“Didn’t it seem like, when we were kids, lilacs lasted all summer long?” my sister once asked me.

I had to agree. Evidently, as a child, I was oblivious to things like the passing of time and the life cycles of flowering plants. When I think about my childhood home, I remember winter ending, sunshine returning, and lilacs blooming in my mother’s yard. Summer loomed long before me, and childhood was pleasant.

One early June, the summer before my husband and I were married, I planned to cut a bouquet of lilacs for my apartment before he came for a visit. Each time I walked past the bank of bushes which lined the parking lot at the rear of my building, I drank deeply of their fragrance and color. When I went out scissors in hand to clip a few blossoms to bring indoors, I was stunned to find most of the flowers had turned brown and their lovely aroma had faded. Until that day, I had not realized how short was the season for enjoying lilacs.

Since writing my post about the color yellow, I’ve been thinking about what else I might add to my soul care toolkit. I definitely need to pack some lilacs in there.

“Consider the lilies,” Christ told his followers when they were tempted to doubt the Father’s goodness or question His provision for them. He pointed them to the stuff of this creation which was spoken into existence by the word of God and bears witness to the same.

Each spring I don’t just wait for lilacs to bloom, I will for them to return. As soon as I seen signs of life in flowering trees and plants, I begin examining my lilac bushes. I squint my eyes in search of the slightest hint of lavender, the tiniest cluster of a flower bud beginning to form. I know the lilacs’ signature scent won’t return until the flowers begin to open, so I search out the first floweret which unfurls and drink its aroma deep into my lungs.

I don’t just enjoy lilacs; I bury my face in and inhale them.

Because I know these flowers will be with me for such a short time, perhaps two weeks at best. I don’t take them for granted. They are a gift to me each spring, a lovely and gracious one from the hand of my Father. They tell me something of His delight in giving me good things. And they remind me of something important about Him.

God cares about things like beauty and fragrance.

Within the myriad of detailed instruction God gave his people about building His tabernacle, He told them to build an altar of incense. And the fragrant smoke which ascended from the altar, reaching toward heaven and representing the prayers of God’s people, pleased Him.

And when I am tempted to doubt my Father’s goodness or question His provision for me the scent of lilac wafting through a spring breeze feels a little like a love letter from Him. He reminds me that the cry of my heart, whether in joy or in pain, arises like a sweet-smelling aroma to Him. When I take time to sit beneath my lilac bushes and allow myself to be enveloped by their fragrance, I am reminded that God cares about the cries of my heart. And He delights to give good gifts to his children.

I have told my children that, when I die, I intend to do it in May. Not necessarily this May, mind you, should the Lord tarry and continue to give me strength. “Fill my casket with lilacs,” I’ve told them, “so I’ll be able to drink in their fragrance forever.”

Already the lilacs in my neighborhood have begun to fade and turn brown, and this grieves me. I know I will wait almost another full year before they return and make my heart glad. I long for a world where lilacs bloom eternally, just as they did in childhood memory.

I have already commissioned my rock-star diva girlfriend to sing at my funeral which, I tell her as a cancer survivor, is how I know she is going to outlive me. And don’t even try to pick apart my logic here; just go with it.

The song I have asked her to sing is There is a Land of Pure Delight, an old hymn written by Isaac Watts and recorded by Red Mountain Church. The lyrics, in part, are these:

There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign,
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.

There everlasting spring abides,
And never withering flowers:
Death, like a narrow sea, divides
This heav’nly land from ours.

Granted, Isaac Watts’ words don’t carry the weight and authority of scripture. Perhaps lilacs won’t bloom eternally in heaven. But maybe they will. And, if so, each time I bury my face in a bunch of them, and inhale them deep into my lungs, I am feeding my soul a foretaste of heaven.

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We never wore those pink dresses again.

The road in front of my cousin’s house was so very different from the ones in my neighborhood. Mine were safe, quiet, and predictable. But for the whimsical elegance of those terminating at Hillcrest Circle where a decorative fountain once flowed, most streets were laid out in a grid crisscrossing the town. On those streets I learned to observe traffic rules while riding my bike and to look both ways before crossing on foot. Fifth and sixth grade safety patrols held out their arms to guard the intersection which led to my elementary school, only dropping their hands when they deemed  the road safe for younger students to cross.

I have been down a few different roads since those days of pink seersucker and safety patrols. Some I have no intention of revisiting.

I remember a number of family trips taken out west when my children were young. Many of the roads we traveled seemed little more than steep switchbacks and hairpin turns carved onto narrow ledges leading over and through mountain passes. Allowing barely enough room for two cars to a clear one another, the ground beyond the roads’ shoulders often dropped off steeply toward oblivion. Or Hades. Or Mordor.

