It's Okay to Cry

Go ahead. Wail away!  God can take it, and it’s okay to cry on His shoulder. These are hard times. Losses and set-backs are the rule and not the exception; every family is touched by shortages, job losses or reductions, and illnesses with no certain diagnosis.  Family relationships are amplified in times like these, both strong ones and the dysfunctional. Income and food insecurity, payments due, and uncertainty about the future are the topics of social media, newscasts, and conversations.

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Somehow we have come to think there is something wrong with our faith if we find ourselves screaming at God or silenced by doubt—or both by turns.  But there is as long a history of tears as triumphs in our spiritual archives.  And in spite of our present emphasis on “praise” in our worship, a third of the Psalms are cries of distress.  We just tend to leave those verses out and skip right to the victory phrases.

I still strongly believe that the marks of the true believer are joy and rest.  But I am learning, too, that there is a big difference between happiness and joy, and that rest is what we settle into when, as Annie Johnson Flynt wrote, “we reach the end of our hoarded resources,” and find strong arms holding us still.

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And joy is not at the mercy of circumstances, but comes as a result of a security bought and tested in the crucible of pain and suffering. The things we pray for God to remove from our lives are often the very shovels He uses to enlarge our capacity for joy and for holding what is eternal.  It is almost always the things we go through that write our greatest songs of praise.

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Maybe Annie Lamott is right.  Maybe there are only three essential prayers:  Help! Thanks! Wow!  One thing for sure, tears really are a language God understands, and His ear is as tuned to our “groanings that cannot be uttered” as it is to our loudest Hosannas!  And just maybe the groanings are the valuable currency with which we purchase any hallelujahs that ring true.  One thing you can take to the bank is that the operative word in any crisis is “through.”  Our God will take us through.

There was a time, Lord, When I was happy,
but pain had not plumbed my happiness deep enough
to be truthfully be called joy.
There was a time when I knew and celebrated
true things,
but experience had not yet sent me
over perilous pilgrimages
in pursuit of a Holy Grail.
There was a time when I made eager plans
for a future,
but had not yet learned
to embrace eternity in the moments I had.
Thank you, Lord, for the road I’ve traveled.
Only now I am discovering
that it is beautiful to praise God in all things.
Today, at least, I do.
Praise You.
Amen.

Prayer 40 from A Book of Simple Prayers by Gloria Gaither, © Gloria Gaither. 2008 Gaither Music Group, Alexandria, Indiana

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The Easter Grinch

“What day is this?” my friend asked as she popped in to drop off some supplies and mail.  I thought for a minute.  “Wednesday, I think...does it matter?”

Since we have all been sheltering in place and social distancing due to closures and cancellations with no schedule to section off our day, no appointments to keep, no meetings to attend, the days are seeming to run together.  Or maybe I should say the days have a new rhythm and, certainly, a new set of priorities.

In the mail were eight spring catalogs of new party dresses, sandals, bathing suits, and jewelry.  There were also flyers about vacation spots and resort deals.   My cell phone kept dinging with notifications of reduced rates on airline tickets and rental cars.  “Does it matter?” I thought as I shuffled through the mail. I found myself looking for actual letters and birthday cards for Bill.  The tone for text-waiting from our kids, relatives, and friends checking on us and sending funny posts to make us laugh, forwards of meaningful reads, and pictures of the grandkids took precedence over everything else.

One friend sent a recommendation of a great must-read book; another sent a link to good new song he thought I’d enjoy.  Somehow in these weeks of staying home for the common good a new set of priorities have moved into the place of “important” meetings, check-up appointments, and spring shopping sales.

Our little daughter-in-law (who is a great organizer) sent the schedule she made out for their family.

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One young mom posted a comment from her little child whose school and activities had been cancelled or taken on line: “I LIKE CORONAVIRUS”.  The mom went on to say that their family had gotten closer since the quarantine had made homeschooling a family project, and they’d actually been cooking and enjoying meals together around the family table.

Some of the phone conversations I’ve received were discussions about how neighborhoods had gotten creative about helping each other, like a sharing gazebo of DVDs, puzzles, games, great books for adults and children, and extra packets of garden seeds. The outpost eventually turned into a place to leave extra canned goods, cake mixes, and basic supplies for those who had run out. The teachers in one of our schools here organized a drive-by through the neighborhoods where most of their young students live, because they were missing the kids so. The kids stood on the sidewalks outside their houses with love notes to their teachers written on posters with big magic markers.

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So, as serious as this pandemic is and as important as it is that we obey the health officials to protect each other, wouldn’t it be great if relationships could deepen?  What if neighbors faithfully checked on each other and shared what they have on hand?  What if actual board games and puzzles came out of the craft closet and became a lot more fun than video games. because we are playing with actual people with actual laughter and actual conversations?

I began thinking about the Grinch who stole Christmas, and about the coronavirus, and about what it can steal and what it can’t. And I’m wondering, if it even took our old schedules and our meetings and our frantic lives and even our jobs and our I-Step scores and our promotions, might it bring some new fresh sprouts of creativity and life?

