Psalm 119:116- "LORD, sustain me as You promised, that I may live! Do not let my hope be crushed."
Hope shimmers like these new spring leaves hanging from stark branches: babies, quivering in the wind. Hope in little lamb trying to find the end of its long legs. Stumbling. Awkward. Hope in the new bird building its nest in the crook of the cottonwood outside our bedroom window. I think if I held my breath, I could reach across the balcony and stroke her wing. Touch hope. Look her in the eye. And try.
Let Your strength be made perfect in my weakness,
Bernadette
listening
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Oh, For The Love Of Feet!
"Why do you always write in fragments? It's very hard to follow, and why don't you use more nouns so I can understand what is going on?" She cocks her head at me then says, "No offense."
I smile into her eyes, innocent and dear. Nothing fragmented. No broken pieces. That soul not yet knowing its need to bow with all its strength to Him. Jesus. Her arms not quite aching with the holding up of worship and this desperate desire to build Him a throne. She is precious, and I take no offense.
Writing in fragments because I am one. Story not fully written, and His good work not yet complete. Not yet. I think of that long scar laid down and written in white flesh on my right foot. Our feet represent our walk with Jesus, and oh, hasn't mine been the broken one? The flesh opened to sin and shame and just bad choosing, only to be closed by stitches of His deep grace and His great love for me. Us. For our walking. I love that scar. His reminder that my feet must belong to Him too, and that they must travel the Truth Road or be sliced open again. Causing panic. Causing Fear. Taking us captive to pain. Again.
Fragmented feet. (I love feet!) Fragmented life. Words written down in the unfinished of who we are as we look through the mirror dimly. Seeing only in part. Smiling at the screen as I think of the One Who created us, and how the glory of who we are will only be revealed through Him. His time. No hurry. No rush. "I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God" Romans 8:18-19
He writes in fragments too. Me and You.
Bernadette
I smile into her eyes, innocent and dear. Nothing fragmented. No broken pieces. That soul not yet knowing its need to bow with all its strength to Him. Jesus. Her arms not quite aching with the holding up of worship and this desperate desire to build Him a throne. She is precious, and I take no offense.
Writing in fragments because I am one. Story not fully written, and His good work not yet complete. Not yet. I think of that long scar laid down and written in white flesh on my right foot. Our feet represent our walk with Jesus, and oh, hasn't mine been the broken one? The flesh opened to sin and shame and just bad choosing, only to be closed by stitches of His deep grace and His great love for me. Us. For our walking. I love that scar. His reminder that my feet must belong to Him too, and that they must travel the Truth Road or be sliced open again. Causing panic. Causing Fear. Taking us captive to pain. Again.
Fragmented feet. (I love feet!) Fragmented life. Words written down in the unfinished of who we are as we look through the mirror dimly. Seeing only in part. Smiling at the screen as I think of the One Who created us, and how the glory of who we are will only be revealed through Him. His time. No hurry. No rush. "I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God" Romans 8:18-19
He writes in fragments too. Me and You.
Bernadette
Friday, April 29, 2011
Walk The Line
Busy spring pulls family to the car, to activities galore, to stress to finish well and strong. Pulls us apart, and I lay on my bed yesterday afternoon for about half an hour weeping with all that we are doing. What are we doing? How in all the world is this glorifying to God?
I haven't looked at the whites of the Strong Soft's eyes in days. The Kind and Compassionate is cracking under the pressure to do well...even at something he loves. Boy blue is in trouble again for lack of school work, and the Silent Deep fairly groans at early mornings that will still earn him an incomplete as he goes off to boot camp. And how long since the Kitten and I have just held and held on? And how much tearing away can the Shoulders and I take? Before we too, are torn? It makes no sense. Nonsense. World, you spin too fast for me.
When do we sit at His feet? When do we meet? Except for the nod in the hall, and silent brooding over coffee in the morning. I miss them. HIM. And I wonder why we do this? Carry on like this? And I want to make it stop, make the spinning stop so I can walk a straight line. The straight line, right?
