Little Cupcake Grills!

My new neighbor calls me over to come see the birthday cupcakes she's made for her husband. 

I start laughing out loud when I see them.

She and her children have made little grills with kabobs, steaks, hotdogs, and even hamburgers with cheese on top--all made out of candy.  If you look closely, you'll even see the glowing embers of flames (red sprinkles!).  You'll even see the fine grill marks on the caramel cream steak. 

I love these cupcakes!  I'm adding them to my list of whimsical things that make life a little lighter.  Right beside my green apple and hamburger cupcakes, I'm listing one more:  On the Grill. 

Late last night, she invites our family over for this "Grill Out."  My children sneak across the street in pajamas, and we follow behind as lightening streaks the sky over the mountains.  We share cupcakes and ice-cream and celebrate a dad's birthday.

I remember--especially this 9/11 weekend--how thankful I am for this great nation and the simplicity of family, neighbors, and sharing cupcakes. I learned that horrible day that we can't take a single moment for granted. Something about eating whimsical cupcakes puts me in that state of thankfulness.  What a privilege to sit around a table with friends, eating cupcakes and sharing our lives!

Living with flair means you Grill Out with cupcakes.

________________
Journal:  What little thing are you thankful for this 9-11 weekend? 

A New Approach to Serving Others

Today, I hear my husband explain a new way to care for folks in our community.  He says that we do things "with" people and not "for" them.  As a scholar obsessed with the nuances of language, I find myself baffled by how a simple change in a preposition revolutionizes how we act.

Prepositions reveal relationship.  Am I doing things "with" my community or just "for" my community?  For years, my husband and I followed the model of doing things "for" other people.  But two years ago, we wanted to belong to our community and not stand outside of it.

We had recently heard a Navajo Indian speaking about various groups that would visit his reservation.  They'd bring help or aid and quickly leave.  Yet what the Navajo truly wanted, more than anything else, was to be known, understood, and valued.  They wanted the organizations to be "with them" and not just come do things "for them."

In our community, I have learned (finally) to be with people.  The walk-to-school campaigns, the Monday Night Fitness Groups, and the Saturday Pancakes are all about being with my community.  We mutually encourage, mutually support, mutually serve.

In my parenting, I have learned (finally) to do things with my children and not just for them.  I'm learning to say, "I would like to do this with you and not just for you."  That philosophy seems to honor their dignity and mine as well.

It's the same with teaching.  It's the same with blogging.  There's a "withness" about this work that transforms it.  We are with each other. 

My husband reminds me that the incarnation is God "with us."  Immanuel--God with us--represents a prepositional phrase that's changed my life.

Living with flair means I learn the meaning of with. 



__________________
Journal:  How can I change my "for you" to "with you?"

When Your Scars Leak (Warning: Graphic Image of a Cat's Infected, Although Missing, Eye)

Yesterday, my daughter cries out that Jack's scar is leaking. 

Remember Jack?  Our one-eyed cat, over this past year, seemed fully recovered from the day we rescued him:  he learned to purr again; he discovered his lost meow; he started caring for other cats; then he learned to stand up for himself against the other cats; and finally, he learned how to knead the bed like normal kitties do.

He was fully alive, fully cat. 

We hardly notice the scar anymore.  It's only when other folks come over and comment that we remember.

Infected Eye Wound

But the wound where his eye once was becomes infected.  The vet says the infection is so great, so deep, that it has to burst out of the scar. 

We hold Jack all evening.  We care for the infection, treat it with medicine, and give special attention to him. 

I remember that sometimes wounds leak.  Even after a year of healing, the old scar can ooze.  Just because we don't notice the wound, one day, it bursts back into our lives and threatens us with that discouraging reminder.

But we aren't discouraged.  We go back to the basics.  We hold him, love him, and treat him.  We aren't shocked or repulsed.  It's part of his journey, and we're right here with him. 

