Tuesday, April 18, 2017

The Intentional Act of Eastering Together

Easter Sunday, like every other Sunday, our pastor passed the microphone around our small sanctuary to anyone who'd like to share. She asked us, "What difference did God make in your life last week?" We're often slow to get started, but it only takes that one brave soul to go first. Sometimes I nudge Cory to get things started. Now and then I raise my hand first.

Last week, it was Charles. He told us about a letter he had finally written to his Grandma, how he had stuffed a few Polaroids of himself into the envelope, and then promptly lost it somewhere between his home and the post office. "Two days later, she called to tell me how much she loved the letter I sent her, said it was exactly what she's been needing to hear from me, and she really liked the pictures." He paused. "So, God made a difference by allowing some kind soul to find my letter lying on the ground and drop it into the mail box for me."


Sunday afternoon as I washed up the last dishes from our Easter lunch, the sheer level of my gratitude hit me straight in the tear ducts. There have been Easters where I held every symbol close to my chest, suddenly absorbing meaning from stories that were worn down over the years through uncertain repetition. I have wept through each consecutive church service during Lent. I've surrendered sweets and staying up late. I have prayed for understanding and felt the quiet thrum of awe when those prayers were answered. There had never been an Easter bunny for me, but there had also never been a smudge of ash on my skin or a liturgy of lament. There had never been a congregation so frail that even trying to pretend otherwise would be utterly pointless.

It shouldn't surprise me that my soul is at home in this bruised and beaten body. We could pass the mic and never stop passing it, each one taking our turn, peeling back the story like petals on a rose. We are bitter, angry, grieved, addicted, lonely, stubborn, weary, and often cynical. But we have our reasons. We know what it means to search for hope as though our actual life depends on it. Through this sharing, we are somehow fortified, God's trick math showing up once again, abundance arriving at the back door of surrender.

I spent a good chunk of Easter weekend in the kitchen. We had taken a spontaneous turn with the mic the previous week and offered anyone without a place to go on Easter Sunday a seat at our table. I thought we would have our usual gang. I wasn't prepared for hands to fly up across the sanctuary. And I wasn't prepared for one of the many grandmas to draw in inches from my face after service and press a twenty dollar bill into my palm. "I can't do the things you're doing anymore, but I wanted to help." (I cannot type her words today without tears.)

We changed the venue. Ruby helped mix an industrial-sized pan of hash brown potatoes and I conquered my first (and second) ham. I baked pies and knew it didn't matter when one of the crusts fell in under its own weight.

Late Saturday night, I contemplated the dress hanging in my closet since October with the tags still attached. If there was ever a day that warrants a special dress, it might be Easter. But I thought of my friends from the Work Release center two streets over who would slide into the pew a few minutes late wearing the same jeans they wear to their factory jobs and knew I'd be there waiting in my own Easter jeans.

I'm guessing God has the kind of spiritual X-ray vision that sees past our attempts to polish ourselves up or pretend we're harder than we are. I delighted in seeing Ruby twirling in her dress and in Silas, decked out for the most important day of the church calendar in athletic shorts with five lanyards draped around his neck. It's safe to assume God doesn't have big opinions on this. But kinship is an interesting friend. It draws us together and changes our lens. God keeps showing me His goodness in the faces of my neighbors and the ways they mean it when they say they love me just as I am. It makes me want to keep offering the same back to them. It makes me want to sit in solidarity with them, to really be with them, not out of pity or some off-brand of Christian service, but because I recognize how badly I need them to be with me.

Lunch was as weird and wonderful as I had hoped, a hodge podge of twenty-five loners and lovers, the drifters and the deeply misunderstood. Lisa helped me glaze the ham. Josh asked for the recipe for the potatoes. Becca put Stephanie at ease. Jesse swung the kids around by their arms until one of them legitimately thought he might puke. Cory held the brand new baby. And as Brian zipped out the door to meet his work release curfew, he locked eyes with me, kissing the tips of his fingers like an Italian chef. No big surprise, we all love pie. 

 

I'm becoming more convinced that this is how God moves among us. This is how His kingdom comes down to meet us, not so much through the grand gesture but in quietly compelling our hearts toward togetherness. We chop broccoli. We look each other in the eye. We hold out our breaking hearts with shaking hands, choosing hope over history.

