a single argument comes to my mind to argue against the fantastic idea.

Mom! MOM!!  The Mom-Hat lands on my head bringing me back to earth.

What?  WHAT??? I always think that M-O-M is a code word for some kind of dire emergency, not unlike the Morse S-O-S. What happened?? I yell without even trying. 

Nothing. Everything is fine. Look, there is a snowman!

I look up, and sure enough, there is a snowman, hat, 'broom', baseball bat and all, perched on the beach ahead of us.  

It most certainly is the ugliest Snowman I’ve ever seen, but somehow that doesn’t matter, because as we approach to inspect it, we are surrounded by a joyful crowd of thawed-out Canadians, who are so pleased that somebody – anybody – showed interest in their masterpiece. 

They laugh and point out all its special features as I take pictures. Then, we give them thumbs up and they wave enthusiastically as we continue on our way.  Their happiness is quite contagious and  trails behind us long after we can’t see either them or their creation.

In the wake of their joy a thought crosses my mind… 

...Sometimes, it might be as important or, perhaps, even more important to encourage other artists in their creative attempts, no matter how quirky, small and seemingly insignificant they may appear, than building up and showcasing your own perfect snowman. 

The Place of Reflection

I am always keenly aware that the ocean has depths. Those who know the ocean have deep respect for its depths. Some people may call it fear, but I think that reverence is a better word. 

The depths can be both exhilarating and terrifying. I discovered that even when my feet can't reach the bottom, and I am in way over my head, the ocean somehow never fails to support my full weight. And it does the same thing for the guy next to me, three times my size!

I am not the type who lingers long in the shallows. If I go to the ocean, I mean business. I don’t mess around with petty stuff.  Within minutes, I am off into the deep end.

But, today, the little hand guides me along the shallows, tiptoeing on the edge of the glistening robe, chasing lazy birds who have no fear and no end to their greedy appetite. I watch her skipping over the sea of glass sprawled endlessly in front of us.

Wow, I never realized how BIG the shallow end is! A thought strikes me.  It looks like a giant… mirror!

Indeed it does. The water is barely covering a large shoulder of the sandy beach, turning the entire thing into an enormous mirror – reflecting the wispy and the puffy clouds, the million shades of blue sky with perfect veracity.

I look behind me, and it's there too - sprawled endlessly behind me as well. 

I've been walking on the clouds and I didn't even know it! 

My eyes are glued to the sight, I can’t peel them away even if I wanted to… There is unspeakable glory and unspeakable sadness in this strange union on the edge of the ocean... this unlikely marriage of heaven above and the earth below.

The familiar words bubble up... a promise and a taunt, a prayer and a longing... 

Your will be done...on earth as it is in heaven…

The Place of Prayer

Funny thing, this answer-to-prayer business.

Sometimes, we don’t even realize we prayed. 

To us, it was just… a sigh. That deep waiting-to-exhale out-breath that escapes our lungs apart, even against our will.  

What was THAT all about?!?!!

Oh, nothing… it’s just a… sigh.

Oh! O.K. Glad you are fine. And we are both greatly relieved that the sigh was a nothing and not a something that we may need to face or talk about.

Or, it might be a tear. A single tear that rolls down the cheek, we surreptitiously wipe away before anybody else notices.

Or, we feel an overwhelming sense of powerlessness and confusion we can’t make sense of any of it, much less put into words. 

Or, like a drowning man, we shoot out a plain old yelp for help, in desperate hope against all hope that it will somehow, somewhere pierce the impenetrable darkness of the sky.

There are many languages in this world, but the language of prayer is by far the most fascinating, the most diverse, and truly, the most unifying of all.

Sometimes, we forget we even asked.

Sometimes we forget what we asked.

I do both.   A lot!

Sometimes the answer comes, but we are so set on how we expect the answer should come that we miss, or almost miss it.

Because it comes in such…how shall I put it?... gentle and... unassuming way.

But, then, there is this imperceptible pat on your back. Like a quiet knock on the soul's door.

And you look up, and look again, and there it is! You see it, really see it, as if for the first time.

