morning light

"i believe in Christianity as i believe that the sun has risen: not only because i see it,

 but because by it i see everything else." ~ c.s. lewis

no real words on this quiet thursday night. but i wanted to share a gift i snapped earlier in the week. a quick photo.  a lazy morning. a still moment. a tiny treasure.

it might have been monday morning.  i sat at my window as day broke, reading, praying, wondering... and, as always, watching.  watching the sun rise and reveal.  revealing the snow -- still here -- a heavy blanket tucked in tight across the landscape.  across the silent sleep of winter lake. from my window i watched the slow shimmer of sunlight's skate across ice. bright. so breathtaking.  

beautiful. 

and as light crept closer, more was seen.

a gentle wash along the old hydrangea below my window.  faded brown against all that white -- all luminescent as light's long fingers began to brush across the brittle brown of petal, twig and stem.  dead become light.  soon to be life. 

beautiful.

and as i watched the sun rise, i felt, also, the thought rise again in me --perhaps for the thousandth time --how can anyone deny God? what is this if not the work of a Glorious Creator?  a Creator of Glory?  over and over and over again He provides these poetic moments of beauty and reminds me of who He is and who i am in Him. 

the light keeps coming.

and i just can't imagine seeing this and not knowing that.  

i just cannot fathom watching the brushstrokes of beauty without knowing the Beautiful Brush-Stroker.  

where did you see God today?  

where will you see God tomorrow?  

oh, that we may truly see more because of the rising sun.  
seeing clearly...because of the Risen Son.  

“blessed are the pure in heart,  for they shall see God."

matthew 5:8 

coming back to brown

so the truth is, i was able to survive the minnesota winter just fine, but the minnesota spring is what might finally do me in.  everyone has focused on the cold, the snow and the frozen, but what they failed to mention was what happens when it all melts:  the brown.  the gray.  the incredible, incredible mush.

after a full day of travel from florida on friday, we didn't pull into our house until almost midnight.  i could tell the snow had pretty much melted except for the massive plow piles on the cul-de-sac.  i could see that the white was gone, but that's all i could see -- at first.  the next morning, when the sun came up, i sauntered sleepily over to the window and my casual glance outside turned fast into a dramatic gasp of horror.  my yard, the color and consistency of oatmeal, had been transformed from a winter wonderland into a war zone.  brown. gray. dead.  lost mittens and hats strewn about like hapless victims.  (oh, that's where that leather glove went?) odd toys and candy wrappers and tennis balls -- everywhere. but the worst was the dog mess.  apparently we've had horses living in our yard these past 5 months.  i really cannot explain to you the sight of what two gigantic dogs have left behind after many, many months of frozen winter. (and, i assure you, i did not take a single photograph). keep in mind when the weather is negative 5 degrees, one just does not go out after their pooch to clean up his business.  another layer of snow would fall and the foul little leavings would disappear under a clean blanket of white. but that blanket of white had lifted while we were on the beaches of florida last week, and there it all was, waiting and wild for me on this april morning:  one incredible collection of waste right before my freshly vacationed eyes.

i was not ready for this.

i was completely unprepared.

after a week of aquamarine water, cobalt blue skies and white sugar sand beaches, our yard was a terrible sight to behold.

and standing at my back window, gazing dismally out at this dull wasteland, i felt the immediate slump -- everything kind of caved for a minute.  "this isn't spring, this is disgusting," i thought to myself.  all that beachy-rest and relaxation began to ooze right on out of me, like sand through my fingers. oh the white, clean, beautiful sand of the gulf of mexico beaches! (sigh). i gave the yard one more nasty glare and then felt myself slip into project mode.  the general in me would go wake the entire family and send the troops out with shovels.  it was time to forget the brightly colored sand shovels and plastic pails of last week...those were simple vacation things.  it was time now to exchange the toys for tools.  real war time stuff.  no more play and frolic and fluff.  this was battle. this was war. this was our yaaaaard!

