Tea for Three

Voices danced through my studio today. "Swing your partner round and round," the tea kettle cried. And the voices did, skipping and twirling through flickering candlelight.

Silver spoons clanked against china teacups to the rhythm of regular laughter, and hands exchanged lemon curd, clotted cream, and jam—boysenberry, blackberry and raspberry—to top English scones.

And the dancing continued,

As three girls marveled at the way God's sovereignty touches everything, shared the way God is redeeming loss and pain, and remembered that unfulfilled desires nudge us back toward the only One who can satisfy.

The candles burned brighter as the sun began to set, and the clock showed it was time to go.

Plates were whisked to the sink, and plans were made for next time.

Voices dancing have been replaced by dish water splashing.

The silence is full,

But my soul is fuller.

And I am thankful I am made in the image of a God who delights in good friends.

© by scj

A Melodious Monday

It's been too long since I've posted, and so I give you a few fanciful thoughts to kick off a new work week. I hope they make your Monday more melodious.

1. Imagine if the Milky Way could sing....

...and you could fly through it mid-concert.

2. Do you think our guardian angels sing back-up for us when we're singing in the shower?

3. If I ever get to spend Christmas in Fairy Land I will learn to play "Carol of the Bells" on these:

And then I will have the fairies teach me to play a fanfare on one of these:

Until then, I'm just trying to imagine what blossom bells and morning glory horns must sound like...

4. What if the only way to heal the sick was to sing to them? How would the world be different?

5. Sometimes I try to imagine how it would sound if God sang to me.

And then I wonder what words he would sing.

Goodnight, my friends. I hope you dream musical dreams.

SJ

© by scj

Rebecca and Marc: Happy Birthday, Sister and Brother of Mine

A pair of glittery fairy wings from my recent Halloween costume is sitting on my couch, winking at me in the afternoon's soft light and reminding me of our dress-up escapades as little girls, Rebecca. Remember how we'd parade around the house as Disney princesses, ballet and tap dancers (mom's kitchen floor was never the same after that), and whimsical fairies? We were dress up queens, you and I, but you—you were a dress-up diva. You. Just. Had. It. That flair for fashion, eye for beauty, and fingers that tingled with creativity.

You could coax a princess costume out of a piece of plain fabric with some ribbon and a few safety pins, and understood the power of color to transform even the plainest garb. And so it's no surprise that exactly 21 years ago, on your fourth birthday, you greeted your best birthday present—baby brother Marc—in a bright pink, flowing wig and blue Cinderella gown.

You wrapped your little arms tightly around your red, scrunchy bundle of birthday joy, gathered him close to your lacy frills, and in that moment showed your little brother what it looks like to really embrace life—something you've been showing him ever since.

You've shown Marc that tight squeezes and playful pinches are one of the best ways toexpress affection (because sometimes little brothers just need to pinched!), and that life is too short not to squeeze and pinch your family at every possible interval. You've shown him that running around the house with a blanket draped over your head can be fun, and that part of life's excitement is being surprised by the unexpected things, like smacking fast and hard into the furniture your blanket blocks from view. And of course you've shown Marc how to welcome the surprises, how get up and keep running after falling down, and how to let life in by laughing over painful mistakes.

You've shown your birthday buddy that a soccer ball isn't worth kicking unless you kick it withenough umph to put the umption back in gumption, or however that youth group song goes; and taught him that some forts are so spectacular they're worth keeping erect in the

living room for a week. You've taught him that life needn't ever be dull, and that the best way to spice it up is with a little mischief (the men in our family aren't the only ones with twinkles in their eyes!), and that the best way to sing is loudly, with gusto, dramatic flair, and the windows down.

And you've taught him that roses aren't just for smelling and admiring; they are for

picking, because this thorny life is exquisitely beautiful and we must gather up its beauty and drink deeply of all it has to offer. I think this is one of the greatest lessons your little brother could learn from anyone. For a love of beauty points us to a love of God, the one from whom beauty flows; and so, as you have let life's beauty teach you to love the Beautiful One, you have shown Marc what it is to hunger and thirst for God.

