Chillin’ in Baton Rouge

My brave fingertips have ventured out from under brown fleece and a double layer of knuckle-covering sleeves. They are on a mission to chronicle my current misery. Whether they do it willingly, I do not know. If my fingers have feet, they are dragging them. At the least, they are working slowly, either from insurrection in the making or simply because they are cold.

I awoke this morning to air so crisp and bracing I welcomed it as an autumn opportunity to tackle my chill from the inside out with steaming coffee. When the first cup failed to produce the anticipated warmth and well being, I doubled down for a second.

Still shivering, I emptied my second cup of aspirational warmth. Caffeine jumpstarted the dawning realization the chilly air was more than personal perspective. The thermostat confirmed this suspicion. It was cold! The temperature fought a losing battle to get out of the 50’s. No amount of threatening, cajoling or providing fresh batteries produced even a whisper of warmth.

We donned double layers, nestled in blankets and eventually spent the better part of the day seeking more congenial environs. We settled our shivering pet in the prime real estate of the heated bathroom floor.  And, yes, we called our personal heating expert who promised to restore normalcy to our frigid domicile first thing Monday morning.

Problem solved. Inconvenience averted. Can’t wait until tomorrow.

But my ‘affliction’ for one day will be a daily reality for the Baton Rouge homeless who live on the streets and huddle under bridges. Many seek the shelter of narrow doorways and press their shivering bodies against the locked doors in a futile attempt to borrow what little heat escapes well-intentioned weather stripping.

A steaming cup of coffee or warm breakfast is a sporadic luxury. There is no thermostat to adjust and no repairman who will make it all right in the morning. Any favors that come their way are small. They must hang their hope on the uncertain generosity of strangers.

I am miserable tonight—not because I am cold, but because my heart is broken for those who have nothing. And won’t have anything again tomorrow. The extra coats I donated last week to the homeless through our church’s Breakfast Under the Bridge ministry are a scant token of my concern. Every coat in our closet wouldn’t provide enough fabric to protect a street dweller from the winter’s advancing cold.

Perhaps I can add some blankets. Maybe even the one that currently drapes my shoulders. At our house, the heat will be on again tomorrow.

‘Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of Mine, you did for Me.’ Matthew 25:40

The Clumsy Dance

Our impromptu dance was an uncharacteristic as it was unexpected. It wasn’t the awkward movements or lack or artistry that made it surprising. After all, my husband, who has countless admirable qualities, has never once claimed to be a dancer.  His infrequent forays onto the dance floor have demonstrated he didn’t underestimate his abilities.

What surprised me was that this two-step, one-step, two-step, one routine—glaringly devoid of choreography—occurred at all. It isn’t like my husband to misjudge a situation or to hesitate in determining a course. And once a course is set, he isn’t likely to retrace his steps. He seldom backs away from a challenge, even if the challenge at hand is an approaching white Suburban. One menacing glare from the steely blue eyes of this teddy bear of a man is usually sufficient to slow the speediest driver.

But here we were, inelegantly waltzing from the curb to the pavement in a tentative attempt to carry our newest home improvement project, packaged in pristine DIY components, to our car.

Equally surprising was the way I joined him in the uncertainty. At the moment he took his first step backwards, I was already in the middle of the lane, clearly in the bull’s-eye of the SUV. Being in the path of an oncoming car is a position in which I find myself frequently. My cavalier attitude toward moving vehicles is rooted in a history of being blonde and taking for granted that from a distance drivers would assume I was either too dumb or too beautiful to hit. They would, of course, have been right on the first and wrong on the second.

In the recent situation, it would have taken me fewer steps to reach safety than to run dutifully to his side. I make no apologies for this illogical decision. I acted from a desire to honor my husband’s continuing attempts to protect me. This is a newfound delight for me—not his attempts, but my willingness to appreciate them. A growing wisdom born of age and experience compels me to signal to this man who is so dear, “I will follow you even when I have no idea what you are doing.”

Humor and eye contact ended our dance. The driver laughed and waved. My husband shrugged sheepishly and walked. I shook my head and followed.

Unbidden, a simple recollection careened into my brain and collided with my relief. “An indecisive man is unstable in all his ways” (James 1:8 HCSB).

