31 Days of Courage: The Courage to Build Bridges

In the 19^th century, bridge building was deadly business.  It’s still feat of human endeavor that could blow my head off if I think too hard about it.

Of all the bridges I’ve personally experienced, the Brooklyn Bridge is my favorite.  Spanning the East River from Lower Manhattan to Brooklyn Heights, that monument to form and function was erected not only with granite and steel, but with perseverance and wild courage.

The bridge’s construction took 14 years.  In 1883 folks began crossing that marvel that engaged the sweat and muscle of 600 workers with a price tag of $15 million (more than $320 million in today’s dollars). At least two dozen people died in the process.  One of the first to lose his life on the project was the original designer, John Augustus Roebling.  Before even one steel cable came out of the box, Roebling had his foot crushed by a boat while taking compass readings along the river.  He died of tetanus 3 weeks later, leaving his son to carry on.

Immigrants did much of the dirty work of putting down a solid foundation for the bridge.  They were nicknamed Sandhogs.   In a process I don’t fully understand, but which sounds simply awful, workers excavated the riverbed in massive wooden boxes called caissons. These airtight chambers kept water out and pumped air in to enable the excavation of debris by the bridge builders.  Many died or were debilitated by way of  “Caisson’s Disease”, known in the vernacular as “the bends”.  Others perished in explosions, fires and conventional construction accidents.

So where am I going with this?

Most of us have some kind of relational brokenness in our lives.  I’d wager a stamp that that particular kind of trial is the most painful of them all, since we are at our core relational beings. 

And there’s a sort of unique fear that accompanies messed up connections with the people we love.  I can’t pinpoint what it is, but you know it if you’ve lived it.  Often times we want to make our way back to the folks who have hurt us, or we have hurt, but we fear the cost.  Bridge building can precipitate great pain as we excavate the debris of pride and unforgiveness or let down the walls that protect us from rejection in order to make a foundation for restoration.

But then, when the crossing is made, there it is:  the beauty of the bridge.  Then, life can be lived there.  Fellowship and friendship and hope can move back and forth across the hard won path made not from steel and granite, but from the courage to feel the pain and die the death for the joy that will follow.

We Smitties are Simon and Garfunkel fans, especially on long car rides.  That duo’s classic song, “Bridge Over Troubled Water” never gets old for me.

When you're weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all
I'm on your side, when times get rough
and friends just can't be found
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down

I confess that whenever I hear Art Garfunkel’s angelic voice chanting that verse I find myself in tears. 

The One and Only, He didn’t just build a bridge, He laid down to be the bridge:

“Christ suffered for our sins once for all time. He never sinned, but he died for sinners to bring you safely home to God.”  1 Peter 3:18  NLT

His great passion from the beginning was to bring us back across the chasm of separation in to the warm embrace of a good Father.  (Mysterious, but compellingly good).  He stands as the greatest bridge builder of all time, the bravest of the brave.

I continue on to grapple with the towering truth that He who was most courageous of all cheers us on in our puny efforts to be brave.

 There’s a letter I have to write again…it’s another pylon for a bridge I’ve hoped to build for years, without much success.  It’s just this…that even if the person we’re trying to reach on the other side doesn’t build back, we cannot lose.  The very effort to reach the bedrock, to stretch the cable, to remove the obstacle, makes us more what we were created to be: loving, relational beings with a destiny and a future hope that no deep river can constrain.  But it will cost us.

I can’t tell you how many times I have crossed the Brooklyn Bridge in the car, on foot, and best of all, on my bicycle.  That highway of alliance, commerce, recreation and interaction has benefited millions of people since it was completed in 1883.  I’m so grateful for the courageous folks who struggled, some to the point of death to provide that crossing.

How much more ought we to have the courage to build bridges that mend, heal and deliver.

Your Sandhog friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann

31 Days of Courage: The Courage to Stay Off the Defensive

As my 16 year old son would put it: “That skunk did us wrong.”

At four A.M. yesterday morning I was roused from my bed, not by a sound but by a stink.  Some black and white thing out there in the yard got scared.  Most likely it was spooked by that coy dog that’s been milling about lately, eyeballing Cosette and Domino.

He might have learned the hard way what happens when you mess with that particular brand of “all God’s creatures.” 

