Jerusalem, worship God!
Zion, praise your God!
He made your city secure,
he blessed your children among you.
He keeps the peace at your borders,
he puts the best bread on your tables.
He launches his promises earthward—
how swift and sure they come!
He spreads snow like a white fleece,
he scatters frost like ashes,
He broadcasts hail like birdseed—
who can survive his winter?
Then he gives the command and it all melts;
he breathes on winter—suddenly it’s spring!

– the psalmist on the One melts Narnian white

About Preparation Day

Linking with two quiet weekend spaces:

Sandra:

and Deidra:

We did not rush him to the optometrist.

In our defense, he seemed to see just fine. And this would be the same nurse who called about every week or two, with the giggles, to tell us that J.P. was in her office, again, with an ice pack on his head because he’d smacked it on something, again.

When we did make an appointment shortly before he began first grade, we hung our heads in the Parents’ Hall of Shame.

::

Oh, he scored well enough on half of the test — the half done through his left eye. He was not considered blind in his right eye. But at 20/80, that eye spent most days with its feet up,  munching pork rinds. Like a manipulative sibling, it had already figured out how to shift all the work over to its counterpart.

He went home sporting glasses with the NBA logo imprinted on the bows and we picked up a box of eye patches to begin retraining the slacker to pull its weight.

Over the next years, the glasses made fewer and fewer appearances. They would sit on his ears and nose long enough to get twisted in a football game. Some afternoons you could find us combing the playground grass looking for a glint of gold in the sun. They’d been run over by a car, at least once. One day he returned home with his glasses on but one lens missing. He hadn’t noticed.

When it came to battles we would choose as parents, the vision hill was not the one on which we would die. And an active young boy with an overachieving left eye had little motivation to put up with the nuisance of bent wires and plastic that did him no good as far as he could tell.

::

He’s a freshman in high school now, and no less active than he ever was, though I get fewer calls from the giggling school nurse. And we’ve all but given up on wearing glasses, especially when he realized how they destroyed his depth perception on the golf course.

A few weeks ago I watched his body slam into the hardwood of the basketball court in a tangled mess of arms and legs. He lingered on his hands and knees after the rest extracted themselves and continued the game.  When he caught up with them, he still held a hand to his face. When he pulled it away, I watched the side of his face next to his eye — his good eye — balloon to the size of a golf ball.  I stiffened and played the quick horror video in my mind, but as a well trained sports mom, stayed in my seat.

The swelling went down after a few days, but until then, he was left with one eye. The slacker. He couldn’t drive, and walked around hunched with his head cocked like Quasimodo trying to peer through whatever part of his eyes he could.

We went to see his eye doctor, just for peace of mind. He assured us the eye was healing but wanted him back a couple of weeks later for a full exam. He used words like “uncorrectable” and “poor vision” in the same sentence as  ”right eye.” And talked about protective eyewear and what might have been, had that other player’s knee hit him just a little higher.

J.P. braced himself for the certain lecture about wearing his glasses. We conceded perhaps it was time to explore contact lenses. Without duct tape, glasses just weren’t going to be a workable option.

After the second exam, the doctor wheeled his chair around and congratulated J.P. on all his hard work wearing his glasses and eye patches when he was younger. (We thought it best not to mention that Lane had just pulled an eye patch out of the drawer to use as a bandage — from the only box of patches we ever bought almost 10 years ago.)

All that work paid off, he said, since his vision had unexpectedly improved in the right eye, to just a line under the left, at 20/25. No glasses, no contacts. Just clear vision through two eyes. Unexpected improvement to uncorrectable poor vision, unnoticed because of his over-reliance on the other.

We still didn’t mention his sketchy hard work history. We just left before he could reconsider.

As we walked to the car, J.P. said, “I think I’m pretty lucky, Mom.”

By nightfall, he saw it a little differently. As I headed to bed, he stopped me, looked me in the eye, and said, “Did you pray tonight and thank God for my eye?”

The thing is, I’d never thought to ask.

