Mom, I know of one big boring chore we will need to do when we come home, chirped our six-year old daughter as we drove down I-75, on the last leg of our almost eight week, 8,000 mile long journey. We had enjoyed 5-star hospitality in many of your homes, got to exchange some hilarious, heart-stopping, unrepeatable stories which could fill several lifetimes and said more good-byes than we thought emotionally possible. I wasn’t quite mentally prepared to face the giants lying ahead.

What is it, hon? I asked, scrolling through a long to-do list of big, boring chores lodged in the back of my mind, wondering to which one she might be referring.

We need to pull the weeds!

I chuckled at the responsible fore-thinking of my little gardener-in-the-making. My heart echoed her sentiment, shuddering at the notion of what may greet us when we step into our backyard. Out of respect for our neighbors we had hired somebody to take care of our front lawn while we were gone, but the back we entrusted entirely into the care of Mother Nature, which has a way of going a bit out of control, especially during the hot, wet Florida summer. In the past, it would take me weeks, even months to reign in the wild. I saw no reason why this year would be any different.

Our worst fears were confirmed later that night, as we peered into the weed infested wasteland mercifully veiled by darkness. A full and accurate assessment would have to wait until the next morning, but I already knew what I was going to see: every garden boundary disregarded; the weeds and the cultivated plants entangled in an unholy embrace; the flowerbed overachievers sprawled all over the disheveled lawn and across the sagging fence into our neighbor’s yard.

I braced myself for impact as I slowly opened the drapes to our sun-drenched windows the following morning. What happened next took me completely by surprise. It might have been my rock-bottom expectations, or a few years of dirt-digging experience, or just getting older and maybe a little wiser, but instead of a moan of exasperation at the sight of the jungle that met my eyes, my heart skipped in delight as I was greeted by several beautifully matured plants which earlier this year I had planted as tiny babies in a new flower bed stretched outside our bedroom window.

My, my… look at you… Look at YOU! See how much you’ve grown since we left! I affectionately muttered to the beaming flowers, suddenly blind to the mess of weeds and deaf to the fact that I was actually talking to the plants! I quickly threw on my gardening gear, eager to reclaim this small plot of land, re-establish its obscured borders, free it from all intruders so the plants could show themselves off in all their glory. This wasn’t a ‘big boring chore’ - it was an energizing exercise of loving authority, which yielded amazing results by the end of the day!

Then, as it happens in many a garden story, a mirror appeared, revealing another, frequently overlooked reality. I stop to ponder how often my heart gets paralyzed by the inevitable, indomitable weeds of life. Everywhere I look I see a tangled mess of good and bad - messy people, messy families, messy churches, messy governments. The boundaries trampled as much by thriving overachievers as by out-of-control weeds. My paralysis, then, turns into a zealous impulse to go at it – hack it down, mow it over - the good and the bad, the honeysuckle with the crabgrass. I want a quick-fix, simple black-and-white outline to follow. While all along there is another Voice calling. His way is patient waiting, gentle endurance so He can slowly, carefully train my eye and heart to see what He sees…as He sees. A gracious invitation to humbly join Him in His work of planting and nurturing towards maturity the tender heavenly plants His loving hand has placed along my path. Resting my soul in the confident knowledge that He will take care of the weeds, fully and completely, when the harvest finally arrives.

Yesterday we went to a birthday party and the kids had a blast (the pool being one big draw and the water balloon fight coming right after it!). All this fun made our sleep time considerably shorter than usual and the ripple effect of such late-night partying was felt throughout the family well into today’s afternoon. Our daughter was particularly on edge, her attitude hovering between grizzly bear approachability and paper-thin patience, especially towards her brother, whose reaction to being overly tired makes him exceptionally excitable and annoying, especially in relation to his sister. It didn’t take long before the keg of gunpowder and the match collided resulting into a World War I worthy explosion.

You need to change your attitude! Preached our seven-year old minister of condemnation at the top of his lungs into his sister’s ear.

I can’t change my attitude! Only God can change my attitude! screamed my daughter back.

I decided it was time to intervene, so I walked out of the kitchen into the living room, sat in our lazy boy chair and propped up my legs.

Come. I said to my daughter, who was convulsing on the floor in a fit of out-of-control emotionality.

She briefly looked at me and then redoubled her screaming effort.

Come to me. I repeated quietly.

Why? She asked between the sobs.

Just to be with me. I responded gently.

I am already with somebody. She snorted, clutching her recently acquired stuffed penguin.

That’s O.K. Bring the penguin with you. Just come.

If I come, you will want to talk to me about my bad attitude!

I chuckled inside, thinking of all the sermons I have preached to my exhausted children, and shook my head.

No, I won’t talk about your attitude. I just want you to come and be with me.

I’ll come when I am done eating, chirped her older brother.

By this time the screaming has stopped, and slowly, suspiciously my daughter got on her feet and came. She crawled into my lap and I held her, and we just sat there… without a word… for quite a while. Bit by bit, her tense little body relaxed and her grip on the penguin loosened considerably. As we sat there, I thought of all the times when the same invitation has been extended to me, and the same excuses I offered to God – I don’t really need You, I already have my comforter – impotent though it may be; and I know You will ask me to give it up, and I don’t really want to; and I already know what You are going to tell me – that I am bad, bad, bad – and I don’t need to hear that because I already know that myself, all too well… All the while the Father keeps shaking His head and saying, Just come, My child, just come to Me… I love you… I want to hold you… I see beyond the madness and the screaming, beyond the addiction and bondage… beyond the badness and fatigue… Just come to Me… as you are… and find rest in My arms…

We’ve just returned home from church and the kids immediately engaged in their usual bickering, fighting and whining about their pitiful, deprived existence.