For me, it was a not-so-subtle reminder of the negative side of this 31 day topic.  Our reaction to fear will impact the atmosphere of our lives.  In particular, I want to consider the defensive response to insecurity (an insidious and well documented kind of fear), and what courage might look like as an alternative.

How do you react when your back’s against the wall?

I was recently misunderstood over the way I handled a scheduling problem at my job.  Oh friends, how immediately I jumped to my own defense, afraid perhaps that someone might think me incompetent, or even, God forbid, less than intelligent.  Listening to my tone as I defended myself and feeling the indignation rise within was like a blast of skunk spray, leaving everyone in the vicinity, including me, ESPECIALLY ME, with that lingering yuck for a while.  There’s no tomato juice bath for that kind of mess.  Repentance is the only cure.

By the way, and just for fun, have you ever heard this great expression:

“It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt.”

OK, back to the point.

Contrast that with Smitty, my main squeeze.  He made a mistake at work, which I can assure you is rare!  (He’s one humble smarty-pants…but I digress).  And no doubt with some trepidation, he went to his supervisor and owned the thing.  I think she was probably dumbfounded for a minute, since this is not the way human beings typically operate (especially those with Y chromosomes).  And I believe from what I heard about her reaction that Stephen left the good fragrance of everyday courage in her office.

“For we are a sweet fragrance to God in The Messiah among those who have life and among those who perish.”      2 Cor. 2:15

That’s what courage is.  It’s a lofty and lovely fragrance, bringing beauty to the person stretched out to be a little brave, and to all within its perimeter.  The aroma of simple acts of daily courage can change the place you work, you live, you worship, you learn, you play.  How priceless is it that you can be a bouquet wherever you go?

For every person, the thing that will trigger insecurity and the defensive posture that follows is different.  What if today, when your motives are wrongly judged, or your pride is injured, instead of putting up your tail you followed the way of The Master?

“When he was reviled, he did not revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but continued entrusting himself to him who judges justly.”  1 Peter 2:23

What if today instead of the reek of fear, we left the perfume of grace?

I can tap the keys, but can I walk the walk?  Help me Jesus.  I don’t want to stink up the room.

Your friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann

31 Days of Writing with The Nestor, Myquillin Smith

This is the first in a series of 31 posts as I join forces with a troop of other women on a writing quest with a sweet little blogger named Myquillin Smith. I’m not really a home decorator type, but I love this lady’s positive, simple spin on life. ( If you do like fixin’ up your house you’ll be doubly blessed visiting her blog: TheNestor.com.)  We picked our own topics for the month of October, and sharpened our pencils (well, calloused our typing fingers here in the 21^st century) to exercise this particular set of “muscles”.

Thanks for joining me.  I haven’t written for this many days in a row since 2009.  That was the year a terrible car accident forever changed my life and the life of my family (you can read about that at

steveandhannahsmith.blogspot.com.  

That was 11 months of writing, every single day.  I’ve written since then of course, but I’m not as “in shape” as I was then.

So here goes…and my topic is 31 Days of Courage.

 

There is no false modesty here when I make this claim:  I am the world’s biggest chicken.

Though I long to be Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings, with his “Today is not that day” speech, I’m really more of a Hobbit hiding out in The Shire.   And though my heart calls me to be George Bailey from It’s a Wonderful Life, (that self-sacrificing hero of Christmas fame), I’m more likely to put on an old episode of Columbo, have some Milano cookies and milk and hope there’s a way to avoid the conflict of the day.

A long time ago I heard it said that courage is not the lack of fear, but action despite fear.  And putting words on paper is one way to act.  In spite of fear.  Fear I'll be thought a fool by those who don't beleive as I do.  Fear I'll say something dumb that my kids will still be able to read long after I'm dead. Perhaps mostly the fear I'll be a hypocrite: spewing out words without the real will to live them out.

For 31 days, I plan to tackle a subject where I am a rank amateur in order to become less of one.  I hope to not only write about courage, but to “do” courage in the small things of everyday life.

  

Believe me when I tell you the doing will test me far more than the writing.

The most courageous man of all time shows the way to ordinary and extraordinary courage.  He wasn’t afraid of what people said.  He didn’t care one whit what anyone thought of him.  He had the courage to rub shoulders with the unpopular, to take on the deceived leaders of his day (while still treating them with respect!), and to stand up to the point of death to the great enemy of our souls. 