Bill and I are in the “most vulnerable” age group for being endangered by this virus.  We are staying home like we’ve been told to do.  We read and talk about the good books that some of our friends have recommended as well as those we promised ourselves to read “someday”. We cook and have long conversations with friends through texts, emails, and the phone—yes, that invention through which we can actually hear the tone and inflection of real voices (no emojis needed). 

Because of some of the closures and changes, our daughter is home from N. Y., our son-in-law from the university  (he now teaches and grades on line), and our grandson from the military academy where he is a high school senior.  He will finish the year on line as well, and maybe even graduate virtually.  They all self-quarantined for the required days, before we finally got together for dinner the first time.  It was an especially sweet evening.

One of our university graduate grandsons is using the time to compose music; both of our daughters and our son are working on writing and recording projects at home.  I am writing this blog to share with you.  Bill selected from our archives a playlist of 35 songs of hope and encouragement for you to listen to alone or with your family.  Little Mia is painting.

Mia (10) painted this last night.

Mia (10) painted this last night.

My daffodils are starting to bloom, even though it snowed again.  The white swan are nesting on the peninsula, and the wrens are building a nest in the bark bird house by the back door.  When I went out for the newspaper this morning, they were singing their little heads off.

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Oh, I know for sure our sweet Lord was crucified.  I know the earth shuddered so hard at this terrible cosmic injustice that the ground split in two and the veil that kept regular people like me from the fearsome presence of the Almighty tore right down the middle. I know He was Roman-sealed in a tomb, hollowed out of the hardest stone.  But the enemy couldn’t steal Easter.  No, it came just the same.  And whether we live or die, death cannot stop the surge of the eternal from starting to move in our veins, and stone or no, virus or no, we will live again!  We can know life eternal, now.  It is these lasting things we must value now.  It is recognizing the essential from the non-essentials now and in embracing the eternal, releasing the joy, now!  Does it matter? Yes! This is what matters, now.

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Shelter in Place

How quickly our consumer-distraction-assembling habits have come to a screeching halt! Almost overnight going-just-to-be-going has become a danger, and gathering has been eliminated for the common good and community survival. Instead of eating out, we are resurrecting that old recipe book mother gave us or checking on-line to see how to actually make a perfect pot roast or mac and cheese, providing we can find the ingredients to make them.

We have been asked to “shelter in place.” That has all kinds of implications, one of which is being thankful for shelter at all, a blessing many do not have. It also means spending more time with spouses and family. With distractions whittled down to movies, games (on and off line), social media (the constant and welcome ding of the text-waiting notification), we may hopefully turn to actual conversations, great books, and creative output. Maybe it is a really good time to write a song! Or paint a picture! Or do a craft with the kids!

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It also means coming face to face with ourselves, coming to grips with our darker side that creates conflicts or discovering the “angels of our better natures.” Both could be a good thing. In this self-quarantine we might read with new eyes the scriptures, and in this present context discover some deeper meanings of some of the passages that have been a puzzle in the past. One such passage for me has been Matthew 10:34-39.

When Jesus said, (Matthew 10:34-39) “Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth but a sword”, it seems so inconsistent with His message of peace.  But what if, like most of His words, they were to be taken on many levels:  personal, historical, spiritual, and prophetic.  What if, for example, He meant on a personal and spiritual level that we must “kill off” everything in ourselves but our real, naked selves, the selves God made us to be—to strip off everything that keeps us from being authentic and constantly takes precedence over Him—like the dying process does, or as Thornton Wilder put it, like a “weaning away” so that we’re eventually happy to die to everything that isn’t eternal.

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Maybe spiritually there is a weaning-away of preoccupations with personal beauty, success, accomplishments, other relationships (even right ones and definitely wrong ones), security—everything except just our naked helpless eternal self, standing before God.  “I come to help you slay it all,” He says.  He brings the sword to us. And the slaying must be done every time anything or anybody rises to pre-eminence and muddies up our motives.

We are not called to war against others, but to free ourselves from selfish attachments to them so that we can be freed from them to then love them purely with the love of Christ as our stripped down, vulnerable, no-angle self.  This self is the “sanctified” or blood-anointed self, the one washed clean of all self-serving motivations and needs, stripped of attachments and addictions to things, relationships, status, needs for affirmation, so that, naked before God once again, we can love as He loves by just being a not-needy presence of Light. People in darkness, stumbling around, trying to find their way will be drawn to the Light and not be electrocuted by our selfish needs and thus confused or repelled by those who say they follow Jesus.

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If we let God give us a sword to kill anything that is a facade, a veneer, a phony semblance of what He created us to be, including false and selfish uses of relationships, then maybe He could lead us “in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake,” innocent as Eden and ready to be citizens of a new heaven and a new earth.