Marc, your sister is a good seed-planter and the Holy Spirit the best seed waterer, because you have learned to embrace life fully—to live well by loving the people, places, and opportunities God gives you as you hunger for and seek after him.

I've lived 1,000 miles away from you for over eight years now, but one thing I know, Marc: every time I come home for a visit and walk into the church sanctuary on a Sunday morning I will see you grinning big with a throng of kids at your heels, on your back, in your lap, climbing up onto your head—confident to use you as a jungle gym because they know you think they are pretty special. You've learned the secret of loving "the least of these," the little tykes whose souls make them just as valuable as your adult friends, whose malleable hearts yearn for good men and women to show them they're important.

If I'm ever a mom, I hope my kids use you as a jungle gym because, they could learn from you—the way you learned from your older sister—how to embrace all that life has to offer.

You would show them that a family dinner is not a family dinner without Nacho Libre impersonations ("Get that corn outta my face!"); that when they feel like puking and blacking out in a hurdle race, they must dig deeper and push harder toward the finish line; that timing is everything with comedic expression (and dinner is nothin' without it); that attending to the smallest details when finishing a task is one way we pursue excellence and offer our bodies as a living sacrifice; and that playing with legos and dismantled appliances is the best way to learn the importance of the little things.

You would teach them that they must welcome even the crankiest customers at work with

grace and dignity; that hands are for working hard and creating beauty; that creating music is both hard and beautiful, and is one of life's greatest pleasures; that playing the drums is the best way to remind the neighbors that life's daily rhythms are perfect for dancing, especially when no one's looking (and booooy, when you're not drumming, I love walking in on you dancing to a beat that only you hear;), and that it's important to call your family regularly when you move across the country for school.

Most importantly, you would show them that the manliest men are the men who grow the fruit of the Spirit; who are willing to wait patiently when little kids take longer than adults; who know that the best way to diffuse conflict at work is with kind words; who know the yield of maintaining self control when tempers are tightly wound; who have learned to be content with the great gifts God has given them; and whose friends stick around for decades because they have been loved well.

Marc and Rebecca—my most favorite birthday buddies—you have taught me what it is to grow a family legacy of loving life and living fully by pursuing Christ whole-heartedly. Thank you living with infectious enthusiasm and joy.

I hope I'm like you both when I grow up.

I love you mucho grande,

Sarah

Sissie

Sarah-boe-Barah

(Fee fie foe farrah..........Sarah!)

© by scj

Thursday Things: Using Superlatives is the MOST Fun

1. Brussel sprouts are the best vegetable. Well, they are if you cook them in bacon grease and add a pound of bacon bits, and sauteed onions and mushrooms. Otherwise, they are the worst vegetable.

By the way, the bacon bits and grease do not detract from the nutritional value of the sprouts. Not at all.

2. Tennis is the coolest sport because you get to wear things like this:

And this:

I sure got jipped.

3. The best way to ensure that your days are productive is to know yourself. If you are a procrastinator and you have 105 papers to grade tomorrow, then you should probably designate tomorrow as a day of endless, grueling cleaning instead. This will ensure that you procrastinate cleaning to do less unpleasant activities. Like grading.

4. Roses are the loveliest way to spruce up a house.

5. Vitamin jars make the best vases.

6. Dogs are the greatest company. Next to humans. And books.

7. This is the best book I've read in awhile.

8. Fall is the best season.

9. Apple cider is the best fall drink.

10. Carving jack-o-lanterns is the best fall activity—if you do it with your sister.

11. The most darling jack-o-lanterns come in pairs.

12. The most creative way to use a surplus of pumpkins and gourds is in a fairy tale display.

The Three Little Pigs, at Rasmussen Farms, near Hood River, WA.