And so for 31 days I want to learn from Him, and share what I learn with you, you who are trembling in storms of relational failure, health crisis’, financial disaster, and every other ailment that causes the human heart to fear.  Perhaps we can learn to be a little more brave…to maybe do one thing every day that gives us that crummy feeling in the pit of our stomachs.  Still, it will be worth it.  No one who was ever lauded for their courage thought they were being brave at the time of action.  It was only later, and often without their knowledge, that the fruit of courage grew heavy on the tree of their life and character.

You may not be Aragorn today, astride a beautiful steed, hair blowing in the wind while a gaggle of Orcs surrounds your outnumbered army. (And let’s not forget that’s literature).  But you may have the opportunity to stick up for a coworker who's misunderstood.  

You may not be Dietrich Bonhoeffer, defiantly loving even his enemies while waiting to perish in Hitler’s death camps.  But you certainly can speak loving truth to your friend who is in a destructive relationship. 

You can try cooking when all you’ve ever done is make sandwiches. 

You can get out of bed, when all you want to do is pull the quilt over your head.

You’re not Abraham Lincoln, Mother Theresa or Magellan.  But what of it?  The Bravest of all still says to you:

“Be bold and very courageous.  Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”  Joshua 1:9

Those words are for everyday people in everyday life.

Even consummate chickens, like me.

Your friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann

The Loaded Question

Many times I’ve wiped these cheeks dry with the sleeve of a sweatshirt lo these few years since the BC/AD (before crash/after disaster) marker of my life on this bleeding planet.  (And I don’t mean “bleeding” in the British curse sense, but in the more literal interpretation of the fallout of trauma).

 This very day I sat in a vinyl lawn chair at another STOP DWI awareness venue, next to my friend Bill.  In 1977 his wife, oldest son and daughter were killed by a drunk driver.  His youngest son was in a coma for 30 days, but survived to grow up without his mother, brother or sister.  

People stopped by to talk.  A man with severe Parkinson’s disease, age 50, approached our table and spoke with grace and candor to me, describing the device implanted in his chest with probes to his brain to control his wild shaking and seizing. His slurred words could not disguise the clarity of his grateful heart.

My sweet friend with pancreatic cancer occupied my pondering over the course of the day.  She weeps over the thought of blueberries she may never pick with her beloved  8- year old granddaughter.

And I wait for a text from my daughter, alone in an apartment 400 miles away, at war with a brain that works intermittently well and poorly since the BC/AD marker when a drunk driver nearly killed her. 

Still, the sky is achingly blue.  There’s the smile on the face of the man with Parkinson’s.  And the joy of the pool player who does tricks and tells the gospel story with the different color cue balls.  Not to mention how I laughed out loud listening to the lady who works for the county telling me about her 81 year old mother standing on the bed to change a light bulb.  These are the grace gifts of a fallen world.

We always ask “WHY?” in tragedy.  It’s an appropriate question - and an honest one. 

But have you ever heard anyone ask “WHY” for the beauty and wonder of it all? 

Why are there Hydrangea bushes, bursting with indigo and white, like giant puff balls for a fairy tale queen?

Why to that foamy, blue- green sea, bubbling up on shore like a 3 year old in gales of laughter?

Why to the cherry red cardinals at the bird feeder on that chilly morning in late September, or the crunch and sweetness of August corn, or that first sip of coffee in the morning?

Why is a fair question, but only when asked from both sides of the aisle.

In a way, it’s easier to answer the why of trouble and heartache.  The unfairness and darkness of this world are ingrained deep into our bones.  We’ve fought to survive and protect ourselves from pain since the fall.  We see the darkness in ourselves.  And though many blame The Most High, most folks understand there are forces at work, from within and without, that are ancient and sadly, predictable.

But loveliness is at once over-familiar and startling.  I cross the Hudson every day and miss the sweep of sky and color over that mighty river.  Then, at once I am overwhelmed by the mist lifting off the river’s wave peaks and twirling upward like some wispy dancer made of vapor.  Why?  Why such a superfluity of beauty on display all around me every day?  Do I ever question the absolutely obscene abundance of goodness on a planet wracked with suffering?