Here now. Draw a deep breath, for once. Be still here...just a moment. A moment, alone with eyes closed on the face of Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Be the God of today. Of now. Of all these children. Of this union. Of our time left here. Of me.
As I rush out the door to that place where they cover the grey of all this, I whisper to You, my King. " Keep us safe. Help us all to hear You today in the rush of being Americans. In the rush away from You. Let Your strong grace keep us. Keep our feet."
On the line,
Bernadette
I haven't looked at the whites of the Strong Soft's eyes in days. The Kind and Compassionate is cracking under the pressure to do well...even at something he loves. Boy blue is in trouble again for lack of school work, and the Silent Deep fairly groans at early mornings that will still earn him an incomplete as he goes off to boot camp. And how long since the Kitten and I have just held and held on? And how much tearing away can the Shoulders and I take? Before we too, are torn? It makes no sense. Nonsense. World, you spin too fast for me.
When do we sit at His feet? When do we meet? Except for the nod in the hall, and silent brooding over coffee in the morning. I miss them. HIM. And I wonder why we do this? Carry on like this? And I want to make it stop, make the spinning stop so I can walk a straight line. The straight line, right?
Here now. Draw a deep breath, for once. Be still here...just a moment. A moment, alone with eyes closed on the face of Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Be the God of today. Of now. Of all these children. Of this union. Of our time left here. Of me.
As I rush out the door to that place where they cover the grey of all this, I whisper to You, my King. " Keep us safe. Help us all to hear You today in the rush of being Americans. In the rush away from You. Let Your strong grace keep us. Keep our feet."
On the line,
Bernadette
Monday, April 25, 2011
By Way Of The Rod
Happy few stand by backyard fire waiting, in early morning, for the Son. Waiting for the sun to rise with it's fiery ball of glory and joy and hope. Especially as we mark the day. Resurrection Day. We sing songs to the One we love, all of us, and wonder that He has given us such eyes to see. The only God to be raised from the dead. The only God, seen by more than 500 living witnesses after His resurrection. The only God Who paves our road to freedom.
And pays the toll too.
My Shoulders reads from the Gospel of John. The story about John and Peter running to the cave. Remember? John outruns Peter, but stops to peer in. Peter charges ahead. We know Peter. He would have charged into the cave with one question. Krissy says it out loud. "Do I get another chance?"
"Do I get another chance?". Her mouth becomes unknown bow that shoots arrowed sentence. Piercing me. Direct hit. My heart. "Do I get another chance?". I dissolve straight down into tears. Jesus doesn't mess around. He knows everything, and we can hide nothing. We are the blessed and privileged ones when He wields His rod to strike us humble. To show us who we really are. To whip out anything unholy in His temple. To reveal an unforgiveness that I have been holding, fist clenched tight and lifted into His face. You know, the One Who suffered desperately for all the chances I would need. Demand.
All the times I have asked Him, "Do I get another chance?", He has taken me, the prodigal, the lost lamb, the missing coin, back into His fold. The fold of His arms. With joy. With thanksgiving.
And I? I withhold forgiveness? I put down hope and pick up death? Walk around with all that? Make him pay for all the hurt and sadness and living unknown? "Does he get another chance?". "Do I get another chance to give him another chance?"
Christ is Risen! He is Alive! He speaks to His people through His Word. And sometimes the words of dear friends. His Spirit is so sweet that even while He flails our bared backs with His rod, we must cry out in praise and thanks for this great love. He won't allow this lying slavery that goes on with us. With me. His people WILL be free! Mark it down.
And ask Him for another chance,
Bernadette
And pays the toll too.
My Shoulders reads from the Gospel of John. The story about John and Peter running to the cave. Remember? John outruns Peter, but stops to peer in. Peter charges ahead. We know Peter. He would have charged into the cave with one question. Krissy says it out loud. "Do I get another chance?"
