Sunday, December 30, 2018

Gift Receipt

When I get a gift, I get distracted by the look of it -- the colors, patterns, shine, and the ribbon handles. It's just so pretty, so fun. And so I linger. 

Soon, someone is saying: "Just open it!"
And I tend to collect those gift bags.
I stash them away, and I keep them so long. When an occasion presents itself, I pull them all out and look them all over. I wonder when and if the clutter will prove useful.
The difficulties of 2018 were gift bags for me. No, not so pretty, not so fun. But still I linger.
The look of things has been so distracting. My memories are colored by every disappointing circumstance. My mind has grown weary as the pattern of troubles has extended, becoming repeating and increasing trials. My energy has dimmed, and I've fumbled in trying to handle so much of what came my way.
I stash it away; who wants to hear about all that? And I wonder how any of this will prove useful.
But then I wonder: Am I forgetting to pull out the gifts that those circumstances brought?
Having more than I could handle in each day, means that I've received a daily delivery -- primed awareness of God's sovereignty. When I could not take another step forward, I've paused long enough to speak and cry out to God. What I could not lift, I handed over.
When I had so many overwhelming tasks, God reminded me to let Him overwhelm me more: His love, His faithfulness, His might, His wisdom, His ways.
I love to celebrate the small gift, like the Christmas card I got from a student who actually wrote a personal message. And I have to remember to share the huge gifts: my receipt of God's omnipotent Presence, and His loving personal message for each day. I receive them in prayer, as I drive down the street; in opening my Bible, as I unwrap God's promises tagged just for me; in praise, as my wail of frustration becomes a hymn pouring out my heart.
My abundant need has been met by these abundant gifts, and I need to put them to use, telling everyone I know how good God has been to me -- how He's been so good. I need to keep my gifts on display, because their beauty outshines their packaging.
My gift bags have a corner; they don't need ongoing inspection. When it's useful, I can speak to someone's circumstances, to their baggage, because I can share the gift I've received. I've been encouraged to encourage; I've been strengthened to strengthen.
When I submit to God's will that we do so daily -- slowing down long enough for a smile, a word of praise -- I can't always track how the Holy Spirit delivers that comfort. I don't know how it will be received.
But I do know that every good and perfect gift comes from God. I don't want to overlook anything God sends my way, and I pray for God to clear the clutter.

Thursday, November 22, 2018

Giving My Thanks


So, our house was full.

Walking from the front door to the living room, there were family antiques that Mom taught herself how to restore. Standing in the dining room, there was inherited china on display. If you walked the hall to our bedrooms, you found turn-of-the-century framed photographs of relatives on the wall, next to mid-century school-year photos pinned to a bulletin board. Shelves of scrapbooks and albums cataloguing recent personal history were crammed next to textbooks that spanned a century.

If you sat by the kitchen while the food was cooking, or at the dining table once it was done, you'd hear which relative was known for the recipe. We smelled and tasted their legacy on Sundays and holidays. 

And on any day of the year, we could tour our history – thumbing through the albums, and sitting where our people had sat. Here, an upholstered bench dedicated to talking on the telephone; there, a sturdy hardwood chair reserved for a large-scale relative. In this way, we were trained to never forget the people that we'd never met. 

We knew security and peace because we knew loving care. We knew joy because every season was celebrated. We knew melancholy and grief because of our mother's lament for the loss of youth, and its innocence, and the people she loved in those times.

There was a sense of a people in our home, more than the five who lived there. And Someone more.

There were crosses over doorways. By my father's side of the bed, there was a rosary and a cross made of palm leaves pinned to the wall. And at our table, we bowed our heads and said a blessing.

On New Year's Eve, we'd turn off the TV for a family prayer. Later, we'd turn it back on in time for the countdown. My father would pop a cork with his signature toasts, and we'd hear car horns and firecrackers in the distance.

But first came my mother kneeling with her forehead on the seat cushion of the sofa, praying out loud over us, and thanking God for her family, starting with the loved ones who'd gone on. She would wipe her eyes, and then we would each take a turn praying from our hearts too.

