Love (could be) in the Air

If you are single and wouldn't mind a little romance in your life—or if you know someone single who's open to meeting that special someone—then keep reading, because I have discovered a sure-fire romance provider.

Is it online dating? you tentatively ask, with wariness in your eyes. No, my skittish-about-online-dating-friends, it's not—although some godly, gifted, and gorgeous friends of mine met online, and then they married. So I know it works.

Nooooo, it's not the matchmaker whose advertisement I just heard on the radio. Although her impressive success rate did have me belting "Matchmaker matchmaker, make me a match! Find me a man; catch me a catch!" for the rest of my car ride.

And no, I have not discovered love potion-laced chocolate truffles, for which you can be thankful. Ron Weasley can testify to the hazards of consuming those tantalizing treats.

I have, however, recently discovered this:

Romantic, delicious cake mix!

All you need is this cake mix, some eggs, oil, milk, and an electric fan and you'll find yourself a spouse in no time.

Why the fan?

You're surely wondering....

Perhaps you couldn't read the box's fine print, below its title:

"The sweetness and fragrance of the cake as well as its delicate feeling is like mild breeze spread in the air."

So you see, the fan is to spread the cake's intoxicating fragrance through the air more quickly, thus speeding up the twitterpation process between two potential lovers.

Sounds pretty foolproof, doesn't it?

So what are you waiting for?! Go check your local asian store for a romantic cake mix of your own.

And then go catch yourself a match.

You can thank me later.

© by scj

Here's What Happens When I Wish I Had a Bullhorn

Last night I enjoyed a mid-winter barbeque with friends. This is how we roll in southern California.

As I rummaged through a bag of potato chips looking for the folded chips (double the crunch = double the taste), I found myself wishing I had a bullhorn. I was just bubbling over with the.best.news. and I wanted to share it—to shout it from the rooftops, proclaim it from the mountain peaks, announce it at a noisy barbeque.

As C.S. Lewis reminded us, "we delight to praise what we enjoy because the praise not merely expresses but completes the enjoyment; it is its appointed consummation." Nothing could have made my news better than to praise Jesus by sharing it with others.

But I didn't have a bullhorn, although goodness knows it is the kind of thing I would carry around in my Mary Poppins purse—along with a pair of pliers, a sock, a golf ball, hand cream, nail polish, three empty water bottles, a Spanish new testament, etcetera etcetera.

So bullhornless little me just kept crunching and munching until my fingers were coated in sour cream and onion powder, and I could turn my attention to the burgers fresh off the grill. And then I determined to tell all of you my.best.news.ever. Because a blog is even better than a bullhorn. ;)

My news:

I've had a big ol' hospital bill hanging over me the last few months. When it first arrived in the mail I gulped big and practiced lamaze breathing techniques. Then I begged God to take care of this whopping, burdensome bill by providing funds, or moving in the heart of someone at the hospital who could lessen my bill.

Then I waited. And prayed. And waited. And learned a bit more about stepping into God's Sabbath rest daily—even when big bills burden—by trusting that he is good, powerful, and with me, and that he cares about me more than I care about me.

Yesterday I got a letter from the hospital telling me they would cover almost all of my bill.

When I found out I whooped and did a little dance move I like to call "The Windmill." Ever since my soul has been popping with praise to a good God who gives good gifts.

The only thing that has made this gift better is telling you about it.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."

-Jesus of Nazareth, in Matthew 11:29-30

© by scj

The New Year's Post I Wasn't Going to Write

My mind is tired. I just finished reading a one-of-a-kind book. It used insects to resolve the problem of evil. My brain feels like my quadriceps do when I run up stadium stairs under a winter sky. Thrilled to be moving and flexing, very aware that it hasn't flexed in awhile.

My body is also tired. This could have something to do with the dance party I had this morning. Alone. While Little Brother ate breakfast and watched, his eyes wide with wonder at my ability to hula and do the running man simultaneously. Perhaps I should take up dance lessons in the new year. Nah. That sounds exhausting.