James 1:2-7 gives the background, “Now if any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives to all generously and without criticizing, and it will be given to him. But let him ask in faith without doubting. For the doubter is like the surging sea, driven and tossed by the wind. That person should not expect to receive anything from the Lord.”

How absurd I must appear when I ask God for a gift and falter to embrace it. The clumsy dance of two adults trying to cross a busy driveway is laughable human error. The failure to walk with steadfast confidence toward the promises of an unfailing Father is unmistakable folly.

The Joy of Love Assured

The lights were dimmed for this closing conversation of another day with my granddaughter. The acrid smell of a girl at play had been replaced by the sweet fragrance of body wash and strawberry conditioner. Nightgown knit caressed her tender skin, a welcome exchange from the no-nonsense fabric of uniform khaki.

Just after the bedtime rituals and right before the final tuck-in, she asked me what it was like to be old. I wasn’t offended. To a child of seven, everyone over the age of twelve seems old. 

I began to share my own musings on the passing of many years. “Being old is wonderful. You have seen so many places and have so many memories. Getting old is wonderful because of…”

Before I could finish, she interrupted, “Grandchildren. You have to be old before you can have grandchildren.”

“Yes! Yes,” I said. “That is absolutely the best part of being old.”

I was, of course, delighted by my newfound knowledge that my hugs, kisses, hand-written notes and special treats had conveyed the accurate message of love. Even more, I was touched by her obvious sense of security in knowing she was treasured.

Here was a child who knew her very existence brought me pleasure. She had no doubt that I delighted in her, her sister and her cousins. Relaxing into this verbal reminder of my unquestionable love for her, she let go of the final reins of day as night carried her toward peaceful rest.

Our little conversation took me to my own familiar place. In her confident declarations, I relived my own relationship with a heavenly Father who cherishes me. I recalled his constant tenderness to me, even when I was slow to call it love. I remembered learning to rest safely in the arms of the One who loves me with an everlasting love.

The exchange gave me insight into my Father’s heart as well. If my granddaughter’s knowledge of my love brought me such joy, how much more is the One who delights in me pleased when I am confident in his love.

“For the Lord your God is living among you. He is a mighty savior. He will take delight in you with gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears.
 He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.” Zephaniah 3:17 (NLT)

In Need of a Doppelganger

I was up to my elbows in chopped onions, celery, garlic and carrots, the foundations of a spaghetti sauce for twenty-five people’s Sunday dinner. With each trip to the refrigerator, I had to reach around bowls of leftover ice cream toppings, a visual reminder I had spent all of the previous day preparing food for an even larger party the night before.

I cooked frantically. We were leaving shortly to walk the two miles to the first home game of the football season. The tickets waited impatiently on the table next to the gift for a bridal shower I would attend Sunday afternoon—after the spaghetti lunch.

This was a four-event weekend, and I seriously needed my doppelganger to show up and assume half of the responsibility. I would have preferred it to be the one with shiny, just-straightened hair. But in the state in which I found myself, the one with ‘fresh from the shower, no-time-to-dry’ hair would have been the more accurate representation.

With so much going on, you would have thought my emotions would have had the courtesy not to write their own story. But there they were, swinging petulantly between proud and pitiful. My already full hands alternately patted my back, in congratulation for my selfless service, and held my head to keep it from spinning.

Neither extreme reflected my heart nor my motivation for this marathon weekend. Three of the events were to honor young people I love. Each has had a special place in my life. Individually they have assisted me in ministry, shared their talent and partnered in mission. I have watched as God called them to use their unique gifts to serve him.

I thought of their faces. I remembered the experiences we had shared. I knew I had been honored by the opportunity to watch these men and women mature. I was glad I could support these friends who now are serving God with their whole lives.

Somewhere between chopping and sautéing, I gained a new perspective.

Yes, every tiring task was worth it. The shopping, cooking, transporting, cleaning—I would do them all again. I was doing it for them!

A quiet voice whispered into my euphoria, “You have set your sights too low.” Then in the gentle words of Jesus, I was reminded of who I really served.

‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me.’ (Matthew 25: 40)

My doppelganger was a no-show, but if she had made an appearance, I would have been happy to share with her the joy that comes from serving the One who gave his all for me. 

