Crumbs

In times of plenty

it’s hard to imagine

that crumbs

could be anything but waste, to be wiped away with the trash.

A good meal

is taken for granted

in times of plenty.

Sometimes, when my heart is filled up with plenty–plenty of activities; plenty of dreams; plenty of goals to achieve–I give God the crumbs.

When my prayer time gets swept away with the wastefulness of life it’s never long before famine sets into my soul.

And I find myself back at the altar,

begging just to taste the crumbs at His table, once more.

I’m a Node, You’re a Node

It was blizzardy when I left class early. The wind pelted the few exposed centimeters of my face and jabbed at my eyes as I followed the other wayfarers into the warm refuge of the bus terminal. Still half an hour before departure—I thought I’d spent more time at the drug store than I had.

The grime accosted me the first time I had to wait inside—months ago; but now it seems normal, inviting even.

I walk around and look through windows at nothing in particular. I watch the others without trying to be obvious or ill-mannered—people make me curious. I check my phone to see if my daughter messaged me and take a seat along the back beneath the window; that way I can catch what’s going on. Also, there are a few empty seats in a row.

Mostly it amazes me. The cacophonous quiet. That so many people could be in such a small space and only a spattered few are engaged in some kind of conversation. There’s a double row of seats facing me like someone set them up to play musical chairs. People slip in–trying not to make contact with the person next to them, as though they might detonate. Some are pacing, some passing through—but almost all are busy button pushing or scrolling across the lighted screens of their gadgets. I’d like to blame technology for our lack of horizontal contact, but if I’m real honest, I don’t need technology to keep me from not striking up a conversation with a complete stranger. Still, there’s something surreal about seeing so many people hooked up to the heavens—completely oblivious to what’s going on around them.

I think about what I was reading in computer class—about networks. They can be hierarchical or peer-to-peer; and all the devices connected to them are nodes. A woman walks by in front of me looking like an angel, her face glowing from the notebook device she’s looking into as she goes. She’s a node, I think to myself with a smile. We’re all nodes, connected to something.

I enjoy being here today; watching people go by, waiting for my bus. Sometimes I listen to sermons on my Mp3 player, but for the moment I’m contented just holding God’s hand with my heart. His is a secure connection–hierarchical and peer-to-peer at the same time. And I’m just a little node… learning to be content, even when the ride (as it often will) takes me places I’d rather not go.

The Best is Yet to Come

What endeared me most to my grandfather growing up was the way he always saw a little humour and a ray of sunshine in every situation. When my grandparents’ dream of buying a new home with the income from their taxi stand and diner was dashed by medical expenses and trips south to Toronto for Mama’s endless eye operations–leaving them to share the little one bedroom apartment with my mom while she grew up–he patiently endured it, spending the rest of his life caring for her in her blindness.

When I came along he was well seasoned by life’s hardships.  “Hurry up and wait!” he’d tell me with a grin, instead of bemoaning something taking too long. I often think about my grandfather’s words when it seems like God is taking a long time to answer my prayers.

Like the time I needed to approach someone meekly about a situation. I’d prayed it through and gone with the best of intentions. As I turned off my ignition and stepped out onto the asphalt the lyrics for ‘The Best is Yet to Come’ flooded my soul, and I went in expectantly. I thought the ‘best’ would be waiting for me in the parking lot on my way out.

But my efforts were not well received and because of that, my life took a course I’d never planned on. Nearly a decade later–my prayers seemingly vanished into the unpredictability of it all–I’m still waiting.

I thought about them when a divorce I never wanted left me unable to keep my house and I was offered a chance to slip in somewhere on the sly—getting graciously bumped ahead of other equally needy families by well-meaning friends. As I prayed, God told me to wait. I still remember the time of release in worship I had when He gave me the assurance it was all taken care of–accommodations were coming right around the corner.

What followed were two gruelling years and a Red Sea experience. Illness made it impossible to keep working, and soaring housing prices made it impossible to find anything cheaper. I’d been on a waiting list for a local co-op, but they’d informed me there wouldn’t be an opening for months at the earliest. God told me to wait.

Within days the tables turned. People moved out of the co-op, others switched units, and those ahead of me declined their spots—we were in. My house sold at the peak of the market, giving me extra to sustain me through the worst. The best had, indeed, come—in God’s timing.

Like Joseph and Abraham, sometimes we feel like we’re hurrying up to follow God and He puts us on His celestial waiting list—our prayers seemingly slipping through His snoozing radar. Not so.

