Circle of Life

There is a time for everything,

    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

 

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

 

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

 

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

 

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

 

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.

--Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

(Want the audio version? Here it is! To Everything There Is a Season)

Sometimes I get so busy, so caught up in life, that I stop really seeing what is going on around me. But over the past month, I have had the pleasure of watching a family of robins go from couple to family to empty nest, in the course of a few weeks. And I have been amazed.

Back in early May, when it was still quite chilly, especially at night, I was gone one day and when I came home in the evening, there it was on my front porch, high under the peak: a beautiful robin's nest, woven, sturdily constructed and decorated with a sprig from a money plant. I was so excited!

And the next morning, under the back awning, another surprise: a finch's nest. Not nearly the work of art the robins built, this nest looked more like a handful of grass and twigs thrown up with a prayer that it would stick and stay together. But a house is a house when it's built on love.

One Sunday when the kids were over, we were saddened to find a broken robin egg on the porch. The nest was too high to see if there were more, so we waited.

Pretty soon Mama began spending more and more time in that nest so perfectly tailored to her shape.

And on the back porch? I would peek out the door and see a red little head atop the disheveled pile of grass. Every time I would open the door to go out, she would fly away. But she always came back, and she, too, spent a lot of time on the nest. Waiting.

Soon the robins hatched: One, two, three-- four? I began to see wobbly heads perched atop spindly necks, wide open mouths silently asking for more. I remembered Jack Kent's great line in Round Robin. 

"Most of him was head, and the rest of him was hungry!" 

Man, oh man, were they ever! Mama made endless flights, pulled dozens of worms from my lawn, fed her babies all day long, it seemed-- and then hopped into that nest and sat right down on top of them. From inside the house, my cats and I enjoyed watching her teach and train those babies.

And meanwhile, out back-- still waiting.

The baby robins began looking less like aliens and more like birds. They began to stretch their wings a bit, and the peeping! So much noise from such tiny little heads. Soon I realized I was only seeing three heads. Somebody didn't make it. My heart caught a little.

Two Sundays ago I went out the back door and Papa Finch was visiting Mama Finch on the nest. As I came out, he flew, but she stayed put. My heart grew hopeful. 

But that was the last time I saw any finch on that nest. Apparently it was not their time.

Oh, but those robins! The kept growing, practically right before my eyes! Their feeble peeps became robust cheeps. Their wings spread and flapped at the air, and once, while I was watching, Mama hopped in the nest and gave one of her babies a firm nudge-- and suddenly he found himself out of the nest and perched wobbling on the porch beam. (That was the first time I had any robin poop on my porch, too. . . . lol)

Then it happened.

I got up Sunday morning, opened the front door-- and the nest was empty. I looked down to see a fuzzy little guy flapping and hopping like crazy, and Mama standing nearby keeping watch. The nest was strangely quiet. And so it goes. . . .

* * * * *

For a time, I am now blessed with a houseguest, a young lady beginning to make her own way in the world. As her parents dropped her off in the evening, I watched as yet another nest began to empty. Even as perhaps they couldn't name it yet, there would be quiet where there had been singing, a bed no longer rumpled with sleep. I could see this was harder on Mom and Dad than it was on their beautiful daughter.

Life goes on. In the face of loss, new life appears. This, friends, is what the Resurrection is all about. Yes, it's about a risen Lord-- but it's also about the renewal of life, not just at life's end, but every single season. Weeping and mourning may last for the night, but joy-- and peeping and stretching one's wings for flight-- will come in the morning. 

(Need another one? Circle of Life)

Star of the show

“To whom will you compare me?

    Or who is my equal?” says the Holy One.

 

Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens:

    Who created all these?

He who brings out the starry host one by one

    and calls forth each of them by name.

Because of his great power and mighty strength,

    not one of them is missing. --Isaiah 40:25-26

There was a meteor shower last night, did you see it? The Camelopardalids, results of a newly-discovered comet trail, made their debut over North America last night, and will continue overnight for a few days. Meteorologists predicted it would be a spectacular show, maybe as many as a hundred shooting stars per hour, and most active after midnight. 

Now, if you know me at all, I am definitely a morning person-- and not a stay-up-till-midnight-for-a-meteor-shower kind of girl. But I had had a nap. And-- I had had iced tea for dinner. So I decided I would go for it.

