10000.Reasons

The word for 2012 is miracles. Twelve months ago, I didn't expect that to describe my year, but it resonates in my thoughts and soul.

According to Merriam Webster, it's "Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin miraculum, from Latin, a wonder, marvel, from mirari to wonder at."

These two guys teach me a lot about wonder. Noah likes to ask, “Why, Aunt Susan…?” Yes indeed. Why?

My dad is a marvel, a trouper. We thought we would lose him four years ago when the doctors couldn’t come to a diagnosis. They stumbled upon dialysis, and between that and seventeen (or so) medications, he is still with us. Earlier this year, he lost his “pep”, but again rallied and rehabilitated. I am grateful that my husband and I could celebrate Christmas with him and my mom.

I wonder at the way that God set me, the solitary one, in a family. He gave me, the barren woman, children. It’s been twelve years and I experience no less wonder than the beginning – actually, it is more “wonder-full” as years pass.

God provided a husband who loves Him and me, in that order. As a bonus, he makes me laugh. This picture is from his 60^th birthday dinner, and it’s how I’d like people to remember us.

It wasn’t an easy year. That makes this life even more miraculous. A good friend, a solid Christian man, committed suicide. Another good friend nearly died but has been restored to us. A family rift leaves me broken – but doesn’t God love to work in the broken places?

Psalm 103:1-2 is our family prayer and because of that, Matt Redman’s song 10,000 Reasons pierces my soul.

I've got a BOLO for 2013 because God paved the way in 2012.

Be on the lookout - for miracles.

christmas.day (-6)

They came with a warning not to eat them.

Living in my cubicle-world, I do what I can to acknowledge the season - in this case, window clings. It would help to view a snow-covered field outside, but this is the new Michigan winter.

It hasn't "felt" much like Christmas yet. Maybe it's because I still hope for a white Christmas (though I think Draco is going to pass us by). Or because I feel the grief of my friend who prays and waits for a sign that her son will journey safely through PTSD. And then there is the horror and sadness of Sandy Hook.

And yet.

It is Christmas. The words of Welcome to Our World by Chris Rice speak to me perfectly:

Tears are falling, hearts are breaking

How we need to hear from God

You've been promised, we've been waiting

Welcome Holy Child

Welcome Holy Child

Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.

I am thankful for Your gift.

the.conductor

With trumpets and the sound of the horn make a joyful noise before the King, the Lord! Psalm 98:6

I stood, awash in the glorious sound (trumpets, tubas, and every horn in between). I found myself crying at the sheer beauty of music never to be repeated in exactly the same way. Its message spoke to my heart of Epic God who came to us as Emmanuel.

The arranger and conductor - a high school student - directed the ensemble with confidence and skill. I watched his masterful leadership and the musicians' response - whether decrescendo to pianissimo, or a crescendo to double fortissimo. The conductor pointed, beckoned, kept time - continuously communicating so that each musician knew when it was time to play or to rest...

What if we, the body of Christ, responded to God with such unity and purpose? Would it not be as magnificent as what I witnessed this morning?

Let us make a joyful noise before the King, the Lord!

prince.of.peace

Come to us, Prince of Peace.

Shine light into our darkness.

Heal our broken hearts.

We do not understand when innocents are slain and innocence is stolen.

Evil stares us in the face and dares us to believe that God is always good and Emmanuel is always with us.

Come to us, Prince of Peace.

Yesterday, a school shooting left 20 schoolchildren and six adults dead. The media assault is continuous and attempts to explain the unexplainable. Why? we ask. Our questions expose our greatest fear, that we are not in control of our lives. The truth is, we are not. 

We can live only in the confidence that Emmanuel is with us, and when our time comes to die, He is with us. Even if our death comes in something as horrific as a school shooting. God.with.us.

sometimes

Sometimes you can travel the path to the Stinky Farm again and again and never see.

Sometimes you can walk right through your life not noticing what's around you.

