How much MORE?

“Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? ¹⁰ Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? ¹¹ If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!" --Matthew 7:9-11

(Three posts in short order. How much more can she have to say?)

This morning I looked out the window at my back yard, and desperately wished I had found time to rake the leaves yesterday. Before the rains came. The flat roof was buried; the postage stamp-sized yard now brown and soggy with the leaves from the pin oak tree-- next door. 

Dang. 

Someone reminded me that I would have just had to rake again, anyway, but I missed the crispety, crunchety "fun" rake. The one that leaves my ears ringing, that tempts me to rake, shuffle through the pile-- and rake again. 

I took my usual morning walk, and as I walked, decided I just needed to rake, anyway. Just because. I rationalized that tomorrow is trash day, so the leaf sucker trucks will probably be along soon, as well. And besides, there was more rain, heavier rain in the forecast.

So I grabbed the gloves, grabbed the rake, grabbed the push broom and set to the task.

Good grief. How can one tree offer so many leaves? So much more  than I could possibly want? And not only that-- take a look:

Still PLENTY more leaves where these came from. But I had decided to do this, and I did. I raked till there were no more leaves to rake (today).

I raked them onto the l-o-o-o-n-g driveway. And then I pushed them down the l-o-o-o-n-g driveway to the treelawn. At one point, it began to sprinkle. I had a little chat with the Almighty, suggested how much I would appreciate it if the rains held off just a little longer. Please?

The sprinkles stopped. 

(I know what you are thinking. And I am unsure how I feel about this. Kind of like the God of Parking Spaces. But God asks us to be like little children. So-- maybe. . . .)

But then, a few minutes later, there was a distant clap of thunder. Not nuts about the idea of being outside raking leaves with a metal-handled rake in a thunderstorm. Faster, heidi, faster. 

I remembered the story of Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel named Mary Ann, and how they worked a little faster and a little better, trying to finish the basement of the new town hall before the sun went down.

Another clap of thunder, louder than the first. And some random raindrops. Nearly finished. 

A few minutes later, and my task is complete. Like the local laundry. In [a big pile in the driveway] by 10; out [to the treelawn] in an hour.

See? The car gives you a clue how big my piles of leaves were.

From barely half of one tree that isn't even in my own yard. How generous is our God? Oh, if only those oak leaves, crunchy like potato chips, were edible. I would be set for a very long time. 

And the best part (maybe): Within 10 minutes of coming inside, the lightning cracked, the thunder came closer and the clouds opened wide. Those forecast storms arrived right on time.

* * * * *

So later today, when my shoulders are aching and I can only "Like" your status instead of commenting, because my hands are just too tired and stiff, remind me why. Remind me-- go ahead, rub it in-- that I am no longer as young as I used to be. 

And lest we forget that God provides for all in their need-- Look at the great hideout this kitty found when the rains drew near:

Time to go take some Advil. 

* * * * *

Thank you, Lord, for your many, many blessings, even (especially) for the ones that come well disguised. May our hearts be opened to receive your gifts. Amen

"Coincidence"?

Keep on loving each other as brothers (and sisters). 

Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it. --Hebrews 13:1-2

Ever have one of those moments when suddenly, ever so briefly, God's plan just pops into focus and you see Divine fingerprints-- all over the place? That was my Sunday afternoon.

It began with worship, as usual, and after worship, my usual time of prayer with a small group. We shared our concerns, celebrated the beauty outside the window, prayed for our community. You know-- just another Sunday in the Circle. 

I don't know why, exactly, but after the Circle of Prayer broke up, I just decided the day was too beautiful to waste. So I threw my stuff in my car, left Sherwood in the church parking lot and took a walk.

My church is neatly perched above the Wade Park Oval, a lovely place for a stroll. I tucked my camera in my pocket, took a walk (and took some pictures) and just enjoyed the stunning beauty of the season.

As I headed back towards Sherwood, who was waiting so patiently, I saw a young woman, probably in her thirties, striding up the front steps of the church. She tried the main doors, first one and then the other, and finding them locked, slowly started back down the steps.

I called to her, said i wasn't sure how much help I could be-- but did she need some help?

She stopped, slowly replied no . . . but by then, I was close enough, I no longer had to yell.

She told me she just likes to visit churches and sit in the quiet. Her accent told me immediately: she was not from around here.

I asked if she would like to walk with me, and we could try some other doors together and see if one would open. She smiled and agreed. (I knew which door would likely be open. Was that cheating?)

As we went in through the lower door and made our way up the stairs, I introduced myself and asked her name. Julia. And her accent? Yep. German. Turns out she was from Dusseldorf, had been in Cleveland for seven weeks and was headed home the next day.