"Do I get another chance?". Her mouth becomes unknown bow that shoots arrowed sentence. Piercing me. Direct hit. My heart. "Do I get another chance?". I dissolve straight down into tears. Jesus doesn't mess around. He knows everything, and we can hide nothing. We are the blessed and privileged ones when He wields His rod to strike us humble. To show us who we really are. To whip out anything unholy in His temple. To reveal an unforgiveness that I have been holding, fist clenched tight and lifted into His face. You know, the One Who suffered desperately for all the chances I would need. Demand.
All the times I have asked Him, "Do I get another chance?", He has taken me, the prodigal, the lost lamb, the missing coin, back into His fold. The fold of His arms. With joy. With thanksgiving.
And I? I withhold forgiveness? I put down hope and pick up death? Walk around with all that? Make him pay for all the hurt and sadness and living unknown? "Does he get another chance?". "Do I get another chance to give him another chance?"
Christ is Risen! He is Alive! He speaks to His people through His Word. And sometimes the words of dear friends. His Spirit is so sweet that even while He flails our bared backs with His rod, we must cry out in praise and thanks for this great love. He won't allow this lying slavery that goes on with us. With me. His people WILL be free! Mark it down.
And ask Him for another chance,
Bernadette
Friday, April 22, 2011
Open Prayers For Joshua
Sun setting on golden puddle ponds as I drive down the lane. Toward home. Mary is riding her scooter through "Lake Dan", the failed concrete pour for the shop pad. (Not a flattering name for the contractor, I realize.) Long fingered hands wave. Homecoming queen.
Andrew swings dangerously from a rope anchored to the strength of that cotton wood tree. Tongue sticking out. Wild adventures splash paintings on his imagination. Read the whole story on his face. In his wild eyes.
Lucy, the faithful to love, despite her intellectual weaknesses, waits on the front porch. She rises to greet me. Tail sweeping the air, smiling. Happy to see me. Happy to see anyone. Everyone.
In through the door. Home.
Daniel stands at the counter making a smoothie. Making a mess. He is drenched in sweat. Running a new hobby. A new survival tactic. Depression. The long winter. He is built and born to run. Sinewed body covering ground while feet pound. All that is the struggle of being thirteen.
The two oldest sit at the table with their heads bent together over pictures. Her hair light and long. Blond. His, dark and strong. The silent deep. I will deeply miss. This. Them like this.
Snap shots. Trying to hold these memories because time is so very faithful. To itself. And I am forgetful of all that I have been blessed to hold. These dear ones. This dear life. I want to cup their faces in my hands and in my heart.
How will they remember their time here? How do I let go without becoming a golden puddle pond myself? Can I smile? For them? For him?
Time is closing. The book of Joshua is coming to an end here on Lazy Lane. Never on my heart. But his bags figuratively lie packed all over the house, and his heart is waiting. To go. To be released. Daily, I see the strain on him to keep his wings folded in. Down. To "Obey your father and mother.". (Thank you, Joshua.) And yet, soon, very soon now, he will leap from nest of twigs and home and onto the great holding breast of YOU. The great I AM Who holds all things. Holds them up. Holds them together.
Watch the sky from knees. Wait for all the greatness of God to unfurl in his wings. To fill them, like the flag he loves so much. With freedom. With goodness. With love. With hope. As he circles up on wind currents of YOU, Lord, please, fill his eyes with Your wisdom, and give him Your vision. Give him eyes to see what is good. Pure. Lovely. Beautiful. You. Strengthen him to fight for freedom, Lord. For his own. For others. Keep his feet free. So his wings won't be broken.
Help him to remember You. Reach for You. Stay with You. This beloved son, Lord. And as You write the pages of his story, will you be kind? Will you help me to stay in line? With You? And will you always remind him, that, despite our great failures and our late starts, and our un-hearing ears, that he is loved? So dearly loved? By You? By us? Perhaps a fly by, with tipped wings, and him shouting, "That's for you Mama!". Just so I can wave my blessing, and smile and laugh my love to the sky. And just so I can feel the wind of his precious wings, like heaven, on my face.