And those who had constructed the roads seemed indifferent to the need for guardrails, as if to communicate, “This is the West. It’s dangerous here. Exercise caution. Drive at your own risk. Or don’t exercise caution; we don’t care.”

Once, after a day of hiking at Dead Horse Point State Park in Utah, my husband discovered a dotted line on a map indicating a road named Pucker Pass. Ever open to adventure, he turned our rental car off-road onto what he thought would be a shortcut back to our hotel. Perhaps the posted warning signs might have clued us in that Pucker Pass was not going to be a real time-saver. Would-be travelers were advised not even to attempt the road without a high-clearance four-wheel drive vehicle. Also, signs indicated that should emergency assistance be required to rescue a car trapped on the road, removal fees would likely exceed $1000.

We made it through the pass, having had to stop at least once for my husband to remove a boulder from the middle of the road. I have no need to make that drive ever again.

My children grew up within the relative safety of a neighborhood on a cul-de-sac. There, they could roller skate and ride their bikes and scooters out on a road which seldom saw traffic. The year my daughter left for college, I followed in my car as she and her father drove north together in her little gray Subaru. Prior to that trip, she’d had very little experience in highway driving. As I watched her signal and change lanes, and saw tractor trailers merging practically on top of her rear bumper, I screamed out prayer, “Lord! Take care of my baby girl! Those trucks are so big and she’s so little!” Every mile down the highway placed distance between her and the safety of the cul-de-sac.

I watch as others who are very dear to my heart travel a winding, unpredictable road. Their way takes unexpected twists and turns, and signposts for navigation seem few. Their paths don’t seem to register on a smart phone or a GPS; there is no dotted line on a map marking the way for them to follow. There seems light enough to see but one step forward at a time; they walk in the company of few faithful companions.

Yet safety calls out from behind, “This is the way, walk in it, when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.” (Isaiah 30:21)

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Click here for a virtual ride through Pucker Pass.

Linking, for the first time, with Nacole @ Six in the Sticks for #concrete words, and with emily and the imperfect prose community:

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If there were such a thing as a soul-care toolkit, and I was to begin assembling one, one of the first items I would pack into mine would be the color yellow.

When I married the beloved Swede nearly thirty years ago, I asked my bridesmaids to wear yellow. His groomsmen all wore brown tuxes, but that’s a conversation for another day. In our defense, it was the early eighties when many of us made unfortunate fashion choices.

A year ago when I was discussing blog redesign ideas with a friend, I told him my site needed to have yellow in it, but I didn’t know why. Last week a friend invited me to meet her for lunch. Afterward she asked if I wanted to stop by her house to see her daffodils. There were nine hundred and fifty-two of them, she told me. She’d counted.

As we stood together, surrounded by a sea of spring flowers, I told her I remembered reading somewhere that, during seasons when he was experiencing relief from the mental illness which tormented him, Van Gogh tended to use more yellow in his paintings. When I got home, I did a little online sleuthing to see if I could find any confirmation for my story. I didn’t.

Some sources suggested certain Van Gogh’s vision was affected by certain medications he took to treat his physical and mental illness, and these caused him to see yellow or yellow spots. Some in the art world speculate that Van Gogh merely painted what he saw. I did find, however, this quote from a letter written to his brother in 1888:

Just now, we have a strong glorious heat, with no wind, just what I want. There is a sun, a light that for the want of a better world I can call only yellow, pale sulphur yellow, pale golden citron. How lovely yellow is!

The world outside my window is currently aflame with yellow. Forsythia is in full bloom, and even the pesky dandelion–cursed by homeowners who labor to eradicate it–turns it spiky yellow petals toward the sun. Perhaps even the miseries of this life are tinted yellow to bear witness to some hidden beauty.

While scripture reminds me the grass withers and flowers fade, and only the word of the Lord endures forever, it also points me toward the one who leads me beside still waters to restore my soul (Psalm 23:2). He visits the earth and waters it; he crowns the year with his goodness, and he causes little hills to rejoice on every side. (Psalm 65:9-11)

And he is the one who graces the world with the color yellow.

Another friend said to me recently that, as years go by, she finds herself increasingly surprised by the return of spring. And I knew just what she meant. Although God’s word tells me he has set the sun in its circuit (Psalm 19:4-6) and ordered the moon to mark out the seasons, (Psalm 104:19) my soul grows weary throughout the cold, dark days of winter.  Though spring has returned faithfully each year of my life thus far, sometimes I am tempted to wonder, “What if this year it doesn’t?”

When yellow returns it speaks to me of hope, it whispers to me of resurrection. It restores my soul.

I see yellow and I am reminded that out of darkness light will dawn once again; mourning will make way for joy. Out of death, life will rise. It has before, it will again.

