Rainy Day

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,

But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary.

It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart!  And cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

The above is the title of a book by Gretchen Wolff Pritchard, and here is a quote that is pertinent to my last “Just Thinking” post:

Sacramental actions work directly on our emotions and imaginations; the intellect is only a supplement, important in its turn for full integration of the experience, but secondary in its contribution to our understanding.  The early church, intuitively grasping this principle, withheld instruction in the sacraments, even for adults, until after they had been experienced.  To articulate and codify these emotional and imaginative experiences, and require that the child learn to engage them cognitively, is to deprive them of much of their power.  To go still further, and require that the child learn them theoretically before being allowed to experience them at all, is almost to guarantee that they will have only a theoritcal power.”

from page 161 in Offering the Gospel to Children

You know, I’ve been thinking, and thinking, and trying to understand some things about the Lord’s Supper, Communion, or Eucharist, depending on what tradition you’re from and what you prefer to call it.  My quandry began when my son started asking to take communion at age 6, and he desperately wanted to know why he could not take the juice and cracker served each week at the end of the service at the church we then attended.  That’s a hard one to explain, when he is such a questioner and thinker himself, and he exhibits a clear understanding of the Cross and what Jesus did to save him from his sins. 

And so, firmly believing that an acceptance at the Lord’s Table would deeply encourage his troubled heart, we pursued permission to do so.  It was a bit of an act of congress, but the leadership session decided it would be okay, after Jonathan talked to an elder about his faith and took vows of membership in front of the church.  Now, please know, that this is the usual way of anyone being admitted to the Lord’s Table at our church, so nothing different was demanded of him than of anyone else.  But this young one is troubled by doubts in the form of severe anxiety and intrusive thoughts.  So, this was too strenuous of a demand for him. 

All of that to is say that this has caused me to think, and rethink, and question, and read, and struggle through this whole issue of the Lord’s table and what is called “fencing” the table.  The main place this is discussed in the New Testament is 1 Corinthians 11.  I have read and re-read this passage, and all I can find is a verse that states, “A man (person) ought to examine himself  before he eats the bread and drinks the cup.”  Many churches want to take extra precautions in offering this meal to the very young, because they want to be sure that they understand what they are doing.  I have grown to a different understanding of the purpose of this “feast” as I like to call it.  It is a visual and sensual expression of the free grace that is lavished on anyone who will come.  It prepares the way for children to understand how we come to God, not by being able to articulate everything just right, but by just coming, as a child.

As I pondered this further, I was struck by the first Lord’s Supper, you know the one Jesus himself served his disciples the night he was betrayed, just a few hours prior to that awful event.  It is recorded in several places, but I looked again today at Luke 22.  You know, he gave that meal to all twelve of his disciples.  Even Judas.  Yes, it could be argued rightly from Corinthians, that Judas ate and drank condemnation on himself.  But, still Jesus offered him the meal.  He did not “fence” the table.  He also gave the meal to Peter, who later that same night, denied that he even knew him three times.  Jesus knew he was about to do this, and he even told Peter as much, though Peter did not believe it was possible.

My point is that for weak, sincere, struggling believers, the kind Jesus loved to hang out with, the ones with broken hearts over their sins, this is good news.  The Lord’s Table, like the gospel, is not for those who have it all together, but rather for those who need a real, living, present Saviour, in the messiness of their real lives, real sin struggles, and real doubts and failures, people who have sinned and are going to sin, people who fall and fail and mess up.  People like that should never be turned away.  And that is good news.  Because that is me. 

He’s the one who taught me to climb the tree in the vacant lot behind our first house in Utah.  He’s the one who camped out with me in the back of our family’s station wagon.  He’s the one who called me names and picked on me, while I asked for it (more than) half the time.  He helped me built forts under the pine trees, build a stove with bricks and wire, and cook hotdogs there for our lunch.  His favorite name for me growing up was “Turkey.”  He never talked much and still doesn’t gab for hours to this day.  A man of few words, as they say, always was even as a kid.  But, boy, he got mad if anyone else was mean to me, and protective when the guys started coming around.

He’s the one who has dealt with different sicknesses all his life.  He’s the one who had colitis and chron’s disease as a young teenager, and my parents were told he wouldn’t live beyond his twenties.  He’s the one who developed sclerosis of the liver and was in a life-threatening condition in his twenties right after his first child was born.  The doctor’s said he would need a liver transplant one day.  Then, when he was 31, he’s the one whose immune system went wild and attacked his heart and caused it to enlarge to twice its size and half its strength.  He was told he would die without a heart transplant.  He’s the one who couldn’t work that whole year and endured strong medicines and an open heart surgery, to live without a heart transplant.

