In Cadence

When the sun rose today, my collie began his usual morning ritual. I think he is practicing to be Lassie. He begins crying as though some lost child needs our help outside. “Come on, wake up, we have to go out looking for the child!” he whimpers. I ignore him hoping for a few more precious moments of sleep. Moments later a wet nose nudges my arm and exhales in a playful sneeze. “Let’s go, the day’s wasting away,” he wags.

“Ok, I’m yours.” I’m outta bed and getting ready for our morning walk. He’s already waiting at the door for me. But today is different. When I open the door we’re greeted by cool air, low humidity. Florida’s beastly long summer is fading. This is the first day in six months the temperature had dipped below 70. We drink in a long breath of this beautiful morning before we hit the road.

The dog is alert and excited because of the cooler air. We’re off.  I start praying, beginning with my thankful thoughts about this gorgeous morning.  But I can’t stay focused. The dog is criss-crossing in front of me.  He nearly trips me as he darts back and forth across the sidewalk sniffing everything.

As a puppy, my dog was training to be a guide dog for the blind. Although he flunked out of the program, he habitually walks on my left side slightly ahead of me. No pulling on the leash like a sled dog either. Because of all that training, he’s fun to walk, except that he likes to stop and smell all kinds of things along the way. Today the sniffing is ten times worse. Does cool air make things smell different? I finally correct him and tell him to get in line. “You’re getting in my way, cut it out, K.C.!” He gets in line. For a minute. Then he’s following his nose again.

My frustration mounts. What’s gotten into him? I’m trying to get some exercise and instead I’m falling over the dog. I have a sudden realization. I get in God’s way too. Just like this. I become so excited — or sometimes so fretful — about things that I forget what I’m supposed to be all about.

I tell my Father I’m sorry. I’m so humbled and embarrassed by this realization that I have to stop and listen for a minute. I see a few things a little more clearly. He tells me to stop worrying. Worrying contradicts faith. “I love the person you are praying for. I am on his side. Stop pleading with me and start agreeing in faith that I have the situation under control. I’m almost tripping over you. One minute you pray in faith, the next minute you’re complaining and confessing all kinds of problems. You’re criss-crossing all over our path. I’ve shown you what that’s like in the natural through K.C. so you could understand it in the spiritual realm.”

As a result, my prayers for my son change. I feel the Spirit pray through me, as though I have not come up with the words. I am less pleading. The worries are gone. I submit to what my Father is doing. "Lord, I come into agreement with you about Jon because I know you want the best for him." This replaces my usual, "Please help Jon, Lord," type of prayer.

Yes, God is for us.  The more I think about it, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven” is simply coming into agreement with God.

I get it. I’m so refreshed by today’s revelation. Today I’m in cadence with the One walking beside me. He’s in control. I make the choice to agree with Him, trust Him, obey Him.  I’m enjoying my walk a lot more now.  Oh what a sweet breeze!

Toddling

Sometimes when I think of Dad, I remember being a little girl holding his hand. I remember being so small that my little hand could only wrap around his stout index finger. I always felt secure holding Dad's hand. He taught me how to trust. Sometimes doubt and fear still flare up in my heart, but a voice in the stillness asks me to sit and listen. Hidden memories begin to surface and my escort helps me understand.

Reliving memories is exercise and it's not always easy. Sometimes I remember the crushing experience of ridicule, the paralysis of fear, the pain of being victimized, loneliness, the struggles of illness, and the ache of seeing a child suffer. But I also relive the thrill of winning a race, falling in love, childbirth, the support of true friendship, finding faith, and the pure joy of leading another to Jesus.

I remember doing migrant work picking fruit; vivid sights of rainbows, the feeling of rain on my face, the ache of a back too-long hunched over, and the kindness of fellow workers.

The bondage and shame of addictions rears up in memory so vividly that I sometimes feel crushed again. The frustration and strength found in the slow lessons of waiting come to mind. In thought, I ride down the slope of dependence and back to the high thrill of independence. Once again I sense the emptiness of feeling needy and the contrasting comfort of fulfillment.

Remember the refreshing sensation of sunlight warming you up? What about the peace of a misty outdoor morning walk, the fun of giving, the intimacy of losing yourself in worship, catching a favorite fragrance – freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, approaching rain, coffee – the sweetness of a child's cuddle, the stimulation of new discoveries, and the rushing of your heartbeat when you know God is revealing a new truth.

As I reflect, the Lord reminds me that he's been with me all along, just like my dad for his toddler. He catches me, supports me, and shows me the sweetness of life. If he had withdrawn his hand, I would have fallen hopelessly during the struggles. And without knowing he was near, the victories would have lost a lot of their flavor.