And the one who rose from the dead is the very same one who wove this pattern into all of creation. He is the one who numbers the stars and calls each of them by name. (Psalm 147:4) He knows mine.

And he gives me the gift of yellow.

How about you? If you were packing a soul-care kit, what would yours contain? And what’s your favorite color? Why?

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Joining the writers at Living the Story @ BibleDude who, throughout the month of April, have been celebrating our ability to Rise and grasp the wonder of Christ as we walk out Eastertide. Today, Margaret Feinberg shares how we nurture awe and live wonderstruck in the every day.

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And I wrote not a single syllable.

I sat down at my desk, logged onto my computer to take care of some online banking, and quickly became distracted by the pile of file folders next to me and on the floor. As one who wears the label organized with no small measure of pride, I find piles of clutter mess with my psyche in profoundly disturbing ways. I blame the piles for the shower date mix-up.

In order to make space for my folders, I had to weed through many which had resided in the deep file drawer since my daughter had used the desk as a high school student. I unearthed homeschool records, transcripts, and letters of recommendation; copies of applications for colleges and scholarships, and several years’ worth of support letters from short-term mission projects in which both of my children had participated. I pitched catalogs from which I had ordered school uniforms for my son. I shredded outdated copies of FAFSA forms

As I sorted piles of paperwork representing years of my children’s histories, I was completely unprepared for the effect my little archaeological dig would have on my heart.

I found a copy of the speech my daughter had written in her seventeen-year old voice, one she had intended to deliver at her graduation party though she never did. She had composed words of appreciation for teachers and mentors, and pastors and friends, who had walked with her throughout her childhood and taught her about music and life and faith.

I uncovered the letter she had received from the admissions office of the college she attended, the one notifying her of her acceptance. I had forgotten how personalized the letter was, the admissions officer having taken care to quote excerpts from recommendations written on her behalf. I pictured myself holding the envelope while sitting in the parking lot of a bus station as I waited in her little silver Subaru for her to return from a weekend trip. I recalled the mix of emotions I felt as she opened the letter— both pride in her acceptance and disappointment that my first choice of colleges was not also hers. Her decisions about college and life were beginning to diverge from mine, yet they turned out to be okay and they turned out to be good.

Programs from Baccalaureate services from both high school and college were tucked away in files next to one another. Graduation announcements, napkins, confetti, and other memorabilia tumbled out of another folder. I found a picture of my daughter, dressed in her high school cap and gown, posing in front of the Snow Fountain Weeping Cherry tree in my front yard.

As each folder and every paper passed through my fingers, I remembered how important each had seemed at the time. Each signified major turning points; each represented years of doubts, fears, questions, and prayer. Everything which had once seemed monumental had, over time, eased into its place of proper proportion. I held onto a few of the treasures I unearthed, choosing several to pass along to my kids, but not many.

As I look out the window from where I sit here at my writing desk, I can see the Snow Fountain tree about to reach full flower. Each year I look forward to the beauty of its blossoms; each year its blooming is bittersweet. No sooner do its flowers fully extend than they begin to fade away and fall to the ground. Six seasons of blooms have passed since my daughter posed in front of this tree in her cap and gown.

Time goes by and seasons pass. I filter once important papers through my hands. Former milestones yield their way to greater glories. And all men are like grass, and all their glory is like the flowers of the field; the grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of the Lord stands forever.*

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*From yesterday’s call to worship. Joining Michelle, Laura, and Jen and the sisterhood.

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I never say to my son, “Please bring forth your laundry from the dark recesses of your closet.”

I don’t call my husband at work and ask, “If it’s no trouble, would you sally forth to the local market and pick up a gallon of milk?

I don’t call my daughter and tell her, “I plan to venture forth to visit you over Memorial Day weekend.”

And yet when I talk to God, I use the word all the time.

“Send forth your Spirit,” I pray. “Let the gospel go forth. Show forth your power.”

Granted, there are certain words I use only when talking to God: Glory. Transcendence. Majesty.

But sometimes when I’m praying and I stop to listen to myself, I begin to wonder, “Why am I talking like this? This doesn’t sound like me at all.

I’m sure, in part; my word choices reflect the language of the King James, the gospel vocabulary on which I was raised. And, at times, I’m probably just mimicking speech patterns I’ve heard when listening to others pray.

More often than not, however, I’m probably just filling in dead air space. Like an awkward teen on a first date, I keep blathering on in God’s presence because the possibility of silence in the conversation seems far too uncomfortable for me.