C.S. Lewis said pain is God’s megaphone to the world.  I think he might be right.  I never lose track of the burden of bone weariness that news stories about racism create in me.  I’m keenly aware of the heartache of a daughter swimming against a rogue current where she was tossed by someone else’s sin.  And I certainly don’t miss the pain of the injury to my own soul by my own sin and folly. These stretch me out with both loud cries and desperate whispers to the Almighty.  No, the mess doesn’t seem to pass by unnoticed.  But sadly, the beauty does.

Why is evil rampant?  Why is good astonishingly ubiquitous? 

 No short answers on this essay.

WHY is a loaded question, no matter how you ask it.

Your friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann

Ping Pong and the King Uzziah Hitch

Reading the truth of 2 Chronicles in the Holy Book is like watching a ping pong match: One king “did what was right in the eyes of the Lord…”, his son “did what was evil in the sight of the Lord”…and his son “did what was right in the eyes of the Lord until he became successful…”  Etc., etc., etc., down through all the cotton pickin’ ages.  (As an aside, this puts to flight the idea that there are any absolutes in the scrappy business of parenting).

So across court the ball bounces to Uzziah, son of Amaziah (who ended badly, by the way…Amaziah “did what was right in the eyes of the Lord, but not wholeheartedly”).  It’s looking hopeful with Uzziah.  This young man became king at age 16.  He sought hard after God, and even had the privilege of sitting under the teaching of the great prophet Zechariah.  He built towers, dug well, planted vineyards.  In a word, he prospered, both inwardly and outwardly.

God gave Uzziah whopping success.  Any 21^st century man would read about him in Fortune magazine and be green with envy.

Then, smack.

“His fame spread far and wide, for he was greatly helped UNTIL HE BECAME POWERFUL. After Uzziah became powerful his pride lead to his downfall.”  2 Chronicles 26:15-16

I absorb these words and smack…knees hit the floor.  I assume the only right posture when you’ve been blessedly warned.  And I say to a Father who lives in unimaginable light and holiness: “I don’t want to go that way.  But I know I could.  Unless you rescue me from pride I’m headed  for that side of the ping pong table.”

The thing about pride is this: you don’t see it in yourself. 

How did that other king, the great shepherd king, escape Uzziah’s lot?  How did David, despite some really dumb moves and wretched twists and turns, end on a note of grace?

As far as my limited understanding can grasp, I think it’s because he stayed tight with God.  He asked for vision to see his own folly.  “Forgive my hidden faults” is a mighty powerful request and David made it.  God once sent the prophet Nathan to point a big fat finger at that royal chest when he was blind to his elaborate pride.  David didn’t argue or have the prophet killed (which lots of kings did when they didn’t like a particular message).  David spoke these liberating words, the beginning of a turn back to wisdom: “ I have sinned against the Lord…”

God only knows what that revelation saved him from.

Or what it could save any of us from. 

Your friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann

Perfectly Ordinary

That young, beautiful girl, one of the dearest and best, milled around after church to talk to this middle aged me with these eye sockets looking a bit droopy and years of mistakes behind me like Hansel and Gretel’s bread trail.

She tells me how she’s student teaching little kids from the other side of the tracks, and the love light twinkles in her kind, life’s-all-in-front-of-me eyes.  She cares about these babies, really cares. But she dips a little low and wonders if she’s making a difference.  She wonders if she should be hiking to some cliff in Central America to help a hurting child in the backwoods of nowhere.

 I nod, because I understand.  Sometimes the daily of life feels insignificant.  But with over half a century behind me, well, there’s a lot I don’t know, but this is true for sure:

Ordinary people, doing ordinary things, by way of an extraordinary God, couldn't be less ordinary.

Ask me how it was when the men from church came with their ordinary tools to make my house wheelchair ready for my main squeeze, after he was nearly killed by the drunk driver…Ask me how it was when the ordinary secretary at the doctor’s office found a way to get me in (with a dose of kindness to boot) when my baby girl was suffering so…Ask  a thousand ordinary people about what it meant to have one person smile and care when they had a rotten Monday, or their car broke down and someone stopped with a jack, or when the Panera girl went back to get a fresh baguette because the ones up front felt a little too stale.