I'm still walking like a toddler in so many areas of life. What a comfort to know my little hand is wrapped around the fingers of an unfailing savior. I know I have value in his eyes because he always stays beside me - at my toddler's pace - catching me when I stumble, renewing my strength, and rejoicing when I take bold new steps.

The Empty Chair

I let her go today. I feel guilty – and sad.

I had dreaded saying goodbye after caring for her all these years. My husband tenderly carried her to the car. She seemed more frail than ever sitting quietly in the back seat. She had stopped rocking. Glancing through the window I saw where she had been rocking too close to the wall and bumping over and over again. How could she be so tolerant in our close quarters?

My attachment to her had deepened over these years, more than I had realized. Leaving her felt like something was ripping out of my chest, a terrible wrenching. I felt like the betrayer.

I rang the bell. An elderly woman with gentle laugh lines welcomed me.

“She’s here.” As soon as she was inside, a flurry of women swarmed around her, primping and admiring her aged beauty.

“Are you sure about this?” one asked.

I thought I had prepared my heart, but my throat closed up and tears welled in my eyes. I sensed my heart beginning to race as I realized the final good-bye approaching. Had this day really arrived? “I’m trying not to cry.”

One sensitive worker looked at me and offered kind words, “Wherever she goes, she’ll be appreciated. She’s beautiful. A real oak.”

In spite of her wobbly legs, she had brought stability to me – a sense of a beauty in my simple heritage. She was tangible evidence of something I may never have known without those like her.

I had to leave the building. Tears were streaming down my face, but I hid them well. I closed the door behind me. I gathered myself. I went back inside for. She reminded me so much of my grandmother that leaving her behind was like revisiting Grammy’s death.

“She’s not very comfortable,” I reluctantly pointed out.

One of the women patted her little arm.

I noticed the scars on her leg where our mischievous puppy had once gotten too rough. A flood of memories washed through me.

It seemed callous, but I mustered up the courage to ask, “How much is she worth?”

“Oh, an antique store wouldn’t let her go for less than $200.00.” She will grace someone’s home in a decorator’s corner. They’ll put a pretty pillow on her and she’ll shine on, hopefully gaining the love of another family.

For now, I say, “good-bye,” to Grammy’s little antique rocker. It’s not nearly as tough as saying good-bye to her was. I struggle to let go of earthly possessions. I hang on to the connection to loved ones who have passed before me. “Be with Jesus,” is my hope for all of us. May our legacies be like the oak – reminders of goodness that we long to hold close to our hearts.

I’m comforted knowing the loving workers in the charity store valued her enough to polish her. Her sale will benefit the poor in our area. In this way, my grandmother’s heart lives on.

Thank you, Lord, for the treasured people in my life. It’s hard to say good-bye, but good-bye is not forever. They are always in my heart.

Three Generations of Flatwork

A small black object gathers dust on my shelf. This mundane household device has not been used for its original purpose for ages. It’s been a door stop and a book end, but hasn’t done any ironing since before I was born. Before using it, my grandmother heated it on her cast iron stove. Not an electric stove. Not a gas cooker. A big black cast-iron wood and coal burning stove (now serving as a TV stand). The family used the stove for heating, cooking and for warming up the iron. I can’t believe anyone could make clothes look good with this heavy old black thing.

I wonder how many hands have grasped the textured handle of that old iron. How many women have tried to occupy their minds with higher thoughts than, “I wish the ironing would do itself today”?


Grammy liked to have her children keep her company as she ironed. The hot work made her thirsty and she’d ask them to bring her a glass of water before the work was completed. She’d stick her finger in her mouth and quickly touch the wet fingertip to the hot iron. A sizzling of the moisture told her the iron was ready. I’ve been told she even ironed underwear. Shocking. I would have quit before doing the undees.

I joke that I’m allergic to ironing. I hate it. In this small way, I’m like Aibileen, the “colored” maid in the novel, The Help. She does all the white family’s ironing, but her heart sinks as she notices a garment she had painstakingly ironed: “She already got the blue dress on I ironed this morning, the one with sixty-five pleats on the waist, so tiny I got to squint through my glasses to iron. I don’t hate much in life, but me and that dress is not on good terms.” I feel Aibileen’s pain on that one. What a shame it is to perfectly iron something only to see it wrinkled in minutes after being worn. The horrible truth is, I’d rather clean toilets than do “flatwork.”

Not so with my mom. She loves to iron. When I was little, she was one of the few women in our neighborhood to own an Ironrite Mangler Ironing Machine. That's right, they actually called it a mangler. The operator, Mom, sat in a chair and moved the on-off lever with her knee. Turning the machine on caused a long padded roller to rotate and come into contact with a three-foot heated plate. The rotating motion would draw the fabrics and garments into the machine. As a child, I was afraid of it. I imagined that monster grabbing my arm and mangling fingers or maybe even a whole arm. But Mom enjoyed the ease of it so much that she even ironed our sheets and pajamas. Now that’s love.