And now he’s the one who is sick again.  Very sick.  And tired.  Very tired.  My heart cries out,  “Why, Lord?”  And “How long?” 

So, home from the hospital after a week, nauseous from the new meds, wondering what the future will hold, my brother is the one trying to get his heart back in rhythm and to rid his body of blood clots forming.  He’s also the one, still not complaining, still having the courage to get up each day and be kind and hopeful.   My big brother is the one who is my hero.

The letters are huge, hanging in gold on my den wall.  It is the most important thing, counselors are taught, that they can give to their clients.  It keeps dying men and women fighting for their lives in dire circumstances. 

In Shawshank Redemption the main character, who is imprisoned wrongly for the murder of his wife, fights against giving in to it, when his friend contradicts him,  “Hope is a good thing, one of the best things in life.”

Here is what Emily Dickinson says about hope:

Hope is the thing with feathers on it that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard and sore must be the storm that could abash that little bird that kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest lands and on the strangest sea; yet, never, in extremity, it asked a crumb of me.

 So, what is hope anyway?  What keeps people hoping against all hope?  And what causes us to desire to close our heart against the pain that dashed hope can bring?

Proverbs says,  Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life. 

Part of being human, I think, is the delicate dance between our inability to live without longing and hope, and at the same time, our yearning to protect ourselves from dashed hope.  We all know the feeling of disappointment, a sinking pit in the stomach, tears that won’t stop, the desire to just give in and go to sleep.  Why bother anyway? 

Because of hope.  Hope is the thing with feathers on it that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.  In some of my darkest times of disappointment or failure, there has been a surprising, almost surely supernatural presence of hope welling up within me.  And it has sung to me the tune that keeps me hoping for the day when hope will no longer be needed, because death will be swallowed up in victory, because the old order of things (will have) passed away.

When I began homeschooling my seven year old son this past fall,  I quickly realized I was going to need some things to keep myself afloat.   Hoping to keep myself emotionally strong and happy enough to still have a bit to offer my other two children, I decided I needed a plan. 

One of the things I decided was to always have a book going for myself, not books that are difficult to read, or too didactic and grueling, but life-giving, inspiring, get-lost-in-it stories,  And it has been a great source of encouragement and escape away from the day to day demands of my life.  A mother’s job is never done is a true saying, but I can sure do it better when I am doing a few things to fill up my own emotional energy tank.

Here is a list of some pretty incredible stories I’ve enjoyed reading this year:

Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirovsky  is an amazing story that takes place in German-occupied France during the second world war.  Her unfinished work, along with journals, were found and translated after being hidden for over 40 years.  She was a Jew living and working in Paris, and she was eventually killed in the Aushwitz concentration camp.  Knowing this gives the story a haunting poignancy as you read it.  The last section is better than the first, and it begins slowly and can seem a bit disjointed, but overall is a wonderful book.

Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers  is probably the most touching and deeply moving story I’ve read this year.  It is a retelling of the story of Hoseah and how he married a prostitute to show God’s broken-hearted and fiercely committed love for his people.  There are so many amazing parts of this story, and for me it really made the love story between the Lord and his people come to life, including my own similarities to Angel, the prostitute with a broken and self-protected heart from a past that was way too painful.  It is a beautiful picture of how God loves to redeem.  For me, it was slow getting started, but hang in there with it - it is worth it!!

My Old True Love by Sheila Kay Adams is a story retold in the old dialect of Appalachian North Carolina.  It takes place right before and during the war between the states, and it brings to life the loss and sacrifices this war caused to everyone involved, as well as the nature of how brother fought against brother in this awful conflict.  It paints a picture of simple love and tenaciously dedicated relationships.  Loved it!  This is one that is hard to put down.

Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin is the telling of a heroic work of one American who has fought the war on terror in the desolate, poor region of the world we know as Pakistan in an unusual way.  He has built schools for girls and offered thousands of children a well-rounded education.  The stories he tells are fascinating and inspiring.  This is more of a documentary and a bit tedious in the details at times, but it is so worth the read.

Currently, I’m beginning The Kite Runner by Khaled Hossieni for April’s book club.  I read 1000 Splendid Suns by the same author last year, so I’m looking forward to this one.

Anybody have a book I need to read?  Let me know.