::
And because Dad just reminded me that it only makes sense,
I’m linking today with Jennifer’s Wednesday community (on Friday):

Most days, the weather is a roll of the dice if you take US 12 to the west and up Marvin Hill. The top of the hill, a town anticlimactically called Summit, is host to an annual Fog Fest and weather that can vary from our home in the valley like night or day. Or like dry and clear or full-on storm.

All in a 20-mile stretch of highway.

Over the weekend, the peak and the valley experienced a role-reversal. We left home in the fog, hoarfrost’s spikes gathering on trees and tall grass in its trademark “You’re beautiful when you’re angry” sort of way.

As we coasted along, Lane mentioned that he’d heard the fog would lift at the crest of the hill.

It did.

We emerged from the Narnian white of that thick bank of fog into blinding sun at the peak, the front and rear tires briefly straddling these two stark worlds. I looked back to see the swirling band of fog.

And then I looked ahead to see that the clear blue sky wouldn’t last. We were surrounded by fog at the top of the hill like the swath of hair circling the dome of a monk’s caricature.

In a matter of minutes — five? maybe ten? — we were back in the White Witch’s wintery grip as though Spring had never once batted her flirting lashes.

Metaphor’s grab bag stands gaping open. Reach in and pull something out.

::

Photos:
Hoarfrost in the front yard (top)
A 5-7 minute series of photos from the road (bottom 3)
(If I’d been driving, believe you me, the car would have been parked at the roadside a while to take this in a little better. This was the best I could do from the back seat at 65 mph.)

My old friend wore a lot of hats.

He worked as a gold miner before he went off to fight in the Army in the second World War. He earned himself more than a few medals and swept a beautiful young girl off her feet at the USO. A glimpse of her smile melted his heart down into his combat boots, and he came home and married her.

Later on, he drove an old green truck hauling logs. A guy can still hear old truckers out west spin yarns about a death-defying trek he took with his load through a treacherous mountain pass. He helped build a barge that was a part of the construction of the Alaskan pipeline. He ran a grain elevator, and built his own motel.

When he retired, he bought a dairy farm in South Dakota.

True, my friend wore a lot of hats. But the old cowboy wore only two Stetsons.

::

If you stopped at the farm to visit, you’d find him tinkering. He might be trying to rebuild his barn that burned down. Or maybe he was working in the garden. He’d be busy with his hands. And he’d be wearing his old work Stetson, worn soft and stained with dirt and sweat.

But when he came to town for church, his bride made sure he’d spiffed himself up. Those days he wore a crisp, clean Stetson — the one he stored in the box except when they went somewhere special. The Sunday Go to Meetin’ hat.

Then he got sick, to the point where he was in the hospital more than home, so his family moved him back to the farm, where he wanted more than anything to be. His sweet wife of 64 years pulled in close, waiting and watching until the very end.

When we all got together to send him off, the cowboy’s Stetsons stood vigil on the altar at the front of the church. After a fitting tribute to the man of myths and legends, their children helped his delicate bride to her feet. As she passed by the altar, she lifted the crumpled felt hat in her hands and held it to her face.

Whether she meant to brush past it with a kiss or take in the scent of her cowboy one last time, she clutched the battered hat that embodied her groom, now absent, then laid it back to rest on the table and turned to go.

::

Posting as part of The High Calling’s February writing project hosted by Jennifer Lee. Read more about it, and some great posts on the “joys and struggles of marriage” here.

Photo: Ride the sunset by Omar Franco

by Paul Willingham

Bill and Becky Ann met at Purdue University where they both majored in Radio/Television broadcasting. They were married on the 13th of the month and believed that their marriage would not be undone by the superstitious whims of others. They were married for over 62 years. After broadcast gigs, first in Chicago and then at WCCO Radio in the Twin Cities, they struck out on their own and in 1949 successfully launched their own AM radio station.

For the next 20 plus years they successfully competed with and against stations with more broadcast power and were successful with counter-programming to the prevailing Rock and Roll and Top 40 formats of the day.

In the 50s and 60s women in business were rare and the glass ceiling was located somewhere just above the door knob of the corner office. But Becky Ann was a full-time active career partner with Bill as they owned, managed and worked together to build their business.