and it isn't just in our yard.  it's everywhere.  everywhere i drive and everywhere i look there is some shade of brownish-gray or grayish-brown.  not one single pop of color anywhere.  i walked into the market yesterday morning and they had a few small pots of pansies at the front entrance (indoors, of course). i almost began to cry over the pathetic display of these few blooms.  even the cut tulips in the floral department were closed up tight.  arms crossed and heads bowed, they seemed to shout at me, "no spring for you!"

it is one thing to look at the yuck.   it is another thing to have to deal with it.  because i have boys, the mud has taken on a great, monsterous life.  last night, both boys returned from a bike ride covered slick in a brownish goo.  connor's yellow rain boots caked thick with the slime.  he actually attempted to walk right into the kitchen with his heavy layer of smear. but, i assure you, wild woman was waiting for him and she made it crystal clear there would be no walking into any doorway looking like that.  it was only 30-some degrees out, but i seriously considered hosing both boys down in the driveway before they could enter -- like we used to do in georgia, when they were little.  when it was at least sixty degrees outside.

the mud room takes on a whole different meaning in minnesota.

so where am i going with this post?  i bet you're wondering if i really am going to whine and whimper through an entire piece of writing.  i know you're thinking: she's finally lost it.  given in.  given up.  burned up.  burned out.  look-on-the-bright-side-bessy is finally ready to throw in the towel.  okay, maybe not throw in the towel --we desperately need the towel. but, nonetheless, the silver lining sister has finally lost her shine.

dull. dismal. depressed.

i'll be honest, i felt like that for a few days.

after those aquamarine waters and white sugar sand beaches, you bet i did.

driving to school monday morning, the car was quiet.  drizzling rain and cold added uncalled for emphasis to the brown blah of landscape.  i tried my best to chatter brightly, but it was heavy inside my car.  no one very happy.  no one very excited to be heading back to reality.  i knew we had to pray together before the kids got out of the car. we just had to.  we do that most mornings on the way to school, but this morning it was really, really necessary.  "Lord change our attitudes.  Lord would you help us to embrace where we are and what we have.  Lord, help us to see even this ugly day as a beautiful gift from you."   the kids sighed and climbed out of the car.  my words seemed lost in the rush of wind when the car door opened.  did i really believe we could see something beautiful in this?  really?  in all of this brown? 

have you ever felt that way?  questioning what God can do.  have you ever thought to yourself: i know God can do great things, but surely not with this.  surely not with this thing, this issue, this sin. this problem. this pain. surely not with something this ugly.

but God always has something up His sleeve, doesn't He?

on the way back home i turned on some music.  and driving through the depressing drizzle, the song "beautiful things" came on.  it's been one of our favorites in these past few months,  but it took on a whole different meaning as i drove through this messy minnesota day.

these words drowned out the sound of pounding rain and instead pounded back into my heart the message God had intended me to hear. even now. even in the midst of the mud.

beautiful things  (please click to listen)

 i added some of my minnesota pictures to the song.  

before watching the video, let me suggest 

scrolling down to the bottom of the blog and 

pausing my playlist music below.

All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You    ~ gungor

and that's it, isn't it?  He does make beautiful things out of dust, out of us, even out of mud.  i know this.  i believe this.  i have seen this.  sometimes we are absolutely stuck in the mud of life.  we are caught in the horrible gray monotony of pain or loss or breathtaking disappointment.  it is an ugly place to be.  it is a horrible place to belong.  but what Jesus wants us to know is that we don't really belong there.  it is a temporary thing.  it is a time of transition.  transitioning can sometimes seem hard, even hopeless.  we cannot imagine the beauty of spring or the warmth of sun or the healing of the barren land...the barren woman....the barren life.  but His Word is filled with promises of hope and redemption.  words which promise deliverance from this time of life-stealing gray.

could i possibly look at the landscape with new eyes?  could i, on this muted dull day, see the seeds of bright color just below the surface, preparing their entrance.  perhaps, but not with my own eyes.  maybe with His eyes and His hope,  i could. i can. i did.

and oh dear one, you can too...whatever your landscape.  whatever the problem.  whatever the pain.

because our God does make beautiful things out of dust...out of mud...
                      ...and mostly, mostly He makes beautiful things out of us.