I grabbed a jacket, wished I had taken a blanket, as well. I headed out the back door, and Mama Finch didn't even bother flying off her nest as I went. 

I have an automatic porch light that comes on to be sure the burglars can see their way to my door all right-- and it came on right on cue. I went to the back of my yard, found the Big Dipper and the North Star to orient myself, dragged my Adirondack chair to a good spot, and sat down to wait for the light to go off. It was a gorgeous evening. Just gorgeous.

As I sat, I realized how deep the quiet had become. The only sounds I was hearing were human sounds: voices next door, a radio recapping the Indians game from the house behind-- cars and motorcycles whizzing down the Interstate a mile away.

No chirps, no buzzes-- not even a dog barking in the neighborhood. 

Everything was bedded down for the night, accepting of the darkness-- except us. People. God's most favored creation just can't find comfort in the night, it seems.

I sat, listening to my own deep breathing, feeling the heaviness of the dark (even in my citified setting). My phone buzzed softly, bringing a text from Montana and a smile to my face. Waiting. 

Then it happened: the first shooting star to cross my path of vision. It moved more slowly than I expected-- a wonderful benefit for these inexperienced eyes. 

I made a wish (as I had been told to do), smiled and settled back to watch for the next one.

I saw nowhere near a hundred shooting stars, but I did see a handful.

But the best part, for me, was having found an excuse simply to sit outside, late at night, alone under the great canopy of heaven. 

To realize, once again, just how tiny I am in the Grand Scheme of Things. I am but a speck, my life a glimmer (if even that). 

And yet. 

And yet in the eyes of the Creator, I am as important, as beloved as anything. And I am distinctly different, unique among all God's handiwork.

Never before and never again will there be another Heidi. Or-- another you.

Each of us was carefully, deliberately created to perfection. And while we may have mucked that part up a bit . . . still we are created in the image of the Divine. We are called by name, beloved of God.

And not a one of us is missing, for when we are absent God desires us and invites us to return. Time after time after time, no matter how badly we behave, still the Almighty One awaits our return, wooing us and pursuing us across time and eternity to bring us Home.

One might think that sitting in the dark under the vast expanse of the night sky would lead one to feel less significant. 

Imagine my surprise and delight to come inside feeling more aware of my place at the Table.

Come. Sit over here by me at the Children's Table. Enjoy the view.

In memory

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. --1 Corinthians 13:12

I lost a friend today, someone I did not know well. Someone who came into my world through the miracle of the Internet, as we exchanged snappy, sometimes irreverent comments on the Upper Room Reflections devotional site. 

He called himself Buzz, told me this nickname came about because he had "buzzard breath." I never met him, so I can't attest to that, one way or another. But here is what I do know about my online buddy Buzz:

He had a deep, deep love for Jesus. Like me, Buzz was part of the Emmaus community-- in Missouri, where he lived. And he was on fire for the Lord! We didn't always see eye-to-eye on the way to express this, but when someone was in pain, Buzz had a gift for writing what needed to be heard-- and what needed to be said.

Buzz had another deep, deep love in his life: his wife, Linda. She emailed me to tell me of Buzz's sudden death, and I am grateful. They were together for over 25 years, and he loved her as much on his last day on earth as he did the day they married. I am certain her heart is broken. She will be in our prayers.

And then there was their dog, Bocce. Sometimes it felt like Bocce was the "glue" that held things together when they were struggling. Ironically, it was while walking Bocce that Buzz fell, struck his head and died. Bocce is mourning today, as well. They know, don't they. Those friends we call "dumb" know when they have lost a loved one, a part of their lives.

So, Buzz-- I know, without a doubt, that you are now nestled eternally in the arms of the Almighty. And I bet you're not asking a single one of those questions that were on the tip of your tongue in life, because now, in this time beyond time, you have found the answers you sought.

You can see, fully and clearly in the reflection of Life, that you were, indeed, created in the image of the Divine.

It's a good look, friend.

And you know so much more, now, don't you.

Rest in peace, Buzz. Well done, good and faithful one.

Mosaic

There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. --Galatians 3:28

Over the past week or so, there has been this pattern, so to speak, emerging around me. Everywhere I look, reference being made to pieces in a puzzle, members of community, beautiful mosaics. 

This verse from Galatians. It seems like "we" tend to take it to mean that in God's Kingdom, we are all alike. There are no differences, no gender, no religion. 