They were principled and at economic cost, refused tobacco advertising and would not accept direct alcoholic beverage commercials. Becky Ann and Bill were active in their church and were not ashamed to acknowledge Christ as their Savior, publically and on the air.

They were a positive and optimistic couple who could make Dale Carnegie look like the Grinch or Oscar the Grouch. Over the years, they made a lot of lemonade.

The station prospered and expanded, first adding an FM station, then building new studios, increasing AM broadcast power and extending broadcast hours, adding stereo to the FM and installing one of the first computer controlled automation systems in the industry. Life was good and their dreams were coming to fruition.

Then, in 1970, Bill was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Over the ensuing years, as the disease reduced Bill’s mobility and finally forced him into a wheelchair, Becky Ann never wavered in her devotion and care for her husband.

For 35 years she was his primary caregiver, putting Bill’s needs ahead of her own. During the later stages of the disease, Becky Ann was urged by family and friends to pursue other care options, including an institutional care facility. She stubbornly refused and continued to care for Bill at home.

They had vowed and made a commitment to each other when they married back in Indiana, “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and to cherish ’till death do us part.” At a time when some might make room for her to reconsider her commitment, Becky Ann honored that vow lovingly and gladly. She did not need a redefinition of “death” to provide an out to her wedding vows.

Bill died in 2005, Becky Ann in late 2011. But their story is being repeated daily by devoted couples who are taking their vows seriously, rather than succumbing to the popular culture’s emphasis on self.

——
Paul Willingham worked for Bill and Becky Ann for 13 years as chief engineer at their radio station in the Twin Cities, during the station’s time of greatest growth and expansion. (As he says, “chief” is a nice way to say “only.”) I grew up on stories of the broadcasting life, thanks in no small part to Bill and Becky Ann’s influence on Paul, who is also my dad. You can read more from my dad here.

Dad is posting as part of The High Calling’s February writing project on marriage, hosted at Getting Down with Jesus. To read more or participate with your own post, stop by Jennifer’s and check it out.

-----
Photos
Radio studio by Martin Simonis Wedding rings by  Nat Arnett

These all look to you,
to give them their food in due season.
When you give it to them, they gather it up;
when you open your hand, they are filled with good things.
When you hide your face, they are dismayed;
when you take away their breath, they die
and return to their dust.
When you send forth your Spirit, they are created,
and you renew the face of the ground.

– the psalmist, just saying what is
(from Psalm 104)

::

Linking with friends in quiet places:

Deidra:

and Sandy:

I think, sometimes, we create elaborate fantasies about what other people’s interactions with God look like, or how we think ours should. Like the Choir of St. John plays in the background and incense explodes out of some people’s Bibles when they open them.

It’s not like that. Not at my house.

For one thing, I’m not allowed to do incense. I’d burn the place down.

And that choir sings, but only during work hours when I ask Pandora to pipe it into my office, where I work alone. And only when I haven’t replaced it with a curious mix of The Glorious Unseen, Leland and Brooke Fraser. And only after the boys have left the house. They already wonder about me.

Sometimes, I believe the myth myself — thinking that those transcendent times when soul, body and spirit all come together and meet him in a way that leaves me both more dead and more alive than I’ve ever been in the same moment are the norm, rather than the scattered and elusive rare jewel.

Case in point: yesterday. At the risk of appearing insufficiently reverent, let me tell you how my morning with the Father went yesterday. It was more the norm than the rare jewel. And it may just be more than you ever wanted to know.

::

I set my coffee on the desk and walked to the bed (my office is also our guest room). My knees creaked as I crouched to the floor, hoping my Bible was within reach so I didn’t have to get up again right away. And I wondered about the day, sometime in the not distant future, when I’ll just get stuck there on the floor, waiting hours for my family to return and hoist me up.

I pushed a pair of Levis and a yellow and black Stanley tape measure out of the way. I found Ephesians 3 still open from the day before under a couple of case files. I didn’t turn the page.

I shifted around a little, my feet crossed behind me and my hands, still cold from the morning, woven across my mouth so I could blow on them. My eyes went to verse 2 stopping in the same place as the day before:

Surely you have heard about the administration of God’s grace that was given to me for you, that is, the mystery made known to me by revelation, as I have already written briefly . . .