Living with flair means I'm in this with you.  Even when the old wounds leak out, we go back to the basics, take care of one another, and let the healing begin again. 




_____________________
Journey:  When old wounds leak, how can I keep from being discouraged?

Somebody Needs This

Last week--during my horrible cold-- my neighbors express their concern for me in. . . soup. 

First came the hearty meatball soup with spinach and tomatoes.

Then, on day two, a bright orange butternut squash soup paraded in with crostini appetizers so delicious I gobbled six between the front door and my kitchen.

Day three?  A classic turkey noodle elbowed in.  The Italian Mama brought more the next day, escorted by bread and chocolate and a baked ziti that stole the show.    

On day four, a minestrone humbly entered, warm and muted.  

And the next day, when I had given up all hope that my body would heal, a creamy potato soup arrived.

Bowls and bowls of steaming broth, eaten right in the bed, nourished me in more ways than one. My body was healing, aided by neighbors whose soup loudly proclaimed: "We are taking care of you!" 

This morning, word spreads that a family down the street is sick.  My crock pot muscles her way between the toaster and the coffee pot, and I chop all the ingredients for a vegetable beef stew.  I'll deliver it late afternoon and find my place in the parade of neighborhood love in the form of steaming soup. 

So loved did I feel by soup that I wonder why I don't make it every day this winter and find a neighbor who needs it.  Somebody needs soup today, and living with flair means I deliver it. 

The Most Impressive Thanksgiving

Right now I'm launching into my official Thanksgiving preparations.  Imagine all the family driving in.  Imagine the rooms to arrange, the week of activities to plan, the house to clean, the meals to prepare.

There's a way to go about this with flair. 

Lately, I've been reading and hearing a lot about how to handle Thanksgiving stress. At the same time, I'm reading article after article about how to "Have a Thanksgiving to Impress!" 

Does Thanksgiving stress come from what I stress?  If I emphasize wanting to impress my guests, my Thanksgiving becomes a performance to evaluate rather than a holiday to enjoy. 

I don't want family members to remember how impressive I was; I want them to remember how loved they felt.

So I'm cleaning my home to make others feel comfortable, not impressed.  We're planning a menu to nourish and celebrate, not impress.

Living with flair means I make preparations in order to love--not impress--those around my table.  Suddenly, it doesn't matter about this old rented house, this tight budget, this simple meal.  We'll hold hands around a thrift-store table and thank God for all we have.  You will feel loved, not impressed.

And that will impress you.

When the Competition is You

Last night for Neighborhood Fitness Group, we dance our normal dances and crawl around like wild animals.  But then, the children beg for "The Jump Rope Challenge."  Turning jump rope in a basement is a challenge in itself, but we figure out a way to make it work.

"The Jump Rope Challenge" isn't a normal competition.  It's a battle against your own best record.  Before each child begins jumping, he or she announces a personal goal.  Sometimes, this number is 10 jumps.  Sometimes, it's 110 jumps .  There's a scorekeeper, cheerleaders, and rope turners, so everybody has a role to play.

A little girl jumps.  We cheer when she surpasses 10 jumps and reaches 39.  The next one exceeds 100 and achieves 102 jumps.  The next one beats his record of 18 and goes for 21 jumps.  High-fives!  Loud cheering!

The fun of the challenge is that you beat yourself.

I'm amazed because the children don't compare their record to other records.  The moment jumping rope is about their personal best--unique to them, in their stage of life, set right at their fitness level.  My sister has told me for years about the running world and "personal records."  It's not important who finishes ahead of or behind you.  You have your own time to beat. 

I keep turning the jump rope, and my arm feels like it's going to give out.  I tell myself to keep turning so that a little boy can reach his personal best.  Somewhere deep inside of him, he musters up the strength.  I see his face, and I try to imagine what's going on inside of his head.  He wants to quit; I see that.  But he doesn't. 