Hey, hey there! I yelled several notches above their current decibel level. What did they teach you in Sunday School today? I asked wondering if there might be a bridge I can create between Sunday morning lesson and Sunday (or Monday, or Thursday) afternoon application.

Nothing. Our seven-year old, already know-it-all son shrugged indifferently. We were just talking about Moses. The times past, you know.

Times past, huh? So, what did you learn about Moses? I probed further.

Hmmm… we just talked about the time when they got really hungry, you know the story… his voice trailed off.

And? What did they do? Now, I definitely wasn’t dropping the subject. Didn’t they complain? And weren’t they whining? And arguing with Moses?

Yes! Yes! Both of our kids cried out in unison.

Well, it sure doesn’t sound like “time past” to me. It sounds just like what you guys are doing right here, right now.

Their jaws dropped together with their smug “been there, done that, already- know-all-this-stuff” veneer. The Word of God suddenly lost its musty odor of the dust-covered dead stuff of the past, and started living, breathing afresh among us. The God who WAS dropped into our living room as the One who IS today, and as I looked at my children I thought how we all may have a lot more in common with those shaggy old characters wearing long robes than we care to admit.

It was the eve of the big day – tomorrow was Wednesday, and our family was hosting a one-of-a-kind appreciation party in honor of Mrs Stackfleth, our daughter's Kindergarten teacher this year (she was also our son’s Kindergarten teacher last year). We considered it a special privileged to enjoy her vital role in our children’s and our family’s life during such important season. We valued her calm wisdom, her kind affection towards all of us and her miraculous ability to reformat the gray globby mass inside our children's heads into an amazingly responsive factory of reasoning, ideas, artistic expression, engineering design and more. All this was taking place as we weathered many real-life storms together and, not to be neglected, celebrated numerous victories. As I was tucking Caleb in, he said with a sigh,

Mom, I can’t wait until tomorrow, I am so excited.

I pulled the cover over him and thought of something,

I know… I am happy too. But I wanted to ask you something….Who would you rather have come for a visit, Mrs. Stackfleth or President Obama?

His eyes popped wide open sparkling with wondrous disbelief,

The Obamas are coming?!!!! Are they really coming?!!!

I laughed at his naivety and reckless trust in his mother’s social skills and influence without boundaries and shook my head,

No, the Obamas are not coming… I was just wondering who would you rather have for a visit, Mrs. Stackfleth or the President.

He sat in his bed and deliberated in his head for a moment, and then cautiously replied,

If it was Thursday, I would like the Obama family to come for a visit, but on Wednesday, I would rather have Mrs. Stackfleth.

Over the years of gardening I’ve learned to use some cool tools, like gasoline powered pruning shears, or self-propelled lawn-mower, or weed-whacker, or good, old shovel - the old-fashioned classics which my temperament turned quite infamous due to its outside-the-garden use. My recent favorite, an unlikely visitor from the silverware drawer – a double-edged knife has been of tremendous help, alongside its more traditional garage-housed friends, to subdue the piece of land allotted to my care and conform it to the design which for longest time existed only in my own head.

In addition to this, I had to learn to protect my body against the occupational hazards of gardening – I lather every inch of my exposed skin with SPF 45 or above sunscreen against the relentless Florida sun. I also discovered the hard way a necessity of wearing protective garments – a long-sleeve shirt, long pants, knee-high 100% cotton socks, sturdy tennis shoes, a baseball hat with large shade and last, but certainly not the least, a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves - even in blistering Florida summer. There is no question in anybody’s mind about my intentions when they see me dressed like this. Clearly, my concern here is not a fashion statement. I need to look like this, because I enjoy gardening, but over the years my body has developed allergies to select plants, sweat, dirt, fire-ant and various insect bites that made each of my extremities swell five-times its normal size at least once in the course of my on-job training as a gardener.

But, even with all the amazing tools at my disposal, and the protection I wear around like a NASA astronaut, I found that some weeds can only be rooted out of my garden one at a time, on my knees, with my bare hands as the dirt rushes under my fingernails while they sink below the surface and grab hold of the invisible root. Gardening is a dirty job and its joys are reserved for those who don’t mind being on their knees and getting dirty.

Is this what Jesus meant when He said, This kind goes only by prayer…and more prayer?

Mom, why are you watering the weeds?!!!!

My 5-year-old daughter’s puzzler was in overdrive as she watched me standing with the garden hose near a small cleared-out patch of land in our back yard. I had just buried some squash, cantaloupe and zucchini seeds and was giving them a good soaking. The seeds, of course, were invisible, since they were covered by the dirt, but what my little gardener-in-the-making could see were hundreds of tiny ears of weeds springing up all over our vegetable garden.

As I opened my mouth ready to launch into a lengthy explanation, my heart pounced, as if instantly transformed into all ears. I halted the launch, allowing the moment to reverberate through my whole being.

That’s a very good question, honey…

I said buying some time as my own puzzler scrambled for answers. Countless times I have stood before God asking the same question.