And another angel came and took his place at the altar, having a gold vessel for burning perfume; and there was given to him much perfume, so that he might put it with the prayers of all the saints on the gold altar which was before the high seat. Rev. 8:3.

Did you know that one of the most important steps in making perfume is letting it sit? The longer a scent base sits with the pure grain base, the stronger the perfume will be. God has not forgotten our prayers. Not one vapour of our hearts’ anguish soaking the altar of His affection has escaped His concern. Every petition is being painstakingly preserved and perfected for that precise moment when it will spill over our circumstances in a glorious and fragrant outpouring of answers we never imagined possible.

Hurry up and pray. The best is yet to come.

Hanging On My Prayer Line

This morning, as I was hanging my laundry on the line in descending order of weight and size, I took my time to drape the last few articles—with stains—facing the sun. Nothing can disintegrate mustard spots and fade the vilest blotches of blood like a June morning’s piercing rays. Last week I hung a white tunic up with a mango mark that hadn’t come out in the wash, and hours later I reeled it back in without spot or wrinkle. Okay, it still had a few wrinkles­—we’re at the mercy of the wind for that—but the yellow fleck had forever fled from the sun’s penetrating gaze.

That wasn’t the first time this morning I’d aired my dirty laundry, though.

I hauled my basket full of soiled cares and sullied concerns to my prayer place and washed them in the water of His Word. I let His mercy pour healing agents into the rinse as I scrubbed every anxiety over the washboard of His wisdom and commands. Ours is no quick-cycle chemical cleansing—prayer is a ‘roll up your sleeves’ kind of rewarding work.

Sometimes I get up from on my face before God fully cleansed and refreshed. Other times, like this morning, I find there are things that just don’t come out in the wash.

So I hung them up on my faith-line. I tethered them to mercy, and secured them with trust—carefully positioning each one before the Son’s face. He sees them, I know. They don’t stand a chance against His penetrating gaze.

Clouds might get in the way, this is true. But out there they will stay until He comes through.

I like to think that prayer is a little like doing my laundry. I have to keep up with it or I don’t have anything to wear. Sometimes a gentle rinse cycle is all I need. Some requests get put through the wringer. And some things just have to hang and dry.

… purify yourselves and change your clothes. Genesis 35:2

Spring Cleaning

Ah, spring—and a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of…

Mud, of course.

The snow’s finally beginning to melt around here, and underneath it all is lots of muck—in my front yard, anyway.

Looks like there’ll be a little more excavation going on, and in the meantime we get to enjoy everything the bulldozer trudged up.

I’m saying enjoy because the neighbourhood kids and I have been finding really cool rocks to paint. We spent the afternoon out front with newspapers spread across the patio blocks–and painted everything from ladybugs and bees to Easter eggs and each other.

I must say, Haley’s execution of me is remarkable—it looks just like me. Of course, Sammy doesn’t think so, but these children are too young to appreciate the beauty of painting a fresh face on every morning.

I figure, if you’re stuck with a front yard full of rocks and dirt, you might as well make the most of it.

We sure did.

It’s going to take some work, though, to get the lawn looking good again—wouldn’t want the front yard like this the rest of the summer. Want to go back to the way things were, before it all got dug up.

I’m wanting some other things to go back to the way they were, too–before some things inside of me got all dug up; when nothing was more important than the nearness of God.

“If you, Israel, will return,
then return to me,”
declares the LORD (Jeremiah 4:1).

We’ll have to rake up all the soil, dig out the rocks and get rid of the weeds and other debris that was churned up.

“If you put your detestable idols out of my sight
and no longer go astray…

It will all need to be levelled out before planting grass seed,

   “Break up your unplowed ground
and do not sow among thorns.
Circumcise yourselves to the LORD,
circumcise your hearts…

 

Spring’s a good time to get things ready; to realize–some of those mountains that just won’t budge?

Can only be taken out one little stone at a time…

Moses Was a Problem Child–And So Are You

 Moses was a problem child.

 

Okay—you may not think a little crying in a basket, while floating down the Nile River was actually ‘problem’ material, but I think it’s easy to see, if we keep on reading—that Moses did not step out of Egypt on his way to the Promised Land, with all of Israel in tow, as the most humble man on earth.

 

In fact, I find it especially exciting to discover just how quickly he was capable of ticking God off.

And let me say—I love to read about other people’s faults and failures in scripture. It motivates me to do better when I know other people have gone on before me and… well—messed up, because that gives me permission to do the same thing. No one pointing fingers in my face and taunting ‘I told you so’s,’ no lectures and no feeling like I have to sail on into eternity with ne’er a blooper or blunder to be had—for I surely would never make it.