I don't know how many times I've run down the country road to the Stinky Farm at lunch, 1.5 miles there, 1.5 miles back.

I've run through hot summer, brilliant fall and now, cold December. And I never saw it.

The swing. Still hanging from sturdy oak branches, strangely out of season.

To get the best angle, I had to climb down into the deep ditch and up the steep bank, and navigate over downed branches.

(This happens to me. Instead of running the whole time, I stop when I see something interesting. A cat. A leaf. Roosters.)

It made me happy, though. Unreasonably happy. I felt like I discovered something. It made me think of play and rest. It was a small adventure, unexpected in the middle of the workday.

Sometimes God hands me the joys to count.

fight.for.joy

It chokes me up, this gift I received tonight - a book titled Change the Way You See Everything.

It's been a hard week because I handed over the keys to my emotional bank account - opened my self-esteem door wide to a person who has no right to enter. I handed them over without a fight.

I want to be less permeable, to put up a bully-proof glass shield. I want to be able to read his words and not internalize them into failure, disappointment, fear.

But how?

The tears come from longing, from hope.

Change the way you see. (Can I?)

Change the way you see everything. (How?)

This joy-thing is not easy by any means. Oh, there were plenty who prayed and prophesied joy over me back in the days when divorce and despair sucked the light, and nearly my life, right out of me. I don't want to go there again.

God healed. The light flickered and grew stronger and yes, restored my joy.

I am determined to seek joy and the enemy of my soul is equally determined to steal, kill and destroy.

The only way to change the way I see is to change my mind. And the only way to change my mind is to soak in the truth of God's word.

I.will.fight.for.joy.

thanks-full

It's Thankful Tuesday, so here goes.

Today I'm thankful that God makes all things possible. And that someone was talented enough to write a song about it.

All Things Possible

I'm thankful for a four-mile run on dry pavement after this morning's snow, and for the cold weather running gear that my husband bought me.

I'm thankful for my accounting students, especially the one who hasn't said two words to me all semester. Tonight he bubbled with joy as he told me about his decision to change his major from business (boring) to nutrition (passion). "Way to go!" I said.

Above all, I am thankful that God saved me, and kept me from committing suicide. He has brought such joy and life to me that people find it hard to believe I experienced depression.

Give thanks to the Lord for He is good, His love endures forever.

unexpected.gifts.

As I typed the title, it seemed to me that in a way, all gifts are unexpected. I try not to expect gifts, nor do I want to feel entitled to them... though a birthday without gifts has never, ever occurred in my life.

Tuesday's gifts?

My normally self-absorbed co-worker told me that she's baking Christmas cookies this weekend and to expect a plate of them (and to run a few extra miles in preparation!)

That won't be a problem as long as this continues:

The second gift - running in shorts and T-shirt in 56-degree weather. So, you say? This is December.in.Michigan. Any run without three shirts and two pairs of pants is a gift!

The third gift came from some of my accounting students.

I'm not "that" teacher, the popular one. So it was surprising and delightful to get a whole box, not just a sample.

During this season of Advent, I'm looking for this type of gift - the small, the unexpected - as well as reminding myself of the priceless gift, the reason for it all - Jesus Christ.

filled.with.joy

Source: flickr.com via Susan on Pinterest

Why is it so easy to believe that it's done when I pray for others, that I have what I ask?

Today we celebrated Joel's 55th birthday and his homecoming from the rehabilitation hospital. He almost died last month. A fall from a ladder, a fractured femur, a good-bye to his wife as he headed into surgery. The orthopedic surgery was replaced by a desperate nine-hours removing blood clots from his heart and lungs. The situation was so rare and grave that it required phone consults with a major teaching hospital two hours away.

It was easy to pray and believe that God would intervene for him.

Today is the second anniversary of terrible horrors that my friend's son witnessed in Afghanistan. Again, I find myself praying for a life. His psychological wounds go deep. The sense of betrayal (where was God?) has him turned spiritually upside-down. This is the boy who prayed for me when he was small, when my desire for life disappeared during divorce. When I was spiritually and psychologically upside-down, I truly believe that this child's prayers turned the tide.