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Spring Is Renewal

Spring is the season of renewal.  Easter is the shedding of all that would hold our spirits down and keep us earthbound; it is the embracing of new life that transcends and ascends.

© Angela Kellogg

© Angela Kellogg

Spring is the birthplace of sacraments:  the washing of feet, the breaking of bread, the draining of the cup.  This is the season for pilgrimage:  the preparation of Gethsemane, the gathering in the upper room, the cross-laden journey to Golgotha, the weighty walk to the tomb, the joyful run to “go tell.”

© Angela Kellogg

© Angela Kellogg

The process of the seed, fallen, buried in the earth, is spring:  the shedding of protective coverings, the insistent unfolding in the quiet stillness beneath the surface of embryonic beginnings, the pull sunward of sprouting, living things.  A newfound courage to grow, to become—this is spring!

This is the time for resolutions that began this new year/decade to become reality.  This is the time for words to become deeds, for ought-to’s to become habit. 

© Angela Kellogg

© Angela Kellogg

In this morning of the year, may the resurrection be more than a day in the ecclesiastical calendar.  Deep in the veins of our souls, may life stir like the blood beginning to move in a man crucified.  May living warmth work its way from the heart to the hands, and may we begin to move as one made alive who was dead!

It’s morning, Lord, and my senses are rested from yesterday’s assault of stimulation. I am aware of the delicious regularness of this day:  the clean, cool sheets against my skin, the fragrant familiarness of this house, the sound of my husband’s much loved body breathing beside me, the white pine branch brushing against the window, the children talking and giggling upstairs in their parents’ childhood rooms.

© Angela Kellogg

© Angela Kellogg

Help me to savor the simplicity of today, Lord, to hold each tasty morsel on my tongue and enjoy its gift before I swallow it into the process of my life.

I would live sacramentally.

“This is my body...”

I hold this moment of Your Life and give transforming thanks.  May these simple elements be changed into Your very self as I partake of them.  May the life-blood of this scarlet morning move through my veins making me a part of this day…and of You.

I raise my chalice and toast the dawn.  “Do this in remembrance…”

Prayer 67 from A Book of Simple Prayers by Gloria Gaither, © Gloria Gaither. 2008 Gaither Music Group, Alexandria, Indiana

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In the light of the present pandemic, I want to share the attached 4 minute video from our friend Andy Andrews. 

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Spring Cleaning

Spring is the time of new life.  Wonder sprouting everywhere!  Cleaning out the old to make room for the new is vital.  In our house that means pulling out furniture from the walls, cleaning in places hidden by winter’s accumulation, dusting ceiling corners and getting rid of “stuff” in drawers and cabinets and pantries.

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Mother taught me (and her mother before her) that anything can be cleaned with vinegar or soda.  Surfaces cleaned with vinegar-water dry quickly and leave bacteria no place to grow.  Soda can take out stains, sweeten any place mold might have grown and scour away stains.

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It’s time, too, for what Bill’s Aunt Lillie used to call “riddin’ out.”  Magazines, catalogs, newspapers and boxes saved for “someday” need to be taken to recycling centers.  Extra flower pots, glass vases, and “fancy” jars can be put in some charity’s yard sale.  Half-burned candles, silk flowers, extra dish towels, blankets, sheets and towels can find new uses at women’s shelters and missions where folks are trying to put together a life after tragedy or house fires.

Once the spaces of our lives are clean and neat, spring can happen even before the flowers are in full bloom.  Spring colors in bedspreads, couch pillows, towels, dish towels, tablecloths and candles can turn a winter room to spring in no time and with minimal expense.  Wicker baskets spray-painted white, yellow, pink or robin egg blue, then filled with clumps of silk daffodils, tulips or dogwood can accent a dining table, fireplace mantel or bedside stand.  Colorful brightly-enameled metal gardening containers filled with forsythia and pussywillows adds spring sparkle to an outdoor entry or porch.

There are five senses: sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste.  I like to think of these as five roads into the center city of our souls, so I try to use as many of these roads as I can when I decorate.

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A bowl of lemons appeals to the eye and the taste buds.  A small fountain brings the sight and sound of a spring stream.   Textures of soft pussywillow, a ragged piece of rock or shell, a container of sand, the smooth surface of polished stone or a piece of lace or other fabric entices the hand to touch.  And music; don’t forget the music of spring.  My favorite is Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and I love to have it playing in my clean, spring-sprinkled house when the family comes for dinner.

Soon I will add symbols of Easter and resurrection:  a ceramic rabbit and her bunnies by the back door, a flowered straw hat over the fireplace, a soft lamb among the daybed pillows, some fuzzy chicks on the “children’s shelf,” a straw nest with five blue eggs by the flowers and candles on the kitchen island.

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The extended family will gather here after everyone has changed from church clothes on Easter Sunday to watch the children search the hillside and creek bank for hidden eggs. Even the big kids love this family tradition.  The rocking chairs on the porch will be lined with grown-ups taking pictures and cheering them on.  (Our rule is that nothing low or on the ground may be “found” by the older children, but be left for the little ones.)