That's bunk.

Imagining God's Kingdom that way is boring, and not what I believe God had in mind. From the opening words of Scripture, God is all about diversity.

Plants and animals of every kind God created, until the earth was teeming with variety.

God created us male and female. Why, now, would God neutralize (neuter?) the whole gender conversation?

Look around you. We do not all look the same. Not even close. Even within families, there is much variety.

Humanity much more closely resembles a bag of trail mix than a loaf of Wonder Bread, for pity's sake.

So what does this verse mean? 

I believe it means that these things are divisions that (for whatever reason) matter to us, but they are of no importance to the One who created all things and all people.

In the midst of creating, God paused a number of times and proclaimed, "It is good." After creating humanity, it was very good. 

If it was good then, if having all nature of things and plants and animals-- and human beings-- was God's delight and intent, guess what? 

It is still good. Very good.

Each of us, like the multi-colored pebbles or tiles in a mosaic, adds a unique glimmer of color, sometimes catching the light and shining boldly. Other times, we may be scuffed or damaged by our life's path at the moment, and be simply trying to hold our place. 

Even then-- especially then-- we are beautiful and beloved of God.

As you look at the person next to you on the bus, or behind you in line at the grocery, don't be afraid to see that they may be really very different from you. And at the same time, don't be afraid to notice that maybe they are taller/ shorter/ happier/ better off than you. 

Just don't, for a moment, allow yourself to think that they matter more (or less) in the eyes of the Almighty than you do. 

You are unique. You are loved. And you are absolutely perfect. Amen

Which way did he go???

The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified.  He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay.  Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’ Now I have told you.” --Matthew 28:5-7

(I bet you thought I had completely disappeared, didn't you? Nope. Just a long, unplanned hiatus while life whizzed past around me.)

It's Holy Week. 

We have completed another period of Lent, a time of introspection and, for many, self-denial. Perhaps we gave something up for those forty days, and perhaps now we can hardly wait to take it up again. Or perhaps we've discovered that that thing, whatever it was, wasn't as vital to our lives as we thought, and we can easily continue doing without.

Still ahead in our observances lie Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. 

We will recall Jesus' time in the Garden, when his disciples succumbed to the needs of the flesh and simply could not stay awake, keep watch with Jesus as he prayed.

And we will recall the darkest hours of Good Friday, when the whole earth was covered in darkness and Jesus-- even Jesus experienced a sense of abandonment by the Almighty as he hung flogged and nailed to a cross, awaiting the release of physical death. 

And of course, the next stop is Easter morning, or Resurrection Day. We will raise our voices high in praise and celebratory remembrance of the day death was forever defeated and life became victorious.

But remember: we have the benefit of about 2000 years of retrospection. 

Wander back for a moment to that first "Easter," when Jesus was first crucified.

Matthew tells it this way: An earthquake rolled the stone away from the tomb. When the women showed up to give Jesus' body the ritual attention he deserved, an angel was there, bright as lightning and white as snow, and (after initially scaring the bejeebies out of them) informed them that Jesus was not there, but had gone on ahead to Galilee. 

Can you imagine?

Dead people don't just stroll out of the tomb and head for Galilee. They don't just stroll out of the tomb and head-- for anywhere. And yet. The angel is very clear: He is not here. He is going ahead of you to Galilee.

So what does this mean, for us, today? Where are we looking for Jesus-- and where is he, really? Where has he gone ahead to wait for us to catch up?

Here's what I think: 

Many of us come looking for Jesus in our churches and chapels, our houses of worship. We show up weekly or monthly (or yearly) and affirm that God is safe in the heavens, all-powerful and enthroned above us all. 

And we return to our complex lives, assured that God will again be there when next we return to church or chapel.

It seems sometimes as if Jesus is always "one step ahead," as if we can hardly grasp him in the here and now. Even in church. Why is that???

Galilee, where the angel said Jesus had gone, was a working man's community. Fishermen, craftsmen-- people who get their hands dirty when they work. Quite probably not the most refined people you would ever meet, with distinct accents and perhaps a bit of lassitude in their religious practices. (How many times did someone make derogatory comments about Nazareth or Galileans in the Gospels?) Why return to that place?

I wonder. I wonder if the message Jesus wished to get across was that we won't find him in the places we expect, or the places we have assigned him to. And we won't find him hanging out with the people we might expect.

