Stop and Listen and Let the World Be Big

King on conquest, He flexes the atmosphere into the shape of a warrior's bow, draws the arrow from the quiver, pulls taught some electrical current still vibrating the bass riff echoing over itself from the last arrow that flew and strummed the sky like a rock star on electric guitar. He packs a storm on His back and means to smash every line of power daring to hum incessant nonsense till the ears of His people ring too loudly to hear the line of praise He created and tuned for the sake of His name. 

Sometimes He rides on the clouds; just kicks them up till mid-day sun is cloaked in black and maybe it's thunder I hear, or maybe the rolling wheels of the chariot He commands, but it shakes the glass in my window panes, knocks the power right off the grid; just slaps the hum silent. 

One lightening bolt. That's all. Just one powerful release and white noise-that little hum we call power-is instantly humbled. 

Something beeps from the garage and the lights flicker off, the air conditioner stops breathing and the computer fails, dumb and lame. Yeah, that's the best part. When the computer stops running. Stops the world-bent-wide searches in response to the commands given by my own bent fingertips at keyboard. When the computer looses power, I feel that somehow I've gained some power. 

When the power fails, I can't help think that the truth about the power which we human beings have to make the word small and accessible is maybe this-if making the world seem small is what the buzz is all about, then we are small indeed.

I feel empowered to stop and to listen and to let the world be big. 

A big God made a big world. 

"I am the Lord," He declares from the heights, "and there is no other; there is no God beside Me."

He continues, "I am the Lord, and there is no other; I form the light and create darkness, I make peace and create calamity; I, the Lord, do all these things" (Isaiah 45:5-8).

One calamitous strike of lightening power from the heavens above, and the power which lulls my ears with its incessant hum, stops. Keep me going at all cost, it hums. I'm worth millions!

"Indeed," I nearly hear Him say. "My hand has laid the foundation of the earth, and My right hand has stretched out the heavens; when I call to them, they stand up together!" He does say it in Isaiah 48:13.

Indeed. And when He draws a lightening rod from His backpack and fires it, entire power transformers crash.

A mid-day storm and the sun is covered, the sky is darkened, the white peace-clouds are dispersed. What disperses them? Surely this "I make peace and create calamity" fearsome side of God who tells me that He forms the fluffy white peace-clouds and sets them sailing on a summer breeze like masted boats on a sky blue sea, just as He also creates calamity. 

One God-sized breath and seas and sky and white clouds and sails on boats churn.

It could be my imagination, but I think that I begin to hear more clearly and feel more bravely the mysterious power which surges from God's fingertips when the other power-the hummy buzz-fails.

I like a power outage. When the power's out, when the white noise stops humming like elevator music, I can hear better. Deeper. And if the power's out long enough, I can feel myself unwind inside where I didn't know I was wound tight as wire. 

When the power's out, I can hear myself think things such as, "I  don't want the world at my fingertips." This is a progressive thought. It begins, "I don't need the web," and deepens as I sense a greater power-the kind which calls up and down earth and heaven till they stand up together. "I don't need," stands up tall, "I don't want!" And, for as long as this outage lasts, I don't want. Oh, if it gets dire enough, I'll want again. I will. I'm no pioneer woman. But for now? I'm feeling it.

What I want, and need, is to stand up at God's call and to know this-His power-which will never demand payment from me, but has given me all that He asks from me. That's power.

"Lord, I have labored to give what you have already given!" The thought isn't brand new, but it surges with Spirit popping, "Aha!" right about now. 

I continue, "I've labored in vain to pay what You've already paid!" Then I simply read straight off the page of Scripture opened before me, "Lord, I have labored in vain" (Isaiah 49:4). Leave it to a prophet to get at the heart matter-the truth-in less than ten words.

I read these six words out loud, "Lord, I have labored in vain." I read them and realize that they don't sound like confession to be ashamed of. 

"Lord! I'm in good company! Your very own Isaiah said these words first!" Sure, I wish I've never labored in vain; wish the confession wasn't true, yet here it is and here is the next verse, "Yet surely my just reward," I pause here. 

My just reward, I think to myself, not my punishment! My spirit hums full of His power in this outage, "My just reward is with the Lord, and my work with my God."

He reminds me of what He said back a chapter, in Isaiah 48:11, "For My own sake, for My own sake, I will do it; for how should My name be profaned I will not give My glory to another."

"You redeem for Your own sake?!" My mouth hangs opens; but His mouth? He says that His mouth is like a sharp sword, aimed for His own sake. "May I say, Lord, that right now Your mouth is as an arrow of lightening aimed for Your sake? For the power of Your glory to be known, felt, above all other powers that glory?"