But I don’t want to suggest that I’m making light of messing up. It makes me shudder to think about the way my attitude used to be, when I discovered God, in His grace, really did forgive me for sinning even after I’d given my life to Him—ho hum, God will forgive me… again.

But years of correction, and facing up to the consequences of my actions—and realizing all that I missed because I didn’t ‘get’ the whole concept of obedience before—have been whittling a deep sobriety about the seriousness of sin into the softened flesh of my once arrogant attitudes. I know that God did not come to earth to humble Himself as a man, teach us how to live, and pay the ultimate sacrifice with His life—to spend the rest of eternity winking at our mishaps or just overlooking them. The whole thing is far too serious to make little of.

Even so—I think He purposely put things in scripture so that we would take heart; realize that our human natures will never be perfect this side of eternity, and have hope that, if He can work miracles in other people’s hearts, He can do it for us, too. There’s no going forward until we can make peace with our mess-ups.

I think we should consider that God—the one who said that with Him, one day is as a thousand years; who is slow to become angry; who waited decades while Noah built the ark for people to repent–that God is the same one who went from zero to exacerbated with Moses in their very first conversation.

Could we put this in perspective? Because I don’t think you’re getting it. Picture this—Nebuchadnezzar captures and enslaves the Israelites. He sets up an image of himself and makes everyone worship it—and tries to burn those who don’t in a fiery furnace. And what does God do? He sends him out into the wilderness seven years to humble him. What amazing patience on God’s part. We are talking about a God who waits years and decades for people to learn from their mistakes.

Now Moses argues with God on his very first encounter with Him. That would not be a good idea under any circumstances—but Moses keeps on arguing with Him until God is actually infuriated—on their first encounter! The God who is slow to become angry! Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, Moses heads out in complete disobedience to do what God was asking him to do and God is ready to kill him.

Yep—God had already told him to circumcise his sons, and–for whatever reason we could fathom–Moses just didn’t seem to think doing what God said was all that important because off he went without having done it; as though God didn’t really mean it; as though he could pick and choose what to obey and what not to obey. Compare that to Abraham and Isaac and you see a whole other attitude at work.

And God had had it this time—his second blunder and God was ready to take him right out. If not for his wife’s quick thinking all of history would have gone down differently.  God was dealing with a problem child—He had His hands full with Moses way before the rest of the gang just about drove Him around the bend in the wilderness.

Now, I’ve been around almost half a century so far–and, I have to admit, I can’t say that I’ve seen anybody yet who’d make me think we’re not ALL in this together–the whole problem lot of us.

But here’s the hopeful part. When it was all said and done, and Moses had come to the end of his days–even though he still couldn’t enter the Promised Land because of his sin–God let him see it, took him home peacefully and honoured him so much He buried Moses Himself.

And God made it known for all the ages to come, that he was the most humble man on earth back in the day.

Wow. Everything Moses went through—from the time he thought it was okay to argue and disobey, to getting close enough to see the Promised Land with his own eyes, all of everything along the way—in the hands of a God Who works all things together for our good; made him the most humble man on earth. That means there’s hope for us, too.

And you know what that means, problem child—one day (though you may not believe it looking at yourself now), God might very possibly bring you into eternity—the most humble person on the face of the earth.

The Perils of Slaying a Giant

While everyone may have been thrilled about Goliath going down, not everyone was thrilled about who God chose to accomplish it, and his unyielding faith. David’s brothers despised him, and later Saul’s envy was so out of control David spent years in hiding and constant flight.

Are we willing for God’s deliverance to come through the faithful hand of someone else? Someone whose life might cast a shadow over our own–and might that shadow look a little like envy or contempt?

 

Then he took his staff in his hand, chose five smooth stones from the stream, put them in the pouch of his shepherd’s bag…

 

I go down to the valley
where Goliath begs to be felled;
from where he is a mite
scaling the footprint of God.

But he has become a giant,
and I find solace in the crowd;
comfort in the collective
cowardice. All of us
tethered to the same insecurities;
fastened by familiar fright.

United we stand
against our own success.

Pity the poor lad who dares
divide us asunder

with just a fist full of faith
and  a pocket full of rocks.

Life in the ‘Loco’ Lane

I’m hoping to be just like my dog, Loco, when I grow up. Not that I want to bark at strangers and follow myself around the house all day—just that I’d like to be as consistently happy as she always is.