That the next generation would soar in the strength of Who You are,
Bernadette
Andrew swings dangerously from a rope anchored to the strength of that cotton wood tree. Tongue sticking out. Wild adventures splash paintings on his imagination. Read the whole story on his face. In his wild eyes.
Lucy, the faithful to love, despite her intellectual weaknesses, waits on the front porch. She rises to greet me. Tail sweeping the air, smiling. Happy to see me. Happy to see anyone. Everyone.
In through the door. Home.
Daniel stands at the counter making a smoothie. Making a mess. He is drenched in sweat. Running a new hobby. A new survival tactic. Depression. The long winter. He is built and born to run. Sinewed body covering ground while feet pound. All that is the struggle of being thirteen.
The two oldest sit at the table with their heads bent together over pictures. Her hair light and long. Blond. His, dark and strong. The silent deep. I will deeply miss. This. Them like this.
Snap shots. Trying to hold these memories because time is so very faithful. To itself. And I am forgetful of all that I have been blessed to hold. These dear ones. This dear life. I want to cup their faces in my hands and in my heart.
How will they remember their time here? How do I let go without becoming a golden puddle pond myself? Can I smile? For them? For him?
Time is closing. The book of Joshua is coming to an end here on Lazy Lane. Never on my heart. But his bags figuratively lie packed all over the house, and his heart is waiting. To go. To be released. Daily, I see the strain on him to keep his wings folded in. Down. To "Obey your father and mother.". (Thank you, Joshua.) And yet, soon, very soon now, he will leap from nest of twigs and home and onto the great holding breast of YOU. The great I AM Who holds all things. Holds them up. Holds them together.
Watch the sky from knees. Wait for all the greatness of God to unfurl in his wings. To fill them, like the flag he loves so much. With freedom. With goodness. With love. With hope. As he circles up on wind currents of YOU, Lord, please, fill his eyes with Your wisdom, and give him Your vision. Give him eyes to see what is good. Pure. Lovely. Beautiful. You. Strengthen him to fight for freedom, Lord. For his own. For others. Keep his feet free. So his wings won't be broken.
Help him to remember You. Reach for You. Stay with You. This beloved son, Lord. And as You write the pages of his story, will you be kind? Will you help me to stay in line? With You? And will you always remind him, that, despite our great failures and our late starts, and our un-hearing ears, that he is loved? So dearly loved? By You? By us? Perhaps a fly by, with tipped wings, and him shouting, "That's for you Mama!". Just so I can wave my blessing, and smile and laugh my love to the sky. And just so I can feel the wind of his precious wings, like heaven, on my face.
That the next generation would soar in the strength of Who You are,
Bernadette
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The Scarlet Letter
"NOW HE USES US TO SPREAD THE KNOWLEDGE OF CHRIST EVERYWHERE, LIKE A SWEET PERFUME. OUR LIVES ARE A CHRIST-LIKE FRAGRANCE RISING UP TO GOD. BUT THIS FRAGRANCE IS PERCEIVED DIFFERENTLY BY THOSE WHO ARE BEING SAVED AND BY THOSE WHO ARE PERISHING. TO THOSE WHO ARE PERISHING, WE ARE A DREADFUL SMELL OF DEATH AND DOOM. BUT TO THOSE WHO ARE BEING SAVED, WE ARE A LIFE-GIVING PERFUME." 2 CORINTHIANS 2:16 "
Sarah playing my heart on the piano. She is beauty and music in our home. Creativity and art flow from her fingers. Coloring the world. Us. Making things lovely. The way she is.
She has been reading The Scarlet Letter for school. Angry with the ending. I've been thinking about it a lot. You know....
How it is when you walk into a room darkened by silent blanket that smothers all sound? The stench of death makes them turn away. Or snicker. Or mock. Sometimes their faces fill with hatred. You arrogant Christian! Judging others. Condemning them. And they know you. They know what you have done. They shake their sad heads that you have fallen so far from your brain.
"Who does she think she is? Wearing that letter. See it stitched in blood on her breast? That red "C" that that Man put there. The One Who said, "Go and sin no more.". The One Who let her off so easy. (Except for that thing He did on the tree.) The One she followed to the cross. To the letter."
