Freedom

Recently I heard two foreign pastors speak at our church.  One was from Romania, the pastor of a large evangelical Christian church.  He spoke of the amazing ways in which God answered prayer to start their church, grow it in spite of an oppressive communist government, to topple that government and even to establish an accredited university.  You couldn’t miss the supernatural work of our Creator in that story.

The other was a young pastor of a small evangelical Christian church in Jerusalem.  He is a Palestinian Christian.  He spoke of persecution, and great faith in the face of it.  He talked of masked men of that country’s predominant religion that came to his door to kill his father, more than once, and how God protected them.  He has been beaten and threatened many times simply because of his Christian beliefs.  His church has to keep moving from one rented building to another because the ‘religious’ men vandalize the buildings where any Christians dare to gather in public.  At his church they used to keep water pots by the altar to put out the fires started by bombs tossed by those men.  He told of two young girls who were converted from the Muslim religion to Christ-followers, and how they went from unhappy lives to daily joy in the Lord.  They were so happy they shared their faith in Christ every day with the young children in their neighborhood.  They were killed in their beds because of it.

I have taken for granted the incredible freedom we have in this country to worship wherever and whenever we choose.  No one has tried to kill me for what I believe; the worse I have experienced is ridicule and that not often.  I go to church not even thinking of a firebomb attack.  It burdens my heart when I see any American freedoms jeopardized, whether by our own ignorant government or power-hungry people within it, or the truly wicked at heart who would see freedom squelched for their own reasons.   Blood was spilt over 200 years ago in this country so I could have this freedom, and blood is spilt every hour of every day in other countries by those trying to keep others from exercising it.

May we cherish our freedom, live it out, and fight to the death those who would try to steal it.

Hardwired for Peace

I’ve discovered I’m hardwired for quiet stillness, calm, and order.  I long for my world to be that way and when I get pockets of it I am delighted.  Usually it’s in the morning at prayer time when my soul is resting easy and my mind has not yet filled with the day’s obligations.  The quiet winter sky or a beautiful spring morning with birds singing and just enough breeze that you can hear the leaves barely sway – that’s the time for me.

But I’m also wired for relationship and community, and that desire to connect with others hangs in constant tension with my desire for order and calm and peace.  Connecting with other humans doesn’t usually bring those things – it brings laughter or love or birthday hats or shower gifts or memorial services or picnics or worship or breakfast or working together on a mission project or sitting on the porch with a sister.   All important things, just not quiet and orderly.

The trick for me is to find the balance.  I can only experience those other things fully if first the craving of my soul to “be still” is satisfied.  Only the Designer of that soul can do that.  Faithfully He is there each morning, ready to get my spiritual house in order and paving the way for the messy, wonderful connections of my life.

Recovery Moms

Recovery moms is a term I use to describe mothers whose children are in some stage of recovery from drug or alcohol addiction.  The kids range from pre-teen to teenager to young adult, but drug use at any age presents a special set of heartaches for the mother.

Recovery moms automatically exchange knowing looks when one says their child relapsed back into drug use and they are “going down that road again.”  The one whose child is currently clean and sober, or mostly so, is quietly hopeful but never far from the memory of “that road”.  It is so scary.  But one of the wisest Recovery Moms I know, my dear friend Barb, recently gave me a new way to see that experience.  She says that we are on that same road but the scenery changes.  She’s exactly right.  We are farther down the road – more able to handle it, and our kids have more recovery in them to call on when they find sobriety again.  I believe the way that road ends depends on our individual relationships to God, our Creator and Author of the very universe.  He can Reframe the pain, transform it into healing as “that road” intersects with healthy others, those He has placed in our path at that time for that very purpose.  All we have to do is keep the eyes of our soul open and be willing to let Him do it.

I didn’t set out to be a Recovery Mom – no one does – but I am grateful for the life lessons I’ve learned and the precious friendships that have shaped my life for the better.

Growing things

My neighbors have turned their entire back yard into an experimental garden.  They are hoping to grow all kinds of vegetables, herbs, trees and some flowers.  I so admire their commitment and ability to grow things.

I used to have a brown thumb, but I’ve gotten better at keeping things alive longer.  The iris bulbs I planted years ago, given to me by a dear friend, bloom every year.  They don’t always last long, and sometimes there are only a few, but the lovely purple flowers remind me that I can plant and grow things.  Of course it’s really God’s design that causes the growth, but I get to be a facilitator and have the joy of seeing the blooms.