It is easy to pray and believe that God will intervene for him.

Why is it easy to have such faith for these situations? Why not the other circumstances I face? I asked my husband. The difference seems to be that I have faith for God's work in others' lives, but not my own.

All I know is this: the Word was alive to me again today.

The LORD has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy. ~Psalm 126:3

wonder

Wonder.

A cause of astonishment or admiration... rapt attention or astonishment at something awesomely mysterious or new to one's experience... miracle. (Merriam Webster)

If I could have a photo of wonder, this would be it. My nephew was enraptured by the tornado-like vortex at the museum.

I have an opportunity every day to live with admiration, astonishment and miracles. All I need to do is open my eyes to the beauty around me, whether it is the glory of autumn leaves or the tenacious clinging of the withered, brown leaves to winter-bare branches. 

I can open my arms to the now-fragile feel of my dad's hug. Once he held me up; now it's my turn.

I can open my ears to the sound of the cardinal or the sound of my voice singing "Jesus Loves Me" to my nephew as he snuggles into bed, thumb in mouth, blankie firmly gripped.

I can open my spirit to the wonder of this: Jesus. Loves. Me.

ichabod

The glory has departed. That's the commonly used translation of Ichabod. God has left the house.

I'm still trying to process Sunday's sermon. Already wondering why I am at this particular house of worship, the pastor chose to use a hammer to crack an egg, as my mom would say.

An exhortation to worship became egregious. We were told to repeat Psalm 107:1 until we believed it - and then stand. We were told that we were offering stale worship, not pleasing to God. Then we were asked, "Why are you here?"

I left devastated. It was all I could do not to leave before the message was finished.

Yesterday I was reassured that God is still speaking to me. I had a strange peace and detachment, as though a door had closed to me, but left me in a place of freedom.

When I look at the church it is gray, lifeless. Ichabod. The glory has departed.

I don't belong.

who's.on.first.

So, who's on first in my life?

I'm thinking it's still so much about me - and not as much about Christ.

Pondering what would happen if I just stopped.

Stopped mentioning the things I do or have done. (Things like, "Yes, I teach accounting," or "I like to run half-marathons" or "I play piano at church" or "I have my MBA from [a top 10 school]").

Am I trying to connect or trying to impress?

What would happen if I just stopped?

Stopped mentioning. Stopped doing.

Would that get Jesus to first place?

Changes have rocked me lately, changes that feel like I'm being pushed aside, like I don't matter. It all ties into my sense of disconnection and that my relationships are non-existent to superficial. I feel simultaneously needed (because people want a good listener) and not (because who looks me in the eye and asks how I'm doing and actually wants to know?)

And the paradox is, despite my desire for connection, the feelings of being pushed aside make me want to pull away. And the dark fear comes that I will not be missed.

And the hope is -  if I do this, if I stop - I will find that Christ is all, Christ is enough.

crave

Leslie hit the nail on the head in her post today. (Top of the Page "The Itch of Loneliness")

I crave connection. Intensely.

There are ways I've tried to satisfy the need. Reaching out to someone I thought could be a friend. Being in a small group. And then, of course, social media - FB and Pinterest. As if collecting "likes" and "reposts" creates connection.

And the need remains. Unfulfilled.

I don't even feel connected at my church home. I've questioned lately why I'm there - is it habit? Or because I play in the worship band? Or simply that I dislike change? How can I be somewhere for eight or nine years and feel like people don't know me?

Who will listen? Who will understand? Lately I've felt - and feelings are perilous and inaccurate gauges - that I am listening while others do all the talking.

Leslie reminded me that there is One who listens.

seeing

I was convinced that the eye doctor was going to tell me there was something seriously wrong with my vision. Simply because I have gloried in autumn colors as never before. The first sign was on an August walk at Big M in the Manistee National Forest.