But if we follow him out into the world, if we are unafraid of spending time with those whom the world might mark as "less than," we just might draw closer and (re)discover Jesus. 

Not in some beautiful architecture or even some amazing landscape clearly wrought by a powerful Hand, but in the grateful gaze of a hungry child as we offer food. Or in tears shared following a loss.

Still, even with 2000 years retrospection, sometimes it seems strange that the King of Glory would choose to avoid pomp and spectacle. And that even as we would all love it if he would simply stay awhile with us, Jesus continues on the move, going ahead of us, preparing the way not only for the next life, but right here, right now in this life. 

Always on the move. Still the God who pitched his tent to dwell among us (John 1), yet ever ready to pack it up and move along, leading, guiding, patiently waiting for us to find him. Again. (Thank God for that internal GPS of the Holy Spirit gifted us following his death.)

So where are you looking for God/ Jesus these days? You may find him there, or perhaps find evidence he was there-- but don't tarry long. He is probably waiting for you.

In Galilee. 

Come prepared to work.

Gracious One, when life is challenging, remind us that you have gone ahead, to lead us and show us how we are best equipped to serve you-- in this world. Amen

Prayer, Child's Play-- and an Elephant Tale.

(No Scripture this time. This is my gift to you. May it bring a touch of joy to your heart 

and a smile to your face.) 

Once, long ago, in a land of ancient baobab trees and fiery sunsets, there lived a family of elephants: a big, strong daddy elephant, a kind and gentle mommy elephant, and a little elephant who just loved to play! And these elephants all lived together in the attic of God’s House.

Now the big, strong daddy elephant had a very important job to do. Whenever someone was in trouble and prayed to the Almighty for strength or courage, the Lord would, in his own perfect time, send the big, strong daddy elephant down from the attic to protect the child in trouble. The big, strong daddy elephant would flap his ears to stir up the wind and raise his trunk and send forth a loud trumpet call—and the person who prayed would be quieted and comforted, remembering the big, strong God he served.

The kind and gentle mommy elephant had a job, as well. Whenever someone was feeling lonesome or in need of a special touch of love and prayed to the Almighty for comfort or a quiet spirit—or even for enough food to get through the day—the Lord would, in his own perfect time, send the kind and gentle mommy elephant down the attic steps and out in to the world. She would flap her ears gently and whisper in the soul of those nearby, reminding them that when God walked the earth long, long ago, he taught his children everything they needed to know in order to take care of one another. And the person who prayed would find peace, a tender touch, a warm bowl of soup, remembering that soon someone else might need to be fed.

And the little elephant, who just loved to play, would watch her big, strong daddy elephant and her kind and gentle mommy elephant trundle down those attic steps, go about their flapping and blowing and whispering and come back satisfied, and she would wonder, “What will I ever be able to do to serve God? My ears are so small and my trunk is so short. What kind of prayer could I ever answer? I just love to play!”

And she would snuffle softly and feel sad—but not for long, because soon a dust kitty would blow across the attic, or a rainbow sunbeam would shine through, and the little elephant would be so captivated by its beauty, she would grin from floppy ear to floppy ear and be happy again.

“Play!” she would cry, “I just love to play!” And the big, strong daddy elephant and the kind and gentle mommy elephant would smile at one another and nod wisely. Her day will come, they thought. Her day will come. And they were right.

One day, a day when the sun rose and cast a perfect pinkish glow over the ancient land, a child wandered nearby, her heart tired and heavy. She stopped, sat down and began a familiar chat with the Almighty.

“O Daddy,” she said, “I just don’t know. I don’t know why I feel this way. I have a lovely home, I have food enough to eat and a warm bed to sleep in. But I just feel—empty. Oh, how I wish I had someone to play with!” And she sat there, in the quiet of the morning, and she prayed.

And the Lord Almighty, who loved his beautiful child best of all (next to the elephants), smiled gently. And he beckoned to the little elephant who just loved to play, and said, “Wonderful, joy-filled little elephant, it is Time. I have been waiting for just the right time to send you down the attic steps and out into the world. The time has come.” And gently, gently, the Lord nudged the little elephant towards the attic steps—but the little elephant missed the step and fell, rumble tumble head-over-teakettle down the steps, and landed with a >foof!< and an >OOF!<  and a big cloud of dust-- right in the startled child’s lap!