"and He who sits on the throne said, 

"behold, I am making all things new." and He said, "write, for these words are faithful and true."  ~  revelation 21:5

"therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; 
behold, all things are become new." ~  2 corinthians 5:17

"He has made everything beautiful in its time.

 He has also set eternity in the human heart; 

yet no one can fathom 

what God has done from beginning to end." ~ ecclesiastes 3:11

"for behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. 'the flowers have already appeared in the land..." 

~ song of solomon 2:11

P.S.   everything really is temporary.  i started this piece in the midst of the tremendous brown, but when i woke this morning to finish it and post, i woke to snow.  the brown is gone, the white has returned...not sure how i feel about this.  perhaps that was just a lull in the winter...a chance to allow us to clean up the yard and find the lost mittens.  but it seems on this april 10th morning, winter has re-entered. gotta love minnesota!

at least it's pretty!

seeing in snow

another snowfall.

in just a week it will be march and yet winter continues to come. come hard. marching forward. there is no halt.  no holding.  no winding down. no letting up. no light at the end of this long, frozen tunnel.

the novelty of snow-things feels rather frayed today.  worn thin.  shovel rests against garage wall a bit slumped. tired sleds abandoned in backyard. soggy boots piled high at back door. dirty mittens missing their match.  scarves unravelling and abandoned in basket. and, of course, that grimy, grimy car covered in the slush and salt of severe weather.  everything subdued.  all things silently stark. color drained, dull. hushed cold, quiet.  woman, slightly weary.

another snowfall.

i stomp into my boots and bundle up in the down of my coat -- slipping on gloves and hat, my second skin.  and as i stomp and bundle and slip, i am faced with the choice:  embrace this day? greet this gift? or grumble at the Giver? door opens and the question hovers in the rush of icey air.  fist desiring to shake at sky.  flakes falling at my feet.  it's a choice. and it's mine for the moment. mine for the making.

and this white stuff reminds me.  it reminds me that we have choices every day. each day. in all sorts of storms.  do i allow something which seems so much, so heavy, so hard,  even something so hurtful,  to keep me from the gifts that He has left along the way.  i can claim blinding snow, but is it truly a blizzard or do i just choose not to see.

what has the Giver left for me today?

where are His gifts along my way?

blessings can be lost in the continuous swirling of this season. but, seeing is a choice.  even in blizzard conditions.

i have to remind myself. often.

i can claim blindness or i can claim His goodness.

and this reminding makes me think of the israelites when they rebelled and grumbled against the Giver. they shook fists at the flurries of falling manna.  tired and tempted. the novelty worn out, the gratitude worn off. in ezekiel God condemns israel as a "rebellious house."  He says she has "eyes to see, and ears to hear but does not hear." (ezekiel 12:2).  israel had a choice, but she shut her eyes.  she willfully went blind. and what about us? even in the midst of blizzards, God offers up the beautiful.  do i believe that?  am i israel?  am i going to allow myself to freeze in the feelings of winter frustration?

dear one, what is your winter right now?  what are you buried under at this moment?

in matthew 13 the disciples asked Jesus why he spoke in parables. and He answered them, saying:

“‘you will be ever hearing but never understanding;
    you will be ever seeing but never perceiving.
for this people’s heart has become calloused;
    they hardly hear with their ears,
    and they have closed their eyes.
otherwise they might see with their eyes,
    hear with their ears,
    understand with their hearts
and turn, and I would heal them.’

but blessed are your eyes because they see..."

i don't know about you, but i want blessed eyes, not blind eyes.