And our hearts were full. 

Now, we pray for God to restore us. To help us know what to frame, what to keep, and when to tell the stories to the next generation. We pray for God to reveal His imprint on our lives through the stories that we tell, about ourselves and those who came before us. To testify how God has preserved us, though we be as fragile as the china, and sometimes as tattered as the photographs. 

We pray for the transparency to show Your hand upon us, sustaining and providing for us in spite of ourselves. To show Your daily transformation of us, and our lives crammed with personal concerns. Help us to dust off the lessons You've taught us, and those we love, and to walk in Your wisdom.

Knock at the door of our hearts with others' testimonies; remind us to listen and learn how You have moved mightily in their lives, and to celebrate Your glory in their stories.

May we meet You in these shared stories. May we know daily family reunion with You. 
Help us never to forget.

Saturday, February 24, 2018

At the Altar

Turn down my performance,
Turn up Your praise!
Turn up Your praise … turn up Your praise ….

It was an amazing program.

I stopped and chatted with some of the people who came together to celebrate the music that my mom had enjoyed, arranged, directed and composed. We were gladdened by the strength of her memory, and the joy of sharing it.

Walk, talk. Swipe through my purse for my car keys. Stop, talk ... swipe. Swipe. Sigh. Swipe … swipe.

As the church was locked up, we stood outside in the darkness, still talking, laughing.

Swipe. Grr. Swipe.

Turn down my performance,
Turn up Your praise!
Turn up Your praise … turn up Your praise ….

I methodically began to unload my record-heavy purse on the trunk of my sister's car.

Two paperback books – check.
(Mom's writing. Great opportunity to share.)

A plate, a dish towel – check.
(Fun skit. You kinda had to be there.)

Usual essentials – check.

Except my keys.

We called my cousin, whose face is pictured in my mental dictionary, right next to the phrase “faithful steward.” Minutes after she'd driven away, she was back to open the church up again. Voiced no irritation. She walks in patience.

I searched the pew where I'd sat. Then I stepped up on the altar, looking around where the microphone had been.
Left, right.

Enough.

Removing the plate and books again, I kneeled and turned my purse upside down, shaking it. Plop, flutter, flutter. Kch, kch.

"I think I hear them,” my son said, kneeling next to me, as I kept peering, not seeing. Not sure I was really hearing.

Kch, kch. He revealed the twisted pocket, the only pocket in the purse. Where my search began. Where my expectations are usually stored. The pocket that still held my keys. Kch.

I made my angry face. He helped me pull them out.

Turn down my performance,
Turn up Your praise!
Turn up Your praise … turn up Your praise ….

My sister told her I've-done-that-too story. My cousin told her I've-done-that-too story. I'm not sure either one ever made someone drive back and re-open a church just for that. But I was grateful for their compassion.

With what I just happened to be carrying at that moment -- doing what I normally do, as best I can, just wasn't enough.

With that particular jumble … ok, and with jumbles I've had before – what I can do and what I can understand just wasn't enough. Not enough to even simply keep moving.

Before my cousin drove away (again), she pointed out something: that I couldn't really have done all that necessary shaking out, to begin to see what was twisted out of place, to get to the bottom of anything, while I was still out in the darkness. I couldn't really even see what I was doing.

But once I was at the altar, I got the help I needed.

OK, yeah. So I didn't leave my stuff there. When I walked from the altar, my purse was still heavy.
But ... I was still so much better off.

In the jumble I carried weariness, aches. So much frustration twining through.
In the shaking out I found relief, fellowship. Unlimited divine intervention flowing through and glorified.

When I emptied it all out at the altar.

Turn down my performance,
Turn up Your praise!
Turn up Your praise!

Turn Up Your Praise!

September 2010 newspaper photo of lunch-hour concerts by my mother Izola Collins on the pipe organ

Lyrics from 'Turn Down, Turn Up' by Cheryl Crayton. Copyright February 2018