"Hmm," He hums.

Over four hours have passed since the power went out. Candle flame, fire power, cuts the darkening shadows in my living room. I eat a bowl of stove-top dinner. The stove-top works. It's gas.

Six hours. I start getting ready for bed.

Eight hours. It's about 90 degrees in the house.

Twelve hours. The ceiling fan begins to hum. Something beeps in the garage. The air conditioner gasps like it's been holding it's breath too long. 

My husband, the giant German who sweats in the snow, checked himself into a hotel long ago, so I get up and turn off stray lights. 

My soul is still quiet, though the power is back on. I know I'll be wound up and wired in tomorrow, so I retreat to my knees now. 

"You are King of power, packing a storm on Your back. You bend the heavens to bow. You pull taut the currents in the atmosphere. You reach Your hand over Your head to draw forth arrow from quiver. You aim Your word to silence every line but the lines sung by the heavens and the earth and the mountains, praising, 'Sing, O heavens! Be joyful earth! And break out in singing, O mountains!'"

I sing a praise that just rises in me from Psalm 148.

Praise Him from the heav'ns;

Praise Him from the heights;

Praise Him all the angels;

Sun and moon, stars of light!

Praise Him from the earth;

Praise Him from the depths;

Praise Him, fill His word;

Every age, every breath!

Praise Him every hour;

Lift the exalted Horn;

Praise the God of pow'r;

Praise Him evermore!

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

somehow when the computer

Sanguine In The Spirit-and other gifts

She'll never be green! She'll never be a string bean!  I open a can of green beans and dish out half the amount of dog food as usual. Yeah, yellow dog is on a green bean diet! She's sanguine. Her life is a bowl of cherries. Green beans in her dish are not the pits, and sometimes I wish  my family was this easy to feed. 

"Whats for dinner?" They'd ask.

"Green beans!" I'd reply.

And they'd just grin.

Well, maybe sometimes I wish that I was that easy to feed, too.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, lived a missionary couple. I don't remember the name of the land they lived in, and I don't remember their names, and I don't even remember the details of their story except that they ate beets.They didn't chose to eat beets, but they had no food and, after they asked God for food, a local farmer of someone like that -I don't remember-felt he wanted to donate his extra beets to the couple. 

Gratefully they ate them. 

When the beets were eaten, someone else in the village felt they wanted to bring food to the couple, and they brought beets. When the beets were gone? More beets. I imagine they could have written a cookbook, 100 Ways to Cook Beets, sold copies to the local beet farmers, and used the proceeds to buy, I don't know, maybe green beans? 

My husband, a big German who is to me, my giant German; he and I read the Janet and Geoff Benge missionary biographies to our four youngsters, including the one about the beet couple, and now I wonder if they whispered with concern, "I hope mom doesn't make us eat beets like that," to one another from their beds. They needn't have feared. My giant German isn't a beet guy. Neither were these missionaries, but  they were rather sanguine in the Spirit about it.

Sanguine in the Spirit. That's got a nice sound to it. 

"Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I will say, rejoice!" (Philippians 4:4)

My daughter crafted this in her earliest years and gave it to me as a birthday gift. It leans here, against the kitchen window on the sill above the sink, and has cheered me through many kitchen messes this side of the pane, and through many seasons that side of the pane. 

Rejoice! Rejoice! It's engraved in the sculpting clay-and in sculpted clay. 

I'm sculpted clay. Rejoice! is a holy word engraved in my heart by the Holy Potter who formed me. 

I'm barefoot clay, standing on plainest kitchen tile, choosing to be sanguine in the Spirit. I don't always remember that I have this choice, but this gift of clay gracing the sill with Rejoice! carved by toothpick in child-script reminds me. 

I'm clay who must be cheered-Rejoice! Rejoice!-while I sculpt salads nearly every evening, and carve through casseroles, and whole chickens, and loaves of un-sliced bread, and through days. 

I'm clay, slicing green bell peppers and summer's tomatoes, mincing chives, and fresh basil still warm from the sun with my favorite chef's knife.  

I'm clay at the wooding cutting board that my eldest once burned a cross into and gave to me as a gift. He also used his wood burning kit to create a plaque with, Try to see beyond that which is of this world written on it. It hangs over the mirror by the front door, but maybe I'll move it to sill beside Rejoice.

Maybe those sanguine in the Spirit practice looking beyond what they can see-beyond the beets. 

Gently, I take the sculpted clay-the Rejoice-in my hand and wipe it down with a paper towel.

I know that "Be anxious for nothing," is what follows "Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I will say, rejoice!" I know that the verse continues, "but in everything...let your requests be made known to God." There isn't a period at the end of this verse, but I need one there. I do! Everything? 