I'm tired from reading. I'm tired from dancing. I'm also tired from this last year. It was brutally hard. In this new year, I have absolutely no desire to review last year, to reacquaint myself with the thick and heavy darkness that settled over most of my days.

I don't want to look back on a year during which I spent most of my time in bed or on the lounge chair on my patio, too sick to participate in life.

I don't want to remember the way my broken engagement followed the onset of my sickness, knocking the wind out of my soul, leaving me deflated and stunned.

I don't want to revisit the subsequent nighttime dreams that chased me, pierced me, made me dread sleep; or the mornings when I woke up and wished I could just slip back into unconsciousness.

It feels like 2011 took its claws and tore into my soul, battering it with its savage blows. It feels like my soul is scabbing over now, heaving hard from the struggle. I think reviewing my year will be like examining my scabs, and then picking them open and watching the blood gush.

There is nothing in me that wants to dream up ways to try to make 2012 better than 2011. I think making resolutions will be like slapping Band-Aids on my freshly scratched soul scabs. Band-Aids keep the ugliness from view for awhile, but they're sure to peel off in the shower. And there will be more blood.

But I have a writer's impulse. An urge I can't restrain. It kicks at my soul, struggling to get out, like a bulldog in a gunnysack. I've got to release it. I have to write about the year, to try to make sense of it.

I used to write to get good grades. Now I write to discover. To figure out who God is and what he's doing with me, with this hard life. Each tap on my keyboard is like the blow of a chisel, chipping away at dense rock, reaching for a picture that lies buried within. Eventually a recognizable shape will emerge and I will sit back in relief and murmur, "Ah, now I see."

Tap. Tap. Tap. Chip. Chip. Whack. Scrape. Pound. The chisel does its work. Its blows sound familiar. Like the blows I've been dealt this year. And suddenly I remember a story about a boy who was turned into a dragon.

This boy was mean, surly, and selfish. He bullied younger kids, and complained about as often as he breathed. You may have heard of him? His name was Eustace.* Not the kind of kid you want to share a desk with. Or go on a road trip with. Or get stuck on a boat with.

But his cousins, Edmund and Lucy, did get stuck on a boat with him, and it wasn't pretty. Thankfully for them his greed and laziness got him turned into a dragon that couldn't talk. He could breathe fire, but he couldn't complain. A definite upgrade.

For the first time in his short life Eustace was humbled, reliant on his cousins' sympathy and help. His ugly exterior matched his monstrous heart, and he didn't like what he saw. He wanted to change, to be able to continue his sea-faring adventures with his cousins. He wanted to be human.

One night a fearsome Lion appeared to Eustace. He told Eustace to follow him into the forest, where they both arrived at the edge of a large well that looked a bit like a bathing pool.

The water was still and clear and the Lion knew Eustace longed to dive into it, to bathe his aching dragon's body.

"Undress first," the Lion told Eustace.

Perhaps he wants me to cast off my dragon skin, like a shedding snake, Eustace thought. So he scratched and tore until his dragon skin fell at his feet in a heap.

Joyfully, he turned to leap into the water but stopped when saw his reflection. He was still a dragon, covered in tough skin.

Two more times he scratched, desperate to free himself from his scaly prison. Two more times he failed to free himself.

"You will have to let me undress you," the Lion said.

Though afraid of the Great Lion's claws, Eustace laid on his back and let the Lion tear into his skin, so deep it felt as if it had gone into his heart. The pain pierced sharper than any pain Eustace had ever felt.

When the Lion's work was finished he scooped Eustace up and tossed him into the pool. Eustace's pain disappeared as he swam and splashed with delight, and then he saw his reflection in the pool: he was human.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Chip. Chip. Scrape. Pound. The picture is emerging. It tells the story of a girl. Her soul is twisted and stooped, gnarled as a result of the Fall of all humans. In every stooped soul lurks a dragon.