Productive Rest!

Unless the Lord builds a house, the work of the builders is wasted.
 Unless the Lord protects a city, guarding it with sentries will do no good. Psalm 127:2

Unexpected blessing happened twice before noon today. To have it happen once would be a joy. Twice was pure delight.

The first reversal came in the form of a menacing project that simply rolled over and let me pet its soft underbelly. I had braced myself to take mastery over this gargantuan task only to have it greet me with a friendly lick. A complicated problem that had promised to hijack vast amounts of time, resolved itself in five minutes. I thanked God for his very practical display of mercy.

The second issue was more challenge than menace. Its resolution was no less miraculous.

I perused the page in front of me from top to bottom before highlighting my favorite lines in optimistic yellow. The text represented the salient points to be conveyed through a video project. The face and voice of my friend, another long time member of our staff, kept surfacing as I read. She, I thought, would be the perfect person to present this vision.

I tried to dismiss the thought. After all, I had already outlined an approach that involved videoing several families. Personal story is an effective tool. Add children and the effect is golden. I just had to determine which families, what questions to ask and the order in which to present their stories--all before the actual videoing or editing took place.

My next step was to discuss the vision one more time with the director of the ministry on which the video focused. Again the idea to use my friend and maybe more members of the staff surfaced in my head. I tested the waters. “What do you think…?” “Do you think it would work…?”

Suddenly we were in complete agreement. A new plan. A workable plan. A plan far better than any previous one. I was relieved. I was excited. I couldn’t wait to put it into motion. What I had thought would take days of work became a much shorter project. It would be easier, and it would be better. Clearly God was at work.

To have my load lightened in this way twice in a two hour span of time brought Psalm 127:1 to mind. This is the Bible verse that immediately preceded the one I used in yesterday’s blog. It was not the first time today that I had been drawn to reconsider its message.

When I thought back on yesterday’s blog, Even in My Sleep, I concluded the word rest brings to mind different ideas for each of us. It is a word that demands an author to explain what she means when she uses it.

For example, in Your Beautiful Purpose, Susie Larson, uses rest to mean a time when a person is removed from active ministry and set to the side by God. In her explanation, rest is not the sought after vacation or spa experience. It is more like being in time out or left out—a forced rest rather than a chosen one.

Other people see rest as a lovely, but almost out of reach hope. A friend messaged me first thing this morning after reading what I wrote in yesterday’s blog, “I love to rest and I love being productive, but it's a comforting reminder that God WANTS us to rest.” I am hoping she take this as personal permission from God to sit back and enjoy life a little more.

What I experienced today was rest of a different kind. The events of my morning provided stress-free productivity. I was fully engaged in the work, but refreshingly removed from the burden.

In the first instance, I believe God stepped in to solve a problem. He did almost instantly what could have taken me months to accomplish. In the second instance, the work was not removed, but it was redirected. The new plan energized rather than drained me. It sparked both creativity and organization. While I still managed the details, it felt as if I did it while enjoyably perched on the shoulders of the chief project engineer.

I have a new appreciation tonight for what it means when it says, “Unless the Lord builds the house, the work of the builders is wasted.” I experienced the joy of God’s handiwork applied through my hands. I recognized anew that many of my best efforts have been merely exercises in futility because I labored alone.

Today’s experiences provide a fresh perspective on how Psalm 127:1 enhances the meaning of verse two, “It is useless for you to work so hard 
from early morning until late at night,
 anxiously working for food to eat;
 for God gives rest to his loved ones.”

God does give rest to those he loves. Sometimes that rest comes in a nap or recreation. Sometimes it comes in a season of disengagement. 

Sometimes rest comes during a time of productivity, and it is equally refreshing.

Even In My Sleep

It is vain for you to rise up early, to retire late,
to eat the bread of painful labors; for He gives to His beloved even in his sleep. Psalm 127:2

Days are shorter now. Dark appears like a too early guest, showing up before the meal is ready or the table set. The dappled sunlight that once played happily in a hardworking kitchen at the end of the day has taken to retiring early. I can no longer count on its cheery rays to soften the transition between a day in the office and an evening at home.

