Waiting room

I could use all sorts of words to describe myself but patient is definitely not one of them. No person, except for my dad who has a gift of seeing what nobody else sees, would dream of putting my name and the word in the same sentence. Perhaps my life just hasn’t been hard enough to provide sufficient opportunities to develop this character quality. Or, for all these years I somehow managed to miss them.

Today, however, I am proud to announce that the word finally fit me like a glove. At a doctor’s office. I was the patient. Dr. T was my physician.

Patience, I was warned in advance, wasn’t optional. Days before surgery I was instructed to come ready to wait, and wait, and wait… and perhaps come back tomorrow to wait some more. Be prepared to be bored. Such was the nature of the procedure to bring me back into full health.

I cleared my schedule and suit-armored myself with no less than four books, a journal and several extra pens (struggle that it was, I did leave my laptop behind). I was determined to accomplish a lot, catch up on all the reading and fill many a blank page of my much neglected journal. Part of me, I must admit, relished the prospect of this health-care induced boredom, since it’s a friend that rarely visits my shores.

When I arrived, I realized I was not the only patient – there were fifteen or so others sharing in this Medicaid Sabbath day. Some like me brought books, others brought food, or friends or family members to help the time pass faster. We all buzzed through our surgeries rather quickly and then entered the waiting room. I pulled the first book out of my bag and stuck my bandaged up nose inside its pages.

Twenty minutes.

Suddenly a thought started to buzz inside my head like a hornet.

I wonder if I’ll have to go under the knife again?... It sure would be nice to have it taken care of during the first round… but doctor T said she would like to gamble with this one… I really don’t like when doctors gamble with my nose! Buzzzz…. Buzzzz… And what about all these people? Is this their first time? Or are they regulars? They are all so quiet! Would they rather be left alone or talk their way through the waiting? Is it politically incorrect to ask what kind of surgery they had? Or an invasion of privacy? Buzzz… buzzzz….

Five more minutes have passed.

I should try to read some more.

I returned to the book sitting idly in my lap. Two minutes. Then the buzzard started again.

We are w-a-i-t-i-n-g! We are w-a-i-t-i-n-g! WE ARE W-A-I-T-I-N-G! WE ARE W-A-I-T-I-N-G!

One more minute passed. I looked around the room, noticing for the first time the large paintings of galloping horses hanging on the walls behind quiet patients.

Alright, God! What do you want from me????? I am being patient, am I not? I am waiting. I am willing to stick it out for as long as it takes. I’ll grit my teeth through this entire day if need be. But I can already tell it’s going to be a loooong day. I sure can think of many much more productive ways to use my time... But, hey, nobody is asking me? You call the shots.

…

What?!! Isn’t that enough?!!! What are You trying to accomplish? Is this some kind of a test? I know! Of course, it’s a test! It’s a test of my faith… to see how tough my faith muscle is! Fine! I can prove…

You don’t need to prove anything.

Huh…?

Nothing to prove. Not a test.

But..., but, then, what is it about..? … If it is not a test…

Inside the waiting room, the horses kept galloping in place in their imaginary race.

Can you just be… with Me…? Just… enjoy being with Me…?

Silence filled the room which a moment ago was occupied with the noise of the galloping horses.

Enjoy? Just enjoy… being… with You? I took a deep breath. And then another one. ... I shook my head in disbelief. What a fool! What a fool I’ve been and how slow to hear… and understand! The waiting rooms of my life are not some torture chambers designed to try the toughness of my faith. They are the oasis planted by my hopelessly personal, hopelessly relational God, intended to provide a place of rest and refreshment, hope and healing for my soul as much, or perhaps even more, as for my body.... A place… a time when I can, rather than proving the tenacity of my faith, cultivate the tenderness of my heart…

I’m sorry…

Mrs. S… the nurse’s chirp jerked me out of the unexpected revelation. I am a bearer of good news!

Oh… I slowly got up, putting the book away, a twinge of disappointment coloring my voice.

Does that mean I have to leave…right away?

"In repentance and rest you will be saved, in quietness and trust is your strength. But you were not willing, and you said, 'No, for we will flee on horses,'..." Isaiah 30:15,16

Potential

Last year my gardening buddy Donna (well, I should probably make it clear from the start that Donna is not MY gardening buddy – Donna is THE gardening queen of south Orlando and I am not worthy to clean and polish her rubber clogs!) … anyway, having clarified this, let me continue… Er.. awhile ago Donna, the queen surprised me with a present. Well, sort of. I suspect that her choice of gift had something to do with a little history we share… Having killed one too many live plants she had been giving me over the years in a futile attempt to green up my brown thumb, she decided for a slightly different approach. So, instead of something alive that could be killed (and under my management one could be fully assured that it would be killed) she gave me a… potential! Being the esthetically endowed person that she is, she wrapped my potential in fancy fuchsia tulle and tied a black ribbon around it (I told you she was a classy lady!). She also accompanied the gift with the instructions which contained a photo. I suspect she must have gathered that I am not much of an instruction-reader and needed visual stimulation if her scheme was going to work. If you haven’t guessed already, inside the fancy wrapping was a bunch of seeds, four o’clock seeds, to be more precise.

Seeds…?!!! Why would she give me SEEDS?!!! I thought to myself. If I couldn’t keep ALIVE plants alive, how in the world does she imagine me coaxing anything out of some dry, shriveled up, dead seed?!!!

So, I set my potential on the counter. And, yes, you are right, it sat there. And it sat there… and it sat… and SAT… and SAT! From time to time I would look at it, and even scan the instructions with the photo of the pretty flowers tucked inside each tiny ball. I wondered how something as marvelous, and fragrant and colorful can be so neatly packed inside the ugly black seed?!!! I can’t quite say that I expected the plant to magically pop out and grow on the top of my counter inside my kitchen just from my notifying its presence there, but the thought sure sounded nice.

Needless to say, the seeds didn’t pop out on their own and no magical transformation took place. At least not as long as the seeds were sitting on top of the scratched up Formica.

Then, I remembered - duh?!!! - that this gift was about the potential! And, the only way the potential can become the actual is if it is taken out of the pretty wrapping, buried into the ground and left there to die. Then and only then can the magical transformation occur. Not on the top of the kitchen counter. Not even in the palm of my hand. But buried deep inside the soil where the mystery of death and life occur, invisible to the human eye, until the tiny tuft of green breaks the surface, giving evidence for all to see that there is a world of miracles laying dormant just within our reach.

"...The seed... is the Word of God.. .." Luke 8:11

Hibernateardening

I might have gotten a little spoiled - alright, A BIG ROTTEN SPOILED A LOT!- having lived for more than 15 years in the happiest place on Earth, in the backyard of uncle Walt Disney’s estate (well, maybe more like in an outhouse at the furthest corner of the outer pasture-lands of his Magic Kingdom!) or, simply put, in the O-town, City Beautiful nestled at the heart of warm and sunny Florida. In this place, the greens remain green year round, the winter sky is more brilliant azure than an average person can handle on an ordinary January day and the song of perpetual blooms resounds all the more loudly when the rest of the world is wrapped in snowy blankets and skies of gray. The lucky residents evidence this heaven on Earth by endless uploads of photos of outdoor swimming pools and beach scenes, thus heartlessly harassing our frost-bitten friends up north and rubbing it in with the matching FB status updates.