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One of my favorite times of the whole year is the early morning hiding the eggs.  I have them filled with prizes and ready to go the day before, but early morning hours are my private time.  Watching the sun rise, hearing the ducks and geese and swans stirring and conversing on the pond, listening for the happy song of morning birds, I make my way to every corner of our property placing eggs where the children will find the most delight in the discovery.  This is my personal sunrise service.

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Finished, finally, with my mission, I sit for a moment on the old bench by the pond and think of that first Easter morning when the women made their way to the place where their Lord had been laid three days before.  I listen for the voice in my own soul that declares to me that there is no death here; He is alive.  He speaks.  And I, too, say “My Lord, and my God!”

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Poised for Spring

There was another big snow last week.  Every twig, every fence, every pine branch was heaped high with frosting.  Even the basketball net looked like expensive lace.  The whole landscape was a photograph in black and white.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Well, except there was a tell-tale hint that it might not be a black and white. In the dormant forsythia outside my kitchen window perched an outrageously scarlet cardinal.  (No wonder the cardinal is the Indiana state bird!) My photographer friend, Angela, popped in to say she was headed to the creek to take some pictures.  She sent back another hint that we were not living in a black and white photo.  Two of our white swans were swimming on the silver pond.  Their orange bills gave such a splash of color that they looked like they had been photoshopped in!

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

The bones of the maples and oaks, willows and sycamores revealed the amazingly beautiful and strong framework that in summer holds the weight of such luxuriant foliage that it would break a weaker structure.  Winter tells the whole truth.  The cedars and arborvitae that are in summer a dark aggressive green have backed into a more submissive, humble brownish-gray so as not to intrude on the stark drama of winter.

It was time to put on boots and earmuffs and make a few tracks of my own.  Such a wonderland deserved a closer look.  I found it was too cold for the snow to pack; it was like angel dust, and the slightest gust of wind made the glistening flakes fall again—from the stack piled on every high branch.  I passed the northern magnolia and, lo!  The tips of each twig had a swollen, velvety bud.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

The maples that from a distance looked so bare, were not bare after all, but held clusters of last year’s seed—helicopters, we used to call them, because the new ones in spring fall spinning like propellers to pierce the loose soil of my gardens, sowing seed for maple and boxelder sprouts everywhere.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I held the fragile “bare” branches of every tree and shrub as I passed—the lilacs, the forsythia, the pussy willows, the dogwoods.  Each branch ended with a small tight bud. Life!  Just waiting and poised to respond to the first warming day, to open to the wooing of sunbeams.   Even in snow there is the promise of spring.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I get it.  I have discovered that in every dormant season of my soul, in every paused waiting period, there is a subtle moving of something deep in my roots that is pushing its way upward and outward toward a promise.  There is a throbbing in the frozen vessels that insists that in spite of the most colorless day, even in the most chilling discouragement, resurrection will not be denied.  The strong framework of former growth makes me know that the budding that seems tight and frozen now will burst open with new flower and thick leaves. The trunk and branches of proven faith will hold the weight of glory to come!  The roots that have been driven deeper by the frigid days will pump new energy up, up to the very tips of my being.  The sun will shine again.  The earth will green again.  Spring will come, and my heart will sing!

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Though the skies be gray above me
And I can't see the light of day;
There's a ray breaking through the shadows
And His smile can't be far away.

Though the earth seems bleak and barren
And the seeds lay brown and dead;
Oh the promise of life throbs within them
And I know spring is just ahead. 

Thank God for the promise of springtime;
Once again my heart will sing.
There's a brand new day a-dawning;
Thank God for the promise of spring.

By William J. and Gloria Gaither
© 1973 Hanna Street Music (BMI) (adm. at CapitolCMGPublishing.com) All rights reserved. Used by permission.

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Slippers and Running Shoes

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A luxury afforded Bill and me at this juncture of our lives is most days to own the first couple of hours of the day.  We can actually put on slippers, wrap up in our warm robes, and leisurely drink our coffee, read the paper and our inspirational books, and discuss everything from new revelations and insights to Pacer basketball editorials and the current headlines.  We then make the bed together and get ready for the day.

The other morning, I noticed Bill just standing there by his bathroom closet, dressed and ready, but rocking back and forth in his new walking shoes.  He was smiling.

“What?”  I said, waiting for him to deliver a bit more information.

“I love these shoes,” he finally said.

“And...?” I asked.

“Well, I love drinking my coffee with my slippers on, but when I put on these shoes, I shift into another gear.  My brain clicks into excitement for whatever comes today.”

He smiled again, quit rocking on his cushy running shoes, and then left for the office.