This girl, she hated that dragon. Hated the way its beady eyes sometimes glowered or its spiny back bristled at others, the way its fiery breath tended to scorch those around her. She didn't like what it did to the people she loved. She thought it made her soul unloveable, not as valuable. So she resolved to remove her tough dragon skin. This should take awhile. About a lifetime, she thought. But I can do it. So she strove and scratched for years, desperate to rid herself of her ugliness. Until one day she was wrestled onto her back, still and helpless. Broken. Too sick, sad and exhausted to keep scratching.

Sickness, sadness: sometimes they are a sword that slices deep. But an impersonal year is not wielding them; hands are. You'll have to let me undress you, their owner whispers. These hands, they are scarred, and they cut deep, until they are covered in blood. They have been covered in blood before.

I know what it is to be wounded so that you might know what it is to be free.

There is pain worse than this. It is the pain of being stuck in the coffin of my selfishness, the prison of my anxiety; of being trapped in dragon's skin forever, while it grows bigger and fiercer. The pain of striving, striving; of trying to earn favor and value by attempting to remake myself. This striving is like eating but never tasting, reaching but never feeling. A little bit like hell.

You'll have to let me undress you.

I never expected to look back on my year and feel pleasure. The pleasure of slowly, slowly being freed from a dragonish destiny, of watching Divine Hands steadily untwist my gnarled and stooped soul. I expected to look at this year and be burdened, affronted by my deep, brittle scabs. But those scarred hands, they do more than use the sword of suffering to slay dragons. Today they have tipped my head upward, outward, and I find I'm looking at a clear, still pool. I lean in close and I see my reflection. I am human.

I think I'll spend 2012 splashing in the water.

© by scj

*Read more about Eustace in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, by C.S. Lewis

Tacky Tinsel and Beautiful Souls

We Portlanders and Vancouverites experienced a Christmas miracle last week: the grey skies rolled away and the sun shone clear. My mom and I pulled on our walking shoes, eager to enjoy this unexpected gift of sun, and went on a leisurely neighborhood stroll.

"Look at all of the cute Christmas decorations on this house," my mom exclaimed, slowing her pace to admire the house.

There certainly were a lot of them. Too many, I thought. Too much tinsel, and too many bright colors.

"It looks pretty tacky," I flippantly responded.

My mom grew quiet.

"You miss out when you judge too quickly," she finally said. "There's a bigger picture that you don't see."

"Mmm, no, I don't think I missed anything," I responded, again carelessly.

She was quiet again before continuing. "The lady who lives there works every day for a week to get that house ready so that kids can enjoy it. She and her husband aren't able to have kids, and she told me once she hopes the neighborhood children will delight in her decorations."

Her soft words cut sharp into my careless heart, teaching it to see what she saw.

I felt shamed, overcome by the irony of my judgment. For that house's tinsel glittered cheerily and its colors shone happily to celebrate the babe whose entrance into a cold and fetid stable made him the scorn of flippant hearts, unable to see his beauty and majesty.

This celebrated boy King, he grew into a man who looked at the people society scoffed at—the beggars and prostitutes, homeless and sick—and saw valuable, beautiful souls.

This humble King, he delights in us because he sees more than our trimmings—our waning shine and fading color. He delights in the souls no one can see, and takes joy in their offerings—even when they pale next to the riches of his heaven.

And this High King who stepped down from heaven into a dirty feeding trough, he would have us delight in the offerings of the souls around us, dignifying them because we can see what others may not.

© by scj

The Adventures of Mr. Duck

This is Mr. Duck.

He is an adventurer—a bird of many hats who has traversed the years with me.

I first met him when he showed up on my doorstep, leading a band of other misfit lawn ornaments. Which, by the way, is a redundancy since lawn ornaments are by nature misfits.

The moment I saw Mr. Duck and his motley crew I knew I would always love him. I also knew my friend, G, was the lawn ornament donor. G has always been generous. He has also always had an affinity for lawn ornaments.

