Taste
It happened again. This time it was the tip of the stylus we use with our tablet. Tooth marks and a chunk missing and a guilty looking preschooler. She destroyed another just last week. And bit a hole in a pretzel bag, letting salt and crumbs pour all over the back seat of the car. And shredded part of her blankie, and took the corner off a book, and left indentations in her stuffed monkey’s eye… It’s like living with a puppy. Or maybe a dinosaur. Our oldest outgrew putting things in her mouth very early on, but this one is still at it at almost three and a half. We’re starting to wonder if it will ever stop. This is a child who MUST experience everything with all of her senses. It’s not enough to touch something with her fingers; she has to chew on it to get...
Read MoreEvery Moment
I could feel it in my chest. The pounding of hands and hearts. The music flowing around us, a strong current pulling us to the throne of God. We were all together, held tight in this moment, connecting spirit to Spirit. He was there, and we could feel him. And then it ended, and as the tingle left the air and the students around me blinked at the sudden return to daily life, I found myself wishing we could pause time and remain there for just a little longer. I’ve felt this before, these times of worship that seem to open the veil between Heaven and earth and let a bit of eternity through. But they always end. Feet shuffle and people stretch, and our thoughts return to grocery lists, schedules, and mundane things that seem out of step with the experience...
Read MoreCommon Grace
My daughter is always finding four-leaf clovers. I mean all the time. She has an eye for it, so much that it’s almost commonplace. At least to us. Each time she comes tearing into the house with another, she’s wild with excitement. “Can you believe we have so many four-leaf clovers? We must have the luckiest yard in the world!” Nothing in life is wasted on this child. “Mom! Come quick!” I rush out to the living room expecting chaos and destruction. Instead I find her, face squashed against smudged glass. “Isn’t that the pinkest, most breathtaking sunset you’ve ever seen, I mean like ever? I didn’t want you to miss a second of it!” And first thing every morning, rain or shine, she’s barefoot out on the deck. “I just have to breathe the air, Mom.” My little...
Read MorePeace Like a Torrent
The book I’m reading, The Practice of the Presence of God, narrowly avoided being defenestrated this morning. (For those of you who aren’t English teachers or fans of Calvin and Hobbes, that means I nearly threw it out a window.) It’s a good book, full of truth and sage advice. But it makes me mad. You see, it was written by Brother Lawrence, a 17th century monk who spent his days peeling potatoes, cobbling shoes, and living each moment pushing further into God’s presence. I love this idea. I want this ability. But he was so monk-ish, and I’m so, well… mom-ish. Brother Lawrence had no emails to return, no cell phone buzzing on the table. He had no family to care for, no children interrupting his devotional thoughts even ten seconds to wipe a runny nose or...
Read MoreAll Things Beautiful
At the very end, her skin grew pale and thin, like the veil that separates here from There. Her eyes sparkled clear hazel. She saw things. Things that didn’t make sense to us, but she understood because she was already breaking loose and leaning soul into eternity. The afternoon they brought my mom home so she could spend her final days in her own bed, she was unusually alert and talkative. We had just gotten her settled, pillows fluffed and quilts tucked, when she grinned and reached out a shaky hand. “It’s gone.” She was staring beyond the bookcase. “What’s gone, Mom?” I studied her face. The hospice nurses had warned us that dementia was common in end-stage cancer. But Mom was all there. “The wall. It just disappeared. There are trees, so tall and so...
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