This week, I am among several other friends who are discussing chapters .004 and .005 of Margaret Feinberg’s book, Wonderstruck. Feinberg describes, in chapter .004, the wonder of reclaiming God’s life-giving gift of Sabbath. She wrote of the ways in which adopting practices of ceasing and rest awakened her more to the reality of God’s presence and goodness in her life.

It seems fitting to me that, after describing how she made more time to be with God, Feinberg devoted a chapter to discussing how she spent time with him in prayer. She recalled a Lenten season during which she felt moved to give up lengthy prayers and replace them, instead, with carefully crafted ones of no more than three words. Feinberg wrote:

Most mornings I stumbled into lengthier prayers by mistake. I paused and rephrased. Then stumbled again. The painstaking process left me frustrated and edgy. Prayer times expanded, not because I felt close to God, but because crafting even a few comments took so much time.

I also recognized I’d slipped into something one of my favorite writers calls “magical religion”— those moments I convince myself I can control or conjure God through my words or actions. Though I never outwardly admitted to such practices, my new time with God exposed a deep-seated belief that if I just prayed long enough or was more articulate or heartfelt then God would answer.

Anyone who has visited here a time or two and read my words can attest that I can be a bit wordy. Verbose.  Garrulous even. Not to mention repetitive and redundant. It probably wouldn’t be difficult for any of my readers to imagine what my prayer life might be like.

I take out my prayer journal and anguish over the names written there. I ask God to act. I beg. I plead. Sometimes I offer suggestions:

“If you would just do A and cause B to happen, then change the course of the wind and weather and, finally, insert tab C into slot D, I’m sure everything would all come out right.”

As though the God of all heaven and earth needs me to coach him in doing anything.

Other times I ramble on, filling up space, perhaps saying things because I think I am supposed to say them. And I have to wonder if, at times, God might not just want to interrupt me and ask,

Are we talking about anything here, or are you just talking?

Feinberg offers no magic formula for prayer. She doesn’t reference a command from scripture restricting the entreaties of God’s people to three simple words. Yet this chapter challenges me to think about how I converse with God when I approach him in prayer.

Frankly I don’t always know how to pray on behalf of many of those I care about. Since I was a child, I have offered up the words which the Lord taught his disciples to pray:

Your kingdom come, your will be done; on earth as it is in heaven.

But I look around and see these things are not the case. Some days the words in my prayer journal sound more like those from the script from a Lifetime television movie than something one would find in the pages of a respectable middle-aged Presbyterian woman. Things here on earth aren’t being done as they are in heaven. Not yet anyway.

I’m learning I don’t have to offer God solutions. I don’t have to beg him to be present or ask him to act with compassion toward others. He has already promised to do these things. God’s willingness to bring about his purposes depends on his character and his promises, not on the words I use or the earnestness of my pleas.

Sometimes I ask for specific things on behalf of others: healing, wisdom, clarity, reconciliation, forgiveness, rest. Other times, I echo his words back to him,

Remember when you said you would be God, not only to me but also to my children and my children’s children? Remember?

I haven’t tried limiting myself to three-word prayers. I am learning, however, simply to sit before God, give voice to my concerns, and release them to him. In doing so, I am affirming I believe he is at work and is going to do everything he promised in order to make thing right.

Just how he brings that forth is, of course, entirely up to him.

Joining the book club discussion co-hosted by Shelly Miller @ Redemption’s Beauty and Duane Scott @ Scribing the Journey. And with emily wierenga’s community for imperfect prose:

Source cited: Feinberg, Margaret (2012-12-25). Wonderstruck: Awaken to the Nearness of God (p. 78). Ingram Distribution. Kindle Edition.

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The day had dawned with brilliant spring sunshine, the kind that allows a person to believe winter might finally be over and done with for good. The sun’s warmth had begun to coax glimpses of green from the dead and gray of thawing ground. Birds seemed to have remembered their songs. As we drove toward church that Sunday morning we passed rushing and tumbling streams, filled to overflowing with runoff from melted snow.

“It would be a great day to canoe the Willi,” said my husband. I could see he was picturing the particular section of the Willimantic River he had in mind, beginning in the town of Willington, Connecticut, and flowing downstream through several other villages before reaching the Eagleville Dam.

While at church, he talked my brother into joining my daughter and him on his afternoon adventure. After returning home I helped him load the canoe onto his truck, together with paddles, life vests, and all the other equipment they would need. I followed my husband in my car to my brother’s house so I could leave a vehicle downstream where they would finish their paddle. My brother climbed into my husband’s truck clad in a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops. He decided, at the last minute, to grab a hooded sweatshirt, just in case the temperature dropped.

Which it did.

As the afternoon progressed, the strong morning sun yielded to gray and cloudy skies which proceeded to unleash cold, drenching, bone-chilling rain. Although the precipitation never changed over to snow it gave a powerful impression that, at any moment, it just might. My brother yielded his hooded sweatshirt to my daughter who sat in the middle of the canoe as he and my husband paddled.