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That left me to process this weird behavior.  Just maybe, I thought, there is a balance, a lovely rhythm to the intake—output of life.  I am coming to believe that both are so necessary.  Just maybe to start off into the flurry of activity without any intake may not only be unhealthy, but may leave the mind and heart gasping for spiritual and emotional oxygen somewhere in the middle of the day’s demands. To spiritually and relationally stretch and breathe deeply, take in the beauty of gratitude, to inhale the fresh gift of one more day, to just BE before we hasten off to DO, changes our perspective and widens our sensitivities to all good things to come. Maybe it is as necessary as stretch conditioning before a physical workout.

But there also comes a time to use that fresh energy to “run the race,” to kick off our slippers and appreciate the bounce in the running shoes of life.  It works both ways.  Too much lounging in slippers and not enough running shoes makes our leg muscles antropy; the blood never gets pumping to our brains—or the contemplation to our souls.  Yet too much running around in frantic flurry of activity without quiet intake, spending time with the lover of our hearts, absorbing the wisdom from that “still small voice” that speaks peace produces little but stress, exhaustion, and frustration.

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I can’t help thinking of the “run the race” metaphor from Saint Paul, who advises us to rid ourselves of encumbrances, things that hinder and entangle, and do some deep breathing and changing of our aspirations, setting our goals on much higher expectations.  Then when we kick off the slippers and tie on our running shoes, Paul inspires us to run with determination and endurance, knowing that there is a stand full of accomplished veteran runners who have “finished the race” cheering us on. The promise is that if we fix our eyes on the “pioneer and perfecter of our faith,” who is empowering us with the fresh air of victory, “we will not grow weary and lose heart.”

Too long in slippers makes for too little running. But too little slipper time makes for purposeless running.  It’s almost never either/or.  It’s almost always both/and.  Isn’t there a shoe called new balance?  Oh, I so hope to find it!

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A valentine for the love of your life.

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Things I Must Tell the Children

This is the fifth in a series I call “The Blessings” that have both the visual of words and images, and audio, so you can listen while you drive or walk or clean. 

Over the course of a year of speaking at week-end retreats, I asked parents this question:

“If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you want to have gotten said to your children, no matter the ages of your children?”  The answers I received on the questionnaire I handed out were varied and wise, profound and joyful.

I gave the responses the title of one of our songs, Things I Must Tell the Children, and turned them into a gift book.  I have asked our family to speak them for you.  So here they are.  I hope you will take time to listen to them and share them.  I’d love to hear back from you, too, with your answer to my question.

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If you would like to share this blessing, it is available in a gift book below.

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The Fly-over Zone

Tonight Bill and I went to Cracker Barrel together before he met some buddies to go to the Pacer basketball game.  There was a wood fire burning in the big fireplace, which made the place smell like our farm kitchen.

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After we ordered, we were catching up on each other’s day when a big man came over to our table.  We didn’t know him but found out he had farmed in our county all his life, and his family was the third generation to live in the same house and farm the same land.  Retired now, he just wanted to thank us for the music he had listened to most of his life.  He said he had originally farmed 1500 acres, most of which by now had been sold off to corporate agriculture.  Smart, wise, and personable, he told us his family’s story and how our songs had intersected with his life.

Our chicken dinners came.  While we ate we noticed a man with his father at the next table.  The sun was setting and was at the place where it shone straight into the older man’s eyes.  The son immediately got up, and I heard him say, “Here, dad, trade places with me.  My eyes can take the brightness better than yours,” as he switched chairs with his father.  Their food arrived, and they paused in their pleasant conversation; the son took his father’s hand across the table, and they bowed their heads and prayed a blessing over their food.

Behind Bill was a couple that looked to be in their late 70s.  Still beautiful, the woman had well-groomed grey hair, and the man engaged her in a conversation about pictures she was showing him on her cell phone; I’m guessing grandkids.

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I watched as another couple came in and settled at the table to our left.  The gentleman was pushing his wife in a portable wheel chair.  As the waitress took their order, I noticed that the woman held the menu in her right hand while her left hand rested in her lap.  When their meals came, the husband quietly got up and went around to her side of the table and began cutting her food in manageable pieces; I knew, then, that she only had use of one hand.

Our little waitress was about college age and was working so hard to make sure we had everything we needed, while she juggled the service of four or five other tables.

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Three long-term marriages, a middle-aged man enjoying his father, a husband caring for his sweetheart after so many years, a young woman who shows up for work and is full of joy doing it....  These are stories that don’t make the ratings-driven 24/7 news shows.  It isn’t likely that they show up in the political poles.  These folks probably don’t have election signs in their yards or bumper-sticker banners on their cars.

They are not naïve, uneducated, or susceptible to campaigns to cultivate the swing vote. They don’t look to empty platitudes to solve their problems, take care of their aged, or escape responsibility for caring for the less fortunate across the street or down the road. They read, think, love their families, and seek out enriching relationships in their neighborhoods, their churches, and their families.  They care about the hungry and the disenfranchised and show up for organizations that try to address these issues.