Life in which cold season’s Fahrenheit range goes between mid-seventies and lower-eighties creates expectations of their own. The husbands here don’t fart, and the wives don’t snore. The children, of course, make only happy noises and never ever kick each other in the face. Those of us lucky enough to live here have adapted quite nicely to the prevailing climate of entitlement to happiness and adjoining assumptions that we should be spared of the suffering common to those ordinary mortals.

So, when it happened last year we all considered it a fluke. The following summer was as hellishly hot as ever, making even the proverbial fake flowers wilt in heat and humidity. We thought we were back in the saddle, looking forward to our well-deserved winter rewards for enduring the typical summer slow-cooker when it happened AGAIN! This time it was even earlier, before Christmas, mind you! Some audacious arctic blast swept across the entire country and shamelessly infringed upon our territory. Round one. What wasn’t killed during the first freeze, died after the second; the skimpy remainder succumbed under the third. We stopped counting after that. Some time between the waves of cold, I finally gave up one of the silliest practices I’d adopted after I moved here - of covering plants with sheets and blankets during the near-freezing temperatures. This year, even plants that were covered died.

I finally hung up my tools and gloves, having abdicated all my outdoor responsibilities and descended into begrudging gardening hibernation until the arctic freeze has passed and more seasonal temperatures arrive. Part of me enjoyed (or at least tried to enjoy) this forced rest. Prying away from the work of our hands doesn’t come naturally to us workaholics, whose sense of worth is tied all too closely to the number of things checked off an imaginary list by the end of the day.

The bitter cold also created (an indoor, heated!) space for more somber reflection (equally unnatural to an average Floridian). Seeing with my own eyes how just a few degree drop in temperature could overnight reduce all my months (or, even years!) worth of hard work down to a rotting pile of stinky yard-waste was… well, quite humbling. And, the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent it, was even more humbling indeed. To add insult to injury, even now there is still nothing I can do to repair the damage except to wait … and wait… and wait in hope that some day spring indeed will return. And when it does, amidst all the busy, happy work, as the warm sun is shining again and the invisible roots send out new shoots, will my grip loosen on what I know I cannot keep…? …Will I remember that I cannot ensure the permanence of what I love the most except through surrender and death of the very thing I am so desperately trying to preserve?

Now what?

I seriously considered my daughter’s suggestion that we keep Christmas decorations up until Easter. Besides a very busy January and a few items on my schedule with slightly higher priority than stashing baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph and Rudolph away in the attic, the idea itself didn’t seem too far fetched. In my head, you see, the two holidays go hand-in-hand. Without Christmas there would obviously be no Easter, and without Easter… well, without Easter the Christmas would leave us bankrupt, not only in our wallets and bank-accounts, but emotionally deserted and empty-handed, even while surrounded by all the trinkets and toys, disillusioned by the hollowness of the hope that, like weight-loss commercials, grossly over-promised but never quite delivered. So, I was perfectly happy to, like some devout frog, jump from Christmas to Easter and back to Christmas, trying to live off the fumes of spiritual adrenaline each holiday provides and skipping everything in between.

Today, however, without any forethought or planning on my part, spontaneously snowballed into a Putting-Christmas-Away party. It started as a creative (or, rather, desperate!) way to keep my children distracted from killing each other by having them take the ornaments off the Christmas tree. But, very quickly the cleanup party gained momentum and soon it turned into an all-out ‘reclaiming our spaces’ effort. As the nativity pieces were wrapped into tissue paper and placed in cardboard boxes, there was a clear sense of... relief? … A relief that we get our home back, undisturbed by the massive God-invasion of the last month… But, somewhere in the back of my mind, I noticed I was breathing easier because Jesus didn’t remain frozen in time as some perpetual baby sleeping in a manger, but moved on and grew up into an inquisitive teenager, a robust young carpenter good at working with hands, in every aspect maturing under the cloak of ordinary until the appointed time.

Much of his life was commonplace – no global audience, no ‘likes’ on his Facebook wall, no blog, no Twitter, no choirs of angels applauding his every move, no wise men worshiping the ground he walked. The divine wrapped himself in a regular human flesh and quietly receded into obscurity, eating, sleeping, walking, talking, resting, playing, partying, working – just like us! And, in a strange role-reversal, perhaps by the very virtue of not shrinking from becoming human in all its seemingly boring ordinariness, he somehow breathed unimaginable dignity, worth and purposes into everything you and I might do on any given day of small things. Making it holy.

At the end of the impromptu cleaning party I stepped back and looked at our home, the tree out, the boxes up, the pieces of furniture returned to their usual spots. Everything was back in its place and to an undiscerning eye, life seemed to have returned back to just as it has always been. But, to everyone who welcomed His coming, nothing was as it used to be. Everything changed… or, at least begun the long, slow process of transformation of every detail of our life into something that God Himself inhabits.

Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your heart…


New Year's Resolution

So far my most successful New Year’s resolution has been to ‘watch more TV’. I admit that like all other New Year’s resolutions, it took me several years to work on it. Now, watching TV may seem like a second nature to some people, but to me, to sit down and watch other people’s worlds both thrive and collapse before my eyes meant a slow, painful death to all my godlike responsibilities of keeping the rest of the universe running. Most people underestimated the seriousness of my commitment and laughed when I answered their January 1 inquiry…

So, what’s YOUR New Year’s resolution?

I guess now it’s my turn to laugh.

Having being successful in logging in extra hours of Criminal Minds under my belt during the past several months, I decided to really get out on a limb this year and make another resolution I am determined to keep for the rest of the week… and probably renew next year and the next (if I am still around). This January I am resolved to resist all pressures and temptations – internal as well as external – at trying to improve myself. By this, mind you, I am not implying that nothing in my life needs improvement. On the contrary! Just that I have ample proof coming from years of experience that I am uniquely unqualified for the job.

And, if I am successful, next year, or the year after, I may even determine to stop trying to fix my husband.

I think he just might appreciate that.

Who is this George Lucas?

We can thank my mother-in-law for introducing Star Wars into our children’s lives by getting our 5 year old son his first Star Wars LEGO set. He ripped the boxes open and within seconds our home was invaded by the Imperial Stormtroopers and the Droids.

I was mortified.

Star Wars?!!! He is waaay too young for Star Wars!

It wasn’t the complexity of the building process I was concerned about, because that never seemed to be a problem for our pint-size engineer. What bothered me much more was a matter of introducing complex adult issues into his immature mind, and the challenge that creates for me as his parent. But, like it or not, the door was open and there was no going back. From that day on, my son turned into a miniature Star Wars maniac. So far, he’s been mostly preoccupied with recreating cosmic wars against his little sister. Along the way he somehow acquired a prodigious amount of information about the characters and the plot and various twists and turns in the storyline. He learned the difference between the Imperial and the Rebel blaster, the who’s who and what’s what of the Imperial Army and the Rebel Alliance, and all the whys and therefores of the narrative that molded the worldview of generation after generation since the first movie was released. He bought a Star Wars Visual Dictionary with his own money(!) that looks more like Encyclopedia Britannica to me.