Jesus is clear.  if we won't see and hear what God gives, the time will come when we can't any longer.  when we willfully choose to look away, when we continually refuse to open wide, we will eventually grow more and more blind.  call it judgment.  call it justice.  call it just plain laziness. for it is only in the embracing and exercising of our spiritual eyes that we learn to truly see God's gifts.  even in a blizzard. especially in the blizzard.

oh, am i israel?

windshield wipers swipe furiously to keep up with the winter whoosh rushing past me.  i peer out at a road covered in white.  Lord, let me see.  allow me see what you bring even in the midst of this wintry mix...this mess...this momentary madness.  minnesota march a week away and all remains in the milky shades of faded color.

give me eyes that see your goodness.  your gifts.

remove the blinders from my eyes, that i may see your beauty.
remove the grumble from my heart, that i may see your grace.

wash any trace of blind rebellion from me...and leave me white.  white like winter.

empty and beautiful

it's quiet now. a part of me feels like -- finally.  and a part of me feels a little bit melancholy.  you know the feeling when the holiday comes and goes and the bustling house empties of all things bright and busy.  when it empties again of children draped across couches and countertops.  mine all started back to school this week. it wasn't without a little nudge out the door.  we prayed for joyful hearts as we walked back into the world of routine.  we prayed for a fresh start and renewed vigor. we prayed just to hear our alarm and remember our lunch boxes.

i walked yesterday in cool air.  no snow in atlanta this year and i almost wished there was. believe it or not, i kind of wished for the white crunch and the crisp cold of a northern january.  when we lived up in ohio,  i would walk our two big dogs, bailey and madison, through the white woods along the chagrin river and i remember the simple and stark loveliness of those afternoons.  the school bell would ring, signaling the day's end, and i'd leave lesson plans and papers behind on my desk, pick up the dogs, and head for my solitary path along a sleepy winter river.  the black trees emptied of leaves seemed charcoal sketched across a silver sky. black and white and clean.  except for my bounding and barking golden retrievers, everything still and quiet -- a snow covered blank canvas. in these empty afternoon woods i found almost an ethereal and pristine kind of beauty.


now my home, here in the south, stripped of the merry and bright looks unsettlingly spare this week.   furniture moved back into place and pine needles picked up.  candles taken from the windows and the holiday hoopla shoved back into boxes in basement storage.  i sat last night on the couch writing and felt completely uninspired with the absolute lack of christmas.  no white lights to warm the room, no pine to remind me.  i finally got up and added wood to the dying fire in need of something warm.  that helped a little and i thought, "i don't quite like it, but it's time."  time to empty things out and clean things up.  and this is good. it is not the good of Christmas, but it is it's own kind of good. there's a special beauty in paring down and putting away.  a fresh face like the stark black against clean white.


as much as i hate to see it all go, i know the time has come.  we have all grown a little weary of vacuuming pine needles each day and unplugging strands of lights every evening. this morning,  i light a single candle nearby in my kitchen and it will be enough.  warm clothes empty out of the dryer and i fold slowly while bella colors close by.  no other sound than the dishwasher's hum and her occasional comment. the chaos is remarkably gone.  i just have to get used to this new kind of quiet. this new kind of simple. this new kind of empty.


i am always amazed at how christmas seems to disappear from the aisles of target almost overnight.  gone are the must-have trinkets of december and in their place the allure of an organized life: boxes and bins and crates and containers.  they truly make these displays a work of art.  how can we resist the purchase of rubbermaid? nothing says happy new year like a well ordered life.  resolutions and recommitments.  life was messy before...but as january empties out and the clutter clears i have renewed hope for pulling it all together.  pantries and attics and basements and closets and cabinets...the sky is the limit.


standing in target, i stare at all these empty bins stacked on end caps and am reminded of empty pots.  empty vessels.  the rubbermaid is nowhere near as lovely as earthenware and fire-glazed ceramic,  but the picture is the same:  empty and waiting.  and i am reminded of how necessary it is to empty ourselves on occasion so that we can be filled with Him.  filled with something good, something better.  if we are crammed full of our own stuff, we leave so little room.  and isn't it Him and His light which truly fills?  which truly warms? there is something to be said for a time of emptying out.


when we empty out our stuff... our busy-ness... our bustle...our burdens...when we empty out our very selves, we become open.  space is created. margin is made.  simple beauty.  stark contrast.  emptied vessels waiting to be filled with something better, more beautiful.