I believe the memory of the cold which settled deep into his bones continues to haunt my brother. That canoe trip with my husband set a benchmark for misery which, in his experience, has yet to be surpassed.

I’ve been thinking about something I wrote in last week’s post for the Wonderstruck book club discussion hosted by Shelly Miller and Duane Stuart, and I’m not sure I got it quite right. I said,

The works of God’s hands do not contradict his written word; they serve it by breathing color onto the black-and-white of the printed page.

I believe that is mostly true, albeit metaphorical. God’s Spirit breathes life into the words of scripture, opening our eyes to its truth. And creation doesn’t always bear faithful witness to its Creator. Although formed in perfection and declared by its Creator to be good, this world is corrupted by sin. Creation itself is in rebellion against the One who called it into being.

Yet God continues to point toward the works of his hands, even in its fallen condition, to illustrate the truth of his word. In chapter 003 of Wonderstruck, Margaret Feinberg wrote:

The psalmist reminds us God’s faithfulness is woven into the canopy of the heavens, his loving-kindness displays itself throughout the earth. The subterranean depths of the ocean speak of the wisdom of God’s judgments, and the horizons herald how far God removes our sins. God’s rule reveals itself in day, night, and seasons: his voice rumbles in the thunder.

On the days we begin to question God’s power or sovereignty, the psalmist points to the hail, fire, wind, and snow as elements that obey God’s command. In the moments we start to question God’s saving grace, the psalmist recalls the miracles of salvation in the sea and storm to remind us no one resides beyond God’s rescue.

Slide Peak, Photo Credit: Chaz Owens, elder of my two 2-headed brothers

Last summer my husband invited my brother on another outdoor adventure, this time for a hike in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. They summited four peaks and, near the top of one, encountered fifty mile-per-hour winds. My husband pursues these kinds of experiences and continues to invite others to join him because they drive home for him realities about God’s power and sovereignty. He says these wilderness adventures serve to remind him:

We’re not as big and important or as in control as we think we are. We tend to think of ourselves as something important but, when you’re standing out there in those conditions, you realize you’re just a speck.

Yet a speck deeply loved and cared for by One powerful enough to sustain all of his creation.

Although he describes it as one of the hardest things he’s ever done, my brother said he enjoyed last summer’s hiking trip with my husband. After completing some steep climbs and enduring some harsh weather, they were treated to some stunning views.

And, he is quick to add, it was by no means as miserable as that spring canoe trip.

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Joining Shelly Miller @ Redemption’s Beauty and Duane Scott @ Scribing the Journey in their book club discussion of Wonderstruck, by Margaret Feinberg. And with emily wierenga’s community for imperfect prose:

Source cited: Feinberg, Margaret (2012-12-25). Wonderstruck: Awaken to the Nearness of God (p. 53). Ingram Distribution. Kindle Edition.

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What’s your favorite Jelly Belly flavor? Least favorite? Go.

I learned that some of my friends held strong opinions about gourmet jellybean flavors. Some of their comments surprised me. Both buttered popcorn and black licorice flavors seemed to evoke passionate responses, either for or against. People tended to prefer either fruity flavors or spicy ones, and they didn’t appreciate being surprised when what they thought was a red cherry jellybean turned out to be hot cinnamon one. Or vice-versa. Friends I thought I knew well and with whom I have much in common expressed preferences which were the complete opposite of mine.

You just never know about some folks.

Me? I’m a buttered popcorn girl. All the way.

At a women’s retreat I attended a few years ago the speaker held up a picture of a woman and asked participants to describe what they thought they could tell about her. Based on clues in the photo, some offered guesses about the woman’s age, ethnicity, income level and professional status. Someone suggested perhaps she worked in a city. Another commented on her appearance of health and physical fitness.

The speaker invited us to look more closely and began to ask deeper questions:

Could we tell anything about this woman’s personal hopes, dreams, fears, or failings?

What did we know about the status of her relationships? Was her heart breaking over someone dear to her?

Was she suffering from addiction or abuse?

What was the result of her last mammogram?

What does she most need to hear right now?

“Often the least important details about a person,” the speaker said, “are the ones which are most evident.”

In a recent sermon from the Gospel of John, a visiting pastor commented on the phrase with which the author most often identified himself. Describing himself as the disciple whom Jesus loved, John made evident what he considered to be the single most important detail about himself.

Not how much he loved Jesus.

Not what he did for Jesus.

Not how much he knew about Jesus.

Nothing about who he was, or what he did, nothing else in John’s life compared to his overwhelming sense of the depth of Christ’s love for him.