Here I am, not wrestling so hard with this anymore, because I have seen the beauty in the ordinary works of ordinary people.  I love how Helen Keller puts it:

“I long to do a great and noble thing, but it is my duty to do small things as if they were great and noble.”

I have that up, over my desk, reminding me that every phone call I make, every conversation I have, every email I send can be and should be seasoned with the salt of the love of Jesus Christ.  Oh, how I wish it were true all the time.  But it is what I attain to…and what that girl just starting down the road is learning too.  She told me how she got the revelation…”DUH” she said, “I’ve got hurting children right before my eyes!”  And what a wonder they have in her.

How I wish I saw that at 21.  How I wish I searched less for my own significance, and spent my life making others significant…mostly, letting others know their unmatched significance to the most Significant One ever.  We learn, we grow, and regret never nourished a life.  Forward, onward, upward to the high calling of being a servant to all.  That’s the real business of life.  Marley’s ghost phrased it perfectly in his conversation with Scrooge from Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”:

“Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, benevolence, were all my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business! "

I remember when that girl with the radiant smile and bright mind sat in a highchair in my house, stuffing bananas in her mouth and making us laugh.  Filling our house with joy.  Those ordinary moments, they are the highlights of my life.  The mundane, everyday gift of love in all its multiplied facets is what Jesus came here for.

What could be more significant than that?

Your friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann

The Hurricane, The Wind, and the Anchor that holds...

My friend and fellow word lover, Bob LaCosta asked for a blog post as an update to the powerful storm that hit us as a family 4 years ago.  You can catch it and more of his authentic, insightful writing at http://belovedblogger.com/  I’m sharing it here too, at Christmastime… when we wait in great hope for the only answer to the disasters and heartaches of a fallen world.  Jesus Christ…who makes the crooked straight, and the rough places plain.

Often I've wished I could write the “perfect” testimony for the ongoing trial, all wrapped up with a bow, neat and clean, hallmark beautiful.  Something to say I understand all that God was and is doing in the mess…

 It ain't that way.

On November 8, 2009 a hurricane hit our family in the form of a drunk driver on the wrong side of the road.  It took 3 days to charge the offender, as police waited to see if my husband would die from the catastrophic injuries he sustained.  My then 14 year old daughter was forever changed by the bleeding on her brain, referred to in the vernacular as a traumatic brain injury.  In a single moment the words of the Holy One took on flesh and bone:   “They confronted me in the day of my disaster, but the Lord was my support.”  Psalm 18:18

It would be impossible to adequately describe the road we have taken lo these past 4 years.   Loving God certainly does not exempt any of us from the pain and trouble of “this present darkness”.   The word of God promises trials, separations and sufferings.  But as the great hymn says, “He giveth more grace…”

Folks have wondered if I’ve asked the cosmic question…WHY?  Why did God allow a drunk man to senselessly careen into my beautiful daughter’s head, making her life harder than we ever could have imagined? Why must Stephen continue to suffer the ripple effect of the world gone mad, with continued pain and surgeries?  Why would a God who loves us so, with the power to stop it all, take off the brakes of His permissive will and allow such a violent event in the lives of His own?

I don’t know.

But Joni Earikson Tada, rendered a quadriplegic in a diving accident at the age of 16, has helped me tremendously with her attitude, and I paraphrase:

“ I long ago stopped asking why.  The question now is always HOW?  How do I continue to love God in the midst of my own brokenness, and the mess of a fallen world?  How do I cheerfully and robustly love my fellow man on days I can’t go on.  How do I keep from becoming bitter, selfish and sorry for myself?” 

And always the answer to these questions is found in the miraculous power of the Holy Spirit, who cheers the troubled heart and gives power in great weakness.  I can’t explain the mystery of grace.  I can only attest to the truth that He holds on relentlessly in the worst of circumstances.  And remarkably, there can even be joy…

The magnificent grace of Jesus Christ proves itself in the storms.  God did not spare His own Son from the impact of the fall.  In fact, He laid the whole shooting match squarely on shoulders of the Perfect One, born in obscurity, killed in violence, raised in glory.  He stepped into the mystery with us.  And He stays there, all the days of our lives.

My daughter is still struggling, but attends the University of Buffalo, studying her beloved English, Shakespeare, Latin and Poetry.  There is multiplied grace.  One day she will be restored to the One who has never left her.