I am not without other resources. At this time of the year, I nightly summon long-standing cohorts to join me for a happy hour of reading the mail and cooking a meal. Once lit, these chunky white pillars offer the familiar fragrance of home and a glow that brightens my flagging spirits. These are the same waxy friends who joined me as I fixed my morning tea and prepared to start my day.

Beginning and ending my day augmented by candlelight, I am reminded of the old admonition not to burn the candle at both ends. (I tried it once—lighting both ends of a taper for real—and discovered a candle so lit, burns itself out very quickly and ends up in a smoke-tinged waxy puddle. Now there was a lesson to be learned.) In my case, I would have to rephrase and claim, “I burn the candles at both ends—of lengthy days.” Especially at this time of the year.

I fill every day to the brim in a misguided effort to make the most of my twenty-four hours. I often complain I was short-changed in my daily time allotment. (As if the Creator made a real mistake.) Certainly God meant for me to have more minutes so I could accomplish more things and offer him more praise. 

Or did he?

On the contrary, God is not handing out accolades for my late to bed, early to rise lifestyle. In Psalm 127, he labels my frantic, fill-every-minute existence as futile and unproductive. His loving desire is for me to take my rest in him, to let him restore my soul as I sleep so that I am fresh to enjoy the work of a new day.

I would love to keep writing tonight. I’m tempted to explore and expand upon this train of thought. I'd love to check some commentaries and study this for at least another hour. 

But my unstudied understanding of God’s desire leaves me with just one obedient conclusion. Rest.

And so I am going to bed. I cannot wait to see what God will bring me as I sleep. 

It Snowed Love

Dear friends, since God loved us that much, we surely ought to love each other. No one has ever seen God. But if we love each other, God lives in us, and his love is brought to full expression in us.

1 John 4:11-12

Love drifted down today in silvery flakes. It twinkled and swirled in the air just above the heads of over four hundred children. Love’s whisper softly brushed the faces of almost one hundred adults.

Love wafted in gentle voices. It rang out in glee-filled laughter. Love cascaded in the mixed voice of grateful and polite children. It swirled around the hearts of those who came to serve.

Love was spread today, first as icing on cookies and then as the sweet covering of newly formed relationships. It bubbled up in fun games and shared stories. It multiplied as childish hands and hearts created festive cards to pass along to those they loved.

Love grew today. Adult’s hearts expanded as they reached out with selfless dedication to envelope children not their own. Children’s hearts expanded, nourished by the love so freely given.

If you were one of the more than 175 adults who took part in Wildwood Winter Wonderland, The Chapel’s outreach to an elementary school, then you were both a giver and a beneficiary of the love. If this blog is your first introduction to the events of this day, then a few details will help you understand.

The Chapel in Baton Rouge hosted a Christmas party for an entire school today, sending teams of three volunteers into each classroom to do simultaneous parties throughout the school—and giving the teacher a break. It required almost a hundred adults to work with the children. An almost equal number of volunteers worked behind the scenes yesterday, assembling supplies and setting the stage.

One team of volunteers worked at the school last night to create the winter wonderland that greeted the children as they arrived for school. Paper snowflakes hung from trees outside, so that the children were given a hint of what was in store. Inside the school, the ceiling of every hallway was covered with various shapes and sizes of glittering snowflakes that hung low enough to be just above the head of an elementary child.

Earlier yesterday another team of volunteers worked for hours to assemble and pack the party supplies into bags and boxes. They counted out cotton balls and placed them in individual cups for one game. Spoons, straws, paper plates were sorted, counted and bagged per classroom. The game with M&M’s required a different set of cups. There were sugar cookies to be counted and packaged, along with icing and knives and sprinkles and whatever other goodies went on top. Then there were the craft supplies. Each box was labeled and had the exact number of supplies needed for the students in that classroom.

Hosting a party for so many children is not an easy task—especially this time of the year. Volunteers took time off from work to be in the classrooms today. Others missed dinner with their families last night. Many set aside other Christmas chores. They braved a light rain and impending cold. I didn’t hear a single complaint about the sacrifices that were made. This was a labor of love.

When you take into account God is their Father, their outpouring of love only make sense.