The scorekeeper records the personal win.  We tape the evidence to the wall.  Maybe I'll keep these charts in my basement for 20 more years.  Maybe I'll show them at their high school graduation and remind them of these nights in my basement when they accomplished a personal best and the neighborhood cheered.

They wanted to quit, but they didn't.

The Next Step

My one-eyed cat, Jack, has taken another important step.  

Remember how wounded and sick Jack was?  How unattractive and miserable?   We brought him home and gave him all the love we could.   He'd lost his ability to purr.  He couldn't even meow.  His whole kitty identity seemed withered and dying. 

Then one day, he found his purr again, deep and rich and wild.  We were petting him, and we heard the slow chug, like some distant train coming from a far-off country.  He's purring!  Then, nearly a year into his recovery, he stood in the kitchen, proud and tall, and let out his first meow.  That kitty self was back. 

The One-Eyed Cat Serves

It gets even better.  Yesterday, I walk into my bedroom, and I see the once lonely and wounded kitty in a warm embrace.  He's holding another cat.  He's holding her still and bathing her face and the back of her ears!  As I watch this display, I realize that Jack's journey has reached yet another point of healing. 

I snap a picture of him and think of what it means to care for somebody.  The once-wounded cat is now serving others.   

Living with flair means that we don't stay wounded.  We press on, find ourselves again, and discover where we might serve.  Even if you've had a loss that changes how you see everything (and limits you), there's hope towards a journey of healing-turned-ministry.  Maybe that's the best kind.  Maybe Jack is particularly good at caring for other cats because he's come back from the worst. 

The One-Eyed Cat and His Friend

Maybe I'm particularly good at helping folks live with flair because I lived without it for so long.  How could I not offer an embrace, hold you still for a moment, and speak out whatever words might help make today meaningful? 

 

Love is a Tornado

This morning, my daughter hands me a little card that says her love for me is like a tornado.  She drew a picture of a tornado and wrote, "It's like this." 

I turn to her and say, "You mean it's powerful and destructive?"

She smiles and pretends she's punching me.  She tries to explain the comparison:  "It gets stronger each day like a tornado gets stronger with each spin." 

Her tornado is a giant mess of scribble that looks terrifying.  

Love is a tornado? 

That can't be right.   

My husband adds at breakfast that a tornado is like love because you "never know where it's coming from." It can take you by surprise (like how I met him when I least expected it).  

I look at this little family.  I think of the kind of love that breaks the heart and repairs it simultaneously.  I think of the terrifying surrender of it, the giant mess of living lives intertwined. I think of the powerful destruction that love's wake leaves on the landscape of a heart.  It's a tornado that rips you apart.

But it's the kind of devastation you endure because there's no other way to have it.  It's the most beautiful storm you'll ever experience. 

I hug my children--these little tornadoes in my heart--and think about the kind of love I want in my life.  Let it be giant and powerful.  Let it get stronger each day. 

Let it destroy what in me needs to be leveled and remake a pure landscape.  


(Photo:  Public Domain. Credit: OAR/ERL/National Severe Storms Laboratory (NSSL) via [pingnews])

Be Impressively Vulnerable

Yesterday, I admit to my dear friend that I'm not good at being vulnerable.  I'm better at listening and giving advice and pretending I have it all together.  I'm better at being cheery and funny than admitting when I'm not feeling well.  Maybe, deep down, I think that folks won't love me as much if I admit my struggles and my weaknesses.

I spent five years studying the emotion of shame.  One would think I could see through my tactics!  We hide away and protect ourselves from feeling vulnerable.  We preempt the mere possibility of feeling inferior, exposed, or judged by tucking ourselves away in protective spaces of various forms.  But my research regarding shame proves this:  when we make ourselves vulnerable, we create pathways for intimacy.  Our capacity for intimacy directly correlates to how vulnerable we are.

My cats perform dramatic displays of vulnerability.  When they roll flat on their backs and expose their tummies, they welcome affection.  Dogs enact even more impressive acts.  With incredible submission, a dog will lay down, roll over, and endanger himself by revealing an unprotected belly and throat.