God, why are You watering the weeds?!!!! Why do You tolerate all this evil and let it sprout and grow, thrive and take over? Moreover, why have You left this arrogant, stubborn, independent bent in me that seem to thwart all my efforts to obey You and ruins everything it touches?!!! What kind of Gardener are You?!!

I slowly turned to those big brown eyes waiting for my answer and with fresh awareness I gently assured her,

In due time, we’ll take care of the weeds, honey… In due time…

Maybe it is the body posture that sets gardening apart from most other activities. When I work in the garden, I am usually on my knees, immersed in dirt. It’s a posture of submission and dependence. Kneeling willingly doesn’t leave much room for arrogance and defiance. With most other occupations, the dirty part of the job is not quite as obvious as with gardening. Most doctors, lawyers, psychiatrists, poets, missionaries, pastors and politicians don’t accumulate the dark-brown substance under their fingernails. This is quite deceptive, because their work is as strenuous and exhausting, as much “a shot in the dark” and grasping at the wind as sowing and planting, watering and weeding. But the dirt under my fingernails and my aching knees are a tangible reminder of who I am, where I came from and where I am going and how those destinies intersect today, in this small plot of land I call our back yard.

There is a profound sense of powerlessness and dependence in being a gardener. No gardener ever caused anything to grow. Growth is a mysterious process which happens hidden from the naked eye of a casual observer or even an devoted gardener. Gardener must submit to the cosmic transitions which produce seasons of death, dormancy, vigorous growth, pruning, flowering, coming to fruition, harvesting, attrition and death… and again… and again… Gardener must work when it’s time to work and rest when it’s time to rest. He is guided by the impeccable internal clock of the nature that opens widows and then closes them up. The widow is not a dot on the line, a tick of the clock but a period that allows us to align ourselves with the opportunity presented and consequently live life to the fullest. This is true not only of gardening but of life and relationships too. The gracious providence continually invites us to enter through the windows it opens, to savor his rest, to lean into the wind and hear it call our name… But, not everyone hears, and those that do are often discouraged and distracted by the incessant noise pulling our attention in all other directions. No wonder our lives are haphazard and void of meaning, a frog-jump from one lily pad of activity onto the next.

Trapped in maze of cobwebs,
Entangled from within,
Haunted by the ghosts of past,
Hope is growing dim.

Silence echoes
With deafening cries,
All is darkness
Of swarming lies.

Held by cords of hatred,
Breathing its deceit,
My soul has turned to ashes,
Nothingness of pit.

Roaming madness
Captured my heart,
Am I alone
In this dreadful night?

The cross is standing silent,
Against the stormy skies,
A form in tortured anguish,
Yielded, "It's finished!", cries.

Lord of Glory,
Son of my Shame,
How dared my heart
Despise Your Name?

Sudden wind descended,
With fiery, cleansing breath,
Dross and ashes of my soul,
Lifted from the hearth.

Voice of Thunder,
Speak the rain,
My parched lips
Thirst for You again.

Beneath the dross and ashes,
A thread of glistening light,
Reflecting Your expression,
Of joy and pure delight.

Washed afresh,
I see Your face,
Etching Your image
Through my disgrace.

In darkness and confusion,
Of soul's uncanny ways,
It's hard to grasp His wisdom
And see His loving hands.

The battle now is over,
My heart enjoys its rest,
'Till once again the darkness comes,
And urges holy quest.

Lately God seems to have taken a particular liking in speaking to me only by echoing my own voice. At first, I didn’t mind - actually it was kind of cute. Almost fun. I'd say I took it as a compliment. Few weeks ago, for example, Caleb was putting together a jumbo crane built out of Brio blocks, and the structure was way too big and kept leaning to one side or the other, and eventually falling altogether. Needless to say, he was getting frustrated and it WAS showing! I looked at the crane and said to him, Your structure is way too big for your foundation, honey! If your structure is wobbly and falling apart, that means you need to focus on strengthening the foundation. You need to stabilize it by making your foundation more sturdy. I have barely finished speaking to Caleb when a little echo rung in my ear,

Your structure is way too big for your foundation, honey! If your structure is wobbly and falling apart, that means you need to focus on strengthening the foundation. You need to stabilize it by making your foundation more sturdy.

I thought of my propensity towards overreaching, overstretching… Overachieving?!!!!! The crabbiness and the utmost exhaustion with which I greet our bed every night… yes, I would say that my structure is wobbly and in parts it IS falling apart. It is true, I do need to focus on the foundation... I should make it sturdy again…

These little echoes continued for weeks… After awhile I started wondering if He has nothing new to say… This repetition business started getting on my nerves, annoying my ability to listen out of me. Yesterday morning, for example, the kids got distracted with toys and were not ready for school when it was just about time to leave. I told them that we need to leave immediately, which sent our Oscar-winner-in-the-making drama queen into a fit of frenzied panic. I responded in the like manner. YOU FREAKING OUT OVER NOT BEING READY IS NOT GOING TO GET US TO SCHOOL ANY SOONER! Then, far, far in the back in my mind where I can barely hear, this sweet, soft voice was repeating the same,

You freaking out over not being ready is not going to get us to school any sooner.

I don’t want to hear this anymore! I barked. Why do You keep repeating these things to me all the time?!!!!