The Little Mermaid

The Little Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe

Flying with Peter Pan and his Gang

The Emperor...Without His Clothes

13. The best kind of game is a guessing game. So what fairy tale character do you think these feet belong to?

© by scj

Copper Coins and Pistachio Shells

There is a to-do list on my kitchen table covered in pistachio shells—the remains of the afternoon snack I'd hoped would make me feel a bit better. But three handfuls of pistachios later and my muscles still ache somethin' fierce, and my fatigue is so deep it feels like it's located in my soul somewhere.

My mind is racing, tripping over discouraged thoughts, trying to figure out why I felt good for so many days and then woke up today feeling like I was hit by a freight train.

I stare in silence at the checklist I can't read for all the shells heaped on it, and it's just as well I can't see what I've written because I've been in bed all day, too achy and exhausted to do much more than feed myself the last of my leftovers.

This is so hard for me, the woman who used to make her roommates laugh at how quickly she blazed through a heap of responsibilities; who literally sprinted her way through college on a track scholarship; who is energized by productivity and is wired to scale and conquer metaphorical mountains—mountains that get higher and steeper with each victory.

And here I sit, the only mountain I've recently conquered in front of me: a pile of empty pistachios littering the list I am too exhausted to look at.

I feel impoverished, somehow. Like I have little to offer God when the fruit of my day is a pile of empty shells, when even my good health weeks allow me to do nothing more than scale mole hills.

The patient ache in my heart quivers and then I remember the widow in Luke 21 moving quietly toward the church offering, dropping in two copper coins worth less than a penny. They mustn't have sounded more than a quiet *clink* when they landed, swallowed up by piles of weightier coins.

I've often wondered how the widow felt when she watched Ol' MoneyBags walk ostentatiously up to the offering receptacle before her and pour in a heavy bag of gold and silver coins. Did she shift uneasily as the Rabbi, Jesus, watched her drop in her meager offering? As she gripped the two copper coins—all she had to live on—and walked up to the offering behind the pompous rich man, did her heart ache like mine, wishing she had more to offer God?

Perhaps not. Perhaps the kind of heart that is eager to give God everything is the kind of heart that understands the Kingdom of God—that knows that in this Kingdom greatness and value have never been determined by what we have to offer God. For what can clay do for the Potter or tools do for the Carpenter?

When Jesus saw the poor widow's offering he didn't see just two copper coins. He saw what no one else could see: a woman whose heart had taken a posture of surrender; a woman who had given the little she owned to God because she knew that the best thing clay can do is remain wholly available to the Potter for his purposes. Jesus knew that in his Kingdom—where less is more and loss is gain—the widow had given the most valuable gift of anyone in the temple that day.

The story of the widow's gift assures me that when Jesus looks at me he sees much more than a history of scaling and conquering mountains. I think he often sees a heart that strives: clay that believes deep down that its efforts and achievements are important indicators of its value and influence. Perhaps this is why God has stripped away my ability to achieve and conquer mountains this year. Perhaps he is redeeming this chronic sickness by teaching me, in still and helpless solitude, that clay is valuable, not because of its efforts, but because of the hands it rests in. Strong, capable hands that belong to a Potter who cares most about the things unseen: about hearts that need to be kneaded and shaped and taught to trust so that they can surrender to the loving plan of the Potter.

There is a stirring in my heart now—a lifting of my heart's gaze—and I know that Jesus sees beyond my pile of pistachio shells. He is looking for something smaller, something unseen. He is looking for faith the size of a mustard seed. The kind of faith that prompts a heart to surrender to the Potter's loving hands, available to be used for His plan because it knows that He is a God who uses a seed of faith—not to scale mountains—but to move them.

I think it's time to turn over my climbing gear.

© by scj

Aslan On The Move

A few weeks ago a group of friends and I were hiking through the autumn splendor of the Rocky Mountains when, on my friend Jonalyn's cue, we stopped walking, ceased our talking and listened. I hardly dared to breath, straining to hear what she heard. A few seconds passed and then I discerned the far off, almost imperceptible burbling of a brook: the last of Winter's melted snow, winding its way down the mountain.

We stood still for awhile, hushed, wondering at the tinkling music of melted ice, and I remembered a country where it was always winter but never Christmas.