Today’s woman is Fu Hao.  Did you know this fascinating woman existed?  I didn’t.  She lived in the 13th century BC in China, and she was taken as a bride of the King Wu Ding of the Shang dynasty.  He had a practice of taking a bride from each of the surrounding villages to earn the loyalty of the villages, and in this way she came to be married to him. 

She rose in ranks and began to really stand out in this system of wives.  Extremely unusual for this time, she eventually became a military commander, rising to be the most powerful war commander of her day.   Fu Hao commanded important generals along with 13,000 troops.  In addition, she grew to have the status of priestess to the god Di, and her husband offered sacrifices at her tomb after her death, asking for assistance in his continued battles. 

Most of what we know about this remarkable woman has been learned by excavating her tomb.  The warrior status was confirmed by the large number of weapons, including powerful battle axes, found buried with her. 

Kind of gives a new meaning to the term “princess warrior,” doesn’t it?

Check out her picture here, or read more about the excavation of her tomb and what they found here. 

As you know, this past Sunday was Easter.  As you may not know, our family has not been able to attend church together for several months, due to anxiety issues with our son and a couple of other situations.  And while the break was nice, we began to wonder if we would ever manage to worship together again.  So, when we all made it to a local Episcopal church the week before, we were thrilled.  And blessed.

We decided to try it again.  So, after a hectic roundup of our three young kids, getting them clothed semi-decently, wrestling them away from their Easter toys and candy, then getting them settled into the small nursery, David and I attempted to pay some semblance of attention to the Scripture reading and worship songs.  The most suberb surprise of all, though, came at the end of the service, when all of our children were welcomed, with us, down to the altar for communion.

The picture will, I hope, be etched forever in my mind.  The five of us knelt together, with open hands extended toward the robed layperson giving out the bread.  From my vantage point of prayer, my vision was filled with my dear husband, holding Jonathan both with hands open to be fed.  Next was our five year old Anna clutching a stuffed Easter duck in the fold of her arm and opening both hands for the bread.  Finally, beside me, was our little Mollie, with eyes of wonder as I told her this was Christ’s body broken for us.  One by one, each of us was given a piece of bread with the words “the body of Christ” to be dipped in the wine filling a beautiful silver chalice as he uttered ”the cup of salvation.”

To me, it was the clearest expression of the gospel I have experienced in a long time.  Come.  You are all welcome.  Come and take.  This is my body.  It was broken for you.  You do not have to prove your worth.  You are welcome to come.  And as we did come, he gave.  The bread was given to each open hand, and my eyes streamed with tears that wouldn’t stop, like the gratitude flowing from my heart.  Oh God, we are so thirsty.  Feed us til we want no more.

And what hope and joy that gave my dear family, all of us, that Easter Sunday morning.

Well, I’m up late, or early, whatever you want to figure.  Just been playing the Easter bunny and eating up the carrots the kids left for him, (a new idea my son just had to do to be fair, since we always leave cookies for Santa) while filling up their baskets with goodies.  Isn’t it FUN to be alive?!  Here are a few words to an Austin Cunningham song my hubby and I were listening to today:

Life is for living.  Love is for giving. . .

Well, I hope you enjoy living a little today and giving a little love today. 

I’m so glad we have a real, living Savior to celebrate this Easter.

The Lord is Risen.  He is risen indeed.

I have recently begun reading a book called Ruby Slippers by Jonalyn Grace Fincher, which explores what it means to live authentically with the redeemed soul of a woman.  At the end of the prologue, there is an interesting prayer and reminder of the most important thing.  Here is the author’s:

I am not a wife, a daughter, a niece, a sister. . . . (your relationships)  I am not a philosopher. . .  (your training) I am not a writer. . . (your job) I am not fun, enthusiastic, motivated, organized, disciplined, creative. . . (your gifts) I am not bossy, demanding, impatient, stubborn, judgmental . . . (your failures) I am none of these.I am a naked soul clothed in the righteousness of Christ.

When I read this, it struck a cord with me.  It seems that most of us, definitely myself included, are often looking for an identity to wrap around ourselves, and striving to find something to prove our worth.  To systematically strip this off by being reminded of the essence of our unpretentious and “unperforming” selves seems to me a very healthy spiritual practice.

Here is mine: (I used her skeleton and put in my personal specifics.)

I am not (primarily) a wife, mother, daughter, and friend. I am not a counselor. I am not a homeschooling mother.  I am not compassionate, creative, bright, insightful, bold. I am not grumpy, depressed, impatient, angry and tired. I am none of these. I am a naked soul clothed in the righteousness of Christ.

Why don’t you write one of your own?