I reveal quite a bit about myself, both online and among my friends. Much of it is trivial, bordering perhaps on the inappropriate. It is evident from my words and photos that I am tall and have a head full of gray hair. I blather on about my handsome husband, my terrific kids, and my outstanding grandson. Though I’m no poet, I can become downright lyrical about my love for the beach, shenanigans, and all things Christmas.

And, it’s no secret I have little self-control when there’s a stash of Easter candy in the house.

But I wonder if someone were to describe me based on what I’ve revealed about myself, would anyone possibly come up with: She knew she was deeply loved by Jesus?

I sort of doubt it. And that troubles me. Because the only way for me to communicate a profound sense of knowing I am the one whom Jesus loves, I’d have to live as though I believed it were true.

How about you? What do you think others would choose as the most important detail to use in describing you? Would it be: He/she is the one whom Jesus loves?

Of course, you’re free to share your favorite Jelly Belly flavor in the comments as well.

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Joining Michelle DeRusha for Hear It, Use It and Jen and the Sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

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All around the internet, I kept seeing references to Margaret Feinberg and her book, Wonderstruck. The book sounded like something I’d enjoy reading, but I also thought perhaps its themes were ones I’d already encountered: Open your eyes. Look around. Be attentive. Be wonderstruck by evidence of God’s presence all around you.

I had learned from Ann Voskamp of the beauty and benefit of practicing gratitude, so I wasn’t sure what else I might glean from Feinberg’s words. And I’m not even sure what motivated me finally to purchase Wonderstruck, but I am so glad I did. Reading these words nearly undid me:

Several years earlier I had been in a place in my spiritual journey where God seemed nonexistent. I was still carving out time to connect with God each day. Reading. Scripture. Praying. Solitude. Though I emptied my bag of spiritual discipline tricks, nothing seemed to change. I arrived at church empty and left unsatisfied. I read from Psalms. Proverbs. Obadiah. The Gospels. Even Leviticus. Nothing connected. Worship was meh. Conversations felt flat.

“Where do I go, God? What do I do?” All I heard was crushing silence, the kind that’s empty and full, quiet and deafening all at the same time.

And, oh, how familiar that place sounded.

Feinberg then went on to describe a spiritual pilgrimage she had led in the Scottish Highlands. After fellow participants had shared their hopes and prayers for the upcoming trip, Feinberg told the group she was praying for pixie dust.

And I was smitten. Because I knew exactly what she meant. Feinberg continued:

More than anything, what I long for is our God, the One who bedazzled the heavens and razzle-dazzled the earth, to meet us in such a way during our time in Scotland that we find ourselves awestruck by his goodness and generosity, his provision and presence. I’m praying for pixie dust. I want to leave here with a sense of wonderment as we encounter and experience things only God can do.

Now I am a writer, a word girl. And I adhere to the reformed tenet of sola scriptura—Scripture alone as the only authoritative rule for life and faith. And yet I understand this longing to be bedazzled by my heavenly Father, to be wonderstruck by the magnificence of his creation.

Because I believe God reveals himself both through his word and the heavens which declare his glory. It’s not either/or; it’s both/and. And before any of my good reformed friends start sounding alarm bells about me wandering too far off the doctrinal reservation and into some sort of pagan tree-hugging worship, let me toss in a few words from John Calvin’s commentary on the book of Genesis:

We see, indeed, the world with our eyes, we tread the earth with our feet, we touch innumerable kinds of God’s works with our hands, we inhale a sweet and pleasant fragrance from herbs and flowers, we enjoy boundless benefits; but in those very things of which we attain some knowledge, there dwells such an immensity of divine power, goodness, and wisdom, as absorbs all our senses. Therefore, let men be satisfied if they obtain only a moderate taste of them, suited to their capacity. And it becomes us so to press towards this mark during our whole life, that (even in extreme old age) we shall not repent of the progress we have made, if only we have advanced ever so little in our course.

In reading Feinberg’s account of her pilgrimage in the Scottish Highlands, I was reminded of so much that was life-giving and good about my experience in the Alps last summer. And I remembered a conversation I had there with one of my fellow pilgrims, an astronaut.

(Yes, I did hike in the Alps with an astronaut–which is a pretty cool sentence to be able to type)

I, of course, asked my fellow traveler about his experience in the space program, because I am nosy like that. Specifically, I was curious about the spiritual lives of those who had traveled with him to space. I wondered if they interpreted their view from the space shuttle window merely as scientists or as those who saw the manifestation of God’s handiwork.

He said he assumed the percentage of people of faith within the space community probably mirrored that within the general population.

“But,” I responded, “They’ve been to SPACE! How could they not see evidence of God all around them when they were in SPACE?”

