Peace 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 MoreThe Hollow and the Healing
In recent weeks I’ve heard some rough, ragged, just plain hard stories. What do you say to a woman who has watched her daughter wither and fade completely away, die under the weight of the lie that she wasn’t good enough the way God made her? What about the lady in her 70’s dealing with decades-old wounds surfacing, fresh and throbbing? The young woman, abused and abandoned, and then chosen, only to be abandoned again? The mother who is afraid she has scarred her children? The broken soul, convinced there are some things so twisted and mangled not even God can redeem them? The more people I meet, the more stories I hear, the more I realize how stunningly complex life is. There are as many heartaches as there are fingerprints, and pat, manufactured answers are...
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...
Read MoreOld Lessons New
“What is that you’re afraid of?” Marty sits cross-legged on her couch, leaning toward me. I’ve had several invitations recently to speak to women’s groups, so I’ve come seeking her advice, knowing she has much more experience than I do teaching large groups of adults. Genuine friend that she is, she cuts to the heart. I drop her gaze and squirm in my seat like a four-year-old. What am I afraid of? Tears well and my heart gallops. Obviously something. Minutes tick. Breathe, Beth. “I’m scared,” I whisper, lungs tight, “I’m scared of being known. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, giving the wrong impression, doing something that will damage my credibility and message.” And a familiar dragon, long sleeping, raises its deadly head. You see, for a lot of my...
Read MoreAn Open Letter to My Girl-Going-on-Woman
Dear Daughter of Mine, In a couple of days, I will be thirty-six. This means that you have been with me, a part of me, for a third of my life. I was not much more than a girl-child myself on that day almost exactly twelve years ago when your daddy held my hand in a chilly little room, and we saw our first glimpse of your tiny face on the blurry ultrasound. The best birthday gift I’ve ever received was you, my healthy baby girl, kicking and rolling there on the screen. Aunt Faith and I made a cake covered with pink and yellow flowers to celebrate. As the time came near and you stretched my skin and pressed my lungs, I dreamed of the way it would be and what I would say. But when they laid you on my belly, you were so beautiful, you stole my words. All I could...
Read MoreTo Hear and Be Heard
She stood in the parking lot between me and the JAARS library door. I had come to our mission center to run some errands, but I could see by her expression that she wanted to talk. A small, quiet hello. A smile that didn’t touch the liquid pain in her eyes. Her kids are in our youth group, and I know parts of their story. Like nearly all our families, transition and loss, grief and turmoil have been part of their reality. We’d had several conversations about these issues recently. Now was not a good time. Mentally scrolling through the list of things I needed to accomplish, glancing at my girls waiting patiently in the car, I forced a smile and tried to remind myself that this is why we are here in this ministry. To listen. And normally I love to listen to...
Read MoreEntropy Wears a Diaper
The Second Law of Thermodynamics lives at my house. You know the physics principle that states that all things tend toward chaos? In our case, chaos has brown ringlets and a dimple in her adorable little chin. We just arrived home from our second out-of-state trip in less than a month, a saga that included an unexpected mechanic visit during which one of the kids threw up in the back seat. Our house looks like somebody emptied the contents of every dresser and bookcase onto the floor and then ran over it all with a monster truck. The evergreen wreath shed a quarter of its needles in our absence, and there are mysterious green spots on the kitchen linoleum (ground-in peas, maybe?). Sigh… My two year old, chaos-in-motion, loves to “help”. I know this is...
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