At first they just looked at each other. The child blinked, and the elephant snuffled. And then, all at once, the elephant shook her ears, wriggled up her trunk-- and sneezed! That sneeze shook her from the tip of her trunk to the bristled end of her tail, and she tipped over and landed, face first, in the sand. And she blinked with bewilderment at the child, whose wide eyes grew wider still.

And the child said, “Goodness! Gesundheit!”  And they both laughed.

And the little elephant clamored off her lap, tumbled over to a nearby puddle and slurped up a trunkful of water—and without even asking or thinking, she pointed her trunk straight up in the air and blew out every drop of that water. And the drops fell like cool, gentle crystals on the child’s head, and she giggled and smiled and laughed out loud.

Of course, that made the little elephant giggle and smile, too—and laugh out loud. And she said, “I just love to play! Do you?”

And the child replied, “I don’t know! I think so! Will you teach me? Show me how!”

And she gently grabbed the baby elephant by the ear, and together they went off to play, giggling and smiling. And every once in awhile, if you listened closely, you would hear one or the other laugh out loud.

And meanwhile, back in the attic, the big, strong daddy elephant and the kind and gentle mommy elephant nodded wisely at one another and smiled.

For God is so good. All the time.

Don't stop.

Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads.  Write them on the door frames of your houses and on your gates. --Deuteronomy 6:7-9

What a crazy winter we have had in Ohio! Snow on top of snow on top of snow. 

The "Chinese guard dogs" of slush and ice that the plows sculpted at the end of my driveway? Earlier in the week, they were pugs. This morning-- they are Great Danes. I shoveled as I was able, and the fluff and stuff are now piled as high as my armpits. At least. 

The front sidewalk, undrifted, has a good-- or should I say solid-- seven inches of snow. Where the winds have gathered it up, shuffled and and dealt it afresh, it's well over a foot deep in places.

They say on the radio that major highways are having to close because of accidents and unaware drivers. 

I spoke with a young lady yesterday when I gave blood. She is a senior in high school. She could say, quite literally, that this is the worst winter she has seen-- wait for it-- in her entire life! 

My neighbor, yet again, has shoveled out the grass in their back yard so the dog can do her business. (Yes, fans, this is yet another reason I am a cat person.)

All this snow has impressed upon me two thoughts this morning, as I listen to the growl and scrape of snow blowers and shovelers.

First: I love snow, I really do. But this past week or so, I don't believe there is a soul among us who has not confessed that we just can't take much more. Please! A little break-- just one melt? A few days above freezing? 

And yet. The snow, even in its massive, crazy quantities, is still blessing.

Blessing, even today, for children who are out of school and getting bored already.

Blessing for those whose livelihood depends on moving that snow off driveways and highways.

Blessing for those who will need the moisture for crops, come springtime. (And springtime will come. No doubt.)

But at the same time, I think sometimes, when the days are particularly wonderful, we do cry out to God in our hearts. God, I just can't take any more. I don't deserve this much blessing! Please-- a little break?

Truer words were never spoken. We do not deserve one iota of what we receive. 

And yet. 

And yet when we open our eyes and look around, the blessings are piled up nearly to our armpits-- and still coming down.

That's one thought. Here is the other:

I am writing this because-- I must. Because the day we stop telling our stories, we begin to die away. We begin to forget who and Whose we are. 

And I believe this is happening in our world, and in our churches. We are not telling our story, faithful and true. And so we begin to forget. 

Even the texts we have heard since we were wee ones begin to grow cloudy or unfamiliar. 

The Good News, the best story ever told, begins to fade and be silenced. 

We need good news. We really do. In a time when the evening news begins and ends with anger and despair? Yeah, we need good news.

So. Tell your story. 

Write it on your forehead. Impress it upon the hearts of your children. Do not allow your story to be forgotten. 

That is why I blog. Not because I make the big bucks doing so. Not because my writing is always scintillating or spellbinding.

But because it is My Story, and I can't, not tell it. And My Story is but a single episode, an epic moment in a much greater Story that cannot, will not die. Without me-- without you-- the story is incomplete.

You matter. More than you may know.

Gracious, Eternal Lord, teach us to tell our story. Help us through the rough spots. Show us where you never left, not even for a moment. And guide us as we walk together, shining light into the dark corners and reminding one another: we are never, ever alone. Amen