This year I’m adding a few pots in amongst the iris to try my hand at container gardening.  We don’t have much sun so it’s hard to grow blooming things, but in this one little strip I think it might work.   I spent a lovely Saturday afternoon messing with potting soil, fertilizer, flower seeds and a watering can – we shall see.

There is also my annual fern.  I say annual because usually there is one freeze yearly my fern can’t survive, and this year the 5 nights of temperatures in the teens did her in.  Each year I drive up to Breeds, my favorite local hardware store, and select the “fern of the year”.  I like the bushy, deep green Boston ferns, but this year they had a slightly different type.  More .. stately somehow, the leaves stand taller and are variegated - Kimberly Queen, a type that originates from Australia.   I picked out the one that called to me – it seems there is always one that wants to go home with me – and placed it gently in the trunk.   I repotted it for the hanging basket, watered and fertilized.  Now to begin enjoying the beauty of a graceful green plant growing over the porch railing.

The Fern of the Year doubles as a home for Carolina Wrens who nest each year in the same spot and hatch their babies.   Just days after I hung the new plant it was visited by this year’s new family.  They love that spot.  I think each year’s family are the babies from the previous year, but who knows.  I only know I love hosting their extended stay – it’s my own private heralding of spring.

I love spring – growing plants, growing baby birds, growing in gratitude for the simple things.

Playing in the Puddles

I got caught in a rain shower Saturday morning during my neighborhood walk.  It was a tad too cold for that to be pleasant, but I had just visited with my neighbors and didn’t mind. 

As I walked in the rain, my mind wandered back 20 years ago to when my children were little, both under age 6.  We loved taking walks in the neighborhood after a spring shower.  We would take off our shoes and splash in the puddles on the sidewalk.  If it had been a downpour, we delighted in walking in the street right next to the curb where the rain rushed like a mini-river, swirling around and between our toes and running under our feet.   I can still feel that water – soft and pleasant and clean, freely making its way through our foot-barriers and dancing on to its gathering place.  

A simple pleasure, but a very fond memory for me.  I wonder if my son or daughter remember how much fun we had - how we laughed at the silliness of walking in rain rivers, or how sometimes we got to see a beautiful rainbow.  I hope so. 

Joy Like a River

That comes closest to describing how I feel about my granddaughters – “joy like a river floods my soul”.  I had the privilege of babysitting them this weekend,  Oh how it delights my soul to be with them!  To care for their ordinary needs, to love them, play with them, sing together, have laughs over silly things, draw amazing pictures, spend long minutes observing and enjoying ‘weed flowers’ as we walk around the neighborhood.  We make lots of memories, and I want them indelibly imprinted in my memory bank, forever available for retrieval.

How to find words to express the feeling I have when I walk in the door and hear “Grandma, Grandma!” in that precious, excited, 3 year old Emily voice.  The depth and tenderness of our hug as we greet one another after days or weeks apart is a oneness that perhaps can only happen with the distance of an extra generation.  The littlest one doesn’t know me well yet, but instinctively Molly knows I’m a safe person; everyone she loves seems to want me around and she ‘loves me forward’ in her own way, taking our future relationship on faith.  What a gift! 

While I am at their house Emily and I can hardly bear to be separated for even a moment.    Shared ‘potty breaks’ is part of being a grandma when you are this close.  I get to see the world through her view, and at night we can even see in the dark with our “shiny blue eyes”.  A trip to Chick-fil-a for a salad and some chicken nuggets becomes a grand picnic in the park at their playground.  A walk to the corner store becomes an adventure – what a freeing, exciting way to go through life!  I love setting aside my adult thoughts and concerns; that way I don’t miss the fun of hearing “I’ve got Peas Like a River” in the car sung 57 times, or telling and re-telling the interrupting cow knock-knock joke, or hearing her sing a lullaby to her baby sister if she gets a little fussy because we’ve kept her out past nap time.  The things that used to drive me nuts as a parent absolutely delight me as a grandparent – how does that happen?  Now I can draw with chalk on the sidewalk all morning and not grow tired of it, or push Molly and the Clifford family in the stroller while Emily leads the way on her tricycle for most of the afternoon.   Now I wish I could hold Molly for her entire nap time after giving her a bottle, sing to her all my favorite hymns, and gaze at this amazing creature who is a part of me. 

I wish I could capture this season of life in a memory box to enter any time I wish.  I try to, by recording her little voice singing and praying with my cell phone’s voice recorder.  Replaying those sounds never fails to bring a smile to my face and joy to my heart.  A river of joy without bounds, unhindered by the boundaries of time - my river to float away on any time I want. 