In the animal world, showing the belly and offering submissive gestures signals love and trust.  What submissive gestures might I enact to signal to my friends that same love and trust?  A willingness to expose my underbelly--those weak and unpleasant things about me--might seem dangerous and shameful. But these impressive acts of vulnerability are what make friendship happen. 

Who wants a friend who can't be vulnerable?  Who wants a life shackled by the fear of shame?  Roll over, show your belly, and just see what love you find.

One Way to Say "I Love You"

A few days ago, my husband and I seriously start brainstorming ideas for our Halloween costumes. There's a lot at stake:  we have a party to attend and neighborhood children to impress.  

I have this genius idea--one I actually stole from a student-- that my husband could dress as Colonel Mustard and I'd go as Mrs. Peacock from the board game, "Clue."  We decide that, although a brilliant idea, it is too complicated (and nobody would remember that game). 

My husband begins implementing his plan;  he starts searching the Internet for "bear suits."

I repeat:  bear suits.  

He actually wants us to go to this party as bears.  I smile politely and then leave for the costume store.  

I find the most glorious red cape for a Little Red Riding Hood outfit.  I picture my little basket and my adorable dress.  Then I consider my husband.  

Lederhosen / Wikipedia Commons / Public Domain

The store features another fairy tale costume that's equally adorable.

It's Hansel.

Think lederhosen.

Think actual leather breeches and embroidered suspenders.  And a little hat. 


I rush home and tell him about this costume.  I have it being held for 24 hours with his name on it.  

"You could be Hansel!  From Hansel and Gretel?  You know, Hansel?"  I'm nodding my head and shaking his arm back and forth. 

"I'm not going to be Hansel," he says firmly.

"But it's so adorable!  Honey, please be Hansel."

"I can't be Hansel," he says again. 

I'm crushed.  I'm devastated.  He'd be the most wonderful Hansel.

A day goes by.  I'm still crushed.  And just about the time I'm going to search for more impressive costumes (Gandalf, Dumbledore, Batman) or else begin an ebay search for bear suits, I get a text message from him.

3 words.  

"I'll be Hansel." 

I call him back, and say, "Really?  Will you really be Hansel?"

He says, "Yes, I'll be Hansel.  I know how much this means to you."

It turns out that other husbands (the ones who we arrange playdates for), perhaps in an act of solidarity, are encouraging his decision.  At least one is seriously considering going as Hansel--standing side-by-side with my husband.  Maybe they'll be a whole neighborhood throng of German men in lederhosen. 

But I would have been a bear for him. 

Can I Tuck You In?

Last night, a dear friend of mine agrees to visit my children around bedtime to read stories and "tuck them in."  It's so whimsical and comforting:  a loving friend stops by, has a bedtime snack with you, reads you your favorite book, says bedtime prayers, and leaves you sleeping soundly by 8:30 PM.  That's a great tuck-in.

The Perfect Tuck-In

I want to hire her to tuck me in.

When do we stop needing that moment at the end of the day when somebody gets us situated in a snug spot and goes through a ritual designed to transition us into dreamland?

As I'm lying on the floor listening to the bedtime stories, I recall great tuck-in moments.  My dad used to throw my sister and me over his shoulder as his "sack of potatoes" to carry us up the stairs to bed.  The sack-of-potatoes tuck-in brought me so much security and joy each night. 

Years later, I was a camp counselor presented with the challenge of tucking in 7th grade girls.  For the ten girls in my cabin at Camp Greystone, I read the Bible with a flashlight in a soft voice as they listened in their bunks.  Then, I walked around the cabin, touched heads, straightened blankets, leaned over, and whispered something simple like:  "I hope you have a great night's sleep and wonderful dreams."  I would mention something I noticed about their days--something good that happened--and I'd remind them of the great day they would have tomorrow.

I tucked them in.  