From the moment I surface beneath my mound of blankets to hit the snooze button for the first time each morning, until I submerge again into the sandman’s shadows—she’s happy. And she’s not just ‘happy’ happy, she’s ecstatically thrilled about everything. If I get up from reading, a wagging tail propels her into spirals around my feet. Any sudden movement brings on a whole new carnival of contentment; a gala celebration.

If she goes outside she’s overjoyed. When she comes back in she tears up the floorboards with her enthusiasm. Even if she’s sound asleep and I slip quietly by, her tail—as if stirred by my overwhelming presence—wags at my passing. She’s no less enthusiastic about everything life has to offer than she was nearly a decade ago when she christened the threshold of every happy moment at the altars of our affection, with her wiggling wee bursting bladder.

Everything with her is as new as a freshly spanked baby’s bottom—she lives on the delivery ward of blessings about to be birthed; the cusp of perpetual penchant.

She’s the sound of an ice-cream truck on a sunny Saturday morning. She’s new furniture and old books, slapstick comedy, clowns and every happy thing you could conjure up.

If she were a drink she’d be champagne; if she could fly she’d alter the earth’s orbit. She lives life like it’s some huge pie eating contest—gobbling up all she can before time runs out.

And, it’s not as though she’s any stranger to hardship, either.

 

 Oh, the troubles she’s seen…

 

She just knows how to bounce back from it is all. She doesn’t know anything about letting circumstances keep her down.  

         

So, yeah—that’s pretty much the way I’d like to embrace the rest of my life. Living like it’s a walk in the park, because truthfully—sometimes it’s more like a walk down the plank.

And as much as we’d like them to be—trite and shallow canine comparisons, however clever—are not enough to keep some of the very sobering situations and circumstances from seeping inside and petrifying the very marrow of us.

We can’t always tear up the floorboards to the next adventure when the next adventure is another disappointment or letdown.  Sooner or later, exuberance buckles beneath the last straw. It’s not all that easy to wag your tail in that place, much less sit up and beg for more. But God doesn’t expect us to, either.  He promised to find us wherever we’ve been scattered to—bring us back, bind up our injuries and strengthen us.  That’s where I’ve been lately—getting all bandaged up and better.

I can’t help feeling more exuberant about life again, though I’m nowhere near altering the earth’s orbit yet. Some of those circumstances and situations are just as foreboding.

Still–I aspire to live life like my loco little dog–in a carnival of contentment; on the cusp of perpetual penchant–bouncing back from the brink like it was just a nasty old bath or something.

There is Grace

I have to confess–God has been nothing but GOOD to me. Lately I feel as though I am living under the Divine downpour of His love and mercy. At every turn I hear His still, small voice of compassion–from the wellsprings of His goodness–bubble up from inside of me; cleansing and healing, and washing all the debris right out through my tear ducts. I think I would always like to rest in this place. Feels like grace to me…

I have found there
is grace
at the end of the day;
sweet grace
cosseting me–
tenderly
culling me;
dressing my injuries–
a poultice
drawing the weeping

healing within,
pouring clean water over
all my sin.

When faith is frayed
on grace I lay
and rest my
weary soul.

And still I long
to know;
not just go till
the end of the day
to find there was grace
all along the way.

Blessed

This is a cleave poem. I was first introduced to them while spending a lot of time on a writing/reviewing/critiquing site. This genre, created by Phuoc Tan-Diep, was introduced to the site by a very talented writer. I’ve since discovered that the art of combining more than one poem (I read one that had four poems in total) goes back well before cleave poetry. But, since that is how I learned it this is what it will always be to me.

I also like the ‘cleave’ concept–that each thought leans into and is dependant on the other. We are left with a tapestry of words to wonder over; woven works of art having something truly unique to ponder  depending on which way you look at them. And when you read one all together it is like taking a step back to gaze on the complete picture.

Last night I was thinking of Job, and how much better his life was after his suffering was over. God blessed the latter part of his life more than the first. Sometimes we forget that suffering will end, and that, if we are truly trusting it to a faithful heavenly Father, our lives can only be all the better for it. That’s what inspired this one.

Read it through first as one complete poem; then read each side separately. There are three distinct poems or variations of thought in this.

Blessed

If Job became                                   blessed

more than he was before                       are

the cruel arrows of                            those who

plunder wasted, should we                           mourn for

the suffering, despair? Knowing—                 they

rise up now and                                                        shall

in the end                                                     be comforted