The answer came in the most appropriate way imaginable, out of the mouth of my know-it-all seven year old son. I was engaged in my broken-record instructional exercises I deem my sacred parental right and responsibility (some people call it nagging), when he barked at me, Why do you keep repeating these things to me all the time?!!!

Because,… I stopped, and with new awareness proceeded to finish softly, … because you are not listening to me. You may hear me with your ears, but you are not doing what I am telling you to do. This is why I have to repeat and keep repeating – until you learn to actually do what I am telling you to do. Hearing is not the same as doing. It is the doing of my words that makes the difference.

No, I want to EARN my after-dinner candy, announced our 7-year old, Cross-the-‘T’s, Dot-the-‘I’s son. I stared at him bewildered.

Why on earth would you want to ‘earn’ your candy when you can just have it?!!! I responded.

No, but I want to earn it. And here’s the to-do list I created! He showed me a piece of paper divided by lines, indicating the days of the week and the chore of the day he needs to fulfill in order to earn his candy. On Tuesdays he had to Clean out the Plates; the Wednesday chore was Put Away the Salad Bowl. I chuckled at his meticulous nitpicking of the clean-up process and wondered where in the world he got this ridiculous idea.

Ordinarily our after-dinner clean-up procedure involves all family members and we all do whatever we can to clear the table as efficiently as possible so we can quickly get to the most important part of the meal - the dessert! There are no assigned jobs per se, no lists of chores, no points, no awards. The dessert is always on the menu and has nothing to do with who does what. We work together and we enjoy the eclairs together. My desire has always been to raise children with a strong sense of belonging to and enjoyment of our family, empowered to do what they can in carrying the burden of running a household or living a life. I don’t necessarily need them to work for me, but working together increases the sense of belonging and comradery and it’s more fun. Love and pleasure are given and received freely. All this to say that ‘earning points’ runs deeply against my parenting (and I might add, life!) philosophy. I want to raise a son and a daughter, not a slave and a haggler.

However, since our haggler-in-the-making insisted on earning his desert, I decided to alter my approach and give him a to-do list in order to acquire his candy.

Alright then, I started slowly, You need to kiss me five times on my right cheek, twice on the tip on my nose and you must tickle my belly-button at least once in order to get your candy.

At the mention of the magic word belly-button, my daughter pounced out of her chair and proceeded to smooch my face with slobbery kisses and stuck her head under my shirt in search for my navel in order to tickle it with her little fingers. To say that she got the drift of what I was trying to do would be a sore understatement. My husband shook his head and rolled his eyes, and our son walked by us with dignified disgust, carrying his plate into the kitchen. He took the four plates off the table and stacked them carefully onto the counter, and when I pointed out that he’d left the dirty silverware, he pierced me with his eyes, icicles dripping out of his mouth,

Silverware is NOT on my list of chores for today, and walked away. I didn’t know whether I should laugh or cry.

How in the world did we end up raising a Pharisee?!!!

And then, a pause. And a peek into one of those redemptive windows into the Father’s soul.

I know, I often wonder the same about My own children.

It is beyond my comprehension why do I rather choose to stiff-lip, teeth-grit my way of earning my brownie points with God, than accept His free invitation to joy of smooching His face with kisses, knowing that my reward and my inheritance in Him is secure? What is it in me that would rather be a slave and a score-keeper than the Tickle Monster daughter of the King? Why would I rather miss out on the pleasure of intimate connection than surrender my meticulously dissected list of rules and regulations, refusing the invitation and resenting the party while scrupulously stacking my dirty plates?

In the time leading up to Incarnation, it was the Pharisees who knew the Word of God, who loved the Word of God, who took upon themselves to preserve and enforce the keeping of the Word of God because they had such keen appreciation of its unspeakable value and power. And yet, somewhere along the way, they, like us, started turning down an invitation after invitation to smooch and tickle, to rest and adore, to listen to the Voice as they pored over the Word on the parchment and slowly, imperceptibly the living, breathing, laughing, crying Word of God calcified into a monument of human religiosity, passing down spiritual arteriosclerosis onto all subsequent generations of the people of God. Following in their footsteps, we continue to divest the purpose of God of the Person of God and exploit His words to create a formula for micro-management of our petty universe. Our plates are clean, our silverware polished, our tablecloths ironed and all the napkins carefully placed in the napkin rings. But we forget that party is more than stacking the plates, and family is not about earning and scoring. We can be sooo close, close enough to hear the din of the party, the laughter and the noise and still miss Him altogether. And, yet, like in the story about two brothers, the Father still speaks to the generations of older brothers, Son, you have always been with Me, and all that is Mine is yours… Son… Son… Son…