Now, all this wouldn’t be so surprising if it wasn’t until this afternoon, years after the initial encounter, that he saw his very first Star Wars movie. Episode IV, to be more precise, which I picked up from our local library earlier today. Watching him watch the movie was as much (or more) fun as watching the movie itself. It was as if he had all these loose pieces of a puzzle, and he finally saw how they all fit together, he could finally place them in their exact spots in the larger, 4-D story-puzzle. His delight was quite contagious. During dinner, he continued chatting enthusiastically about all the fascinating trivia he picked up during the afternoon Star Wars extravaganza. In the course of the conversation, my husband casually mentioned George Lucas and what his intent might have been for the unfolding of the various episodes in a certain sequence.

George… Lucas?!! Our son muttered hesitantly… And who is this George Lucas? There was no doubt that he was utterly confused. You could tell that he was scrolling down the imaginary database of Star Wars names and faces, from Emperor Palpatine through Chewbacca and Ewoks, but there was no suitable match for the name “George Lucas”.

It was now our turn to be confused. How is it possible that with all these years of borderline obsession with the Jedi and their pecking order, Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader, and R2D2 and Obi-Wan Kenobi, our son never ever heard the name George Lucas? We looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Hmm …George Lucas…. George Lucas…. Well, he is kind of like God to the world of Star Wars. Without him, there would be no Star Wars, nor the galaxy, nor anybody or anything else belonging to this galaxy far, far away. He created it all. This amazing world exists because it first existed in the mind of George Lucas.

It took several minutes for the news to settle in his shaken-to-the core 9 year old mind screaming for a paradigm shift. Until this moment of revelation he was so preoccupied with the fascinating universe which George Lucas had created that for a brief while he simply couldn’t contain the information about the existence of the creator of that universe.

There…there is a George Lucas… there IS a George Lucas and I never even knew it!

No room

It shows up every year, some time in early December. Out of the dust-covered box lying dormant on the dirty garage floor, buried under loads of other dusty boxes, untouched for eleven months. When it first appeared in the middle of our living room, years ago, my husband and I were newly married, young and quite naïve. At the time, our lives were simple and our furniture few. Happy and ignorant, we went out to shop one of those after-Christmas clearance sales. We came back jubilant, hauling in the biggest Christmas tree we could afford. The tree was beautiful and tall. When put together branch by branch, it filled at least a half of our living room, imposing its glorious presence on all this empty space. We loved our tree.

Then, a friend gave us his old TV because he was moving to Australia. Later on, we bought an armoire to accommodate our newly-acquired TV and a matching stand to hold our collection of CDs and VCRs (DVDs were not invented yet). Over the years, we kept accumulating more and more stuff – a DIY project here, and a curb-side mall find there; then came our first child with all his accompanying paraphernalia and soon afterward, another with all the mentioned paraphernalia of a different, she color. So, bit by bit, mountain by mountain stuff kept marching across our doorstep. The stuff we needed, or thought we or somebody we know needed or might need some day kept ringing our doorbell. Slowly but surely, our huge house started filling up all its empty places, obliterating the memory of the simple life we once used to live.

The tree also seemed to grow bigger and bigger each year, transforming from a beautiful symbol of everlasting life that the birth of God’s Son brought into the world, into a household monstrosity, turning our home upside down each Christmas season. Every December, in order to make room for its ever-expanding (or so it seemed) limbs, we have to move the sofa into the guest bedroom, and the keyboard with its stand into our son’s bedroom, and the spare desk into the dining room, and the bench from the guest bedroom…

Honey, where are we going to put the bench?!!!

Making room for the tree has become our number one Christmas chore…er… I meant to say tradition.

This is insane! We need to hire movers or a chiropractor to set up the darn thing. We should just get rid of it. I turned to the tree as if it’s its fault.

We don’t have room for you! No room.

The silent echo reverberated with familiarity. No room… no room… no room… in… the… inn…

With sudden realization, a mess of conflicting feelings that must have torn the insides of the Bethlehemian inn-keeper settled in my stomach. I could imagine myself standing at the door of our house, eyeing a tired, frost-bitten couple with the baby on the way…

I am so sorry, but we have no room for you anywhere in the house…. However, there is a bit of space in our garage among all the boxes, and garden tools, and discarded toys, and bicycles… if you don’t mind…

I took a step away from the tree, staggered by its quiet testimony of the clutter overcrowding my life. The space and the time. What else got pushed out by the relentless torrent of unrestrained real and perceived needs, wants, desires, responsibilities, demands, requirements? Is all my worthless junk swallowing what is really precious before my very eyes? Do I even know the difference?!!! And, how in the world did I come to resent something I used to love and enjoy?

The evergreen assayer stood still, his lights blinking brightly.

Perhaps… what I really need… for Christmas… is to just to make… a little more room… in my life. So the Life Himself can come in.

Missing

During our recent visit to my husband’s family, my sister-in-law, who is the incarnation of care and sensitivity to the needs of others (qualities which for some reason seem strangely lacking in our little family), suggested that she and I decorate Mom’s and Dad’s place for Christmas. Neither of them has the health and energy for that kind of endeavor, and it would make their home more cheery and festive during the long, and sometimes lonely holiday season. Kids jumped at the idea, looking for any excuse to get away from the grueling vacation homework drills. The decorating party got quickly on the way with moving the furniture around to make room for the tree and getting the boxes with ornaments out of the garage. The kids carefully took them out, unwrapped each of them, celebrating the unveilings as if it’s Christmas already. The process went on for a while when they came across a tiny royal looking figurine.

This doesn’t look like an ornament, announced my observant daughter. It doesn’t have a hook.

Oh, it’s a part of the nativity scene, darling, responded my mother-in-law. You know, I had that set all these years, and I never set it up. If you like it and think you can use it, you should just take it with you.

Since free offers is rarely passed in our family, the kids excitedly unwrapped the rest of the pieces – the sheep and the donkeys, Mary and Joseph, the remaining two wise men, a shepherd and a shepherdess.

Where is baby Jesus? I asked suspiciously.

Hmm, it looks like He’s missing…

We all dived into the box filled with tissue paper, but no Jesus was found.

Jesus is missing, I told my mother-in-law. How strange… maybe that’s why you never set it up – it’s defective. Imagine that, Christmas without Jesus...

My words lingered for a few moments before silence settled on the room.

Hon… you don’t have to imagine… just look around - it’s all over the place.

I sat slowly down, sobered by the thought. In real life, just like in the defective nativity scene, more often than not Jesus is missing from Christmas. We may have all the other props in place, even the sheep and the donkeys, but the heart of the stage of history remains empty. The solemn admonition of the incomplete set inched a bit too close to home.

Mom, mom!!! We found Him! I was jolted out of my reveries by the excited screams of my children who obviously didn’t give up on their search.

We found Jesus!

May you and I, like the children who wouldn’t give up the quest until it is completed, also find Jesus at the heart of not only Christmas but also at the heart of every day before and after.

Complete Idiot's Guide...

Even though nobody in our family can be described as picky, it’s still hard to find a food everyone truly enjoys. We all eat pizza, but I am not nearly as big on it as my kids are, and we all eat Thai, but my kids are not nearly as big on it as my husband and I are. We all like Mexican, but each of us has a distinct preference as to both what we want in our burrito and how it’s rolled up.