You move through the silent room with His feet. The room that has no oxygen. Smile His smile. Reach with His hands. Try to love the walking dead and breathe the shallow breath of a stranger walking a strange land. Fish out of water. The weight of their judgement pulls you so hard to the earth that you feel your lungs collapsing. They are right, after all. But for Him.
You whisper to the heart of Jesus. "Help me." You straighten your spine. Lift your chin. You know to Whom you belong. He is what makes you. Makes you strong.
He is the great saving story, and He is the lyrics behind the music Sarah plays on my heart. Wearing the scarlet letter "C" for Christian. The letter that has replaced ALL the others. This is who I am. I belong to the Man, and I am carved on His hands. See those holes?
Bernadette
Sarah playing my heart on the piano. She is beauty and music in our home. Creativity and art flow from her fingers. Coloring the world. Us. Making things lovely. The way she is.
She has been reading The Scarlet Letter for school. Angry with the ending. I've been thinking about it a lot. You know....
How it is when you walk into a room darkened by silent blanket that smothers all sound? The stench of death makes them turn away. Or snicker. Or mock. Sometimes their faces fill with hatred. You arrogant Christian! Judging others. Condemning them. And they know you. They know what you have done. They shake their sad heads that you have fallen so far from your brain.
"Who does she think she is? Wearing that letter. See it stitched in blood on her breast? That red "C" that that Man put there. The One Who said, "Go and sin no more.". The One Who let her off so easy. (Except for that thing He did on the tree.) The One she followed to the cross. To the letter."
You move through the silent room with His feet. The room that has no oxygen. Smile His smile. Reach with His hands. Try to love the walking dead and breathe the shallow breath of a stranger walking a strange land. Fish out of water. The weight of their judgement pulls you so hard to the earth that you feel your lungs collapsing. They are right, after all. But for Him.
You whisper to the heart of Jesus. "Help me." You straighten your spine. Lift your chin. You know to Whom you belong. He is what makes you. Makes you strong.
He is the great saving story, and He is the lyrics behind the music Sarah plays on my heart. Wearing the scarlet letter "C" for Christian. The letter that has replaced ALL the others. This is who I am. I belong to the Man, and I am carved on His hands. See those holes?
Bernadette
Monday, April 18, 2011
Princess Again
Little girl sitting in living room chair, sun streaming through open window shades carving lines of shadow on her face. Breath catches in throat. Eight years old. Red dress with two kittens on the front. My Kitten. Pink polka dots on sleeves. Legs crossed so I can see the crotch of her tights stretched taught somewhere across mid-thigh. (tights!) Bright orange panties. She doesn't notice. She reads poetry to me. Her long, slender fingers cradle the book, and I wonder if she will grow to love words as much as her mama. Sometimes, she will hold the book up for me to look at the pictures. She tells me I might be afraid of this one...the one about the woman who has gone for a ride on a tiger, only to return from the ride, "inside". The tiger is smiling at the end of that poem. I am smiling at the poetry being read on the inside of me while little one reads. Words. She catches their rhythm. Falls in love with the pictures they paint. She asks me what the big words mean, then says, "Oh. I get it!"
No wonder painter's paint. No wonder photographer's expose the human face time and time. Light and light. I want to hold this moment forever. Keep it. If she were a statue, I might bow down to her. And for this reason, the Lord is Lord all. And I am the god of nothing.
She has asked me to write a story with her about a knight who falls in love. I try to steer her away from such silliness and she agrees to title it, Princess to the Rescue. In the end, even though the prince gets rescued by the princess, my Kitten won't have it any other way. The Prince must rescue her in return. This really gets me. Makes me think. Contemplate some things. Ah! Contemplation!
Little Mary has no problem with being rescued by a knight in shining armour. This girl doesn't even blush at words like "darling" and "true love" . Doesn't bat an eyelash at all the romance going on in the story. The knight confessing his undying love. The princess returning his love with her beauty and a closet full of dresses that abound in ribbon, labor under lace.