God, who did you give me grace for? I know you’ve given me grace. I couldn’t get out of bed otherwise. But Paul seems to think his wasn’t just for him. So what about me? Who did you give me grace for? Who?

I peppered Him with the same question for a minute or so and realized I needed to be quiet. I don’t hear a voice when He speaks. I can’t tell you how that works. But he told me to be quiet.

Just listen to Me today, okay? Don’t tell Me anything.

Well, okay. I can be quiet. But wait a sec first, okay? I do need to remind You of a couple of things. I mean, I know You would never forget, even if I did, or if I didn’t say anything, but still. I need to say it. These people especially that we’ve been talking about, You know what you’re doing, of course, and I just need You to keep doing it. You know, whatever that thing is you’re doing. Not to tell You what to do or anything. But You know, do that thing. Don’t quit, God. Don’t give up. Not ever . . . 

That’s right. I kept talking when He asked me to hush. And I told Him what to do even when He already knew. And as though my name were Winston Churchill and the Father depended on my encouragement, I told Him not to give up.

For another moment I pondered how I tell Him to do things He would never think to not do. Remember me, Jesus! Be my peace, Father! Like the baseball fan shouting to the pitcher to Throw strikes!

But, I did it. And He let me keep talking.

And then reminded me to be quiet.

So I was. For a while.

Until I heard a crash upstairs. I’d need to investigate. I knew that.

I pushed myself up to my feet.

Come on upstairs with me. 

Yes, that’s right too. I actually told God to come upstairs with me, where I found the cat, and the crackers, and, well, you know where that’s going. I cleaned things up and went back downstairs with Him.

I grunted as I got back onto my knees, wondering about this four-foot square area next to the bed where we often meet. Do I treat it like it’s fenced in? This is “our space” and nothing outside of it. Should I lock the invisible gate to that space and forbid interruption?

You don’t let us lock You up in the baptistry during the week, do You?

I smiled and shook my head that I would even ask that out loud.

There may have been a soft chuckle back. But then, it may have been the space heater turning over, too.

::

What did you and your Father talk about today?

Neck deep in Matt Woodley’s anguished chapter on “Prayer as Mystery” (The Folly of Prayer: Practicing the Presence and Absence of God), I flipped the page open to 88, a psalm of lament from Heman the Ezrahite. And I wondered why God would find it brilliant for me to hang out for any length of time in this seething black pit of despair.

Still, that’s where God pointed; that’s where I’d stay. I was in the midst of a seven-day stay, letting the same text speak for several days in row.  The lights had burned brightly of late, and it seemed harmless enough. Strange, though, to try to engage a lament when, at the present moment, one doesn’t feel particularly sorrowful.

Enter the benefit of a seven-day stay: Stick around long enough, and it works its way through you.

The Word is like that.

The first couple of days were easy. Oh, look, I thought. Even in his anguish, the psalmist knew that darkness comes from God’s absence — real or perceived. He knows only God will bring him light and life. Good job, Heman. I patted the psalmist on the head for his display of maturity in the midst of despair.

But as the week wore on, my condescension toward the Ezrahite faded and instead I poked at him a little with my elbow, nudging him over so I could take a seat with him there in the dark.

I wanted to keep playing the psalm like a continuous loop recording. I’d see Heman get to the end and barely gasp out the final words, “You have taken my companions and loved ones from me; the darkness is my closest friend.” And every time, my eyes raced back up to the opening words of his lament before the darkness could catch hold, “O Lord, the God who saves me, day and night I cry out before you.”

Heman penned the last words still drowning in his pain.

He experienced no rescue, no comfort, no relief.

Woodley observes that 88 breaks the rules:

Every other psalm of lament eventually returns to hope and trust in God. The psalmist cries out to God in his pain; he even yells and argues with God. But the prayer softens as he calmly proclaims, “But still I will trust you, God.” Psalm 88 is the exception to that pattern. In this prayer the psalmist cries out to God; he’s sincere; he believes the right things about God — but help doesn’t seem to come.   . . . This prayer trails off in unresolved tension, doubt, hurt, anguish and mystery.” (The Folly of Prayer, page 58, emphasis added)

After one day’s reading, I noted in my margin, Rinse, repeat, as though by just going back to the start desperate Heman’s darkness would dispel.