“Everyone on earth has seen a newborn baby,” he replied.

And he is so right. Evidence of God’s handiwork, his power, his glory, his goodness is everywhere around me if only I have eyes to see. The works of God’s hands do not contradict his written word; they serve it by breathing color onto the black-and-white of the printed page. The wonders of God’s creation sparkle, bedazzle, snap, crackle, and pop in a riotous, ridiculously abundant array as to absorb all my senses.

Photo Credit: The beloved Swede, taken at Phipps Conservatory, Pittsburgh

I might even be tempted to ponder the possibility they are sprinkled with pixie dust.

Joining Shelly Miller @ Redemption’s Beauty and Duane Scott @ Scribing the Journey in their book club discussion of Wonderstruck, by Margaret Feinberg

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Sources cited:

Feinberg, Margaret (2012-12-25). Wonderstruck: Awaken to the Nearness of God (pp. 13, 16). Ingram Distribution. Kindle Edition.

John Calvin’s Bible Commentary: http://www.ewordtoday.com/comments/genesis/calvin/genesisintro.htm

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She had linked to a blog post which had linked to an article written by the iconic humorist and storyteller himself. In his article, Keillor recalled the bygone days of writing when authors typed manuscripts on paper and sent them away in fat manila envelopes to a publisher for acceptance or rejection. Mr. Keillor lamented the current practice in which anyone can sit on the other side of a computer screen, type words, and declare one’s self a writer.

You know, people like me.

I first met Garrison Keillor as a young newlywed. Back in the day when our household income consisted of bimonthly checks just north of five hundred dollars, one of which was committed to the mortgage on our converted summer cottage, Saturday nights spent listening to A Prairie Home Companion provided a cheap date night for the beloved Swede and me. On occasion we listened together with our friends Steve and Nancy, another newlywed couple who, like us, sometimes scrounged through the change in their car’s ashtray just to buy milk. If we’d budgeted carefully we were able to splurge on a $9.99 bottle of Charter Oak Red wine, one produced by a local Connecticut winery and which we considered to be not half bad. As our only prior exposure to the fruit-of-the-vine had come from bottles labeled Riunite, we began to fancy ourselves connoisseurs of the good stuff.

Steve and Nancy had descended from strong Nordic stock and, together with my Swedish husband and me, we reveled in Keillor’s tales of Norwegian bachelor farmers and Lutheran covered hot-dish suppers. Raised on classic rock from the seventies, we grew to appreciate the music of his weekly bluegrass and folk artists. And we learned that Powder Milk Biscuits, heavens they were tasty.

We tuned in each week on the refurbished stereo receiver the Swede had purchased with earnings from his summer job in a sewage treatment plant the year before we were married. If it weren’t such a cliché, I’d say something about us being poor but happy.

Ten years later when we had a few more nickels to rub together, I gave the Swede a collection of Keillor’s tapes as an anniversary gift. I thought it a fitting way to commemorate our early years together. Sadly, the vineyard which had produced Charter Oak Red was no longer in business.

Our increased fortunes at that time allowed us to purchase a used Volvo station wagon—a sturdy, reliable vehicle designed by Swedish engineers—in which to haul our kids and their belongings to things like school, soccer practice, and the public library. Or so we thought. Although I had descended from the house and lineage of Donaldson, evidently the car viewed my dark brown hair with suspicion and questioned the authenticity of my Swedish roots. It conspired against me, rising up in mutiny and forcing me to replace nearly every highly expensive part manufactured in Sweden, but for its windshield wiper blades.

Unable to appease the Volvo’s evil spirits, or exorcise its demons, we finally traded it in or sold it for scrap, I can’t quite recall which. Some months later, I realized I must have left one of the Swede’s Lake Wobegon tapes in the car’s player, the one which contained a favorite story of ours of Pete Peterson’s Memorial Duck Blind and the building of giant decoys.

Several years ago I noticed The Hartford Courant, the nation’s oldest-continually published newspaper and paper of record here in Connecticut, was hosting a writing conference. Garrison Keillor was scheduled as keynote speaker.  I signed up thinking I might possibly, someday, maybe be going to write something. And though stalk may be too powerful a verb to describe my desire to meet the minstrel of Lake Wobegon, I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity.

Keillor arrived on stage, dressed in a dark, conservative suit and tie, having taken the train from New York City. But for the shiny red sneakers on his feet, he could have passed for a Republican. After Keillor spoke I waited in line to meet him, asking him to sign the CD I had purchased to replace the tape left behind in my car. Trembling as I stood before him in the entirety of my five-feet, eleven inches plus heels, I relayed the tale of my missing Lake Wobegon tape carried off by the evil Volvo. And I’ll never forget his words to me:

“My, my, my, you’re one long, cool drink-of-water,” he said.