Anyway, I graciously returned the gnomes, flamingos and other lawn riff raff to G, but kept Mr. Duck for myself. I sensed his strength of courage and versatility, and wanted him to be a part of my life. He quickly became a good friend—almost as good a friend as G.

It didn't take long, however, for Mr. Duck to grow antsy. He wasn't content to sit on my shelf and watch me navigate my senior year of high school. He wanted to be navigating a life of his own—exploring new terrain, climbing new mountains, sailing new seas.

Mr. Duck's first destination of choice was Antarctica. So I bundled him up in a home-made scarf and duck-sized ear muffs, snuck into G's house, and put him in G's refrigerator. Plane tickets to Antarctica are expensive.

He enjoyed his time in his dark, chilly corner of the city for awhile. Although I'm guessing it didn't take long before he grew restless.

Next thing I knew I found Mr. Duck hiking from my mailbox to my house, complete with duck-sized hiking pack and floppy-brimmed hat.

I brought him in for a tall glass of lemonade and some rest, and brainstormed his next adventure with him.

Turns out he had a hankerin' for the high seas. So I strapped on his eye patch, red bandana, and curly mustache (ahooooy there mateeey), and let him set sail on my brother's pirate ship in the raging waters of G's bath tub.

Back and forth Mr. Duck went, enjoying fantastic adventure after fantastic adventure. Until that fateful day when I left Mr. Duck at G's house one last time before moving 1,000 miles south to Azusa Pacific University.

I can't say that I missed Mr. Duck in the excitement of moving, but as I walked down the long, unfamiliar hallway of my dorm for the first time I felt a twinge of longing to see something familiar.

I stopped outside my dorm room, trying to ignore the stench of old dorm—a mixture of dust, cat urine, and mold—took a deep breath, and walked inside. And there was Mr. Duck, sitting on my desk with a walkie talkie strapped to his feathery bum. Turns out G had arrived at Azusa Pacific a bit before me, had the other walkie talkie, and wanted to see someone familiar, too.

The duck became a permanent fixture of my dorm room that year: a friendly, feathered piece of home that made my college transition a little less lonely. That's why it was so tragic when, in the middle of one of my several moves in college, Mr. Duck disappeared. I think he may still be buried in some random friend's garage somewhere. Lucky friend.

So here I am today fighting what's become a three-week battle with tonsillitis, in my childhood home where I first met Mr. Duck, with Mr. Duck nowhere to be seen. I'm sipping honey-lemon water, researching ENT doctors, wondering if a tonsillectomy would alleviate some of my chronic infection and fatigue, and feeling generally overwhelmed and discouraged.

And then my dad walks in and says, "Sarah, there's something in the driveway for you." Which makes me think that there is an old friend waiting in the driveway to surprise me, which makes me suddenly very aware of my pasty face, wrinkled pjs, and messy hair.

I work up the courage to go outside, and this is what I find:

A new lawn ornament friend bearing a gift: herbal "throat coat" tea. There is an accompanying card, from G.

Suddenly my day looks a whole lot brighter, and the possibilities for future fantastic adventures seem endless.

© by scj

Thursday Things, a Friday Edition: Home for Christmas

It's Friday and I'm home, where evergreen trees line the horizon, snow-capped mountains stand guard in every direction, and the icy air smells like Christmas. Yahoo!!

Here are a few things I love about being home:

1. My bed. Technically it's not the bed I grew up sleeping in, but it's in my old room and it's got a thick, fluffy pillow top and flannel sheets. If I could eat, work, converse, and play the piano in bed, I would. I'm currently trying to figure out how I can smuggle it back to California where I will put it in my office at work.

2. Little brothers. They are the funniest. I've laughed more in two days than I have all year. I am an endorphin-saturated gal.

3. Plastic grocery bags. They make the best shower caps.

4. Early morning dance parties. In our sweats, with tummies full of breakfast, and really bad dance moves. Okay okay, the boys had some wicked moves. I, on the other hand, was the awkward string bean dancer.

Geeet it, little Brothers.