Stephen returned to work from his wheelchair a few months after the accident, and never went on disability.  He goes to the gym for an hour every morning, and works hard these 4 years later to care for his family.  There is gracious provision.

My boys have been forever shaped by both the sorrow of the fallout and the powerful example of the love and beauty of the church, they who displayed relentless love…and were the hands and feet of Christ.

Whatever wind blows, friends, fear not.  The anchor holds.  You cannot plan for the day of trouble.  But you can trust in the Great One, who will take you through the messy business of life.

There will one day be a testimony all wrapped up in a bow.  Likely not til heaven. Then the winds will calm forever. 

Merry Christmas, no matter what!

Your friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann 

On the floor with Kermit the Frog

I had the privilege in my early career days to meet the inimitable Jim Henson, creator of the Muppets and a wildly successful businessman.  Jim Henson made his puppets, breathed life into them and cared deeply about his work.  I was in my 20’s when I met Jim, but had a long standing love affair with Kermit the Frog from my childhood.  When we found out Kermit would indeed be making a guest appearance on our show, Reading Rainbow, my heart went pitter pat and I hoped to hear that little green frog say those iconic words “Heigh Ho, Kermit the Frog here…”

 

The set was busy that day.  Sets are usually busy, dynamic places….They aren’t noted for the quality of thoughtfulness or the exercise of slowing.   Jim Henson arrived quietly into the hubbub with his box of puppets and the wheelie thing he used when he got down on the floor to roll around while manipulating Kermit.  One of my coworkers let the grand puppeteer know I was a Kermit groupie.

 

Then, a gentle green tap on my shoulder and and that voice that can’t be duplicated…”Heigh Ho, Kermit the Frog here…”  The great Kermit addressed me like an old friend.  What’s more, the great Jim Henson took a moment to make an ordinary girl’s day.

 

Here’s the deeper meaning for me.  Jim Henson never got uppity or high falootin’ or above himself like so many folks who taste success.  And my theory about the why is that Jim was always connected to his roots because he remained on the floor with Kermit.  He was a prosperous, celebrated man who was ever reminded of where he came from. 

 

Of course Jesus Christ is the ultimate example of “getting on the floor.” “Potentate of time, Creator of the rolling spheres, ineffably sublime” as the great old hymn says, He yet lowered Himself to the rough and tumble of a sinful, corrupt planet.

 

He bowed down low, though He reigns on high.  The beauty of His character will be the praise of Heaven forevermore.

 

I cried when Jim Henson died.  But I was grateful to have met him.  He was an example of humility, a virtue so beautiful that every other virtue flows from it.  I want to grow in that virtue every day…always knowing there’s so much I don’t know. And willing to serve in any way I can.  I know I fall short of the mark.  But Jim Henson proves it’s possible.  May he rest in peace.

Your friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann

Not Why, But How

Joni Eareckson’s recent book, A Place of Healing: Wrestling with the Mysteries of Suffering, Pain and God’s Sovereignty, makes this simple, elegant point: (My paraphrasing)

Perhaps why is a question best left alone, with its abundant hair pin turns to nowhere.  The better question is how.

Not “Why did God’s cosmic plan include Joni Eareckson breaking her neck and landing in a wheelchair for the past 40 years?”  But how does she live a life of spiritual power, strength and hope in the everyday of helplessness? 

Not “Why was your first child born with Autism, unable to communicate or care for himself for a lifetime?”  But how do you live in a place of continued hope for healing alongside acceptance of what is for now without becoming bitter?

Not “Why doesn't my husband love me?”, but how do I keep loving him, keep getting up in the morning, keep doing the next right thing and in so doing bring glory to God and help to your fellow man?

Not “Why am I afflicted with a stubborn, impenetrable depression?”, but how do I give and receive the love and grace of Christ when I am bone weary and can’t lift my head off the pillow?

These are practical questions.  Why leaves us solving one of those Rubik’s cubes that hurt your head and neck after a while.  How is like getting the flour out of the cupboard to make the cupcakes.  Then getting the sugar.  Then the butter.  How is following the instructions of the original baker to produce something good in the day.  How is the living of life in the unanswerable, mysterious Valley of Why.