They were 13 years old.  They seemed to hate it at first.  They'd turn their face away and act like they'd already fallen asleep.  But within a week, they'd beg for the tuck-in, reminding me that I should do this and saving tidbits of joy to share with me.

Another great tuck-in memory came as I recalled the year the preschool had an auction to raise money.  One of the auction items was a tuck-in from the teacher!  She'd arrive in her cow printed pajamas and appear in your bedroom for stories.  Families fought to win that prize.  The tuck-in prize was the single highest grossing item at the auction.  

I'm older now, and there's nobody tucking me in.  And what about all my friends?  Who tucks them in?

I want to tuck my loved ones in.  I know I can't literally do this (maybe I could), but I can symbolically provide tuck-in moments.  I can make a phone call, send a text, write an email, say a prayer.   I can send out a million reminders that you're secure and safe, loved and cherished. 

I crawl into my own bed.  I make a snug spot and remind myself of these things.  I read a book to myself and say my prayers.  I'm secure.  I'm tucked in. 

Stick with Them

Our One-Eyed Cat

A year ago, we brought home a sick cat with one eye.  Remember how he didn't purr, and then, after months of loving him, that deep, rich purr flowed out of him?  We tell the story of "How Jack Got His Purr Back," and we stay inspired to love what seems unlovable.  I mean look at him:  one eye, an injured mouth, and a tail that doesn't hang right.  He's a mess.  He's falling apart. 

But we fell in love with him.

Two days ago, our strange little cat looks at us and makes tiny, almost indiscernible yelping sounds.  Then they seem to get louder.  Then they turn into these little barks.

"What's Jack doing?"  we all ask.

"I think he's trying to meow," my husband says.  And then it happens.  He stands before us in the kitchen, regal and proud, and lets out his first full meow.  

The One-Eyed-Cat that nobody loved and who couldn't even purr is now meowing.  

Beautiful Cat

Last night, he curled up on the couch, and I thought of where he came from and where he is now.  We didn't give up on him. 

It took a year of love, and by golly, that cat found his voice.

Living with flair means I don't give up on people.  I don't give up on myself.  It may take a year to find your voice.  It might take longer.  But here, come sit beside me.

My one-eyed cat's meow came at the right time.  I'm impatient with my children, my students, and even myself.  Sometimes people are a mess.  They fall apart.  But stick with them; their voice is in there somewhere.

So Jack found his meow.  And now, he's tired of me taking pictures of him.  This photo definitely says: OK, stop now.

Is God Like This?

This morning before church, I have a moment to relax with a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.

I put a dollop of whipped cream in my coffee mug. (I like to pretend I'm at Starbucks.) 

All of a sudden, the little one flits over, skirt twirling and finger pointing at my mug.

Then she does it.  She actually does it.  She sticks her finger straight into the cream, pulls it out, and licks away.

The audacity!  How dare she?  I'm feeling. . . something.  As she completes another twirl around me, I see her pointed finger approaching my mug.  But instead of punishing her, I tip the coffee mug so she can get the most cream.  I'm encouraging this atrocious behavior.

I'm so overcome with love for that little child. 

The image of the little one dancing about me with inappropriate manners and audacious finger-pointing requests delights me.  I should have been angry.  I should have scolded her, but I cannot.  That little twirl!  That little finger full of cream!

Later in church, the image stirs up within me.  It wasn't an audible voice; it wasn't a boom of thunder from the clouds.  But as I recalled that child and how I couldn't help but tip the mug so she might enjoy more of what I could offer, I felt that Spirit-whisper saying:  I feel this way about you. I'm overcome with love. 

Dance about.  Make audacious and inappropriate requests.  Point the finger and dizzy yourself with twirls.  God tips the mug, delighted. 

Losing Something You Can't Recover

My student bursts into the classroom. "I've lost my paper!  I didn't save it properly and the whole thing is gone!"  The exasperation in this student's face is one I've seen many times before. 