Mom tried to train me up right by having me iron Daddy’s handkerchiefs when I was young. I enjoyed making Dad happy by doing that task, but the training didn’t stick. The joy of ironing left me in the 70’s when I started donning blue jeans with frayed hems. It never returned.

I'm sure I should be grateful that I don't have to use a lump of iron to remove wrinkles, but my modern iron isn’t special at all — contrary to the claims on its box when I chose it. It’s downright frustrating. At times it hisses and spits brown spots. It refuses to get hot enough to remove wrinkles from men’s dress shirts. It can melt many modern day fabrics, something I did only a few weeks ago. A brand new pair of flowing polyester/spandex black pants still had tags on them – and store wrinkles. A quick touch up and I’d be out the door. But the iron was too hot. At the first contact with the fabric, the iron boldly melted a permanent shiny shape of itself into the pants. I cried.

I doubt if future generations will keep my iron on their shelves of nostalgia. They better not. If I were an iron, I’d want to be a cast-iron antique, aging gracefully and remaining useful through all the days of my life. Wouldn’t it be great to adapt to different jobs as we age: iron, door-stop, book-end? And to be admired by future generations would be more than I can hope for. What will I become as I move into my antique phase? Hope I don’t scorch anybody. I promise I'll try not to hiss at anyone either.

Perfect Printing

My father’s handwriting is beautiful. Tidy, evenly spaced, with a decorative serif-like flourish on certain letters. When I learned to write, I mimicked Dad’s printing. Even my cursive is a printing hybrid so I could always maintain a link with the writing I so admired.

One of my elementary school teachers had the students swap papers and grade each other’s spelling tests. I always carefully printed each word. One of my words had a lower case “f” in it. It might have been friend or fancy. I can’t remember. The boy who graded my paper marked the work incorrect. Frustrated and dejected, I protested. He refused to consider that an “f” could have a small flourish at its base. He was certain I had printed an “s” and although it was crossed like an “f” he would not budge on the mark.

Isn’t it excellent that we, as imitators of our Father, are not meant to be judged by our peers? Although we fall short, our Father clearly and accurately interprets our intentions. I find rest in Him.

The River

We three friends walked single file forging a new slender path meandering through hip high yellow-green grass. We walked silently, each too busy admiring our environment to talk. The area was brightly lit, although the sun was not hot nor was the breeze chilling. As we moved along I began to faintly hear the water moving. The sound was calming. Birds were flying overhead from one giant tree limb to another. We wound our path between the trees toward our destination.

I had never swum in a river before. This pristine place seemed like we had opened a door into the Wind in the Willows world and I expected to see little Ratty and Mole and Badger playing on the far bank. The tall grasses grew right up to the water in places. In other places bare rocks could be seen. We in our bathing suits were now giddy from the change in environment. City pavement and rows of buildings, traffic noises, and hurrying people were our daily experience. Here we were enveloped in peace in a kind of dreamy soft other-worldly beauty. It was a kind of thin place where one can more easliy interface with God.

Arriving at the river, I stepped into the water onto a large nearly-black rough rock. The cold water on my feet and ankles made me hunch my shoulders and shiver a little. So I stood there observing the water. It was white with reflection of the sky where it rushed thinly over rocks near the surface. In other places it was so clear that I could see every plant and rock beneath three feet of water. The current moved quickly, but not at a dangerous rushing pace. Water and long underwater grasses swayed together in their graceful water dance.

Some of the huge egg-shaped rocks at the bottom were covered with deep-green mossy vegetation, too slippery to stand on. So after taking a few steps deeper into the current, the best thing to do was submerge and grab hold of the long grasses to prevent myself from being swept downstream. The constant sound of water moving was a lullaby washing away all the worries, cares and memories of the hectic city. I stayed there for a long time floating on my back, holding hands with the river grass, eyes closed, listening. As the water flowed over me I felt as though I was melting into it, relaxing, becoming grateful that such a place even existed on this planet.

Had we seen Ratty and Mole and Badger, they would have waved and smiled with knowing faces that we had discovered their secret place of wonder where life flows as intended by the Creator. Kenneth Grahame describes Mole’s discovery of the river:

He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his life had he seen a river before – this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chucking, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving then with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake and a-shiver – glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent form the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.” (Grahame, Kenneth. The Wind in the Willows. Puffin Books, Middlesex, England: 1983. Pages 8-9)

A spiritual place like this exists for our refuge. You can journey there in prayer. Time slows down there, but you must be willing to submerge and trust. It’s a river of love so deep and free flowing that it melts into you. It changes you. “Come and play,” beckons the water. It’s a place of harmony, understanding, peace, excitement, rejuvenation and joy.