And, perhaps, might mine.

Another day I reminded myself to fight back the darkness. You can do better than Heman, I thought. Just fight it back.

When the psalmist observed that he had been “set apart with the dead” and wondered aloud if God could be “known in the place of darkness,” I remembered that God can make the darkness itself shine. As though to argue with Heman, I scrawled 139 in the margin. Remember Heman? Remember what David said in 139?

And then one day I looked to the left hand column in my bilingual text. I often switch over to my second language, my favorite language, when God and I meet up. For reasons I don’t yet understand, my soul seems to reach into a richer, but more raw honesty with Him there.

As I look back at my margin scrawl, I notice it was then that I stopped talking to Heman and started talking to me. No more patronizing, no more chastising the lamenting psalmist. When he cried out Ya no puedo más (I can’t do it anymore), I responded in kind: Yo me siento así (I feel like that). I too lamented about close friendship with tinieblas (darkness) and the oscuridad (blackness) that seemed to fill me.

I listened to my heart a while, and felt my anger rise on about Day 5 that Heman would leave the psalm ending this way.

The darkness didn’t lift. God didn’t answer.

It didn’t resolve.

At last I just sat still, and gave up trying to force light and resolution on the psalmist, seeing saw what Matt Woodley was talking about. In 88 God gave us unanswered prayer.

He gives us His silence as gift.

And He lets us live with it.

Woodley says this:

God views the mystery of unanswered prayer with the utmost seriousness. God doesn’t fear my questions and dark emotions. God even provides the words I need to express my agony back to him. (p. 59)

88 lets us believe that sometimes, even though we believe right, think right, live right, we’ll still come face to face with the tinieblas. 88 gives us a framework to believe that we can say these things to God. His own hot breath penned these words through His servant Heman.

And in so doing, Woodley tells us, that “Psalm 88 is God’s dark, messy, painful gift to us.” (p. 58)

::

Reflecting and reposting from the archives after spending a little time with Heman again. His words are heartbreaking – but soul-mending all at the same time.

I call to God; God will help me.
At dusk, dawn, and noon I sigh deep sighs —
he hears, he rescues.

   My life is well and whole, secure in the middle of danger
Even while thousands are lined up against me.

David, in Psalm 55
The Message

::

With Deidra in anticipation of Sunday:

and with Sandy for Still Saturday.

::

About Preparation Day

I’ve long forgotten the meal — the fruit and nuts of it, anyway. I know I savored every bite, and even cleaned my plate. It was that good.

But the company? It was even better.

Megan and I jostled through the serving line of Tim’s buffet at Laity Lodge together. We didn’t plan it that way. We just sort of wound up there at the same time. We’d seen each other around — online, and now off line, but for some reason our paths had not yet intersected.

She would change all that.

We reached the door to the dining room at about the same time, and Megan yielded. Being from South Dakota, I yielded back. That’s what we do at uncontrolled intersections — we keep waving the other on until someone gives in.

But she’s from Texas. She won’t play the perpetual yield game. She looked up at me and said, “Go sit down.” She can be matter-of-fact like that. “I don’t know you yet, so I’m going to sit with you today.”

And that was that.

I don’t know if I’ve ever loved anyone so quickly in all my life.

That may not have been the day that Tim served pho. But I remember it as the best meal I had all weekend.

Megan brings to every encounter the gift of her presence. Her attention. Her questions. Her careful listening. Her tender heart.

::

I may be in big trouble before the day is through. (I’ll take a couple of friends down with me.) But I’m a big believer that forgiveness is easier to ask than permission. So, Megan, forgive me for this. But word on the street is it’s your birthday this weekend.

Permit the rest of us to celebrate a bit over you.

(Find my friend Megan – writer, tea drinker, failed liturgical dancer – at MeganWillome.com.)