But, there is one thing we all absolutely love – and that’s sourdough bread. In our house, heaven smells like toasted sourdough with butter on it. Our love affair with sourdough might have stemmed from my husband’s Northern California roots or from my Croatian aunt’s home-made panja, and we just passed on this shared sourdough gene to our children. Call it nature or nurture, the fact remains that we can easily polish off an entire loaf in one sitting. Now, the grocery store price for a loaf of good sourdough runs approximately four times as much as regular white or even whole-wheat bread. This puts us in somewhat of a quandary and, no pun intended, feeds our passion for more.

So, several weeks ago when I stopped by our local library, it wasn’t a total surprise when with a corner of my eye I spotted Complete Idiot’s Guide to Artisian Breads, I heard it call my name.

Hey, you! You, YOU - I am talking to you - don’t act as if you can’t hear me!

I looked around to make sure nobody is disturbed and discreetly moved few steps away, towards the shelf with foreign movie DVDs.

Stop right there! Pick me! Pick ME!

Shhhh! Stop yelling! I growled. This is a public library!

Few people looked in my direction. I waited until everyone was back to whatever they were doing before I continued, this time making sure nobody is overhearing the conversation.

You are talking to the wrong person, buddy. I snarled under my breath. I am NOT a baker. I am a BURNER! I am the Killer of all yeast. I am the Destroyer of everything that crosses our oven’s door. It’s hopeless. I am sorry. Go home with somebody else.

No, no, no. You got it all wrong. You are EXACTLY my kind of a person. See, Complete IDIOT’S Guide…

I don’t appreciate being called an idiot in a public place, I whispered through my teeth.

Oh, stop being so sensitive and just take me with you… I’ll…

I grabbed a bunch of DVDs in front of me and dropped them into the basket. Then I stepped back to the shelf with the rowdy impostor, picked him up like a used Kleenex and dropped him under the pile.

Alright. Just stop barking. If you insist, I’ll bring you with me.

I used self-checkout as fast as I could and virtually ran out of the library, leaving both librarians and customers equally baffled behind. We drove home in silence. I unloaded the library cargo into our reading basket where the Guide sat squeezed between Pirates Past Noon and The Gollywhopper Games untouched for several days. One late afternoon I heard a murmur…

I-am-waiting… I-am-waiting…. I am waaaaiiiitiiiing….. I-am-WAITING!

I sat down and pulled the Guide up.

Well, thank you! He said politely. I almost got suffocated there, at the bottom of the basket.

I wasn’t going to apologize.

What do you want from me? I asked.

What do I want?!! What do you think? I didn’t come all the way from the library to sit at the bottom of your book basket and smell stinky Pirate’s feet! Let’s get the kitchen dirty! Let’s bake some bread!

We already went through this. I was tired. I am not a baker. End of story.

But all of you LOVE to eat, especially sourdough. C’mon, it’s really not that hard. Just try it.

As I opened the book and flipped through the pages in front of me a faint aroma of baked bread begun to tickle my nostrils. Sourdough dinner rolls, ciabattas, crusty sourdough boules, garlic-rosemary focaccias….

Fine! I’ll give it a try. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I know it’s not going to work, but I am willing to try. Where do I start?

Starter! You start with a starter. The Guide said with a huge grin. Clever, isn’t it?

I could tell that he was in his element.

Ha, ha. Very funny. I said grimly and turned to the Sourdough Starter page. The instructions seemed simple enough – three ingredients in all.

I think I can handle that, I said as I headed towards the pantry.

And so we begun. I fed my little ‘pet’ every day, like a brand-new parent, all worried whether I am doing it right, whether it’s too cold, or too warm, if I should feed it more often or less. We gathered around it and peeked under the lid, whispering to each other as if it’s a sleeping baby tucked under a cozy blanket.

The romance went on for about three or four days and then things turned south. At first, I noticed a slight discoloration. Then the smell. Which got worse. And worse.

This isn’t working. I told my husband. I think I should just pitch it.

Don’t pitch it! Use it. Responded my always cautious, methodical, polar-opposite mate.

Use it?!!! Are you crazy? Use it for what – rat poison? It’s bound to ruin the dough!

It’s SOUR dough, remember. It’s SUPPOSED to be sour.

I understand ‘sour’… but, this… this is… UGH!

It’s just flour and yeast and water – no big loss … it’s worth giving it a try. Whatever you make, babe, I will eat.

I looked at my taste-testing superhero suspiciously, for ordinarily I am the one in our family encouraging craziness. I savored the spot like ill-fitting shoes.

This is what it feels like to be the other person in my off-the-wall adventures. I pondered.

I got a mixing bowl out of the cupboard and looked up the Sourdough bread recipe. I mixed the flour, yeast, salt, butter and water, hesitating for a moment before I poured the gray, smelly goop in.

This is insanity! I am ruining a perfect batch... before I could finish the sentence I heard the familiar voice taking my train of thoughts into an altogether different direction.

...of plain, boring, white bread, high on air and low on substance by giving it depth and texture and character and personality you all love so much. Hon, the making of sourdough is just like the making of life. You stick with common ingredients, you get common results. But, if you take risks, embrace the bitter and the sour, mix it all well in, you might very well get an exceptional result. You make the choice.

Are you now presuming to be The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Life and Disappointments?

Oh, no. Not at all! A much more comprehensive edition of that volume has already been published long time ago. In fact, I’ve seen several copies on a bookshelf in your study – quite dusty, if I may add. And I am not referring to your housekeeping habits. Perhaps you can check it out some time… the same way you did with me…

With that, the Guide fell silent. I waited awhile, hoping with all my heart that he would say something more, challenge some other deeply rooted prejudice of mine with his grace and truth. But, he didn’t. It was as if with this his role in my life was fulfilled and adding anything else would betray his greater purpose.

I finally turned away and slowly walked towards the bookshelf.

The Bench

Call me hopelessly romantic (or crazy!), but last night, after I’ve already gone to bed, I remembered that earlier in the evening I saw my neighbors’ old wooden bench on the curb next to their house, ready for the garbage truck. I couldn’t check it out when I saw it, so I just made a mental note to come by later in the evening and see if I should engage in a rescue mission or not. Of course, I forgot all about it until, well, until I remembered. So, I got out of bed, put my clothes back on, dragged my husband along, and under the cloak of late night, we picked up the bench from the curbside and brought it to our porch.

Do you want their kitchen sink, too? He pointed at the pile of construction garbage, eying me suspiciously.

Nooo, just the bench! I chuckled, trying to appreciate his warped sense of humor.

It was too late and too dark to examine its condition right then and there. Our neighbors might have had a very good reason for getting rid of it. In daylight, the bench turned out to be quite beautiful. I discovered that the wobble we noticed while we carried it last night was actually by design, for it was a rocking bench! It had a nice shape, with a gentle curve on the back, and upon closer inspection, it revealed sturdy materials and solid craftsmanship.

You are gorgeous, I said, in accordance with my habit of talking to inanimate objects, Or, at least, you had been. Before the mean Florida elements took their toll and left you with cracked and peeling varnish, filthy and moldy. What am I going to do with you?