Some time ago I wrote a long very personal letter to a friend. There was a misunderstanding between us, a difference in perspective and opinion, and my commitment to our relationship seemed to require a thoughtful, honest and loving explanation of who I am and where I was coming from in the matter. I spent several days over this message, carefully pondering what is important to convey and what is not, in order to ensure that there is a better understanding, a broadening of our ways as we live Christ-life in this world and that our friendship would be strengthened rather than weakened as a result. The letter was finally completed and I sent it off. It was as if I’d sent a piece of my deepest me by the click of a mouse. I eagerly waited for the response. I got it. In one short sentence there was a polite acknowledgment of the receipt and a generic “hope for the best”. And that was all. I kept waiting. And waiting. I worked hard trying to understand how such a letter could generate such anemic response. What I sent wasn’t a mass mailer, a forwarded forward of something somebody 8 degrees removed forwarded to somebody else. It was personal. It was my heart and soul and mind. For days I did my best to show grace and understanding – being myself deluged by the plethora of reading material – even good reading material and the careful selection of what I must and what I simply can not afford to read in the context of the constraints of a busy ministry and family life we all live. In my head I could fully explain such inexplicable response, but my heart…. my heart was tottering under a boulder weighing a ton. I couldn’t bear it anymore. I went to the Lord and poured my complaint before Him. The accusations and the explanations. What I did and said in the letter, and most importantly why. The deep, deep disappointment over how it was received, the frustration that I couldn’t “just get over it”, for what’s the big deal?!!! It’s just a letter! I was only about half-way done with the presentation of my case when from the depths of my soul came an echo, I understand.

I understand?!!! I stopped mid-sentence. I understand? Was God of the Universe trying to tell me that He understands? I stepped out of my little puddle of self-pity and pondered the two simple words. The “I” of the Word of God, the great I AM who not only spoke the world into existence but went through the trouble of enlisting dozens of willing and unwilling individuals over a period that spans centuries in order to give us, to write down for us the heart of His very heart and the mind of His very mind so that the most misunderstood living Person can reveal Himself to us and as a result rebuild, fortify and expand our friendship. He meticulously chose not only what to say but also how to say it so we can know Him – know Him as He truly is, not as we project Him to be – making Him a conglomeration of our own prejudices, limitations and hurts. Then He sends off the letter. And He waits. And waits. And waits. We may politely acknowledge the receipt and periodically skim over the words, too busy, too preoccupied to connect with the heart of the Author. Feeling misunderstood still?
My droplet of grief merged with the ocean of love and sorrow.

I found some rogue blooms in my garden today – surviving offspring of their outlawed parents. Outrageously bold they banned their heads together in an eye-catching display of brilliant orange and yellow on a gloomy, overcast day. I didn’t plant them. I didn’t want them. But, somehow, their rebellious audacity warmed my heart and lightened its burden on this day.

Sometimes I think, I don’t like this plant in my garden. I’ll pull it up and put something else in its place. I’ll do all I can to ensure this will grow here and this won’t.

I have a vision for my garden, what it should, or shouldn’t be. But God, in His infinite wisdom, love and mercy messes up my landscaping dream and causes the blooms of His own desire and design. Should I not rejoice in them and receive from His hand the unexpected, even the unwanted? Isn’t both the garden and those who tend it His own to do as He pleases – by His unrivaled yet mysterious hand creating beauty and hope out of what brings me disappointment and frustration? So, I look at the brilliant faces of the audacious rebels and ask myself if I should redouble my effort in stomping them out, refusing the joy because I haven't chosen them? Or do I yield to their beauty and surrender to the unseen hand carrying out purposes which are so much bigger than my little patch of land and the scrupulous strategies I diligently apply to protect it.

We went trick-or-treating with some dear friends of ours last night. Four days before Election Day. As we walked from house to house, there was a sign in somebody’s front yard, “Obama for President.” Our friend’s son (who is also Caleb’s best friend) made a remark about the sign and announced that he didn’t like Obama. He liked McCain.

The Pandora’s Box of current political turmoil flew open and its contents exploded into our faces.

What do you mean?!!!! Exclaimed Caleb who I'd thought had remained largely ignorant of the impassioned debates of this election season. His simple black-and-white world was splashed with the brilliant colors of conflicting emotions. My mom, my sister and I are voting for Obama! Then he added, My dad is voting for McCain. His shocking pronouncement reverberated through the civic-conscious parts of our group of trick-or-treaters.

This is the first time that Nathan and Caleb disagreed on anything. Their shared passion for Legos, Star Wars and harassment of their baby sisters has fueled their extraordinarily harmonious relationship since the day they set eyes on each other. My husband was mortified. I was both mortified and found the situation quite hilarious. Our friends were mildly bewildered. They looked at me. I guess there was an unspoken assumption that we all agree, if not on everything, then at least on the choice of the candidate. My own personal wrestling with the decision as well as the process have remained largely …well - personal. I clarified Caleb’s statement by saying that I am still undecided. We couldn’t really engage in a deeper conversation about my own grappling with this year’s elections. I wasn’t too concerned about this, knowing that our friendship, love, appreciation and respect for each other would carry us through even the most turbulent waters of current politics. However I was concerned about Caleb and Nathan’s launch out of the honeymoon phase of their David-and-Jonathan friendship into a bumpy political landing.

When we returned to the house I called Nathan, who is a bit older, to me and said, Nathan, how are you and Caleb going to solve this Obama-McCain deal? He shook his head dejectedly, a worried look all over his face. I may have an idea, I said and bent over, whispering in his ear, You just love each other, honey. You keep loving each other. When the time came for us to say our good byes, Caleb and Nathan hugged each other with this inseparable, crack-each-other’s-ribs looong hug. The next morning I asked Caleb the same question I asked Nathan the previous night. I think we already solved it, Mom, he said, We already solved it.