We wandered into the sanctuary, with its high ceilings, magnificent stained glass and Moravian star. It's an amazing space, and Julia was appropriately awestruck. I asked if she would like to see the chapel, as well, and she said, "Yes, of course!" So we walked together back down the aisle. 

And she shared why she seeks out these quiet churches, just to sit.

"Two years ago, my husband died. He had a heart attack. He was here one hour and then gone the next."

How about that. Of all the churches in the area, she is drawn to this one. And the two of us discovered, in that moment, that we share a deeply personal story.

We talked about what it's like, about the people who would be so much happier if we would just "get over it" and move on. About times when we have been knocked flat-- by a song, by a glimpse of someone who looks just like "him." She was so grateful to speak with someone who had a clue what it was like (although I readily admitted I could not imagine losing my husband at her even younger age).

I asked Julia if she would like to just sit by herself in the quiet for a while. She seemed surprised that we would allow her to do that, but immediately said yes. So I gave her a hug, made sure she knew how to get out of the church when she was ready, and took my leave.

* * * * *
All of this, just to say-- you never know. You never, ever know what God might be up to, and where God will use you. I will probably never see Julia again, but in this moment, in this space, there was a bond that cannot be explained.

And I am okay with that.

O Wise One, thank you for glimpses into your plan, however brief. Help us to be aware, to follow your nudges, for we never know. Amen.

Maybe-- even here.

“Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it. . . . 

How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven.” --Genesis 28:16b, 17

It all started this morning with a lovely reflection from The Upper Room folks, quoting The Africana Worship Book, Year A:

‎"An altar, a pew, a seat on a bus, a kitchen table: all become holy places when we confess before God. Today, in this holy place, God meets us, hears us, and forgives us. In this holy place, God empowers us with genuine love to share with a hurting world. Be for God a holy loving people." (Kwasi I. Kena)

And I was completely taken by those words.

Every Thursday, a handful of us gather at the local bagel place for a time of community and prayer. (These are my Baptist friends. We intermingle. In public. lol) It's early. We meet at 6:45, before the day gets too crazy, and are on our way before 7:30 most days.

We always try to sit at the same table, a long one off to one side.

The other "regulars" are there: Randy, who comes to read the paper, and the woman who always brings her big plastic glass from the filling station and fills it with bagel-shop soda. Others come and go.

This morning there was a very tall, very elegant, very pregnant woman in high heels who apparently drew the short straw and got to pick up bagels for the office. (Very pregnant.)

The intoxicating smell of fresh coffee fills the air. I love the smell of coffee, even though I don't drink the stuff. I love the way the odors of coffee, hazelnut and fresh-baked bagels mix and mingle, announcing the start of another busy day.

Blenders blend, slicers slice. Every few minutes an obnoxious bagel timer goes off, piercing through the ordinary sounds of morning with its persistent shriek, demanding attention NOW, like a colicky baby. 

And through it all and above it all, the quiet conversations. 

Parents asking children what they want on their bagel. 

Old friends, surprised to run into one another, sharing a quick hug and a life update in thirty seconds or less. 

Some pastor lady (me) reading Scripture aloud, engaging her table mates in conversation. This morning it was about Moses and Aaron striking the rock, even when the Lord had instructed Moses only to speak  to bring forth water.

Denial from the Promised Land. A heck of a price to pay for disobedience and lack of trust in the Lord. A tough lesson this morning.

And again, I was thinking about this Upper Room message.

An altar. A pew. A table in a bagel shop. A bench at the park. A bedside chair in a hospital room. The rocker in a child's nursery.

Anywhere. Any place at all becomes holy ground when we pause to seek the face of the Almighty.

Because he is already there, just waiting for us to wake up-- and smell the coffee. 

* * * * *

Pause for a moment, right where you are. Close your eyes-- and listen. Take a breath-- and smell. Draw deeply into your lungs the life-giving presence of the Lord.

You are the temple of the Holy One. You. 

And if that is not a wonderful, wonder-filling, humbling thought, I do not know what is. 

Gracious, ever-present, ever-loving Lord, open our eyes to your presence in the everyday. May we learn to see your face in the faces of your children. And may we, like Jacob, be overcome by the reality of your most perfect love. Amen.

Just-- beat it.

They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, 

nor will they train for war anymore. --Isaiah 2:4b

This passage is a comforting, hopeful, loving little bit. It comes early in the book of the prophet Isaiah, before the Almighty's message becomes one of judgment. The words here are lovely-- but seem, to me, somewhat agrarian for this city girl-- and a bit outdated. 

So I was wondering what it might mean, how it might look-- to me, today, in the heart of the city. So here is my story:

My mother and sister are coming for a visit soon. This is never a big deal for me. I am who I am, and they are family. So I seldom stress about whether the house is super tidy or any such stuff.