The first thing was quite obvious. The bench was covered with dirt so I grabbed a garden hose and wash it all the off. I tipped it back and forth and from side to side, until it was all clean and the pieces of loose varnish removed.

This is going to take a lot more than good cleaning, I mused. It will require some serious elbow-grease, the scraping of the old finish, the scrubbing of the moldy areas, perhaps even some spot-bleaching… and then it would need a primer and at least three coats of paint...

That seems like an awful lot of work, I continued with the monologue. Are you worth it?

Part of me wanted to cut corners, grab a can of spray paint and finish the job, right then and there. I knew it wouldn’t be right. I knew it wouldn’t be lasting. But, hey, it would be easy! And then, in a month or two, the paint would peel away and reveal old cracked varnish, and grime and mold… and I would have to do it again… and again,… and again…

What a waste, tempting as it may be… I don’t have time or energy for that… I objected.

But, part of me couldn’t bear to see the beautiful bench rot at the top of the city dung heap, when with some time and effort I might be able to return it to its former glory, prolong its life and ensure many years of delightful, useful service of refreshment and rest to our family, our children, perhaps even our children’s children and to all the weary travelers that our gracious God may send our way. It was up to me to make the decision...

What shall I do with you, old bench…? What should I do with you...?

The Constant

If what you are saying is true, it’s worth giving your whole life to it, I confidently vocalized my conviction. What I didn’t voice was the ignorance and arrogance of this ‘mature’ 20 year old atheist who KNEW it could not possibly be true. This, of course, implied that my life was off the hook, all my own to chart and direct according to my own designs and ambitions.

For the first time in my life I was confronted with the outrageous claims of Jesus Christ, and, to be honest, I didn’t particularly care for them. I already had a plan for my life. I liked my plan. And I didn’t appreciate anybody coming in and messing it up.

But, what if it is true…?

The lingering question settled like a cloud over this self-proclaimed “Truth-Seeker.”

In the subsequent days and weeks He tenderly and mercilessly peeled away layer upon layer of defenses and stubborn resistance until I was ready to say an unequivocal yes to Jesus. Not too long after that my own words came back to haunt me.

I said that if it were true, it was worth giving my whole life to it… now, I know it’s true, but there is no way I can do it. I hate to admit it, but I love my life too much. I know none of it is worth a squat compared to You, but still… I can’t to it alone. I need Your help. Will You help me…?

All I am asking you to do is to listen to Me and follow Me today, just one step at a time.

Just one step? I think I can do that. I can do one step with Your help.

And so the story begins. One faltering step after another. Turning into an amazing roadway of faith and uncertainty, fear and trust, as moments became days and days became years and years became decades. Since then, empires have collapsed, wars erupted, countries have changed names and borders. I have been in possession of four different national passports, my identity stripped away from me with each changing government.

I also became Mrs. Doug and a few years later, Mrs. Caleb’s Mom and Ms. Victoria’s Mom. I had jobs I loved and jobs I hated. Babies have been born to us, and babies have died. I felt lonely beyond words and enjoyed the best of both worlds. Over the years, I’ve been acknowledged more than I deserve, and also deemed obsolete and non-mission critical. Cancers have visited our shores and dumped their baggage with us. I became a gardener and an interpreter. And a scribbler.

In one of the episodes of the TV series LOST the protagonists experience rapidly changing shifts from one time period to another. One moment they are here and now, the next they can find themselves 20 years in the past or 20 years in the future. The continuous change is causing severe stress on their minds, emotions and bodies. For some the changes impact them so profoundly that their very lives are threatened. In the course of the story we learn that individuals who have a strong emotional bond with at least one other person seem to be able to resist the detrimental effects of change. They have a constant. The constant gives them stability, a point of reference, motivation and most importantly, hope when the world around them seems to be falling apart. When I think of the continually changing landscape of my own life, I can clearly see one Constant, Jesus Christ. What an oasis of living hope and stability He is to all who listen and follow Him, just one step at a time.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. Hebrews 13:8

This morning, on the way to school, we noticed that one of our neighbors was disposing of a gorgeous, tall urn, which, upon closer inspection, we discovered had a small crack at the very top.



This must be the reason why they are getting rid of it. But I don’t care. I thought.



I’ve been priding myself in turning many a piece of our neighborhood trash into household treasures. This vase wasn’t going to be an exception. The crack didn’t bother me a bit. I visualized the exact place for it in our yard as I hurried the kids on so I could return and pick it up before the garbage truck comes and snatches it away.



If it’s still there waiting for me, it’s meant to be. If not,… I didn’t finish my sentence for we were at the gate. We said our quick goodbyes. I turned around, hopped onto my son’s bike and raced away. Just as I was crossing the street to enter our neighborhood, the garbage truck turned the corner and headed towards my prize.



Hey! Heeeeey!!!! I waved frantically. Wait! Waaaaiiiitttt! I yelled from the top of my voice as I ran like a mad vashti, pushing my bike as fast as I could.



I saw the man picking up the urn by one of its handles and tossing it in, onto the pile of bulging plastic bags and cardboard boxes. The truck moved on.



NO!!!! Noooo! I wailed desperately, still running, out of breath by now, still trying to catch up, making a complete fool of myself. The garbage-man must be deaf.



Finally, I slowed down and watched the truck drive away as the man finally turned around and looked at me quizzically. I shook my head in frustration and turned into our street.



You know, You could have stopped that truck! I grumbled. Just few seconds, and I could have had that vase! The more I thought, the more furious I got.



I would have been really happy if I had that cracked vase. I really wanted it. It’s environmentally friendly choice. It’s called recycling! I fumed.

Hon... I invented recycling... Turning trash into treasure is My specialt...

I rudely interrupted:


I would have had so much fun with it. And now, You ruined it for me! There!



We walked in silence for a while. I shoved the bike against the side of the house and walked inside, still upset. I had so much to do, but now all my motivation seemed to have driven away with that garbage truck.



You do that a lot, you know…



What?



That… running after the garbage trucks…



I DO?!!!! I’ve NEVER done that before! How can You say….?



You know what I mean…



Oh. … Ooooh! It finally dawned on me. The countless times I get mad at God for not giving me that trinket or the other, the treasures of this world's junkyards, which I know would make me so much happier if only I could lay my hands on them. Today’s incident was just a grotesque or perhaps, rather humorous (although right now it only seems humiliating) illustration of an internal habit I’ve been practicing for years. From yard-sales to peer-praise, and everything in between, somehow, I always manage to blame and resent God for not getting what I want. And all along the real treasures sit at my fingertips dormant.



I’m sorry…



I know. I forgive you. I love you.



I love You back. Thank You ... for letting me see...



“…where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” Matthew 6:21

Mom…?

It was rather early in the morning, still dark outside, when the voice of my son broke the silence and solitude of my time alone with God. I was struggling to shake off the drowsiness of restless night with a cup of strong Turkish coffee, hoping to dispel the fog that has enveloped my mind and soul by straining to make sense of the words sprawled out across my lap. Not much success in either.