Every day on the way to school we walk by a small retention pond. Wild ducks, white herons, and large turtles have made their home around this enclosed piece of prime, lakefront real estate. Few days ago, on the far side of the pond there stood another animal I haven’t seen around before. It was too far to discern what it is as it stared motionlessly at the murky water. But then it started to move. And as we watched it move, it became obvious it was a cat. We knew from the way it walked, from the way it moved that it was a cat. The way it walked revealed its identity. It is the way you and I walk that reveals our identity. The way we cook, the way we eat, the way we wait, the way we go, the way we vote, the way we win, the way we lose, the way, the way, the way...

Enoch walked with God; then he was no more, because God took him away. Genesis 5:24

For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light Ephesians 5:8

To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in His steps. I Peter 2:21

My Garden May Need Me, But I Need It Even More

Yesterday I got to talk with my dad and in the course of our conversation he asked,

How’s your garden?

My garden? How’s my garden?... How IS my garden?!!

Coming from anybody else the simple question would have unleashed an avalanche of guilty excuses, a flimsy attempt to justify my wobbling priorities. But from my dad… Not only do my dad and I share a passion for outdoor activities, gardening especially, but he also loves me and knows me, since I am his daughter. His question was a form of thermometer, a loving check if I am taking proper care of myself as I am busy caring for the whole world and a few universes beyond.

In the garden I am in touch (literally!) with the dust from which I was made, an amazing and humble reminder of who I am and who I am not. Its patient ways of endurance, the dynamics of its constants and ongoing changes, its setting in the larger context of the sky above and beautiful (albeit weed ridden!) earth below have a way of freeing me (at least temporarily) from my dogmatism, pettiness and steam-roller intensity, making me an altogether more pleasant person to be around. Being hard-working introvert like my dad, time alone to think and work, ponder and sweat is an absolute necessity, right up there with food and water and rest. Over the years, we have spent many hours working together or side by side, weeding and pruning, uprooting and planting, marveling at the amazing world around us and relishing each other’s company. Knowing all this, my dad’s question wasn’t surprising and yet, in another sense, it did catch me off guard since it’s been… what?... maybe months, that I actually worked in the garden, other than fulfilling my civic duty of every-other-week mowing of the front lawn (the back yard getting not nearly as much attention!). Have I not known my dad’s heart and his love for me (more than my garden!), I would have felt enormously guilty.

Aaah, my garden… I replied with a chuckle. It looks great considering the amount of time I spend… or rather, not spend in it.

I don’t know if it was a quiet conviction of his caring question or a faint memory of why I actually enjoy being in the garden, getting dirty and sweaty, but this morning I decided that I need my garden as much as my garden needs me. So, I put on my grubby clothes and got out there to get an accurate assessment of the current condition. I started out with the parts that are obvious, and generally kept in decent order. Not bad, not bad… I thought with relief. Then I moved further to the right and further to the left and what I found was a mess! Over the past couple of months, many plants have died and many have clearly suffered from neglect, disease and extreme summer weather. Everything, I mean, everything was covered in encyclopedia-worthy assortment of weeds, some several feet tall. I thought of my sunny report to my dad and laughed at my optimistic ignorance. If this is great, than I am Michael Phelps!

I plunged into work and reflection and as I worked the ground I couldn’t escape the glaring connections between the condition of my garden and condition of my soul. With each dig of the shovel sunken into dried up dirt, I could sense my heart’s soil loosening and losing its crusty shell under the gentle hand of the master Gardener who is also my Dad. It dawned on me that this peculiar and personal interaction the two of us have established amidst the dirt and the weeds of my garden has taken much deeper root in the heart of this city girl than she realized! I do need my garden as much (or more!) as my garden needs me – not to prove anything, or accomplish some work that will be evaluated and approved by my Father (or my father). I need the garden because over the years it has become a sanctuary, a place to think, process, pray, cry and listen to the One who created me and speaks this strange language of my earth-bound soul.

It was through an unrelated unfolding of circumstances that I became a privy to the expounding of the same event by two different individuals. With the one I share a gut-level personal and vocational history while with the other I live under the same general umbrella of external commonalities. My introduction into the story came first from the gut-friend. Then my umbrella-friend came by and casually related their observations of the same events. The disbelief about how different the story and the take on it was superglued my feet to the floor! As my umbrella-friend chatted away, a word came to me I couldn’t ignore, They are only telling you what they think you want to hear. What?! Are you talking about me? Or my friend? I almost muttered loudly. As I listened to the chatty account, a growing sense of sadness filled my mind and heart. I wondered why anybody would tell me only what they think I want to hear. Are they afraid of how I may respond? Do they not want to hurt my feelings by giving me a piece of harsh reality? Is there a privilege that may be lost by exposing the truth? Is it simply easier to keep polishing the veneer and ignore the messy chaos churning underneath? And how can anybody presume upon knowing what I want to hear? Where is the truth then? It is sacrificed on the altar of happy talk and mutual back-patting. Maybe next time I talk to a friend I need to ask, Do you want me to tell you only what I think you want to hear or do you want to hear the whole story? And the other way around, Are you going to tell me only what you think I want to hear, or are you going to tell me the real story?

There is a song we sing in our classroom I absolutely hate, Mom. I want to get up, take the CD and break it in two! complained my son as he munched on his blueberry mini-wheats this morning. Visualizing this getting up and breaking the CD in two while his first grade teacher is watching in disbelief immediately got my attention.

What song is it, my dear?