Like you, there are days when I think the world is going to hell in a handbag, and then my sweet husband takes me out for fried chicken at the Cracker Barrel down the road, and I come home knowing that there are still strong fibers in the fabric of faith and commitment in this country.  The roots of goodness are deeper than the news would have us believe, and real people are still making a real difference in real places—like Indiana.

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O, Come Let Us Adore Him

When God shows up, we can do nothing but fall down in praise and adoration.  That’s what happened the very first time God made an appearance on this earth in human form.  It’s what will always happen whenever we find ourselves in the presence of the living Christ!  All discussions of the “how’s” and “what’s” of worship styles, or worship aids and devices, will fall silent in the presence of the Holy One.

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When God is present we will at first stand in awe, fall down in wonder, or bow low in repentance; then, finding our voices, we will sing, shout, weep, dance, beat drums, play instruments, clap hands, make banners, march around the altar (or the manger or the stable or the living room)….  Indeed, we will not be able to find enough ways to express our praise.  We will not argue about old songs or new songs, hymnals or screens, robed choirs or blue-jeaned worship teams, pipe organs or guitars.  We only argue about such things before God shows up or a very long time after He’s gone away. 

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But when He comes – when God Himself is born among us, we may have to shut up entirely and let the angels sing.  One thing for sure, there will not be dissension and fussing and dividing of services or churches.  No, there will be peace on earth, goodwill toward men, and women, and children, and neighbors, and strangers, and all the world!

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The After-Christmas Carol

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The Christmas music has died down in the department stores, and the JANUARY SALES signs have taken its place.  The relatives have mostly headed back home to work and to school, and the needles are falling from the real trees as we take down the ornaments and store them away for next year.  The after-celebration reality has settled in, and for many the post-Christmas-depression is lurking around the corner as we vacuum out the car and sweep up the glitter and styrofoam packing balls from the living room. The jingle of Christmas bells have been silenced by the 6:00 news, and bewildering lead stories are shattering the spell of “joy to the world.”

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Perhaps now is the perfect time to break out another carol, a timeless, unconquerable carol for the spirit.  It was written in 1863 by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow after the death of his wife, and following the departure of their oldest son to fight in the Civil War without his father’s blessing.

From that Christmas of 1863 until the present, people have entered the “season of peace” when the world and their personal lives were in chaos.  No, this year is certainly no exception, yet the Peace Jesus came to bring is not and never has been at the mercy of the current lead story.

The Song that started with the angels one night on a Judean hillside cannot be silenced by the dissonance of opposing political or religious factions or the cacophony of war.

There has to be a Song!  No one can live without hope!  The gift of “the Song” is the best gift of all.  Let us fill our own hearts with it.  Let’s fill our homes with it and our cars with it as we travel back to our regular routine.  Let’s give it to those who mourn and to those who struggle with debilitating illnesses.  Let’s sing it in the ears of our children as we tuck them into bed, and take it to the discouraged and the lonely.  Because, as Longfellow wrote those decades ago: God is not dead nor doth he sleep!  The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, good will to men.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet, the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Then in despair I bowed my head,
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of Peace on earth good will to men.”

 Then pealed the bells more loud and deep
“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep!
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

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In the gray winter of our days, let’s not only believe but practice with our last breath and action, the lived-out message of the new life of Christmas and the new life of the resurrection, LIFE WINS!  LOVE IS STRONGER!

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The Water of Life on Earth's Shore

The great Creator who breathed galaxies into existence began the creation of our world by speaking into the swirling, formless void of nothingness, “Let it be!”  Because He is light, His first “let it be” was “light.”  And there was light.  Then He separated the light from darkness and gave them both names:  day and night.

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Then He called the firm particles out from the misty wetness, drawing the firm together and separating what was solid from the liquid.  He named the firm firmament and the liquid water—water below, vapor above and land in between.  His first foundational work was done.  There was light.  There was night.  There was earth, and there were seas.  “Good work!  Necessary work!” He breathed.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Eons later, this great Creator would choose to plant Himself on this planet.  He longed for His created work to know Him, especially the creation He had named man.  But this would require an enormous risk of limitation.  Life itself would have to distill itself into the smallest denomination of life of which this tiny planet was capable:  a single cell.  This cosmic singularity must become a single cell to combine with a human cell.  This great God would become one of us in our most vulnerable form—a helpless baby.

The story of this Creator-God reaching all this unfathomable distance is a wonder that stretches credulity.  Yet, it is simple enough on its surface for a child to understand and so profound that the most brilliant and most schooled of minds cannot truly comprehend. So all, the simple and the brilliant, must hold the mystery with an open hand like one holds for a moment a snowflake on an eyelash in the moonlight.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

How fitting that this human-encased God-essence, pure and true, walked in sandaled feet the sandy shores of a small sea—a place where firmament and water come together—telling the secrets of the mystery in earthy stories filled with metaphor, so that we who were made of the very earth He called forth could have inklings, now and again, of a truth beyond words and a Life that transcends the living out of our days.