The radiant leaves lit by our porch light captured my attention on my way to bed.

Stopping to look up on a Saturday run...

And looking down on another Saturday run...

We all want to leave a mark, and the leaves are no exception. They write their signature indelibly on concrete.

I thought this might be one of the last.

Only to discover these bright leaves bravely clinging after the rainy influence caused by Hurricane Sandy.

There was nothing wrong with my eyesight... I think that God is giving me a gift of seeing during the hard days. To remind me that He is Creator and gives me all things to enjoy.

Weeping may last for a night - but joy comes in the morning.

stop

My stop sign took a hit yesterday.

We all have stop signs - resolutions to stop an undesirable behavior and start a better one. I've found that no matter how hard I try or how powerful my willpower, I occasionally run the stop sign (or run it over.) It's then I see the flashing lights in my mind's rear-view mirror.

I could have seen it coming. I could have stopped it. Storm warnings came gradually through the day as things, in my opinion, went awry. Deadline pressures. Covering for an absent co-worker - completing a task for only the second time with a revamped and unfamiliar process. Making an error - not once but twice - on my own report. And at 2 p.m. receiving a not-so-gentle reminder, copying my boss, boss' boss and the sender's boss, about an unfulfilled task.

Stop sign. Slammed to the ground. A hurricane of angry words.

This is what God has been saying to me (He even gave me a picture)...

I've been using James1:19 as my password, "... Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry." Why? It's not just a suggestion - James goes on to write, "because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires." (v. 20) 

"Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent..." (v. 21a) This reads a lot like Ephesians 4:31.

But how to do this? "... [H]umbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you." (v. 21b) What does the word say?

The word says my thoughts connect to my state of heart, oh yes, they do.  Proverbs 23:7, "For as he thinks in his heart, so he is." Ouch. 

The word says my speech flows from my state of heart, "For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of." (Matthew 12:34b)

Do I want to live with an anger-filled heart? No. It's ironic because I've had a deep struggle with a family member's anger. Then why do I choose to ignore my own storm warnings? 

Because I'm not living the thankful Truth. Because I'm not choosing joy.

God always gives me the choice - Truth or lies. His will, or mine, be done. I'm pretty sure that anger comes from a my-will-be-done attitude.

My 30-day challenge to memorize and meditate on Psalm 103 is an opportunity to count joy. There will be serious enemy opposition. If I ignore the storm warnings, I'll end up on the rooftop with floodwaters surrounding. Maybe even lapping around my ankles.

So I will count joy.

Bless the Lord. Joy will follow.

dust

How would I count.it.all.joy after a nearly sleepless night wrestling over a letter (should I have sent it? should I have waited? should I have sent it? should I have waited?) At 6:00 a.m. I e-mailed the person who was going to mail it.

Too late. He mailed it last night.

It is what it is.

I lay back in bed wanting nothing more to snuggle under my warm flannel quilt for the day. Maybe with a cat. I didn't know what to look forward to.

I. was. so. tired.

Thoughts revved up on the drag strip called my brain.

Take care of a. Respond to b. Handle c. Finish d. How would I come up with a coherent class, let alone make it to bedtime?

Then it came, the verse I memorized while running the other day... "For He knows our frame, He remembers that we are dust." (Psalm 103:14)

He knows.

He remembers.

Even when I forget.

I count that joy.

count.it.all.joy

It's time for a new blog name.

A name that reminds me of the craving - God-given, I'm sure - for more joy.

A name that reminds me of this truth, no matter what.

A name that allows for honest appraisal. Life is difficult, yes - and there is joy available despite the difficulty.

James 1:2-4,

My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.

splinter

Create in me a pure heart, O God,
    and renew a steadfast spirit within me. (Psalm 51:10) 

I woke up this morning with a sore and irritated finger, forgetting that yesterday I'd gotten a splinter while doing fall garden clean-up.