Locked Out

As I walked back from the guard station to my car the tears were welling up in my eyes.  I was determined not to let them spill over until I was inside my own vehicle.  This was so backwards!  What kid of person cries because she can’t get INTO prison??  But there I was, sitting in my car feeling disappointed and sad, more for the women inside who were waiting on me than for myself.  At least I knew what had happened; they would simply not be called to gather this day and would only be able to speculate as to why.   I felt so badly for them; without a Kairos volunteer those who truly want to share their struggles on their faith journey and pray as a community would not be able to.

Prison ministry is not for everyone, but it appealed to me.   I went inside as part of my first Kairos Weekend team almost 6 years ago, and I’ve been serving as a volunteer ever since.  I have been on ministry teams and spoken at retreats before, but this was different.   The unit in which I serve is a maximum security facility.  Some people are unable to overcome the fear of being in a place with such high level  security.  It prevents unauthorized visitors and contraband from entering the unit, and inmates from escaping the grounds of course.  But the high fences topped with rolled barbed wire that outline the grounds, armed guards in corner towers, constant perimeter patrol can be quite intimidating, not to mention the thick metal entrance doors opened only by a guard in another room for one person at a time. 

Time, that’s another thing about volunteering in a prison.  Leave your watch behind before driving onto the premises.  Prisons have a daily schedule, but there are so many things that routinely interfere with it:  malfunctioning computers, inadequate staffing for the day, the frequent turnover of staff which usually means very slow processing.  Plus the things that can happen on the inside to disrupt the day – a fight breaks out or keys are missing which means instant lock-down (and nobody, visitor or staff, is going anywhere during lockdown), or a prisoner obtains a weapon and a guard or other inmate is held hostage.  These are things I know about from my visits.  

But time to the person on the inside is viewed altogether differently.   She anticipates, or dreads, her day based on what the time.  Is it time for count, or a prayer gathering, or a meal, or visitation?   When something she looks forward to each week doesn’t happen and she won’t find out why until at least the following week, it can add to the despair and lack of hope that permeates the very walls of the place.

Don’t get me wrong.  I understand fully that the people in prison, certainly the great majority of them, are in there for a reason.   Doing time is part of the consequences of their actions; I don’t advocate for fancy digs or luxury items for them.  Incarceration also keeps the community safe from those offenders.  But for those in prison who truly, honestly desire to change their life when they get out, they need every bit of encouragement, help and hope while they are there.  I want to be a part of the solution to reducing crime, for their sakes and for the safety and prosperity of us all.  Low recidivism rates benefit all of society.

I realize we can’t rehabilitate the entire prison community, and even if we could many of them aren’t open to change.  Ah, but what how wonderful to be a springboard for the hope of a better life on the outside.  Especially if we can show them eternal hope for life on the other side.  Now that is a thing worth doing.   Which is why I don’t feel bad for my time spent driving to the unit and over an hour trying to get in only to be told that somehow my name got ‘dropped off the list’ and the warden would not let me in.   My job is just to be a willing servant; it is the work of God and His angels to make heart-changes on the people inside, whether I make it in on a given Saturday or not. 

One of the things I love about Kairos is the way that my volunteer name tag gets me onto the grounds so easily.   It’s not my name that carries any weight; it’s the cross with the name of Christ and the Ichthys - the ancient Christian symbol - that acts almost like a free pass at the first guard station.  Just like any visitors to a maximum security prison, we and our vehicle are subject to full searches at any time.  When I am on foot anywhere on the grounds, and certainly before entering, I must be ready to be wanded and patted down.  But to drive up, show my ID and my name tag and be waved on through instead of have my car searched bumper to bumper always amazes me.  I live in a world where if I flash that name tag I’m more likely to get ridiculed or attacked than a smile and wave, and the irony of it strikes me afresh every time.    Here the name of Christ is appreciated – the correctional officers have come to appreciate the difference a consistent Christian ministry on the inside can make, for them and the prisoners they guard.  They know we are here to help, not to try and bring in contraband.  Even as I write it, it sounds crazy – I get excited about my cool ‘access pass’ to get onto the prison grounds, and I’m moved to tears when I can’t get inside.  

I pack away my name tag in its cloth pouch and say another prayer for the women who wait.  And once again I take up my shield of faith - one of the enemy’s flaming arrows made it through today and interrupted my work, but it’s just one day.   He doesn’t have that special name tag, and the servants who do will return week after week, knowing that we have nothing to fear, a kingdom to inherit and ultimately a victory to celebrate.