I admit I almost missed it.  There was such a ruckus, such disorder inside the courtroom – the Editor, the PR Manager, the Facebook Prosecutor, the Defense Attorney, the Judge - all insisting on the value of their own particular point of view – that I almost didn’t hear the little voice, and I almost didn’t feel the tiny hand inside the palm of mine. 

Do You Want to Build a Snowman?

Today, I want to build a Snowman.  I announce to the ocean. Well, a Sandman would be more accurate,  I immediately correct myself.  It’s really the Editor speaking. Accuracy is very important to the Editor.  Inaccurate sloppy language is an indication of inaccurate sloppy thinking.  And inaccurate sloppy thinking coupled with inaccurate sloppy language leads to inaccurate sloppy living. Needless to say, the Editor can’t stand sloppiness however you look at it.  It’s one of the ten deadly sins in his meticulously kept little red book.

Then, for some reason, I proceed with the explanation, as if the ocean needs me to explain everything, or anything at all, for that matter.

You know, it’s winter. It’s a very appropriate seasonal activity.  

Now it’s the PR Manager’s turn. The PR Manager is intensely concerned with what is appropriate and suitable with a discreet emphasis, ‘just a touch’, she would say, ‘of seasonal’. She is a tireless vigilante ensuring we never cross the invisible ever-shifting lines of ‘proper’.  My PR Manager has the most difficult job because she always wants to tame my naturally color-outside-the-lines, fiercely disheveled, messy messy life.  But she is also a very smart lady and knows how to play me and my Cool-Me persona.

This would be soooo cool. I could take a picture of it once I am done and post it on Facebook. I think people would like it.

It slipped just like that.  This people-would-like-it part. And suddenly there is a wailing of sirens inside my head, a red alert, indicating imminent grave danger.

Are you telling me we are doing this just to get some ‘likes’ on your Facebook page?!!! 

The deep sense of betrayal is oozing out of every syllable of every word.

 I thought we came here to have fun for fun’s sake, not to parade it to the world so we can prove to everyone how much fun we have!

But before I could even begin to think how to respond to the outrage within, I feel a tiny hand slipping inside the palm of mine, and a tiny voice overwhelms all the noise with its simple invitation.

Do you want to go for a walk with me?

The Place of Awakening

The unmistakable salty-dried-sea-weed-coconut-SPF30-lotion-Subway-sandwich tingling my nostrils reminds me to do something I so often forget:

Inhale.

Exhale!

And, then, again:

In-haaaa-le.

Ex-haaaa-le.

This forgotten breathing-thingie reminds me there is more to me - more inside me - than meets the eye. There is this breath inside me, but most of my life I live holding it back really tight.

I am near.  I can smell it. But I still can’t see it.

The wind is messing with my hair and whispering into my ear. Through its sound, like a layered symphony - the screeching seagulls and inarticulate noises people on the beach make – I can distinguish a steady rhythmic low-rumble – wave in, wave out.

I can hear the ocean breathe.

Wave in.

Wave out!

Already there is a dialogue and neither one of us has said a single word!

I can smell him.  

I can hear him.  

But I still can’t see him.

The sand is already swamping my flip-flops clad toes.  I know it's just over the sand-dune and across the bridge …

There you are! I light up. I see you!

And there YOU are, roars the ocean, always happy to see me. I see YOU too!

I run and trip, the dry sand heaving under my feet until the sand turns soggy and I reach the very edge.  

Like the edge of a lavish robe.  

I can smell him.

I can hear him roar.

I can see him.  

Pregnant with incessant motion and rest. Dark and glistening silver and white. The deep calling.

The wind intensifies, enveloping us both.

I linger on the edge, waiting for him to make the first move.  I don’t need to wait long. 

Now, I can feel him tickling my toes.

I jump, backing off.

You are too cold!

And you are too silly, laughs the ocean because little children are splashing and giggling and screaming all around me. 

C'mmon, let's play!, he calls.

No, not today. I say.  Today I need to stay in the shallows.  

Whatever you wish my dear...