This Holy child that was born in earth’s simplest of circumstances never got very far from a seashore where water and grains of firmament meet.  There He taught with stories that explanations could never impart, so that we ourselves could transcend time and space, earth and water to recognize the essential kinship between eternity and this moment.

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Click below to listen to the podcast “The Story You Never Heard” featuring Gloria Gaither.

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By This Fire

This is the fourth in the series of “vlogs” or video blogs that have included the three blessings books (Marriage, Home, and Child). This one is a personal tribute to long-term marriage.

Our first baby was 18 months old when we built our house that we have lived in all these years. The house has grown up with us, and our family has grown up in it.  We always had a fireplace, but when we added our “new” kitchen to the original house, our son was seven years old.  We knew we wanted a fireplace in the kitchen, and a day bed, and a window seat.  We wanted a big island for serving as many people as would fit in our house, and a big long table where at least 10 people could comfortably sit together.

Little did we know that the fireplace in that big new kitchen would become much more than a fireplace.  It would become the soul of our house.  And it would witness all the things that a marriage comes to experience in more than a half century of living and loving together.  Somehow, the marriage, the family, and the house have endured—as has the sweet habit of building fires through the seasons of our lives.  We would like to share with you a bit of what those fires have witnessed over the years.  All of our children are now fire-builders on their own, thanks to Bill’s passion for drawing us all together around a fire.  And that son who was seven when we built this fireplace now is building fires for his own family and created the music score for the reading of all of the Blessing Books as well as the following tribute to the memories we all made BY THIS FIRE.

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HOME -- The Most Loaded Word

Writers, especially poets, learn to choose words that come with their own built-in emotional baggage. This is especially true when one wants to say a lot in as few words as possible. The right well-chosen few words can cover more territory than a whole carelessly constructed paragraph.

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One of the words that carries such built-in DNA is the word home.  There are other words listed in the thesaurus as synonyms: house, dwelling, abode, residence. See what I mean? Home says more. Most of us have lived in several houses.  We have had many addresses.  We have built or bought different styles of dwellings and stayed there long enough for them to qualify as residences.  But home—well, that’s another story.  If your heart says you need to go home, where would that be?  What does that place look like in your mind?

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Some of would say it’s the place we now live, the place we raised our babies and planted our gardens and decorated rooms to suit the tastes and activities of our family.  Others of us would name a place we haven’t been in years; the home-place where grandma lived or daddy built or the kids grew up. For some, home means a part of the country that shaped our view of things or gave us our roots.  The South, or the Plains, the Smokies, or Colorado.  Some of us long for the lake country or the red dirt of Georgia, the coast or the wide-open spaces of the old west.

Some long for a home they’ve never had.  Abuse, estrangement, mobility, or divorce may have kept them from ever having a sense of place.  On the outside looking in, they’ve ached in some deep place to identify with that tone in others’ voices they hear when they say “home.”

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This is the season for going home. Songs like “Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go...” and “I’ll be home for Christmas; you can count on me”  call us to make our way back to the places and the people that shaped us and help us to remember who we are.  Going home helps us remember the stories, hopefully, the good ones, that we want to pass on to our children so they will know who they are, too. Sadly, for far too many, though, this is the time for digging deeper into a commitment to recovery from pain, estrangement, or alienation.

The good news is that whether or not we have had a healthy shaping place, we are being called by one, nevertheless.  One way or another we can all go home.  That’s what the gospel is all about.  That is what this Jesus we follow came to do: to bring all the lost children of the Father to the only perfect home. And when we get there, we’ll know our hearts have been there all along.  We’ll hear the only perfect Father—say, “Welcome home, my child.  I’ve been waiting for you!”

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What If?

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Last summer our daughter, Amy, went to visit a few places in England she had missed the year her family was living there.  She sent me this picture with a text that simply said:  “I had breakfast here this morning.”  The picture took my breath away.

“Where are you?” I texted back. 

She answered that she was in Durham and had stayed at the castle which is used as a Bed & Breakfast in the summer.  The whole estate has become part of Durham University, the third oldest university in England (after Oxford and Cambridge); the university uses the Durham Cathedral as a dining hall for students and guests.

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 But my mind was stuck on the picture.  Wow!  What if this were a church?  And what if when you went there on Sunday, this is what you saw when you entered the sanctuary?  And what if there was a seat with a place card for you—a card with a mirror on it so that you would see your face when you picked it up?

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And  what if  there were twice as many places set as the church thought would be there?  And what if after you had your fill of food and fellowship and singing and conversations, you took an extra place card with you and gave it to that young man at work or the single mom next door, or the new immigrant family across the street and said:  We had this special place set for you at the table.  Want to come sit by me next Sunday for breakfast?

And what if there were no “church-building” ulterior motives except to break bread together, sing our hearts out, and enjoy the bounties of the Lord?  What if we could confess our most urgent worry and find prayer, support, and understanding without judgement or condescension? 