Remember, yesterday…? You promised…

He stood there, in front of me, fully dressed, shoes on, shoelaces tied in double-knots, a picture of readiness to face the day. I couldn’t help but appreciate the stark contrast.

Yesterday? I promised…? I wrecked my brain trying hard to recall what he was talking about. What did I promise?

Well, you said that if I finish all my work, reading and the vampire bat project, I can have my LEGO magazines back. So, here I am, all done… He looked at me expectantly, beaming with self-confidence.

Some time ago I had to confiscate his magazines because they became a major distraction in his ability to take care of his basic responsibilities. Not because I thought that the magazines were bad, or because I wanted to punish him. I was helping him out by simplifying his overcrowded little life. Needless to stay, that’s not exactly how he interpreted my actions. I also communicated that when he shows sufficient maturity to handle the magazines appropriately, I would be glad to give them back to him. Over the course of the next several weeks, we had a number of ups and downs but eventually he seemed to have grasped what we’ve been trying to teach him, and started taking more ownership over his own life and its implied duties. In fact, he was doing so well that yesterday I mentioned he can have his magazines back… and then forgot all about it. But he didn’t. And so, first thing this morning he came to remind me. To take possession of the promise I have given. I smiled.

They are in the guest bedroom. You can go and get them.

I watched him bounce off towards the bedroom and looked down. Sprawled across my lap was the Book of Promises, the promises the infinite God who cannot lie spoke (and still speaks) to His people over many centuries – some unbelievable, amazing promises… that He would cause all things to work together for good for those who love Him; that nothing, nothing, NOTHING can ever separate us from His love; that He has wiped my ever-growing sin account clean and will not charge it against me; that He’ll never leave me hanging alone on a limb; and that He Himself will from this day, to the next and to the next, until I see Him face to face, stick with me and strengthen my weak body and faltering soul to do everything He wants me to accomplish in this life! And all this, not because I accomplished some long to-do list of His, but freely and cheerfully, no strings attached, no small print, just because His Son traded His life for mine.

However, in my case, it is not God who forgets His promises – I do! And then I sit in the ever-expanding puddle of self-pity, a pathetic anti-advertisement for my amazing heavenly Father until He sends me a little boy who reminds me what real faith is through his confident (shall I add, child-like?) trust and full expectation that what his mother, weak and flawed as she is, has promised, she will certainly do.

"Therefore, let us fear lest, while a promise remains of entering His rest, any one of you should seem to have come short of it. For indeed we have had good news preached to us, just as they also, but the word they heard did not profit them, because it was not united by faith in those who heard." Hebrews 4:1,2

I’ll watch your kids for few hours, and you do whatever you want. The spontaneous generous offer of a kind neighbor sent my mind into excited frenzy. Immediately I thought of countless ways I could spend these few precious hours of freedom…

Should I read? Or write? Should I clean the kids’ bathroom? Maybe I could run some errands? Respond to e-mails? Tackle one of those gazillion creative projects I never have time to do…?

It was a beautiful day outside, and it seemed like such a waste to be indoors. I considered my schedule and the fact that it is mostly driven by the things I have to do and the things I really need to do or should do.

But, what is it that I really want to do?

It didn’t take long to figure out the answer to the question. What I really wanted was to spend this time working in my yard uninterrupted! No restarting the mower a dozen times to attend to one emergency or another ; no pausing half-way to make lunch; no mediating sibling squabbles. Just me and the green jungle under the big blue sky, enjoying undisturbed peace and quiet for the next few hours. Heaven!

Within minutes I was in my working clothes, raking and weeding, mowing and edging. I was on a mission, and by the end of the two hours I was determined to have it accomplished.

The harder I worked the more energy I seemed to harness. I was unstoppable. The neglected lawn started taking shape, the out-of-bounds bushes were tamed under my swift garden clippers. I was zooming by behind the power mower, relentlessly bringing the unkempt blades of St Augustine grass under its irresistible control.

This is what I call fun! I muttered happily to myself, thanking God for this rare opportunity to be rewarded by seeing immediate results of my labor.

Before two hours were up, everything was done. The lawn mowed and edged, the bushes pruned, weeds pulled out of flowerbeds, and all concrete areas swept clean and spotless. I was impressed by myself! I stepped back to admire my handiwork.

It may not be Better Homes and Gardens yard, but this sure is best I can do with what we have here.

Tired and deeply satisfied, I slowly walked towards the front door. As I turned the corner, on the freshly swept sidewalk leading to our house a grizzly image assaulted my senses. There, in stark contrast to the clean pavement lay a mutilated body of a small creature, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a little frog, all bloated in the heat of mid-day, with guts and blood spilling out of its butchered body.

I was dumbstruck!

Who put this frog on my doorstep? I exclaimed. The mysterious appearance demanded investigation and swift punishment of the guilty party. I stood there, above the poor creature, feeling its pain, requiring justice on its behalf. The sky above stared at me blankly, not a word, not a cloud. Then, through its impenetrable silence two words broke out.

You did…

The two simple, one-syllable words cut through me like a knife.

I…?!!! I did it? I did it?!!! But,… but… how…? I was at a loss. How in the world could I have done this? And, when…?

Then, slowly, like in slow-motion movie, I began to reflect on my morning, on what I was doing, and even more importantly, the manner in which I was doing my work… My mission-minded determination, my clear goals and objectives, my power behind the lawnmower… all of a sudden, it all came together. I was in such a hurry to do much good today, and so invigorated by the process that I forgot… or rather, never paused to consider that this world, including this tiny piece of land we call our property, is not just my own. I may be its care-taker, but we share it with other creatures who find their shelter in its sanctuary… My blind intensity powered by my determination (not to mention the deadly tools I was wielding recklessly) didn’t make any room for the smaller and weaker creatures to escape the harm’s way as I was plowing down their homes and hideouts.

I bend over the unrecognizable form of the mowed-over creature, and wonder how many times have I, in my ignorance and arrogance, done the same thing to other smaller or weaker creatures under the pretext of spiritual stewardship, cloaking my sense of moral superiority with a thin veil of religious concern, in one breath straining the fruit-flies and swallowing alligators? … How many people have I pierced through with an impatient, razor-sharp word and mowed over with my arrogant “get on with my program” attitude, insistent on pushing my own narrow-minded, rushed agenda (for it is obvious that it will bring about much measurable good) – rather than waiting on God and caring for His creation like the holy ground it is, tenderly and gently, paying all the more close attention to those who are feeble and wounded, unnoticed and defenseless? My heart sinks into my stomach under the burden of excruciating conviction.

I scoop the grotesque mess of flesh and sinews and trudge to the side of the house, humbled and broken over yet another innocent victim sacrificed on the altar of inflated Self. The hot tears drip down on its tiny body, begging for pardon and forgiveness and cleansing.

Have mercy on me, oh God, have mercy on us…

It’s only been in recent months that the apparent lack of elevation in our garden started to bother me. Don’t misunderstand me. I like low-sprawling perennials, waist high hedges, easy to pick vegetables and the uncluttered, restful, empty space the green lawn provides (when it’s green!). But what I began to notice is that they all seemed to exert a continual pull on my eyes to focus downward. Suddenly, I didn’t appreciate that any more than I appreciated their apparently constant clamor for attention and validation.