5. Mom's homemade soup. Nothin' like it. I could eat it for every meal.

6. Hot chocolate. After almost a year of trying to develop a taste for herbal tea, I recently found a dairy-free, refined sugar-free recipe for hot chocolate. My life is complete.

7. A real Christmas tree. The whole house smells of pine.

8. Twinkle lights. When we were kids the whole family would gather by the twinkling Christmas tree before bed. My dad would make up stories about little fairies that pretended to be twinkle lights during the day but flew away and had marvelous Christmas adventures when all the humans were asleep. It's one of my favorite childhood memories.

9. The piano. Oh how I've missed having one this last year and a half.

10. Slumber parties out by the Christmas tree with little Sister and childhood friends. Best. Weekend. Ever.

I hope your week has also been full and merry!

S

© by scj

Ditching my Dread of Dating: How I'm Learning to Not be My Own Worst Enemy

For much of my adult life I've run in circles with a very favorable male-female ratio. In college I was on a track team with three guys for every one girl. A few years after college I enrolled in seminary where I am one of seven girls in a program of 100 guys.

You would think I'd have gotten good at the whole dating thing along the way.

But I didn't.

Instead I got good at hocking loogies, cracking jokes and throwing a frisbee.

It's always been easier for me to be pals with guys. The prospect of anything more has historically gotten me tangled up in my thoughts about our romantic and marriage potential: Do we have similar interests? Are we too similar? How similar is too similar? Why am I so nervous? Is it him? Or is it me? Why am I not nervous anymore? Shouldn't I be? Am I laughing too much? Does he think I'm too intense? Did I remember to floss this morning?

Not surprisingly, right about the time my anxiety and insecurity paralyze me, I get really bad at dating.

My initial solution to my dating ineptitude was to not do it. This worked for years. As time passed, though, I realized it would be pretty hard to jump straight from friendship to marriage, and I wanted to get married—so maybe I should date?

I gave it shot.

And I was still horrible at it. Still stifled by insecurity. Still suffering the paralysis of analysis.

Eventually I met a couple guys who weren't deterred by my dating awkwardness and stuck with me through my initial anxiety and uneasiness. And then one by one, none of the relationships turned into marriage.

Those broken relationships were disappointing and painful, but I learned a lot from them.

I learned about tennis and crossfit, wine and chocolate, showing a man respect, and resolving conflict.

I learned that effective communication is way harder than anyone ever told me, and that words must always be married to actions to mean anything.

Most importantly, those relationships changed me.

They forced me to confront a lot of my fears, needs and baggage. They showed me the darkest parts of my soul, and encouraged me to open myself to the Light of the world who eradicates our fears, satisfies our deepest needs, and carries our baggage for us.

These relationships taught me about Jesus, the Lover of our souls, and gradually prepared me to see him face to face. I can't help but think that the men I dated were also changed for good as a result of our dating relationship.

Last year I broke off my engagement a month before my fiance and I were to be married (read more here and here). It hurt more than anything has ever hurt.

But even in the turbulent wake of the break-up, I rested in my confidence that God's plan all along was to use my relationship with my former fiance to shape each of our souls.

Marriage was not his goal for me last year. Marriage is never his goal for his children. Holiness is. Sometimes the Potter uses marriage as a tool to shape the clay; sometimes singleness is his tool of choice. Either way, he always uses relationships to accomplish his good work in each of us.

My shift in thinking about marriage—not as a goal but as a grace God uses to make us holy—has prompted a shift in the way I view the guys I go on dates with.

I am less prone to anxiously analyze our marriage potential. Instead, I have begun to view "him and me" as people who could help each other on this journey toward heaven, with or without a resulting marriage.

Because this journey is sometimes hard and lonely, and always meaningless without other people to spur us up over the rocky terrain and down into the daunting valleys.

This journey is where we meet God—sometimes in the still quiet, sometimes in the eyes of men and women.

And this journey is where we become like God, often in an intimate huddle with other souls.

This new perspective has changed the way I feel and act around men.