 I know now that this was just a bed in a castle and breakfast in a cathedral, but what if...?

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Bless This Child

My mother always said that we human beings get real about life at two times:  when somebody we love dies, and when a baby is born.  I’ve lived long enough now to learn that she was right.  I have handed off the hand of those I love into the hand of their Maker, and I’ve sat by our two daughters and our son’s sweet wife when they were giving birth to our seven grandchildren.

I think of those plastic pet doors people put over openings to their garages so that puppies can go in and out in the winter.  It seems that in watching someone I love pass into eternity or a new baby entering this world from eternity, there is a moment when the flap of eternity opens, and the sparkling dust and the warmth of somewhere-else gets on me just enough to change my perspective for the rest of my life.

This glimpse of forever must be celebrated, for we who stand and watch can never be the same; we have stood on holy ground.   The birth our babies with eternal souls is call for the community that will surround these children to commit to be there, not just when the children are little and cute, but also when they go through the difficult or awkward passages of life—to love, to encourage, to support, and to patiently nurture them to wholeness.  Together, let’s bless this child.

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If you want to share this blessing with anyone expecting or welcoming a new baby, it is available in gift book below.

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Bless This House

The house where Bill and Gloria began their married life together.

The house where Bill and Gloria began their married life together.

The establishing of a home takes more than a house, but a home certainly needs a place to be, and that place is very important.  If it is a place where someone else has lived before the new occupants move in, what has taken place in that space is mostly unknown.  To begin fresh, no matter the history of the place, it is a good idea to dedicate and celebrate the new place with good friends and family who will be there to share and enjoy the space in the years to come.  A blessing of this new home is the best way to clear and christen the rooms, inviting God to be the center of all activities and relationships to come.  Joy and laughter, music and good food might follow to set the tone for future expectations.

CLICK BELOW TO WATCH AND LISTEN TO GLORIA READ THE BLESSING

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If you want to share this blessing with a new home owner, it is available in gift book below.

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Bless This Marriage

I believe that life is sacred—all of it—because it is God’s currency of time, given to us to spend on this side of eternity.   The passages of our lives deserve to be marked by a sacred celebration and a renewed commitment to recognize what is eternal in every moment.  We need times to stop down and refocus on the “why” of life and to prioritize the way we are spending this precious gift we have been given.

Marriage is not only one of the most important passages of life, but also should be a holy sacrament, bringing together two people, two families, two histories, and two futures.  It is much more than a civil contract; it is a serious long-term commitment, because it marks the beginning of a new home, the natural habitat for human beings and their nurture to maturity physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

This blog (or vlog) and the two to follow will be audio/video blogs, celebrating three of the most significant passages of life:  marriage, the dedication of a new home, and the birth of a baby.  They will also be available in gift book form for sharing with friends who are celebrating these passages of life.

CLICK THE VIDEO BELOW TO WATCH AND LISTEN

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It Ain't Done 'Til It's Done

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

While I was growing up, my mother said more times than I wanted to hear, “It’s not done until it’s done!”  This would apply to everything from taking the bait “clean off the hook” before I put away a fishing rod, to hosing off the spade and rake (and, at the end of the gardening season, oiling the spade) before I put the tools away in the tool shed.  It was applied to putting my bike in the garage before I went to bed, neatly hanging up the dish towel after the dishes were dried, and making my bed and straightening the bathroom before I left for school.  Along with this valuable training, came the ethic I learned from my parents and grandparents before them: pay your bills in full, don’t buy what you can’t afford, and always “pay your tithe” first, if you want God to bless the rest.  Oh yes, and never live so close to the edge financially that you can’t help those who are in need and offer hospitality to whomever God brings into your life.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I have been so grateful for this heritage of responsibility. My parents didn’t leave my sister and me much of an inheritance, but they left us a legacy of great value.  I hope Bill and I have passed that legacy on to our kids.

We have learned that we must be frugal so that we can be generous.  We’ve learned the value of “deferred gratification,” that the things we wait for are all the dearer when they come.  We’ve discovered that gratitude makes every day a treasure and the simplest pleasures sweet.  And we’ve learned that how we do a thing is as important as the doing of it, whether it is writing a song, making a recording, pruning a grape vine, or putting garden tools away for the winter.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

We have experienced in our own home and in our homes of origin the joy of deep rest after a day of honest labor, the contentment in knowing we have paid our debts, and the rich reward in sharing our blessings with others.  We have been as enriched by drives into the Indiana countryside as by trips around the world.  In our travels we’ve enjoyed a few really lovely hotels and some of the simplest accommodations, but we always think the best place of all is home.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Photo by Angela Kellogg

                  We have found true what Paul once wrote to the believers in Phillippi:

“I’ve learned by now to be quite content whatever my circumstances.  I’m just as happy with little as with much, with much as with little.  I’ve found the recipe for being happy, whether full or hungry, hands full or hands empty.  Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am.”  (Phil. 4:12-13  The Message)

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