"empty vessels may be filled; but vessels that are full already can receive

 no more. The man who knows his own emptiness

 can receive abundance of knowledge, and wisdom, and grace, from Christ;" 

~ charles spurgeon

and whether in the crunch of white snow, or the quiet of warm sand, or on the (almost) needle free carpets of our christmas-less homes, we can choose this time to walk emptied of us.  embrace the open beauty of something still and the quiet lovely of something clean.


and be filled.

  "you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand."  ~psalm 16:11

fallen beauty

i know the goal is perfect green.  trim and tidy and not a twig in sight.  i see suburban lawns striving serious toward this fall ideal.   come autumn, and everyone is out -- zealously, religiously, hurriedly blowing leaves into oblivion.  rakes lean heavy on oak trees and piles loom high in backyards and everyone races against weather to rid their yards of what has fallen. what has come.  and the neighbors talk and watch anxiously across fences and flowerbeds,  wondering when mr. smith is going to tackle his own half acre or so -- his responsibility.  worried the neglected nature might blow into their own tightly-manicured frontscapes.  and i feel a bit rebellious in my blood.  i feel like a woman who wants to run to these neat and shipshape neighbors and take the wooden rakes from their gripping fingers and implore them to stop. "stop raking already, will you!" can you just imagine? (mother of five finally snaps).

as a little girl, i could never fathom why everyone was so soul-bent on whisking away what seemed so beautiful.  what nature had released.  what God had designed.  trees parting with the fire color of their fine dress.  yellow and red and orange jewels spread across empty, lonesome lawns.  it made me sad to see such beauty hurriedly shoved into black garbage bags and dragged curbside --like some nasty kind of business.  like someone might point the accusing finger of yard negligence.  like it might sully the image of good neighbor.  as a child,  i thought the fallen leaves looked like gems scattered across our small square of city lawn.    didn't my neighbors or my own dad see what i saw?  i think not.  maybe it was because they knew what i didn't --ignore the leaves and see the damage and mess come spring. they were reasonable and responsible and adult in their thinking. and so they raced on with rakes. and when the city lawn was traded for a suburban sized lawn, the rake was traded in too and the leaf blower was added to our garage arsenal.  though my father and the other men on the block saw a saturday morning chore,  my child-eyes watched a patchwork blanket of beauty descend.


but as life would have it, i grew up and away from that little girl in ohio.   i too, am all adult now.  i am a homeowner.  a yard worker.  i'd even like to think myself reasonable and responsible.   i understand better the race against weather and time.   but still...still...s t i l l  i am slow to this particular task and kind of blue when i watch my husband and boys begin the great leaf tackle.  they go at it weekend after weekend.   it is a family affair -- all seven of us doing something. when we chose this heavily treed lot, we never thought much about leaf removal.  i have to say though, it does cross our minds on saturdays in november.


  i know there are some who watch leaves fall and see only mess.  they see work.  they see a backache and calloused hands at the end of a long day in the yard.  i know that.  and as i grown woman, i get it.  i get all the talk about it and all the time spent on it.  but i still feel that child-longing inside.  i still drive through my neighborhood or out on a wooded road and see the sparkle of jewels scattered in blown beauty.  i still, occasionally, sit on the red adirondack chair in my backyard and delight in the fallen color at my feet. quiet and hushed and golden, if only for a moment.  i don't want to lose this entirely. sometimes i fear i might.  it is about perspective.


my close friends tease me about owning my own leaf blower.  my husband has a big gasoline guzzling kind of thing he uses,  but i wanted something cleaner, nicer, neater.  so off to home depot i went one day, a few years back, and purchased my own light weight, electric blower.  have i mentioned it is mine?  yes, mine.  so you see, i have joined the ranks.  i am not so romantically wired that i am willing to throw my body onto a leaf pile and protest its removal.  i contribute.  i blow leaves.  i even burn them.  thankfully we have woods behind our house and so the leaves go backwards, not curbside.   i'd be absolutely remiss to allow you to think i am a leaf-hugger. i do understand why they must go. i am no longer that little girl gazing out her bedroom window pretending her yard is a treasure trove of fall finery.  i know full well these golden leaves will turn to unsightly brown mush with winter's weight upon them. and so i, too, plug in my neat and nice little leaf blower and blow leaves as far as my series of extension cords allow.