My student can't get that paper back.  He stands in front of me, small and hopeless.  I've been there.  I remember the first time it happened to me.  I remember the discouragement, the anger, the desperation, and the embarrassment of it all when I forgot to save a term paper.  

It's not fair; it's not right.  But I told myself I had to move beyond what's fair or right.  I had to move beyond the anger and the shame.

I had to start again.  

Students tell me that what they produce after the loss turns out stronger, more authentic, and more concise than the original paper.  They build on the memory of what they once wrote and make something better.  It's not easy, and it never seems fair.   Losing stuff is like that.  I'm learning to take a loss and build on it somehow to create a marvelous new thing. 

Otherwise, I get stuck in the anger.  

This won't be the last time we lose something that can't be recovered.  But beauty does arise from the ashes.  I see it every semester with every lost paper.  I see it in my own life with every thing I've ever lost.  There's a way to start again on the fresh page, remember what you had, and press your fingers down on the keys.  You start letter by letter, word by word.  Soon, you're not just back where you started.  You're beyond in a beautiful far country that you never imagined existed.  And the loss got you there.

A Way to Stop Fighting

We woke up to screaming.  All week, we've been listening to our daughters work out their conflicts.  Lately, they've been fighting over everything:  Whose turn? Whose portion? Whose toy? 

In church this morning, I asked another mother how she handles sibling fighting.  Her answer surprised me.

She said to teach my children that they aren't special.

Is this mother American?  Has she been in a coma?  Aren't I supposed to be training my children to believe in their absolute specialness?  Aren't I supposed to be telling my little girls how wonderful, how amazing, how special, special, special they are?  Of course they deserve that turn, that portion, that toy.  I've trained them to expect nothing less. 

I think I've been raising narcissists.  Something's gotta change. 

That mom told me to ask one sister if her other sister were any less special than she. 

So I did.  Without that sense of "I'm uniquely special," it was hard to justify who deserved that turn, that portion, that toy.

Who is more special?  Me or you?  

As I'm worshiping God in church this morning, I think about what causes so much distress in my own heart.  So many of my own internal and external conflicts arise out of a sense of entitlement.  I'm so special, God, so don't I deserve this thing?  I'm so special, God, aren't you going to do this wonderful thing in my life?  It's my turn, God.  It's time for my portion. 

The problem isn't that I'm not special.  I am.   The problem is that you are too--just as much--and I don't see it.  If I did, I wouldn't fight for my personal story, my turn, my portion, and my toy.  I'd see you as equally deserving of every opportunity and every bit of joy.

It was a sobering thought for someone like me--a recovering narcissist of sorts.  I looked around the sanctuary at hundreds of folks on their own spiritual journey.  Might I give up my turn, my portion, and my toy for them?  Might I reengage with people, recognizing a profound sense of how special they are?

Selfishness might stem from an exaggerated sense of my own specialness.


Are others special enough (as special as I am?) that I might defer to them, sacrifice for them, and lose my place in line?  Living with flair means admitting (though it's painful!) that I am not more special.  That's one way I can love others better, even when they get the biggest portion and the best toy.

What's Wrong with This Picture?

As someone who--for nearly a decade--was an expert in unhappiness, I'm learning what makes living with flair so important.  At our worst, we become deeply cynical and disillusioned with our own lives.  Everything's wrong.  Nothing's working.  We want to abandon ship and find new lives somewhere else.   We become desperate for change, desperate to feel alive, desperate for love. 

We need to catch each other in our descent and turn our faces back to the light.

We need to find the flair right here in the muck.  We need to rise above it.  Our happiness is at stake. 

It's just too easy to find out what's wrong.  We do it naturally.  My natural inclination is to figure out what's not working, what's out of place, what's off kilter.  The brain seeks proportion and harmony, so we easily identify variation and error.

But we get stuck there in despair.  We can't move forward.   Or else we take drastic measures to put things right.  We act out of fear and confusion. 

Maybe a better technique means I find out what's right.