Of course you are absolutely gorgeous, beautiful! And, you.. yes, I love your brilliant, showy colors. Your scent indeed is intoxicating, darling. And yes, you will make a great creamy soup in a few weeks. …But… what I really need right now is something that would cause my eyes to look up, rather than down… towards that outrageously blue sky, and the puffy clouds in the shapes of poodles chasing their tails, and birds playing in the wind, catching its current…Nothing personal against you, but I need… I need some trees!

So, I started thinking trees.

Years ago our now nine year old son decided to adopt a tiny maple seedling and grow his own tree. Clearly he was way ahead of his mother in being an advanced fore-thinker! He watered it and talked to it. He also forgot about it frequently, so I tried to fill in when his mind was preoccupied with more pressing things like LEGO cosmic battles. He would also regularly stand next to the tree to see who is taller. At first, he was the clear winner. However, the tree quickly closed in the gap and the race became very tight. Years later, the tree has outgrown him, his mother, the backyard fence, his dad, the neighbor’s pool enclosure … at the rate its going, soon the little tree will outgrow the house itself! Last spring we proudly hung up a small wooden birdhouse he made and painted on the tree’s lowest branch and since then we’ve been spying from behind the curtain on cardinals and squirrels paying visits to the Sonflower Cafe.

Planting a tree, I learned in the process, requires an entirely different level of commitment than planting let’s say, a squash or a periwinkle. The latter is here for a season, and then it’s transferred to the compost pile. The tree may very well be here long after I am gone. And that’s a sobering thought. The tree, like any other plant, starts small, sprouting from a tiny seed which came from another tree of its kind. But, I can’t allow its smallness to deceive me, for in few short years, it will transcend everything else growing in the garden. I may not even be able to wrap my arms around its trunk! So, I need to ensure that I pick a good spot for it – with plenty of sun and plenty of space for its roots to grow deep and its branches to spread out high and wide.

As the tree grows taller and taller, we will hang brilliantly painted bird feeders on its branches, and cardinals will make their nests in it, and squirrels will playfully chase up and down its convoluted highway system. But more importantly, with its hands continually stretched out upwards, the tree will exert that irresistible pull on the weary, earth-bound eyes of tired pilgrims to look up. When faced with wordless wonder above, perhaps some among them might recognize that even though we may be made out of the dust of the earth, the very breath of God, the untamable wind of heaven still resides inside our battered jar of clay. Some may pause for a few moments suspended between time and eternity, breathing in slowly, deeply, until their lungs are filled up with the heavenly air and their eyes lifted up, filled with wonder to face the One who lives beyond the clouds and in the quiet abode of their own broken hearts. Those will continue their journey refreshed and renewed, embracing the seeming contradiction, listening to the silent message of the trees all along the way, until one day they are finally at home, safe and complete in His arms.

The Door of Adulthood

Our nine-year-old son’s eyeballs looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets when with stunned delay his brain finally registered the words I uttered just seconds before:

You know, this is the least amount of responsibility you will have for the rest of your life.

He blinked, and then he blinked again. His eyeballs returned to their place as he mumbled,

That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard in my entire life. I have time for nothing – just homework, homework, homework! Besides, I only have twelve awake hours each day.

His little shoulders might have been sagging under the gargantuan load of his third grade homework, but his mind was as quick as ever to retort to the counter-intuitive truth he’d just heard. Whether he was willing to accept it or not, his lazy meandering days of early childhood when time is measured by snacks, library stories, Home Depot kids’ workshops and bedtime routine ended abruptly on the chopping block of growing academic demands. No more unlimited time with LEGO blocks. No more of those tough decisions whether to go to your house or mine for the daily play-date. We have officially tipped the scale and from now on there will always be more things for him to do than hours in the day to do them. My child, welcome to the portal of adulthood.

And, so, now, it’s up to him to choose how to respond to the ever-increasing pressure and pull on his time and energy resources.

Will he, being the type A personality, redouble his effort and try to cram as much as he possibly can into his mind, heart and schedule, trying to prove to somebody, anybody that he deserves the few square feet he occupies on this planet, seeking to make everyone who crosses his path happy - teachers, peers, mom, dad, aunts, uncles, telemarketers, and a god above – not realizing that with each act he is relinquishing more and more of the magnificent real estate of his soul?

Or, would he whine and complain about how much he has on his plate, and how stressed out he feels, wasting exuberant amounts of precious time on the favorite family sport called procrastination?

Will he become depressed and escape his overwhelming reality by living virtual, vicarious life somewhere in Cybergalaxy far, far away, getting deeper and deeper into denial and escapism while nourishing the illusion of connectedness and meaningful relationships?

Will he feel victimized by both external and internal forces, and in response to the sense of powerlessness become angry at genetics, government, global warming, Gutenberg, Google and, of course, God of all, blaming each and everyone for handing him the short end of the stick of life?

Will he paint impressive facades with glorious colors in a never-ending effort to hide his fears, pain and impotence?

Will he continue meandering through life like a perpetual child, never growing up, never taking responsibility for his choices, words, actions, the development of his gifts and relationships, shipwrecked on the island of Neverland with the rest of Peter Pans of this world?

Or, perhaps… he may see these new challenges as an opportunity to engage in the life-long journey of knowing his Maker, discovering more each day what it means to be formed in His image, and the unspeakable dignity this breathes into every aspect of his existence? Will he stick with this amazing truth and all its implications when everything around him seeks to degrade, diminish and destroy the family resemblance with the Creator of the universe? Will he discover that he has access to the supplies of strength which are sufficient to meet each day’s demands? Will he experience for himself that God’s Word has the same effect on His fogged-up spirit as Starbucks doubleshot espresso on his body (and that without side-effects!)? Will he learn to dance with the wind, letting his hair (as well as his small-minded personal goals and agendas) get all messed up and tangled, surrendering to its forces with joy and rest?

Will it ever dawn on him that he will always have all the time that he needs, to do all that His gracious Father has for him? Will he recognize the pull of the noisy distractions and his own need for control and refuse to pursue the phantoms of the outside and of the inside, being gently guided by priorities that transcend time? Will he…? Will he…? Will he…?

And... will I…?

So, we make a full circle. Clearly these questions are not for him only. For, the same threshold of adulthood greets my sleepy, blinking eyes each morning as my feet dangle on the side of the bed and I shuffle to the kitchen for a fresh supply of my daily dose of java juice. The invitation and the challenge offered to each of us every day. What will it be?



Mrs. P sure hit a jackpot this year, said my fresh-out-of-the oven second-grader after coming home from her first day in school, a tinge of resentment coloring her surprising announcement.

What do you mean?

She got all the kids from Mrs. D’s last year’s first grade class, she responded. After slight hesitation, she added, And I am all alone in Mrs.K’s class.

I let her statement resonate with me for a while.

I could visualize the wild and crazy bunch of party animals consistently torpedoing even the best of Mrs. D’s attempts to instill some academic prowess and social graces into them throughout the entire last year. I couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. P would agree on my daughter’s assessment of her class roster fortune. But, I decided that I don’t need to say anything about that.