God hears my unspoken; my amazement. "Everything," He confirms.

If my spirit had a waist, I'd tie laughter around it and wear joy as an apron and count everything, even every stain, as joy.

"Laugh." That's what's scripted in twine, glued to fabric, and framed in driftwood. It hangs on the wall just there, above the wooden cut-outs of coyotes and cacti which guard the three aprons gathered on pegs. 

The apron my mother sewed drapes beside the apron given by my daughter-in-law who called me "Mom" before she married my son. MOM is embroidered across the bib of that one. The quilted apron sent from Alaska tucks too warm for Texas in the summer. I'll tie it about my waist when tile is cold on my feet and ice ticks against the window pane.

I choose the apron my mother sewed; and I choose to be sanguine in the Spirit no matter what splatters saucy. Or not. 

Sometimes what splatters is just laughter. Sometimes what's saucy is just this giant German of mine who grins a quick dance out of me till I splatter laughter and tears at the same time because sometimes love is messy like that.

Sometimes love, the kind that begins as a bushel of red beets worth rejoicing over, continues through a few more bushels that are laughed about because, "Hey! God must have a sense of humor to keep giving us the same ol' red beets! till it's not funny anymore and, "Alright already! Enough! Give me something different," is the kind of love which is sculpted by most everything that's routine, expected, not always wanted, but rejoiced over anyway. 

This lil' bit of clay? And that clumpy giant German? Yeah, we've eaten the likes of a lot of bushels of beets together till canned green beans sound like a delicacy just because they're not beets! 

I wonder when yellow therapy dog will refuse the green beans in her dish.

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

  

I'm Gonna' Walk on Clean Feet to the Tune of Revival

So, yeah, I don't want soggy. Not in my kitchen sink; not in my life.

I want to dine with the Lord, at His table; and I'd like the kind of after dinner clean-up that He offers. The kind that doesn't involve  a sink full of soaking plates and a drain that slurps, but does involve a basin to soak my feet in, an apron, and a towel.

I loaded the dishwasher last night, finished scrubbing the stainless steel sink, rinsed the dirty with the clean down the drain, flipped the garbage disposal on and off, pulled my dish gloves off one rubber finger at a time, and removed my apron.

Finished, I went to bed satisfied because sometimes in this imperfect world it just doesn't matter that it's imperfect. What matters is that Jesus is in my kitchen, at my sink where green rubber gloves and hand knit dish clothes are; and where sparkling suds turn the color of whatever is soaking in them till they dissolve too heavy with soil to stay afloat.

What matters is that Jesus is the perfecter of all things imperfect.

What matters is that He doesn't just dispose the garbage, but cleans the disposal, too.

It matters that He doesn't just rinse the dirty down the drain, but cleans the pipes to the elbow where things lodge till the sink is clogged and the drain can't swallow.

What really matters is that He does this in whoever opens the door to let Him in.

It really matters that He does this before He sets table.

It really matters to me that when I heard His voice at the door, and opened the door to let Him in, He made sure my soul could taste the goodness of the bread He would offer, and could swallow the wine He would pour, before we began dining together.

Aprons

This morning my kitchen is as clean as I left it last night and that's satisfying to the likes of me. I switch the red coffee maker to "on," the dishwasher to "on," let yellow dog out, and fetch my Bible while the coffee brews.

I went to bed last night in anticipation of my morning routine with my Lord. I pour coffee and call out to yellow dog, "Let's go pray!" She fetches her stuffed bunny, grins around it, and leads the way to the back room.

I pray for loved ones who can't hear His voice at the door because their souls are backed up and burping too loudly.

I pray for those whose lives are too full of treasure that's getting as soggy in their souls as last night's dinner scraps in the sink.

And I pray for those who either can't find the door knob; or can, but can't turn it because soggy is slippery.

Praying

"Remember that time when You dined with Your disciples and You tied a towel around Your waist for after dinner clean-up?" This is what I'm thinking about this morning.

I open my Bible to John 13 and read how, after dinner, Jesus tied a towel around His waist, poured water into a basin, and began to wash His disciples' feet. They didn't know why He was washing their feet, so Simon Peter asked, "Lord, are You washing my feet?"

It's not hard to picture the grime that would've been at the bottom of the basin.

Jesus answered, "What I am doing you do not understand now, but you will know after this."

"What will he understand?" I ask Him because if I can know what Peter will understand after Jesus washes his feet, then I'll understand, too.

I read how Peter was appalled that Jesus would be the One washing his feet. "You shall never wash my feet!"