It's made it easier for me to be myself with them outside of frisbee-throwing, joke-cracking situations. I'm more confident to share my story, to let myself be known.

I'm not as distracted by anxious analysis and I can enjoy the things my new male friends have to offer. I find myself hungry to hear their stories, to learn of their "soul adventures," as author Frank Lambauch calls them.

These men have marvelous stories that spotlight the redemptive work of God, and renew my hope that the same God is working redemptively through my life. Their run-ins with God's grace have made many of them wise and intentional, and their input in my life has made it much richer.

© by scj

Thursday Things: Rested

Happy Thursday, Friends!

After a few weeks without "Thursday Things," it's time to reinstate the list that celebrates the week and looks forward to the weekend:

1. Sweet potatoes are the new chocolate around here. I had one for the first time last month and now I can't get enough of them. The weird thing is I didn't used to like them. Although, come to think of it, I don't remember ever tasting one before last month. I must have decided I didn't like them when I was five, and then never looked back. Silly five-year-old me.

I love eating them drowning in butter, but this recipe for baked curry sweet potato fries is puh-ritty delish, too.

2. Aren't words marvelous? I put together a few symbols on a page and they evoke an immaterial idea in your mind. Off. The. Hook.

And some people say there is no God...

3. My new favorite fall decoration is these tangerine-colored berries from the yard.

I have them in vases and jars all over my studio. They make my place feel so warm and autumnal.

4. This week at work whenever I looked at my students I saw stories. Tall stories, short stories, thin stories, stocky stories, dark stories, fair stories, smile-provoking stories, somber stories, heavy stories, light stories. Everywhere stories. I love that I get to be a character in their stories. I love that they are characters in mine. And I am thankful that all our stories have been grafted into the most Epic Story of all time.

5. I just woke up from the most delicious nap. I usually try not to use the word "delicious" except when I'm talking about food, but this nap was so good it somehow satisfied all my senses.

After 15 months of naps that did little to nothing for my debilitating fatigue, today's nap made me feel rested. Not the recharged-and-ready-to-run kind of rested, but the wide-eyed, hair-tousled, rosy-cheeked, mom-is-going-to-make-me-an-afternoon-snack-soon kind of rested. Hallelujah.

6. The wind is whispering at my window, luring me to step out of my cozy abode and into her wild dance. I think I will.

Hoping your evening is everything restful,

S

© by scj

Today I am Celebrating...

...Because today marks the 14th consecutive day that I've been up out of bed and really participating in life. This is the longest stint of good health I've had in about a year, and let me tell you, my soul is shimmying and shaking with delight!

This is my 'my soul is dancing!' face. It also happens to be my best Wallace and Gromit face.

Throughout this 15-month battle with debilitating illness the Lord has been teaching me to live in the moment by drinking deeply of the grace that is everywhere. To celebrate his grace today I've listed 14 things that make my soul dance:

1. Beetles gleaming emerald by the side of the road (and looking, upon closer examination, like Power Rangers wearing turbo packs).

2. Nimble fingers that can use keyboards, pens, fabric, and food to create.

3. A God who teaches us the worth of our souls.

4. Laughter that rolls out of my belly like undulating ocean waves.

5. Laundry machines that wash the grime out of my clothes for me.

6. Sherbet-streaked sunsets.

7. Coconuts. (And coconut sugar, coconut ice cream, coconut oil, and coconut milk).

8. California mandarin oranges. They smell like Christmas, don't they?

9. Trustworthy friends that have traversed the years with me.

10. A job and ministry I love.

11. Students who energize me and pray for me.

12. New friends.

13. The Biola library. Still shoots thrills through my soul every time I step through its doors.

14. Severe mercy. The kind that strips away the props we rely on for our well-being* and teaches us to dive into the unconditional love and grace of Jesus.

Hope your Tuesday is grand and grace-filled, dear friends.

~S

*I've borrowed this idea from Gerald Sittser's book A Grace Disguised

© by scj

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