It was such a small splinter, but quickly had worked its way deeper, turning the area around it pink - with skin already tightly closed over it. It had been so long since I had a splinter that I wasn't sure how to go about removing it. My husband said, "Tweezers."

I opened the skin with a gentle prick from a safety pin, but that wasn't quite enough - it needed to be opened more to free the splinter for the tweezer's grasp.

How like the irritation and inflammation that seemingly small sins generate in my attitude and heart! Will I confess them (opening my covering skin)? Will I trust God with the tweezers to let Him pull them out?

life is short

Life is short and we have never too much time for gladdening the hearts of those who are travelling the dark journey with us. Oh be swift to love, make haste to be kind.
Henri Frederic Amiel


I love the contrast of the bright, autumn leaf on those dead and trampled beneath. The photo expresses my question, "Where did the summer go?" Tonight my soon-to-turn-60-year old husband wondered aloud how many more summers he will have.

This year has been full of reminders that life is short. I want to soak up every moment I can with the people I love. I need to keep short accounts and tell people that I love and appreciate them.

Though I still find myself too slow to love and reluctant to be kind, I am trying to build new habits. Gladdening the hearts of others - without expectations - brings joy.

Life is short. What do I want people to remember - that I was in a hurry to love, or simply in a hurry?

positively, Mose

Positively, Mose.

That's how he always signs his e-mails.

It's good to surround yourself with people who are positive, who look for the best in themselves - and in you.

He just turned 60 in July and on August 31, embarked on a 1,500-mile bike ride from Astoria, OR to Newport Beach, CA. A lot of people talk about wanting to do something - but it's just that -  talk. Mose is all action, putting feet to pedals and pressing on to the goal, the finish line.

That's how I want to live life. Putting talk into action.

What's that dream - and what's in my way?

There are seven days in the week, and someday isn't one of them. Let's go!

grateful

Source: Uploaded by user via Susan on Pinterest

'

Slowing down this morning to scribe verses from Ephesians... Connecting a co-worker with another to give her project success... Pressing on with something I'm not very good at (and finishing)... Dinner at the Chinese buffet with my husband in hopes that hot & sour soup will clear my sinuses... Receiving an e-mail from the college bookstore manager letting me know that she can provide free access cards to all 28 of my students... Working on my class assignment schedule and looking forward to meeting this new set of students... Cat sleeping on couch...Typing this entry to the sound of humming refrigerator...

I will be grateful for this day.

come weary

It took its toll on me, the pace. Uncharacteristically tired, I pressed on with the 3-1/2 mile walk with a friend and got up early the next morning for a 70-minute run. Then on to music rehearsal and to visit my parents, followed by a wonderful dinner with husband, stepson and daughter-in-law.

At least that's what I tell myself - it was the pace.

It was the pace that caused the sneezing and stuffiness and aches. I haven't been sick in I can't remember how long. Even when my pre-school age nephews coughed in my face, I was immune, invincible.

The truth is, I'm weary. Tired of the dilemma - what to do about the strained-beyond-measure relationship? The stress has gone from mind to body and I'm just flat worn out.

And life is short. Four weeks ago a friend committed suicide. Less than two weeks ago a co-worker was seriously injured in a car crash that could have killed him. So this rift, this seems-like-it's-insurmountable chasm, feels ever-more-urgent to resolve.

But there is an invitation... Jesus says, "Come to Me weary." In this busy, self-sufficient, I'm-in-control world, there is One who says, "Rest. It's OK. Let Me figure it out."

It's a beautiful offer.

I intend to accept.

let it be

It all started with a falling out. Words were said, anger burned, then stilled to glacial silence.

And it was all too painful to write about, so I got out my colored pencils and drew. And drew some more.

Colored pencils were not enough so I bought some watercolor pencils and brushes and sturdy watercolor paper and drew some more and added paint. The sweep of brush across paper and the cutting and gluing and writing exposed what narrative could not easily express.

There was time away at the cabin without Internet. Time to go deeper and slow down enough to ink the treasured words from soul to the watercolored page, letter by letter.

