Originally posted on Christa Allan’s blog. “The holy goes on, no matter how many balls you fling at it.”   Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott I suppose living to the age of a highway speed limit has caused me to redefine holy. In my youth, now defined as any age a neighborhood speed limit ago, I’d define holy in strictly religious terms…you know, the Baltimore Catcheism holies. Today, I’d define it in the seemingly more commonplace…sun risings and settings, moon shadings and lightings,  gentle smiles and [...]

Originally posted on Ponderings.

I attended a funeral for the father of new friend of mine recently. In
our understanding he died too soon. He was only in his early 60′s.
Although I never had the opportunity to meet this man, his funeral
impacted my life. The tributes and memories shared by family and
friends were beautiful. We viewed a slide presentation set to music,
tracing the journey of his life. The one thing that really spoke to my
heart was that this man had truly lived.

He
was an adventurer. Fear didn’t hold him captive. He lived out loud. He
wasn’t afraid to follow the dreams God had placed in his heart, and yet
he didn’t take foolish risks. He enjoyed life to the full. In many ways
he has gone from living to living.

My life in comparison would
be such a shadow. Many of us would be likened to “dead men walking” in
contrast. Oh, maybe outwardly we’re going through the motions. Jumping
through all the right hoops. We know how to play the “Game of Life”.
For generations it’s been the same. We’ve read the rules. We know the
expectations. Years go by, but our passion is getting buried deeper and
deeper. We are allowing ourselves and others to dig our own
grave…only we’re still breathing. We’re being buried alive.

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Originally published on Once Dead, Now Alive.

Thought-provoking books challenge me to think outside the box, sometimes out of my comfort zone. After reading “Red Moon Rising: How 24-7 Prayer is Awakening a Generation” by Pete Greig, I had the chance to participate in a week long event of 24-7 prayer at the church I attend (link).
There, rooms were available for people to pray/connect with/worship
God. One room had available clay and other art materials; the intent
was to encourage creativity, using the supplies as an expression of
worship or as response to God’s presence.

I am not an “art
person”–even to step into that room WAS a step outside the box. I took
some wet clay and pressed it onto a piece of paper, the result a brown
splotch. Almost immediately I thought about Genesis 2:7 and myself being made of the dust of the earth. Then I began to write:

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Originally published in They Hang Like Paper Lanterns.

The drops weave together daily,
their fibrous web,
and bind me in this sticky love.
I trip upon my own heart strings.

They shoot me full of adrenaline, then entangle me, gag me, rob me
Leaving me to finish off what’s left of myself.
Heart racing, eyes bulging; wet, salty and gasping.
Wishing, perhaps, they’d completed their aim this time.
Please stop toying with me and end it.
(Then thinking that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.)

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Originally published on Loralee’s Looney Tunes

I visited my son’s grave today.

There was no special reason. No holiday or anniversary. No family or friends that live far away who wanted to pay their respects. I was just driving and saw the snow on the ground and wanted to check on my son, clean up his grave, and remove the decorations that I put up for Autumn.

Matthew is buried in a beautiful spot. We put him next to family, a cousin of Jonathan’s that was killed in a car crash with his grandmother when she was only 19. It makes me feel better that his cousin is close by. I will be buried near him, but not next to him because that space was occupied, which makes me very sad.

It used to make me angry.

The grave right next to my son is occupied by what they call a “Pauper grave”. Meaning, that the plot was donated and the family doesn’t have the resources for a headstone. There is a metal marker that has an index card with typing on it. The womans name has been obliterated. All I know is that death occurred in July of 1998 and that she was only 41 at the time of passing.

In the four years since my Little Bug has passed, my feelings about “Her” have changed. It’s still hard to know that this stranger gets a place that I yearn to have, but instead of being angry, I began to be curious about this neighbor of my son. Who was she? What was she like? Did she have any family?

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Originally posted in L’Chaim.

The sunlight sparkles on the water, speckles the path, and dances with the trees. I sit on a log bench and meditate on the memory verse for my Bible study:

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation, for all things in heaven and on earth were created by him – all things,
whether visible or invisible, whether thrones or dominions, whether principalities or powers – all things were created through him and for him. He himself is before all things and all things are held together in him.

All of this has been created by him, through him, and for him.

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Originally posted on PENSIEVE.

You would think becoming intimately acquainted with Jesus–getting to know Him, learning to love Him–is as simple as reading the Bible’s four gospels.

Until you read them back to back, and on the surface, see four portraits of the same man. Four very different portraits of the same man.

Because I never before read all four gospels in succession, a while back it occurred to me that immersing myself in these “biographies” would give me a clearer picture of Jesus. Rather than read them in the order they appear in Scripture (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John), I read them John, Mark, Luke, Matthew; random, yes, but going from John to Mark paints a p.r.e.t.t.y. interesting picture.

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