Where Narnians waited for someone to rescue them from the icy jowls of winter and give them a reason to celebrate the towering snow-covered pines and knolls frosted with fresh powder.

Where, one glorious day, the fierce whip of icy wind and silence of falling snow were replaced with the sound of far-off liquid laughter,

and the icicles began to shrink and wink in the sun's warm light, sending droplets cascading down snow-burdened boughs like tears of thanksgiving.

 The White Witch saw the changes to the world she'd turned into a prison and shuddered, but Mr. Beaver lifted his head and in joyful murmur announced to his friends: Aslan is on the move.

The Highest of High Kings may be called Aslan in Narnia, but here we call him Immanuel, God with us. We called him that 2,000 years ago when he came to live among us to make sure we'd never have to live through winter without Christmas, and to show us that winter's death will not have the last word.

Two thousand years later we continue to call him Immanuel because he's not sitting somewhere far-off watching us sweat, heave, and weep as we struggle to love him and live well. He is in us, among us, fighting for us: on the move.

So listen close for that far-off gurgle, that sound of life in a wintery world. Be still and ask Immanuel to pull back the curtain for just a moment, to show you what He is doing unseen right now for his glory and your good. He will show you.

 He will show you that the smile from your distant husband, the hug from your rebellious daughter, the Facebook message from a long-lost friend, the reduction of your last medical bill, the cookies fresh from your neighbor's oven, and the anonymous check that came in the mail are all signs of spring.

There will be days though, many many days, when even in still and silent searching it seems like spring cannot be found. When all you can see is icy grey and all you can hear is your heart creaking and cracking, splintering into jagged pieces. Be assured: your heart does not break from the weight of the snow.  This is the sound of ice that thaws. This too a sign of Aslan on the move.

© by scj

Thursday Things: A Colorado Adventure, Part II

Well, it took whole weeks, but I've finally unpacked my suitcase from my trip to Colorado and shoved it in my storage closet, where it will keep the spiders company for one week. On Monday I will pull it out again and stuff it full of clothes for a trip home. It just occurred to me that, if I were in my right mind, I would have kept it packed all month—to save a lot of effort and lugging. ;)

I guess the silver lining in this unfortunate lack of strategizing is that my little abode is clean and tidy, and I have peace of mind enough to sit down and finish chronicling my Colorado adventure.

And so I give you: Part II (click here for Part I)

1. After a short stay in Denver, I spent the better part of a week in Steamboat Springs, Colorado for a retreat sponsored by Soulation, an apologetics ministry founded by Dale and Jonalyn Fincher.

Jonalyn and Dale

2. It was a grand week spent surrounded by golden aspen and brilliant minds.

3. Dale and Jonalyn's vision is to help others grow more "appropriately human." They used the retreat to facilitate the exploration of several ways we can grow healthier souls, and asked three attendees to contribute presentations on topics related to spiritual growth and formation.

4. First, I got to present on the way that beauty and the imagination can shape our souls. I focused on the especially powerful nature of fairy tales in helping us to recover our wonder at the world and our delight in a magical Gospel.

5. Jonalyn reminded us of the importance of taking time to play, to let something completely absorb us so that the process—not the product—becomes the point.

And play we did.

Jonalyn also reminded us that good play becomes so engrossing and delightful that we want to do it again and again, the way God wants to pull the sun up over the horizon again and again.*

This is my fifth attempt at trying to look like I belong on the set of "Oklahoma!".

6. Robin, fellow attendee and new kindred spirit friend, helped guide us to a better understanding of the redemptive nature of difficult transitions. She explained that transitions demand the reconciliation of life events and personal values, and force us to update our beliefs about ourselves. She encouraged us to allow tough transitions to "change the story you tell about yourself to yourself."

It was a timely talk for all of us.

Robin preparing her presentation

7. Aubrie—another attendee, a bosom friend, and a grad student majoring in thanatology—gave a presentation on grieving well. She reminded us that grief is work; it is a death and resurrection experience in which we are stripped "of the props we rely on for our well-being." Grief helps us to recognize our true identity as naked souls beloved by God.