We keep our eyes fixed at ground level, paying attention to what might have been lost along the way, and carrying it home.



 

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Weekending


Yesterday I spent a few important hours drinking tea and eating delicious frozen pizza and holding a chunky, scrumptious toddler while the bigger kids ran through the kitchen now and then, costumed and squealing. We don't see each other enough as we should, given our proximity, so we filled in the gaps since our last chat and sometimes we just sighed together.

My sense of normalcy continues to slip away.


I find it harder and harder to not venture into the rogue alleyways of my brain, where I have no easy answers and where I'm prone to lapsing into judgment then circling back around to confession, a long winding loop. I cannot help it any longer. I won't bear the lie that each of us is just fine the way we are. I know for sure I'm not. I'd rather not pretend otherwise. There's deep soulwork here waiting to be excavated. I want to wake up tomorrow a little closer to the character of God.

It sounds so good, in theory. So Christian.
In practice, it costs me things I'm not sure I want to pay.

What does God want from us? I can't say for sure, but I can promise you, He has some things in mind. Grace is free, I know this well. I'm faced with it daily. But transformation doesn't happen in a vacuum. It implies an altered state, something like a chemical reaction or the burn of a white-hot flame. If we want to change, it will cost us.

If we don't want to change, we need to look long and hard out our window and ask ourselves why.

In the end, it usually feels more comfortable to stay the same, pat each other on the backs. We're fine the way we are.

Right?

It's easier to run off to Target, or maybe to pour another glass of wine, or scroll Instagram for the seventeenth time or scoop another serving of chicken potpie into our favorite bowl. It's easier to take a nap. Eat half a sleeve of thin mints. Obsess about our bodies. Spend our time worrying about things that were only intended to improve the lives of the privileged.

I'm sorry to be such a downer, especially on a Saturday. There's been plenty of good news around here, too. The Christmas cactus is in full bloom, our favorite four-year old is here for a couple of nights, Silas keeps busting out in spontaneous prayer, Ruby won the Craftsmanship award at school, I've been making a lot of soup, Calvin went grocery shopping with me yesterday, and Cory is everything. It's the good stuff with the hard stuff. The whole two bucket thing, and I'm honored I get to live every bit of it. Soup has its own theology, you know? Sunshine and warm laundry are hope enough to burst a sturdy heart, on the right day.

I just have to wonder, what would it look like if we grew wary of comfort? What if we committed to be transformed? What if we cared even less about stuff and more about our neighbor?

I asked those questions out loud yesterday, and my friend asked her own. We stared down our own complicity and munched on discarded apple slices.

It felt good, to just say the truth out loud.

So, I'm just putting this out there - if you find yourselves asking weird or unpopular questions, I'm here for you. You can't scare me away. You can only make me feel more like a soul and less like a body and honestly, that's right where I want to be right now.

Here are a few good reads for your weekend and a wish that it would be spring in your heart.

::  This renewed my vows with wanting to cram as many people into my home as possible.

::  I desperately wish more people would get comfortable talking about pain and addiction.

:: We love spur-of-the-moment adventuring and Ashley's trip to Casey, IL is calling our name!

:: It took me a very long time to begin to understand the prayer of lament. This is piercing.

:: I just made my first-ever batch of Rice Krispie Treats (say what?!) and they're LEMON! (scroll to the end of the post)

:: We're road-tripping with friends later in the week, and I'm deeply committed to providing treats.

:: But please don't worry, because we'll also be eating lots of vegetables.

:: This month-long series on understanding immigration issues and our response is a gift in these confusing times. I'm grateful for those willing to educate us. Now is the time to learn!

:: My friend Lisa-Jo Baker's new book, Never Unfriended: The Secret to Finding & Keeping Lasting Friendships, releases in just a few days! She is the perfect person to write this book, and I can't wait to dig in. You can grab your copy now for less than ten bucks and be one of the first to read.

::  Friends, Cory was monkeying around on PhotoShop and showed me this creepy, post-apocalyptic cow pic, laughing. I immediately knew it needed to be shared with you. If this doesn't make your weekend, what will?


Moo.

- Flower Patch Farmgirl
(Oh yes, it's still deep within me. I blame the cow.)