It is precisely this astute power of perception which, I believe, contributes to Mr. Keillor’s success as a storyteller.

At one time I had pictures of me standing next to Mr. Keillor, evidence of our meeting, but those disappeared a couple of hard drive crashes ago. I do, however, have his autograph on the inside cover of the replacement Lake Wobegon CD:

For Swede, have mercy.
Garrison Keillor
American Federation of Ducks

I’ve been thinking I’d like to return to those sweet days of listening to Prairie Home on the radio. A girl can learn a thing or two about storytelling from listening to Mr. Keillor. Perhaps I’ll splurge and treat myself to a $9.99 bottle of wine.

I’m not sure my ancient stereo receiver still picks up any stations which carry A Prairie Home Companion, but that’s alright. I’ve discovered I can listen to archived stories and stream the show online. Despite its reputation for bullying the written word off the printed page, there remain a few things worth reading and listening to on the internet.

And that’s the news from this side of the computer screen.

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Update: Can’t believe I forgot to mention this! If you’re a fan of good storytelling and the spoken word, might I suggest checking out my friend Sam Van Eman’s project, A Beautiful Trench it Was? Sam is a gifted storyteller, and he’s got some powerful, redemptive stories to tell.

Sharing long-ago playdates with Laura @ The Wellspring:

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Gray recorded a song called Everything Sad is Coming Untrue. When he sings, his stutter surrenders to the music and disappears. In his life, and through song, Jason Gray is telling the story of creation, fall, redemption and restoration. Everything broken by sin is being made new.

And Gray said he finds sweet revenge in turning his brokenness around and using it as a weapon against hell itself.

Gray’s story reminded me of those of so many others, those who bear wounds of the enemy but refuse to surrender to him. I think of Emily, host of imperfect prose, and her heroic battle against anorexia. It grieves me to think of how close this world came to losing this beautiful soul, artist, wife, and mama. Instead, as she paints and writes and tells her story, she is helping wounded others find courage to persevere in their own battles.

I think, too, of my friend George Dennehy who bears in his body visible evidence of the enemy’s work. Born with no arms, and adopted from a Romanian orphanage, George is a musician who uses his platform to spread the message: God doesn’t make junk.

Photo courtesy of George Dennehy Music, used by permission

When George was a young boy, a compassionate friend from church designed and built a stand for him so that he could learn to play cello with his feet. When he reached his teen years and wanted to play something cooler than the cello, George took up the guitar. A video of him covering a song by the Goo Goo Dolls went viral and, when the band heard about him, they invited him to perform with them at one of their concerts. Wearing a t-shirt printed with the words Intelligently Created superimposed over a giant thumbprint, George sang with the band:

When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.

I know who Emily and George are. They are both wounded warriors who are turning their brokenness into weapons pointed right back toward the enemy.

And there are so many other wounded ones whose names fill my prayer journal, sitting in classrooms and pews, whose broken places aren’t nearly as evident.They wrestle with learning disabilities, OCD, depression, anxiety, and suicidal tendencies. They sense deeply that they are different and experience shame in not measuring up to their peers, or to expectations of themselves and others. They have been told to try harder, act more responsibly, and believe more deeply.

And I wonder who is going to help them see beyond their brokenness to the gifts they possess. My heart grieves for those who believe their weaknesses somehow disqualify them from service when they might be the mightiest warriors of all. I pray for God’s people to come alongside them, walk faithfully with them, build them their music stands, and help them unleash their songs. I long for them to know that he loves them, not because of what they are able to do, but simply because he loves them. And that where they are weak, he is strong.

This week, Ann Voskamp wrote about these wounded ones, and her words continue to haunt me:

So we pretend you don’t exist, so we can pretend the sin that caused this wound doesn’t exist — because ultimately, our actions prove it, we don’t really think the Wounded Healer exists.

That God can raise up phoenixes from ashes, that He is and this. is. what. He. does.

What if God gave his people eyes to see, and faith to believe, he truly is the Wounded Healer? And that everything sad really is coming untrue? What might that look like? And who in your life might need you to find sweet revenge in transforming brokenness into a weapon against hell itself?

Think about these things while watching George’s performance:

Emily Wierenga is the author of Chasing Silhouettes: How to Help a Loved One Battling an Eating Disorder, now in its second printing. Her new book, Mom in the Mirror, will be released on Mother’s Day and is now available for pre-order.

George Dennehy will be recording his first EP, The Straight and Beautiful, on March 29-30, 2013. His first single, It’s a Gift, is available on iTunes. Follow him on Twitter: @ThatArmlessGuy

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Joining emily and Jennifer:

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