Dear friend, Aubrie

8. On Friday, Dale talked a bit about the way our thinking about work has evolved since the industrial revolution from something to be proud of, to a mere money-maker. Then his wife shared one of the questions he asks himself when he's engaging in menial tasks:

"If the world were to watch me do this task to learn something about my God, what would they learn?"

And so we worked as unto the Lord and took great pleasure in it.

Bob and Tanya getting ready to stack firewood

9. Toward the end of the week we talked about the importance of including a Sabbath rest in our weekly rhythm, and determined to live the Sabbath as if God could hold the world together without us. Then we engaged in the Jewish practice of welcoming the Sabbath, and we rested.

Some of the girls on our Sabbath walk

10. We closed our week with "Mole's End"—a time to share poems, songs, and our own writings. It was a joyful and meaningful time.

This is what I look like when I'm about to chop off a fish's head.

This is also what I look like when I'm explaining what slam poetry is.

11. I am so thankful for my new dear friends, and for the renewal and restoration I experienced in such a life-giving community. In the wake of the retreat I have felt refreshed and hopeful, settled and satisfied.

*Jonalyn was referencing an idea in G.K. Chesterton's book Orthodoxy.

Autumn Repose

This week the autumnal days have composed a soft and steady symphony; a fluid ebb and flow of sun and moon, breeze and rain, muted gray and smiling blue, curling leaves and unfurling blooms.

My soul has been still—settled and satisfied with the lot that has been dealt me, and my body, for the first time in 13 months, feels my own.

This, a most gracious gift, after learning to live a long and tiring year of chronic illness in a body that felt like a stranger's;

a frame broken and unrecognizable, an impostor in my once familiar world.

A body that didn't—couldn't—respond to the signs of the changing seasons with thrills of joy and remembrance the way it did when it was healthy and whole;

that shuddered at Winter's foreign frost, retreated from Spring's scouring rains, and squinted at Summer's bright light.

But today God has replaced the throbbing tempos of grief and the aching silence of sickness with the gentle, healing rhythms of Fall, and I remember what it is to have a body that I know and that knows me and my world.

A body that remembers Autumn, that recognizes Her dry warmth, earthen perfume, gypsy breeze, and early dusk;

that has stored in its cells Autumn memories captured by senses—sight of golden leaf, smell of rising smoke, taste of tawny russet, sound of sighing trees, chill of clearest night.

It has been two years since I last had a body that knew this gypsy breeze and could grant her passage into my soul, allowing her to swirl and stir within, unearthing the Fall memories that Winter buried there.

And so I walk into the setting sun, breathing deep, trying to swallow pools of sunshine and taste the azure sky;

my body welcoming Autumn, letting Her seep into every familiar pore,

and my soul remembers...

...Riding my little pink bike, wiry legs pedaling fast, wheels splashing through puddles and whizzing down hills, my lungs full of fresh air seasoned with the smell of wet earth...

...Sprinting laps around a stadium, face dripping with sweat, chest heaving; my teammates running behind and before me under an October sun....

...Shuffling through crunchy leaves toward the Glendora foothills while chatting with dearest friends, then stopping downtown for steaming peppermint mochas...

...Piling dirty dishes snugly in the sink, the smell of pumpkin spice wafting through the house, roommates waiting patiently for a slice of sweet bread—a taste of Fall...

...Helping twenty five pairs of little hands pick from piles of orange, yellow and green fabric scraps and tangled balls of yarn, the ingredients for third grade pumpkin patch collages...

These memories rise and rush out my eyes, wet and salty. The wind wraps around me and my spirit settles into my body, quiet and content. And in this settling there is a shedding of pain of loss and fear of the future: a lifting of my spirit. For in this reunion of body and soul is freedom, the feeling of coming home.

I close my eyes and spread my arms wide, welcoming the release, hoping never to forget this feeling: a foretaste, I hope, of heaven.

© by scj