Fill in your own why.  It’s OK to ask.  We all ask.  Some folks even get an answer, or part of one.  But not most people.  Most why’s are buried in the hidden sands of God’s sovereign understanding.  These are the hard things to be thankful for.  These are the serious places of testing and trial that require faith.  To quote an old adage, these are what separate the men from the boys.

The Joni Eareckson's of the world give me courage in the why’s of my own life.

Today, I’m asking the Holy Spirit HOW?  That's a question He'll always answer.  Show me how to love my neighbor who’s so terribly depressed after losing her husband, when what I really want to do is put on the TV.  Show me how to be kind to the people I work with, when the pain from a compressed disk makes me feel mean.  Lay out my day and make clear how I should prioritize the thousand tasks that call my name.  Most of all, strengthen me in the how of being grateful, even for the sufferings, the pain, and the ongoing uphill climb of the deepest heartache of my life.

This verse made me happy like sunflowers this morning:

Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight and the rough places plain.”  Isaiah 40:4 (KJV)

These mysteries of why will be sorted out for sure. 

We’re pilgrims and strangers here for 5 minutes. 

 Pretty soon, there will be no more whys.

The crooked back of my friend’s daughter with CP will be made straight.  The rough, unjust places of a drunk driver run amok and creating a lifetime of trouble will be made plain.  Every mountain and hill of sorrow and relational pain and broken bodies will be made low.

For now, I’m not asking why. 

I’m asking for insight and grace for you and me to do the how.

Go make some cupcakes.

Your friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann

When You Can't Tell If A Storm's Coming Or Going

The lightening flashes far in the distance.  A low roll of thunder grumbles in mid air.  I hear the characters in my latest TV drama obsession, in the scene on the porch, saying  it over and over again in my head:

 "The storm...is it coming or going?"

 This question from a work of fiction perfectly describes my fragile reality right now.  And I'm certain it is echoed in the the souls of millions across this wide world.  "The storm, is it coming or going?"

Sometimes you can't tell.

For three and a half years I have felt the hard rain, the hurricane force winds, the terrifying specter of rubble that looked for a while like it might never be rebuilt.  I'm still not altogether sure.  The storms, they can be devastating.  They wax and wane in their power and effect, and they blow us to higher ground or we die. 

In three short weeks, that beloved one, so battered by the storm, so changed and injured, will move 300 miles away .  She will start a new life, where she is no longer the girl in the accident or the girl impacted by 2 crimes.  I will buy her leather boots and spray them with waterproof for the Western New York weather.  I want her precious feet protected and warm and pretty too against the storms across the Great Lakes.  I'm getting her a warm winter fleece, and sending laundry detergent pods and soft sheets, and an extra blanket.  What I can't pack for her are the thousands of hopes I have, the love that is stronger than the grave, the stubborn, though battered faith I have been equipped with by grace alone.  I cannot pack for her what she can only unpack for herself:

To choose a life of beauty despite the ashes of loss.

The All Compelling One, for Him - when I start crying for no known reason - the reason is known.  It's not just about a child moving away, about the memories of soapy tubs and long braids and too many stuffed animals in the bed.  It's not the standard mom-will-miss-you-I'll-get-over-it heartache.  He knows the route the storms take through all of our particular weaknesses and personal achilles' heels.  He well knows the heavy weather of relational pain and the exposed wound.  Over and over again these twisters are addressed.

"When you pass through the rivers I will be with you.  And when you pass through the waters they will not sweep over you.  When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned, the flames will not set you ablaze."  Isaiah 43:2

This scripture I've been living with since last August, lives in me for real.  Because the grace of God is so true, so unfatigable, it makes it so it doesn't matter whether the storm is coming or going.  We must learn to live with the lightening in the distance, or in the yard, because this is not heaven.  It will always be thus, like the law of gravity on this fallen planet.  But there is the law of aerodynamics, the law of rising above, the law of love, the law of Immanuel, "GOD WITH US", whether the storm approaches or departs.  There is higher ground but no one would willingly go there if they were comfortable on the plain.

I say it through tears:  Thank you Father, for the storms.  The Anchor, He holds.

For all of you hearing the thunder, seeing the lightening, I stand with you.  No, I climb with you...to the place where "no power of hell, no scheme of man, can ever pluck me from His hand..." 

Or pluck her from His hand. 

Your friend on the pilgrim road,

Loriann