It’s that song, We got the whole world in our hands, we got the whole wide world in our hands... I hate it. It’s not true.

Aaah, it’s a variation of that song, He’s got the whole world in His hands, isn’t it? I said and proceeded to sing the original version. He nodded enthusiastically and started singing with me. Then he said, See, that’s why I hate singing it in school. We don’t have the whole world in our hands, God does!

Chuckling on the inside to observe the frustrations of the prophet-in-training plaguing our entire gene pool, I pondered how to respond. In a split second I was immersed in my own dilemmas of being a follower of the Jesus way in a world that out of ignorance or arrogance rejects His way and establishes its own. I also remembered my own childhood when I cheerfully sang blatant communist propaganda rhymes to the tune of Ode to joy (of all things :-)!) without even realizing that there was a God-centered original that lost its core in the take-of.

Then I slowly but deliberately walked over to him, scooped him up into my arms and as I begun to tickle him and kiss him all over, I kept asking, In whose hands are you now? In whose hands are you?

Yours! He giggled and wiggled, And God’s, too!, I added. See, the whole world IS in God’s hands, but He has also given it to us, to love it and care for it under His guidance and provision. So, in a sense, both are true – the whole world is in God’s hands, but He also has given it to us so we can learn to care for it the way God intends. We don’t have to break the CD, or cry out, Foul! when we hear the distortion of His songs (although we may feel like doing it!). What we need to do is lovingly show what it is like to care for the little piece of God’s real estate entrusted to us, the part “we hold in our hands” not in our own but in God’s way.

Vacation n. (from Latin vacare, to be empty) 1. freedom from any activity; rest; respite; intermission 2. a period of rest and freedom from work, study, etc.; time of recreation, usually a specific interval in a year 3. the act of making vacant

Vacant adj. (from Latin vacare to be empty) 1. having nothing in it; devoid of contents; empty, void; 2. not filled or occupied; 3. not filled with activity or work; free; leisure


Getting away for a vacation this summer was like attempting to get off I-4 at the right exit during Friday afternoon bumper-to-bumper traffic. As June and July rolled into August, we kept missing one exit after another, moving further and further away from a chance to spend some valuable time together as a family while the off-ramp of the beginning of the school year was approaching us like a freight train. The main culprit for this congestion has been Doug’s work load which, rather than diminishing, exploded with the beginning of the summer. Twelve new language recordings of a recently produced movie Magdalena – Released from Shame started spinning on his plate like 12 miniature hurricanes, all ready to make a landfall in the early fall.

I felt a growing sense of urgency to step out of this crammed-up tunnel where we are (or at least we think we are) in charge into that Reality in which it is hilariously obvious that God is God and we are not - the spacious universe of empty and void where the Spirit of God can hover over the deep of our souls and speak again the Word of Life, re-creating and re-newing, enlarging and energizing our shriveled-up, tunnel-vision existence.

Against all hope, exactly one week before school started we loaded up the car and headed to Englewood, Florida where some dear friends graciously allowed us to use their trailer. Having resisted the internal pressure to jam-pack our time with all the fun and exhausting activities suitable for an average vacationing family, I still felt restless and unsettled upon our arrival. As we were unloading the junk from our car, I grumbled a prayer, There, God! Here we are. If You wish, show Yourself to us. We sure NEED it!

The next day we grabbed a handful of sand toys, PB&J sandwiches and some drinking water and trotted off to the beach. When we got there, we encountered no burning bush (although the sand was pretty hot under our feet) and no lightening or thunder (whew!). What I did notice was how BIG the beach was – much bigger than our kitchen or laundry room, our house or the back yard, or even the sprawling Campus Crusade for Christ Headquarters! It stretched out endlessly as far as you can see in both directions, and it offered (free of charge!) unlimited supply of sculpting material which, during the course of our vacation we formed into a giant sea turtle and a bona fide Florida Snowman :-). There were nesting grounds of sea turtles lovingly marked off with yellow tape triangles and hidden treasures of seashells, baby crabs and shark teeth buried all around!

There were no guards and no gates (at least not the kind of gates to keep people out). The only rule spelled out was Swim at Your Own Risk with a map of what to do if caught in a rip current. No No Diving, no No Running, not even Wear Your Swimsuit at All Times. But nothing could have prepared us for the shock of seeing six-foot foaming giants relentlessly pounding the shore which sent dread up and down our spines. For a while, we just stood there in the shallows, hopelessly trying to secure our footing in the constantly shifting sand. But, as we watched the bodysurfers and people on boogie-boards having a time of their lives, the dance of the ocean emerged, beckoning us to jump in. Within minutes we were completely won over by this wild beast, getting drenched again and again, seaweeds hanging over our heads, submerged and surrendered, going down and popping back up, going down again, following its intrinsic rhythm, dancing according to its beat. We were like newly hatched baby sea turtles who have struggled their way down the hot, dry sand to the refreshing home where they truly belong.

And even though we were so small in this all-encompassing vastness, it was as if our joy and the dance, our fear and surrender mattered immensely; as if at least some of the ocean’s many mysterious purposes were being fulfilled in this free interplay between its waves and both big and little children frolicking in the foamy hem of his garment. Of course, it is hard to have fun in the ocean standing at a safe distance on dry ground, trying to keep your hair from getting all messed up or even trying to keep your head above water. We have to let go, we have to get dunked, we have to get drenched. And in the dunking, in the drenching, the hard shell cracks and the new life of another baby sea turtle joins in the dance.