What might happen if I focus on those small nuggets of good in whatever wrongness or sorrow I'm experiencing?   Most days, the temptation to criticize and complain takes over the whole landscape of my soul like clouds moving over the sky.   My heart aches and I sink down into the mire.   God is neither good nor trustworthy in this particular landscape.  I let that lie fester and bleed out. 

But not today.  I commit to finding what's right in any wrongness or sorrow or anything I'm missing or hating or dreading.  I turn that thing to face the light and find out what's so right.  That one right thing might be the bright hot air balloon that keeps me alight so I can find perspective, hope, and joy in the midst of the dark cloud. 

I'm still in my life with all its drama.  But instead of sinking down, I'm rising above it in a glorious ascension. 


(Landscape photo courtesy of Ian Britton at freefoto.com and Hot Air Balloon by Beverly and Pack flickr)

How to Write a Love Note

You have to write it in your own handwriting.

And you have to hide it for the person to find later (when they least expect it).  

A few days ago, a friend of mine led me back to her bedroom to show me something very precious, very secret.  Stored within a tin container by her bed, hundreds of tiny notes, carefully folded and faded with time, made this beautiful monument of paper love.

My friend explained that whenever she left home for any reason--camp, a trip away, college, marriage--her mother wrote a little note and hid it somewhere.  Days later, my friend might find a love note tucked in a pajama leg, a Biology textbook, a towel.  The notes were simple and often silly.

"But it showed us all how much she loved us," my friend recounted, describing a mother's love in hidden notes for all of her children.  On this very day, that mother turns 60 years old.  To celebrate, friends and family were invited to send that mother handwritten love notes in the same style and form (rhyming couplets, whimsical messages) that she had composed all those years for her own children.  I imagine her bedroom might be covered with them today.

My friend shared this beautiful tradition with me in hopes I might pass it on to my own children.

That night, I wrote two handwritten love notes to my daughters.  One I hid under a pillow, and the other I hid within the pages of a book my daughter was reading.  When they found them, I watched them giggle and smile.  They came and hugged me.  My oldest daughter carefully folded her love note and went to her room.

I watched her put my note in a little basket by her bed.  When I went to look where she had put it, I found every handwritten thing I'd ever written to her carefully folded, stacked and stored.

Hidden love notes, handwritten and often silly, might be the scaffolding to aid how a secure life is built.  She pulls on a jacket, digs deep into the pockets one impossibly cold and dreary winter day when life weighs her down (as it will), and there she finds a love note.  It might just change everything.

The Everyday Apprentice

I want to enter the various cultures around me with a curious mind and a willing heart.  In the past few days, I've been invited to experience various "cultures" whether it's joining the swim team community, learning about the various spiritual cultures of my neighbors, or entering the college culture by watching movies students love, listening to music they download, and attending the places they go downtown.

As I thought about what it means to love people and be a good friend, this concept of entering different cultures seemed suddenly so important.

Right at that moment, my husband was leaving to go to his workshop.  On his days off, he apprentices with a carpenter to learn the skills of woodworking and carpentry.  (Note:  Apprentice is a fantastic verb.  It means to study under a master to learn the skills of a trade.  Apprenticing represents a whole cultural system by which a new generation trains for a trade.  I wish I could apprentice under certain mothers, teachers, and wives.)

He's asked the family before if we want to visit his workshop.  We've always said, "no."  We don't have time!  We aren't interested!  What would we do in a workshop?  Well, not today.  I want to enter that culture with a curious mind and a willing heart.    

So we go.

It feels like a foreign country.  He shows us big, scary machines with names like planer, jointer, miter saw, and band saw.  I start asking questions.  Soon, I learn that my husband can take material like these split logs:

And turn them into this.   

I start feeling some flair happening.  I start looking around me with new eyes.  I notice some order and beauty in this place.

And I notice my children are captivated by what their father is doing.  He puts safety gear on them and shows them what he can do on the machines.  He takes a scrap of wood and transforms it into something smooth and square. 