Why am I irritated with her? Why do I keep trying to convince her that the princess can rescue herself AND her man? She keeps turning the story back around so that she is always being cared for, being called "darling" and being cradled in her knights arms. Did I mention that she is not blushing? Even as her brothers mill around? Even as her sister rolls her eyes? Even as I try to make the princess in our story "strong"? And why do I feel dirty? Like I'm stealing something from her?
Is that incurable romanticism planted in us by the Savior? I wonder. Does the only One Who can love us like that carve the empty place inside our hearts...all hearts, so that we will be always disappointed with our earthly knights? Never satisfied. Really? Are we meant to get around that notion so that we begin to see our husbands, not as rescuers, but as dear brothers in Christ? Am I even making sense? Maybe the Lord wires us to need to be rescued. To be called "darling". To find out that only He can do it. Really.
And what of our knights? Must they too come to the end of trying to rescue us from our castle keeps of insecurity? From trying to convince us that we are not dumb or ugly or fat? What happens when they realize that they will never be enough, never be strong enough, romantic enough or winsome enough to rescue us from ourselves? Mustn't they then either fall on their swords or on the great saving power of Christ? "Oh,God, save me from this great body of death!"
Mary redirects the story again. Back to The Knight Who Fell in Love, and I begin to shift as well.
Savior. He can move the mountains.
Our God is mighty to save. Mighty to save.
He is coming again, you know. This Jesus. And I believe He will be riding on a white cloud horse. Suddenly, my precious daughter seems wise beyond her years, and I begin to look, again, for my saving Prince. Perhaps even today!
Bernadette
No wonder painter's paint. No wonder photographer's expose the human face time and time. Light and light. I want to hold this moment forever. Keep it. If she were a statue, I might bow down to her. And for this reason, the Lord is Lord all. And I am the god of nothing.
She has asked me to write a story with her about a knight who falls in love. I try to steer her away from such silliness and she agrees to title it, Princess to the Rescue. In the end, even though the prince gets rescued by the princess, my Kitten won't have it any other way. The Prince must rescue her in return. This really gets me. Makes me think. Contemplate some things. Ah! Contemplation!
Little Mary has no problem with being rescued by a knight in shining armour. This girl doesn't even blush at words like "darling" and "true love" . Doesn't bat an eyelash at all the romance going on in the story. The knight confessing his undying love. The princess returning his love with her beauty and a closet full of dresses that abound in ribbon, labor under lace.
Why am I irritated with her? Why do I keep trying to convince her that the princess can rescue herself AND her man? She keeps turning the story back around so that she is always being cared for, being called "darling" and being cradled in her knights arms. Did I mention that she is not blushing? Even as her brothers mill around? Even as her sister rolls her eyes? Even as I try to make the princess in our story "strong"? And why do I feel dirty? Like I'm stealing something from her?
Is that incurable romanticism planted in us by the Savior? I wonder. Does the only One Who can love us like that carve the empty place inside our hearts...all hearts, so that we will be always disappointed with our earthly knights? Never satisfied. Really? Are we meant to get around that notion so that we begin to see our husbands, not as rescuers, but as dear brothers in Christ? Am I even making sense? Maybe the Lord wires us to need to be rescued. To be called "darling". To find out that only He can do it. Really.
And what of our knights? Must they too come to the end of trying to rescue us from our castle keeps of insecurity? From trying to convince us that we are not dumb or ugly or fat? What happens when they realize that they will never be enough, never be strong enough, romantic enough or winsome enough to rescue us from ourselves? Mustn't they then either fall on their swords or on the great saving power of Christ? "Oh,God, save me from this great body of death!"
Mary redirects the story again. Back to The Knight Who Fell in Love, and I begin to shift as well.
Savior. He can move the mountains.
Our God is mighty to save. Mighty to save.
He is coming again, you know. This Jesus. And I believe He will be riding on a white cloud horse. Suddenly, my precious daughter seems wise beyond her years, and I begin to look, again, for my saving Prince. Perhaps even today!
Bernadette
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