Then I spotted a Groupon deal for 51% off housecleaning services. Two hours for a ridiculously cheap price. 

I looked around, saw the accumulation of dust in the corners and decided it was worth it. Definitely.

So we emailed back and forth. I gave them my dates, they responded that they were nearly booked, but had time in an afternoon, a week before my family was coming. It was very short notice-- a mere two days' lead time-- but I jumped on it.

And, as we silly women do, I set aside time to "pre-clean," to pick up the junk, shrink piles where possible, stuff like that.

I was ready, and I was psyched. 

The morning they were to come, I received an email: "We are so very sorry, but due to a family emergency, we are unable to come when we planned, and will not be available for appointments until [after your family has gone home]. We will contact you to reschedule."

I admit it: The first word to cross my lips was my favorite one. And one that often brings "the look," and a comment-- "You're a pastor?" Ha. Yep. And human, too.

After all, the only reason I bought that Groupon was to have this place spiffed up before my family came. I had spent a whole evening pre-cleaning. And now-- well, sheesh. 

For about five minutes, I allowed it to be all about moi. I brandished my sword mightily, felt distinctly hurt and miffed. It was a little "war" within.

And then another voice seemed to be saying, "You-- are a pastor."

And in that moment, I had the opportunity to beat that nasty little sword into a plowshare.

These women had a family emergency. It was serious enough to cause them to have to close up shop for over a week. That is a long time for a small business owner. Believe me, I know. I was one for a time.

And I stopped, right then, with the pity party and offered prayer for them both.

I think this is what this passage is about, what it looks like to me, today.

Taking a step back from feeling slighted, or ridiculed, or angrily blasted, and instead of responding in kind, turning the other cheek. 

Choosing to offer love, peace and a prayer instead of blustering and bile.

Today, October 4, is the Feast day for St. Francis of Assisi. This lover of God offers many memorable life bits, but here is his most famous prayer:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled as to console;

to be understood as to understand; 

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

Falling in love again

“All men are like grass,

    and all their glory is like the flowers of the field.

^7 8 

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

    but the word of our God stands forever.” --Isaiah 40:6b, 8

Ah, fall. The scent is in the air. Each breeze brings the reminder that this season of "prequel," of crispy, crunchy beauty is coming.

I love fall. It is, easily, my favorite time of year. And not just because my birthday comes in the fall. . . .

Fall, or autumn, if one is a linguistic purist, always seems so dramatic. On the heels of summer, when everything has screamed of life and vitality, now the air begins to take on a chill. The verdant greens turn to russets and browns.

The quiet stillness of winter is just around the corner. Change is on the wing.

Change. 

The jet trails bisecting the sky, confident at first, then slowly dissipating until they become whispery memories of promise, disappearing among the clouds.

That cloud. It looks just like . . . a hippo? No, it's changing now. An elephant. I am sure of it. 

And now it's a goose. 

Change. 

A couple weeks ago, the art museum had a chalk festival. Square after square after square of the concrete sidewalks was covered with beauty, first conceived in the mind and heart of a boy or a girl, a child or a grownup-- or a team-- then brought forth in ecstasy and excitement, with giggles and smiles, intent looks of concentration. The paths around the pond were transformed into a crazy quilt of many colors, some vivid, some more subdued. Gorgeous!

And then the rains came, again and again.

Yesterday, faint traces still remained of the once-vibrant artwork. Reds and oranges, blues and pinks all run together, smeared like greasepaint on the face of a sad, sad clown.

Change.

Trees begin to drop their leaves, one, two-- then every once in awhile, with a shake and a flurry, a whole mess of leaves drops at once. Time for raking, time for gathering-- time for crunching and rolling in the leaves, if we dare.

Change, they tell us, is good. We should learn to embrace change. 

Will you? Will you take a chance? Revel in the change of the seasons?

Change-- or die. There is truth in that statement. Once we stop changing, we do, indeed, die-- but even in death, the change continues.

Yet the one true God remains unchanged and unchanging, forever and always, proclaiming himself, “The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin" (Exodus 34:6-7).

Autumn is all about change, leaning forward towards a season of quiet and sleep, yet one still filled with immense and intense beauty, pensive and patient, waiting once more to be revealed to those who have eyes to see it. 

And yet the Almighty, the Creator of it all, remains steadfast and true, before we ever made an appearance in this planet and long, long after we have departed. Change is good.

Thanks be to God.

Life, and love, and this world all pass through seasons. How will you mark their passing? 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HcSDli-Byn8

C'mon. Let's take a walk, crunch some leaves and look for another elephant in the clouds. The mark of the Creator's promise of good things yet to come. Amen?