I have everything I need. He restores my soul. I fear no evil. You comfort.

From our shopping excursion to Nifty Things came the inspiration from the Beatles, Let it Be.

It became a play on words.

Let it be. (Leave it alone.)

Let it be. (My hope and prayer... Oh God, restore.)

There will be an answer.

Let it be.

consensus

CONSENSUS

con·sen·sus noun, often attributive

 \kən-ˈsen(t)-səs\

1

a : general agreement : unanimity

b : the judgment arrived at by most of       

those concerned consensus was

to go ahead>

2

: group solidarity in sentiment and belief

The CONSENSUS?

It needed to be said.

WHY

do I feel so

BAD?

in the garden (II)

We found her in the dining room, alone at a table with a plate of congealed food in front of her. So we pushed her wheelchair out to the garden in back and sat on either side of her.

Tall elms and oaks shaded us. The recorded bullfrog sounded its rabid growl over the peaceful sound of the fountain. We admired the roses - yellow, orange, red. Time slowed and there was nothing more important than sitting with her, each holding one of her hands. (It reminded me of what I'd said about holding my baby nephew, that there is nothing more important than sitting still, holding a baby.) Sitting still with my soon-to-be-91-year-old mother-in-law ranks right up there.

When we returned inside, we decided to go hear the singing.

Picture this. The rehabilitation room lined with wheelchairs and people in various stages of awareness. One pajama-clad woman signed the words as the group sang. Another woman gestured us closer so we could see the singing group. A man slumped forward, looking at the floor.

When the song leaders began the hymns, oh the wonder of hearing the onlookers sing! "Count your blessings, name them one by one!" they sang with gusto and conviction. "Trust and obey - for there's no other way - to be happy in Jeeeeee-sus - but to trust and obey!" The hunchbacked woman next to me sang strong and low, and smiled at me when I glanced her way.

Things were wrapping up, and they only had time for two more songs. They hadn't asked for requests, but I had in mind if they did, I would ask for In the Garden.

"Oh, we've got to do this one," the leader said.

"I come to the garden alone...," he began.

How is it that God always, always knows? How is it that he ever bestows?

Tonight He walked with me and he talked with me and he told me I am His own.

In the garden.

in the garden (I)

She paused on the way back to his room at the health center.

"I'd really like you to play at Dad's funeral," she said. "He likes In the Garden."

I never knew that.

I did know, because I witnessed it, that one year at Christmas, he read from O Little Town of Bethlehem and choked up. How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is giv'n...


There's a lot of things I still don't know about my dad.

That same day, as we drove home, my husband said, "Your dad would like it if you played at his funeral."

I don't believe in coincidence.

A few days later, an interlude came to mind... so I captured it on my iPhone.

Then today, I thought about a simple beginning, a solo line...

I come to the garden alone... 


Because each of us has to come to the garden alone - we each have a singular relationship with Christ.

The second Voice joins the first.

And the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the Son of God discloses...


I never knew the third verse of the hymn.

I'd stay in the garden with Him
Tho' the night around me be falling
But He bids me go thro' the voice of woe
His voice to me is calling.


Minor notes, slight discord, this voice of woe. Resolving into sweetness, the call of unfailing love. His voice.

I'm wrapped in a deep, internal place right now. When asked to share at our small group tonight, I took a pass.

Because what do I say, that I'm crafting an original arrangement of In the Garden to play at my still-living father's funeral?

stop

I overslept, and consequently had to do the scheduled six-mile run on my own.

It was a hot one, and I was tired from a three-mile run during lunch the day prior plus a four-mile walk with a friend after work.

So there were a number of reasons to stop along the way...

Geese and goslings. These are just a few - the rest of the "herd" got away.

Smell the roses... Literally!

Mom's favorite, yellow roses.

A dormant cat, but not for long, not at the prospect of being petted!

And a beautiful flowering bush...

I really should be more driven. But oh, what I'd miss along the way.