Jack

"Hey Daddy," Jack looks up from his paper, marker still bleeding into the masterpiece, "when I go up to heaven, I will show my picture to Jesus and explain it to him." Jack furrows his brow and continues coloring. It's a picture of the cross. "This will be my card for God," his voice quiet, it sounds like he's forgotten Daddy and me. "This will be my card for the one who died for me."

The one who died for me. Sort of makes everything else seem peripheral.

Resurrection Day

Breakfast and he's directing the play. "I'll be Jesus," Jack says, "and you can be an angel," he points at Jane and waves his arms, "that flies down from heaven, and sits on the tomb and says, 'HE IS RISEN!'" Jack uses his man-voice.

"And Lucy can be the women that come," Janie says, "and you," she points to me, "you can be the disciples." She turns to the living room, "I'll say, 'Why are you looking for the living among the dead?!" She turns a circle in her Easter dress, "Quick go tell the disciples and Peter!"

And so the morning begins. HE IS RISEN!

HE IS RISEN INDEED.

Sighting Day

At birthdays we all we take turns. Bellies feasted full, we divide up a lemon pie. Then, one by one, we say out loud good things about the birthday recipient. Grown men and women pause to squarely evaluate the miracle of you. It's a feast of words, the pie is just a garnish.

If photosynthesis were human we'd see it weave and grow right there between lemony bites of pie. The power of a word. ~I've really seen great courage in you this year... I respect how skilled you've become at your job... I'm picky, but you are the kind of person I'd trust my kids with... Everywhere I go I am so proud to be related to you... Your faith impresses me... The way you go the extra mile, that's the way I want my kids to be... I always laugh so hard when I am with you.

















This year to celebrate resurrection we offered simple sentences of God's work in us. One by one we groped for the words to encircle who Christ is. Layer upon layer we each offered our own portraits of grace. It was as if the resurrection unfolded there on a plain black table between forks and crumbs and elbows leaned in close. The layers of who we each know Christ to be fleshed out an image of my invisible God. I welled up in reverence, shame, and devotion. How is it that I've taken Holy Week so lightly? I left quieted in the bedrock assurance of God's presence. Worship, the starting point, when did I forget? He is RISEN. He is risen INDEED.

So here we are, simple offerings in hand:
~I am coming to realize I have nothing, nothing to offer God. Even my kindest acts have some selfish kick back for me. And, also humiliation is the beginning of humility. I should feel humiliated at my sin.

~God CHOOSES us. Breathtaking.

~Sometimes it is so hard to know if I am praying in the will of God. Other times, I pray for a small thing for someone, an extra, a blessing. I almost feel foolish to mention it. And yet, there God is answering with, "Yes." The kindness of God makes me weep.

~God's will for me may be different than my will for me.

~Passiveness and idleness are dangerous. And the devil is happy to entertain you, set you down the gentle road to destruction.

~God, please reveal something new to me this year.

~God is teaching me to find a sustainable faith.

~God is so patient with us, patient far beyond what we would ever tolerate.

~In graphing my greatest trials I see I have peaks of faith at every trial. I don't want to wish for trials, but I do want to know great faith in God.

~God always reveals himself at just the right time, never early, never late, right on time.

So there we are, it is sighting day and we are each catching glimpses, angles, snap shots of the King. There he is, there, here, over yonder, round back, disguised in the minutia of that situation you were sure he had left you in all alone. Sighting day.


Tell me your sightings!

His Hand is as BIG as the SKY

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(Click on pic for a larger image.)

He is Risen

Lift your eyes to the heavens.

He is risen.
He is RISEN indeed.

Resurrection Clothes

My children wore their Easter clothes to a funeral today. Resurrection clothes, I guess. Plaid and flowers hand in hands we munched over stodgy spring grass up a neat sidewalk to the funeral home. Inside my children's wide eyes absorbed black ornate rugs, soft and deep as quicksand, solemn faces, and I suppose, the knees of a lot of suits. Janie carried our handwritten card as a matter of rank. Jack held my hand.

With friends and relations we marked the passing of a friend of a dear friend. While people shared, I realized the shadow of this man was far greater than the man himself. I was struck by the indelible mark he's left on lives close to him. Funny, if the lighting is right, we are so much more than the sum of our parts. Isn't influence like this, a shadow cast far out beyond our feeble attempts at greatness. It's almost as if it sneaks up on us, piled up in small gestures, simple moments around a table passing the potatoes and carrying on about deadlines and raises and dessert. Suddenly before we know it, there behind us is a shadow quotient of all those days ironed out in a perfect silhouette of character. I was honored to come today with my kids.

I savored up mismatched moments of Jack and Jane racing over the front lawn, a flurry of watercolor blue and chestnut brown tangled in a game of tag. Race to sidewalk, race to Momma, lob a Cheerio in Lulie's mouth, refrain from tagging to the ground. Base! One of them grabs my leg.

In the end I left, shadows trailing behind. Each day I pray my face will be warmed by the light of my Savior that my shadow may rise up and honor all it touches.