In another place at another time I stood holding a soft white towel as women came one by one to dip their hands in a wooden bowl of water. Lights had been dimmed and soothing worship music enhanced the air. Palm sized river rocks lovingly placed in the bottom of the large bowls and covered with water simulated a soothing river. Single file, conference attendees meandered to the front of the line where they would be refreshed in the flowing river of God’s love.

Cathee and Fran, ministers of the day, prayed for each one who placed hands in the water. The Spirit eagerly waited upstream. As I watched the faces of the women in line waiting for prayer, I began to pray in my heart for them. Their gentle hands submerged: baptism of trust. Faith flowed.

Suddenly I felt as though I was in that faraway river again. It was more like a river of understanding this time, a knowing that God cared deeply about what was transpiring. The sensation so surprised me that tears began flowing down my cheeks. I was witnessing a supernatural event: God meeting, loving, listening and soothing his people. I gently dried each pair of hands as I prayed hoping I was sealing the scent of the event into the soul of each woman.

The Wall

While touring the arid American west in late summer, we could actually see thermal turbulence rising from the pavement; the heat caused an optical distortion of the objects far down the road. The air looked like it had become a thick liquid. In places it looked like water was covering the black road and was reflecting the sky, even where there was no water for miles. I suppose that’s a mirage. I learned that things are not always what they look like from a distance.

In the opposite hemisphere, the black of the night sky was challenged by bright floodlights on tall street poles as I got off the bus with five pieces of paper in my pocket. “Stay on the women’s side,” someone cautioned. “Don’t turn your back to the wall,” urged someone else in a whisper. I was surprised to see white molded plastic chairs strewn around. I approached the ancient wall slowly, taking in its ominous height. All around me were people who didn’t dare speak.

When I stepped within two feet of the wall, I felt I had entered a place where the natural and spiritual worlds were woven together in a way that allowed humans to tangibly sense the unseen world. It seemed like the air was more viscous there. I felt I had entered a thick nearly liquid region of air where a kind of unseen force-field changes life. I wondered if my blood might begin rushing through my veins in a new direction. I began to tremble as I stood before an enormous rectangular stone at the base of the wall.

I sensed the history of thousands of people who had touched this wall before. Like me, they had come to meet with God. Skeptics criticize people here for worshipping the wall, but as I stood there I wept knowing God loves being sought after, even at a cold stone wall. Those stones have been there for centuries and many people before me had brought their petitions to God in trust and with hope that he would have mercy. He is faithful.

Today’s Western Wall formed part of the retaining perimeter of Herod the Great’s platform for the exquisite Second Temple. Jewish tradition maintains that portions of this wall were built by King David. Today it is the closest the Jews can get to the foundation stone where the Holy of Holies stood. The temple was once a conduit where people met with God. Here, God’s teaching touched the world, people made atonement for sin and God’s forgiveness flowed. Awe and love of God surround the temple mount. It is sometimes called the Wailing Wall because here Jews mourned the destruction of their holy temple and access to their holy place was denied.

In the plaza, the exposed section of the wall is sixty-two feet high; rugged little tufts of plants have grown from its lofty cracks. Twenty-eight rows of stone are visible and each stone weighs between two and eight tons. In stark contrast to that mammoth construction project, I retrieved the little papers from my pocket. I feebly rolled up the five pieces, each bearing a heartfelt prayer in my tiniest writing. I wedged the bits between the goliath stones knowing that prayers have power, whether written on frail papers or uttered toward heaven, and that God is stronger than any earthly structure, even this one. Still, my hands were shaking as I mimicked those who had done the same thing before me. “Oh God, give me faith as unmovable as these rocks,” I thought as I stood feeling small beside them. Then I realized you have to get close to God or you might misunderstand what you see, like those distant heat-induced distortions on the highway.

I stood there for several minutes basking in the thick presence of God. Then I reverently backed slowly away from the wall as instructed, more out of respect for the Jewish people than out of a belief that one should not turn their back on the wall.

I took half a dozen or so photos there. Without a flash strong enough to reach the wall from where I stood, I had to use a slow shutter speed. At first I was disappointed with the blurry results, but when I looked closely I realized that people who were in motion when my shutter opened appeared as transparent blurs in the photos. It reminded me that our lives are transparent too, that God sees through our pretenses and masks. Not only that, but although life seems to go on and on, it can end very quickly and should be used wisely. It’s as though life itself is a mirage that fades as you speed toward your destination.

Then I boarded the bus, bearing a sweet memory of a meeting with God, and an inspiration to see through the things of this world. Truly things are not always as they seem.