I also knew that for now it would do no good to explain that Mrs. K comes with the superb recommendations from teachers, students and parents alike and that soon enough she would learn to love being under Mrs. K’s tutorage. Time will do that without my annoying assistance.

Nor did I want to jolt her memory by reminding her of how much she hated being in Mrs. D’s class exactly a year ago. Some of us have a harder time of dealing with change than others.

And, most certainly I wasn’t going to say that a huge part of me was tremendously relieved and grateful that the school administrators put a tad of distance between my little ring leader and her faithful band of rule-busting followers. Although I don’t mind my children enjoying their school life, I don’t see filling-up their fun tank as the primary objective of educational institutions.

But, despite all this, my heart couldn’t help but empathize with the classroom woes of Minnie-Me. How many times have I felt resentful when God’s developmental plan for my life didn’t match my desires? Everyone else gets to have fun while I am stuck all alone in this god-forsaken (or so it seems!) classroom of life, trapped with the Teacher I find too quiet and different for my taste, despite His superb recommendations. His syllabus for me encompasses some of the weirdest courses on the planet, like hearing the inaudible or seeing the invisible. Year in and year out, we wrestle over the issues of sovereignty and surrender; dignity and humility; judgment and mercy. His determination to teach me goes past all my whining and complaining. When I crave the noise and the glittery sillybands of peer praise and acceptance He creates a wilderness to help me find company in solitude. When I discover contentment and even happiness in this wilderness, He sends me into a mass to help me find equally elusive solitude in the crowd. And so it goes day after day, until my soul rests in the bosom of this utterly Other, learning to trust His goodness and care for me even when what He does makes no sense.

So, what do I say to this daughter of Eve… to this child of God? How do I invite her to join me in this unparalleled journey of grasping the incomprehensible which fulfills His destiny for her life? Perhaps I don’t need to say anything. Words are grossly overrated anyway. Maybe all I need to do is point the way by the manner I learn my lessons, in hope that some day she will see and know the Teacher for herself and learn to find the rest for her heart and her soul in Him and Him alone.

Mrs. S., this is not working!

A young man’s exclamation instantly sent my brain into a feverish review of all potential things that could NOT be working, hoping desperately it’s something I already knew about. The day before we had opened up our house and our back yard to our neighborhood kids as hosts of Backyard Summer Club – a four-evening, volunteer-empowered event designed to give elementary age children an opportunity to meet Jesus in a fun, creative and inviting way. When fun and creativity collide with hordes of people of all ages, one should expect casualties.

What is it? I asked trying to sound calm.

There is a big pile of dog doo in the middle of your yard, and all these kids are running around barefoot!

I looked out and saw dozens of kids and teenagers throwing Frisbees and kicking balls around the backyard lawn. Somebody must have let the dog out and apparently failed to pick up after her.

Oh, my! Thanks for letting me know. I’d better get out of there right away.

I grabbed some plastic bags and rushed out of the door but unfortunately just seconds too late. For, there, in the middle of our yard, I found the dog pile all flattened and few steps away from it a little boy standing covered in shame and embarrassment.

Ewwww, he stepped into it! Cried out several others.

The boy’s eyes were quickly filling up with tears.

It’s O.K., hon – it could have happened to anyone. I’ll take care of it.

I ushered the unlucky winner of the The-Grossest-Thing-That-Happened-to-Me-During-the-Backyard-Summer-Club award to the side of the house where I rinsed out his feet with water. Majority washed off immediately, but there were some stubborn pieces that refused to let go of his soft pale skin. I stood there deliberating whether I should go inside and get some rubber gloves, not really wanting to touch it with my bare hands. But as I looked into his dejected face, it became evident what I needed to do. I bent down and started rubbing his feet and gently scraping the remainder with my fingernails. After we finished, I washed my hands and slowly put the hose back, watching him prance away with his feet sparkly clean to join the rest of the group in carefree play.

I lingered behind, soaking in the metaphor we’d unwittingly played out. Life indeed is messy. All of us, sooner or later, find ourselves in all kinds of doo. I don’t mind helping you out, but my willingness goes only as far as your mess doesn’t infringe on me. What I want is a sanitized, rubber-gloved version of Christianity. A Christianity where I can keep you at arms length, never getting so close to your ‘stuff’ to contaminate my fingertips. But, in that aloofness, I miss out on the magical transformation that takes place on the side of the house, where in the communion of filth and cleansing, by the time our feet and our hands are rubbed clean, our faces, just like the little boy’s are also lifted up and we are free again to join in the play with the rest of His children.


He made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him. 2 Corinthians 5:21

I need to return these, I said to a cheery cashier as I pushed a plastic bag across the counter. It’s one of those creative projects I had in my head which never quite made it into reality, I added as if to apologize. My husband already has too much on his honey-do list, and I can’t do this one without him.

Oh, I totally understand, dear. You got to do what you got to do. And this, she pointed at the beautiful wrought iron plant brackets which I’d intended to turn into shelf brackets for our laundry room, This is NOT a necessity. This is vanity!

Ouch! That hurts. But, thanks anyway, I smiled feebly, wondering if God is trying to tell me something through the bubbling woman on the other side of the counter.

I pondered if I was really being vain and frivolous for wanting to turn a mundane, boring room of our house which is designated for a mundane, boring task into something beautiful and surprising. The fact that I live in a country where the gods of home-improvement and interior design reign supreme among the housewives of suburbia made the thought all the more worth considering. Have I bought into the alluring propaganda that if only I had just this one little thing, my life will be complete and I will be truly happy? And what happens if my pursuit of happiness creates a few casualties along the way?

The questions placed a scrutinizing spotlight on the rarely exposed cavern of my internal motives where egotism and generosity daily wage war for my soul... where love and sacrifice wrestle with sense of entitlement and pride – do I deserve this, or do I put it on the chopping block? Do I hold on, or do I need to let go?

The answers, you see, are not always easy to distinguish. For, it is in this place that I also discovered that there are days when beauty is as necessary to me as water and air. Its scent is an aroma of heaven reminding me that life is more than food and body than clothing. And that, sometimes, the most loving thing might be to graciously accept somebody else’s sacrifice on your behalf.

Last night while we were eating dinner our daughter brought up her pet creation theory regarding the probability of co-existence of humans and dinosaurs. For several minutes she elaborated her hypothesis with a keen enthusiasm of her seven-year old mind, while the rest of the family tried hard to listen politely. At last my husband came to our rescue (or so we thought!) and interjected that he might have a word or two to add to the matter.

As he launched into a convoluted explanation fit for a college professor, our stunned daughter did her best to listen with understanding for a total of about six seconds. After that an irrepressible glazed look finally washed all over her face. To my surprise, for the remainder of the Genesis lecture her big brown eyes were fixed without a blink on her brilliant and unfathomable dad, beaming with zero comprehension and absolute adoring love.

I couldn’t help but burst into laughter as I observed the perfect analogy played out in front of our very eyes. Even though most of the time God places the cookies on a shelf where I can actually get them, still too often I find myself at a loss in trying to understand His mysterious hand. His ways go far beyond my grasp. But when my puny mind reaches its limits and a blank stare takes over my face, my heart, just like my daughter’s, can still experience the adoring love for my endlessly smart and sometimes incomprehensible, heavenly Dad.