Last week we went to our favorite Farmer’s Market and bought a few plump, “please-bite-into-me” handfuls of cherries. I love cherries. As a kid (and not just a kid!) I used to climb on our neighbor’s tree in a village near Belgrade, sit on a big, sturdy branch and eat to my heart’s fullness, my legs dangling down, waving at the ground at least ten feet below.

I must admit that while enjoying the fruit of the tree it didn’t even cross my mind to consider the intricate connections between the fruit in my mouth and the stem to which it was attached – which, in turn, was attached to the twig, attached to the branch, attached to the tree, attached to the root which, with its elaborate system of capillaries was attached to the loamy soil beneath – all this in just one direction. In the other and all around there was the Sun, the rain, the air; alterations in weather in their slow yearly rotations - the seasons, as we like to call them, which with their periods of growth and dormancy, blossoms and the harvest produce this amazing juicy feast – a delight to the eyes and the taste buds, a celebration of life and an excavation of joy laying dormant in seemingly simple, ordinary experiences.

The inescapable but often overlooked fact is that somebody must have planted and taken care of the tree with love and patience (and lots of hard work!) – pruned it in its season, maybe grafted in a better, more durable or blight-resistant variety, sprayed it against harmful insects and disease so that over a number of years the tree became not only a quiet fruit producing factory, but also a refuge from the heat; a home for the baby swallows; the place for the children to hang an old tire and swing around and around, their laughter bouncing off other trees in the orchard; a firm pillow to lean against while taking a Sunday afternoon nap in its shade; purifying lungs for the entire neighborhood; a quiet secret-keeper; an ever-present, non-judgmental confidant to the brokenhearted and despairing.

My ego-centric, consumerism-driven appetite saw none of this but the cherries – something created for sole purpose to satisfy Me and give Me pleasure. Somebody much wiser saw an entire universe of mysterious connections – fruit being just one (delightful nonetheless) by-product of this monument of grace and mercy.

From there my thoughts wandered into even more fascinating universe of God’s revealed Word and the cherry picking approach I so often have as I consume my pet verses and passages for my own pleasure, mindlessly spitting out pits on those who are passing by – twisting the meaning and misinterpreting the Author’s intent; misapplying the truth, carving the self-serving nugget out of God-purposed context, in a single motion amputating the word of God from the Person of the Triune-God and reducing His glorious majesty to a cherry-producing vending machine. As if this is not bad enough, more often than I care to admit I have participated in “bowls of cherries” parties where this cherry-picking practice as it relates to God’s word is perpetuated in the entire communities of those who are called by His Name. This approach may be understandable and permissible for those who are new to the life of grace, to the babies in Christ; but, to remain there indefinitely would mutilate beyond recognition the family resemblance the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit desire to manifest through our broken lives…the family likeness that would transform our self-serving existence into a nesting ground for the swallows… a faithful branch attached to the Tree of Life, on which carefree children could clamber up without fear and thoughtlessly pluck out soul-satisfying cherries, oblivious to the wondrous universe all around.

Yesterday Caleb had a wonderful early birthday surprise showing up at his bedroom window – not one, but two beautiful butterflies were born just outside his room, sending my wonder-struck children into a screaming frenzy at seven o’clock in the morning. When I calmed them down, we all tiptoed excitedly on the wet grass to more closely examine the miracle that took place in our backyard. The butterflies were even more glorious when we looked at them still holding onto the chrysalis, swaying imperceptibly as they were drying off their delicate wings,

Then I remembered something… About two weeks ago, as I was mowing the lawn, I noticed with creepy-crawly disgust of an anti-bacterial-soap sanitized urban girl that there were dozens of hideous, dangerous looking maggots inching their way up our house. I was too tired and too scared to walk over to the garage and pull out the most powerful insect killer and counter-assault this invading army, so I let them be. Who would have thought that something so ugly can turn into something so exquisite?

As I looked around I noticed hundreds more caterpillars diligently munching away on our neighbor’s Passiflora incarnata cascading over the fence into our backyard. But this time, rather than being disgusted by the ‘maggots’ I thought, Munch away, little butterflies, munch away…

So often when confronted with unsightly features of the people-maggots ‘in-the-process’ – the metamorphosis – of turning into butterflies, I quickly reach for the human version of the most powerful insecticide that's handy. How impatient and destructive I can be towards these 'pests', proudly oblivious of the glorious processes at work all around me in the butterfly garden of this life. Then, I think of even more glorious transformation of the horrid, life-annihilating cross of Christ, which became the door, the only door to Life, life indeed. If God can do something so magnificent through the death of His Son, how much more should I trust Him with lesser nuisances that show up on the threshold of my life?

Maybe next time I see the prickly wormish-looking creature around my house or in the street, I need to ask myself What kind of glorious winged being is he or she being transformed into even as he is polishing off my Asclepias syriaca. Or even better, How can I become a better host to these creatures by planting more caterpillar-attracting plants…a seedling of Truth, a grafting of hospitality, a sprig of delightful winsomeness of Jesus…and my whole life may become a feast for the hungry caterpillars on the way to becoming butterflies?… Maybe that’s what Jesus meant when he said, He who wants to save his life will lose it; but he who loses his life for My sake, shall save it.