i guess what i'm writing about today is perspective.  it is about taking the time to see things not just as messy, but as marvelous. not just as work-heavy, but as wonder-full.  it is about looking with eyes which see past tidy, and notice treasure.  perhaps i am just challenging you to take a walk in the park, on your street, in your yard and pick up something golden or red or orange and see it.  really see it.  and know that even its very falling is miraculous.  how did God think of that?  not too many years ago, one of my sons said to me, how did God ever come up with the idea to make the trees change colors? i thought that a pretty astute observation for a little guy and i am so glad he noticed before they were all blown away.

wide open

it hits atlanta suddenly -- the summer heat gone, just like that.  we wake one september morning and the air is cool and the breathing is deep, and all of us, thankful to be moving into something sweeter.  it happens the same way every year.  we count on it.  i am not a southern born girl, but after 13 years in georgia, i know some of its secrets.  and this is one of them... a favorite, for sure. the weeks of late september and october are filled with perfect weather treasures:  crisp mornings. blue skies. orange pansies. purple cabbage. bermuda grass browning. fescue grass greening. harvest moon hanging. hands in the soil.  feet still in flip flops.  face to the sun.  the cool morning cardigan abandoned in the afternoon warmth.  dinner on the deck.  golden leaves falling and crunching and burning and beautiful. 


i wake this morning and fling everything open, letting the cool come in. windows and doors wide to the outside...i'd remove the roof if i could.  (probably shouldn't joke about that with a house like ours).  flies, and an occasional gecko, will wander in too, but they are worth it for this, for this glory.  it is only a season, and then gone. we can't do this as often as i'd like.  july and august arrive and we must shut things down tight and yell desperate words at our neglectful children,  "shut the door!" we close up or we end up roasting in our non-hermetically sealed homes.  we breath air conditioning and it is our stale escape from the hot cloak of a southern summer.

but then there's that first morning, and windows and doors open wide.  the breeze comes cool and the sunshine streams warm and the house smells clean.  i love living like this.  it feels right as rain.  and all the day i am drawn to those open places in my home. by days end, when the homework is finished and the dishes are done and the children sleep, i sit outside...on the swing...in the grass...on the steps.  and i think to myself, this is how life is meant to be lived.  doors and windows wide.  arms open.  hands open. heart open. what if we truly did live our lives like this?  what if we threw up the sashes and flung wide the front door? what if we unclenched our fists and uncurled our fingers from the stale things we think we need, from the small things to which we cling, from the tiny stuff which holds us hostage.  what kind of breeze might God blow in...what kind of color might come? what kind of gold?

we are born with clenched hands.  fists, tiny and tight.  we arrive in the world knowing already how to hold on to things.  as a new mother i was mesmerized with putting my finger into the soft palm of my first baby and watching her grasp.  over and over we would play this game; she predictable in her newborn reflex and me amazed in my new mother wonder. and doesn't this reflex continue even into our adult life?  when we have something good we call it mine and we hold on hard.  hunch shoulders.  turn our backs. cradle it close. afraid. but just like this fall breeze blowing in through my morning kitchen, i often hear God's whisper, "let go."   fingers spread, palms up, arms open. embrace Him.  embrace what He brings.  embrace what He gives.  all of it. what might happen if we did?  what could we do?  who might we be?


without doubt, i am a windows and doors wide open kind of gal. and my prayer is to live my life like this - not just for a season, but always.  to live unclenched. unfurled. to watch what the breeze blows in ...to see what the cat drags in ... to embrace what my God brings in...brings me.
wide and open and ready.

"delicious autumn!  my very soul is wedded to it, 

and if i were a bird i would fly about the earth 
seeking the successive autumns."
~ george eliot