Right now, we are back home, and the girls are playing with their block of wood--imagining all sorts of things with it.  We entered the culture of woodworking with a curious mind and a willing heart, and we had more fun than I could have ever thought possible.  Living with flair means I enter the various cultures around me by being curious and willing.  I apprentice and learn.  I want to do it everyday.

The Red Spotted Newt and Marriage Truth

Hiking along a trail this morning, I force my own plans:  when to stop to pick blackberries, when to leave the trail and see what's down the canyon, when to turn back.  I have my own things to do. 

My Eagle Scout husband (who surely knows more) is patient with me when I'm bossy.  He calls out to me and says, "Come look at this!"

Together, we observe a fast little red spotted newt.  It's tiny and racing across the moss almost too quickly to catch on film.  I'm amazed he could see it.

Later, I want to go home, and he says, "We'll just walk a little further down this trail."

All of a sudden, the forest opens to this gorgeous lake--so peaceful, so tucked away in a deeply shaded forest.  Nobody's here but us, the geese, and the frogs that let out a yelp as they dive like synchronized swimmers off the lily pads. 

It's so beautiful.  I sit and rest.  It was my husband who brought me here to the still water's edge.  It was my husband who said, "look at this," and stopped me in my frantic race towards...what?  We celebrate 10 years of marriage this week.  This anniversary hike without the children reminded me of what's so precious about marriage:  You have a companion that walks the trail with you and knows how to guide your attention to what you can't yet see.

Later, we talked about marriage as oneness.  You have to fight the urge to be separate, to do your own thing, to race ahead.  Being--and staying--in love means I cultivate the oneness.  Cultivating oneness has something to do with pulling the other aside and saying, "Look at this!"  And if one of us has to rest by the water alone, the other one will at least capture it on film for later.

7 Dreams for Your Future

Today I had an unusual writing task:  I was to write a blessing of sorts for the doctoral and master's students that were leaving our Christian graduate student community to launch their careers.  I imagined what I would tell my own children as they started careers.  I imagined all the things I would want for them.  Mostly, though, I remembered what seven dreams God shaped in my own heart that sustained me through graduate school, marriage, parenting, teaching, writing, and just. . . living.  Here's what came to mind (and what I will speak to them tonight). 

1. May you be a blessing to all those you encounter, living a life of love and service with the strength God provides.  Colossians 1:28 tells us that we labor with Christ’s energy.  May that energy enable you to do extraordinary work in the lives of people and in your daily tasks.  May you advance knowledge in your field in ways that build, help, and bring healing in various broad forms.

2.  May you depend on the unfailing love of God, described in Psalm 90, that gives you joy and gladness for all the days of your life. 

3.  May you be filled with wonder in your career as you discover the treasures of Christ as mentioned in Colossians 2 where we read that the mystery of God is Christ “in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.”  May you find the wonder of God in each endeavor whether science, literature, social work, law, business, engineering, social sciences, education, architecture, medicine, or the arts.  May that wonder sustain you through difficult days.

4.  May you live a life of enormous faith—trusting God for immeasurably more than you could ask or imagine as noted in Ephesians 3:20.  May you have no fear as you move into the adventure God has for you, but only a joyful expectation of God's power, provision, and purpose for your life. 

5.  May you be an agent of peace, love, and the presence of the Living God in your workplace and in your city. May you remember 2 Corinthians 5—that God loves and cares for others through you. 

6.  May you build authentic community wherever you go—loving deeply as noted in 1 Thessalonians 2:8—being delighted to share your life with others because they are so dear to you. 

7.  May you remember Psalm 16 and the truth that God sets the boundaries of your life—they are good and right.  Also, the psalmist tells us that when you trust in the Lord, you will not be shaken. 

With these 7 promises in scripture, I'm confident that those new professionals will live rich, satisfying lives.  It's my prayer for them and for myself, and, in the words of this blog, they represent 7 dreams for a future of flair.