Did Jesus then lower the towel and let it rest while He explained, "If I do not wash you, you have no part with Me"?

I can appreciate Peter's all or nothing response, "Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head!"

All or nothing. That's not a lukewarm response to Jesus.

 Come In

I'm a slow half-a-cup coffee drinker, and the bit in my mug is tepid.

Yellow dog and I, we cross the scuffed wooden floor to the kitchen microwave. She follows me to the table, settles with a groan on the tile floor as I settle in my chair, hopefully without a groan. The dishwasher hums in the kitchen with the microwave where my coffee is warming; and my apron, the one I wore last night, hangs on a hook just behind me.

Here I listen to Jesus who's so near and real right now that I almost expect to see an apron missing from one of the hooks and a basin of water at my feet.

I imagine Jesus might hum when He washes my feet.

"He who is bathed," I read what Jesus said to Peter-is saying to me-and before I finish reading His thought I quietly interrupt.

"I know I'm bathed." I whisper it just under the hum. "You washed me by the cleansing power of Your blood."

He listens, and then I start reading again, "He who is bathed needs only to wash his feet, but is completely clean." His thought doesn't stop there, but I'm sipping slowly this morning.

"Hm-m," He hums and I get the feeling He's warming up His voice because I'm starting to hear His words in rich spiritual tones the likes of which are sung by those who know they're washed clean, and know they need Jesus to wash their feet at the end of every day because this world isn't clean.

Mmm-hmm; He who is ba-a-a-athed. It's just rich sound, true as victory.

Hm-m-m, Hm-m-m, Oh-h, he who i-i-i-i-i-is ba-athed needs o-o-only-YES! O-o-only to wa-ash his feet. The notes roll up and down the scale.

But he is completely! I said, completely! Cle-ean!  It's old time revival. That's just how I hear it.

"Do you know what I have done to you?" I read His question in John 13:12, and before the disciples can guess an answer or ask what, He tells them. And me.

He tells me how to walk on clean feet.

He tells me to wash others' feet; and to let others was mine.

He tells me that I'm clean, but that I still need to submit my feet, my walk, to a basin of water everyday, and to let the hands of Jesus wash my feet.

To me, this is how to walk in a repentance assured that I am clean.

"You made me clean, and make me clean everyday." This is perfection in an imperfect world.

"If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them." He assures me from John 13:17.

Rain Barrel 

Washer pauses, puffs hot steam,

Kitchen sink is scrubbed and clean,

Apron's hung, it's strings untied,

Rubber gloves at faucet side.

"Keep the apron, keep the gloves,

"Fill the basin with hot suds,

"Wear your towel, open your door,

"Unstrap the weary, sandaled soul.

"Gently wipe," I hear Him say,

"Comfort those whom I have bathed."

"What if a soul asks for my towel?"

He answers, "Give it. Then sit down.

"Let your fellow servant wash

"Your feet, too, as I have taught."

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

In a Perfect World I'd Build Castles in the Air and They Wouldn't Melt Like Suds

I left the dinner dishes to soak in the in the sink overnight. "They're not going anywhere," I say it more to myself than anyone else, but honestly, I wouldn't mind if they did.

In a perfect world my dishes would load themselves into the dishwasher.

In a perfect world, they would wash themselves on those evenings when I give up and go to bed.

While I'm dreaming up a perfect world, in a perfect world dinner would make itself when I don't feel like cooking and have used up the eating-out budget.

Green Rubber Gloves

I snap the rubber dish gloves on, clap my rubberized  fingers together in let's-get-her-done energy, and fish around for the drain plug at the bottom of the sink. The water is on the cool side of lukewarm.

"In a perfect world," I explain to myself and, okay I admit, to the sink-full of dish-soap scum floating on the surface of tepid water, "the sudsy hot water I filled the sink with last night would still be sudsy and hot."

In a perfect world, I'd build castles in the air and they wouldn't melt like suds.


I've been praying for loved ones who are far from the Lord. I have a picture in my mind of how close Jesus is to them. How is it, I wonder as the drain slurps scum, that He can be so close to them and they can be so far from Him?

He's just on the other side of the door knocking.

The drain knocks down the last shot of I don't know what kind of brew, burps loud, and drowns out my sink-side philosophizing. I wipe the mouth of the drain with one of the kitchen cloths my mom knitted for me; and I continue to scrape up my perfect world.

"In a perfect world, I would open the door for them!"

I rinse the cloth in hot suds, squeeze it out, hang it over the faucet to dry and I know I can't open the door for them. That's between them and Jesus.

I've opened the Bible for them, opened my mouth for them, opened my arms, opened my life, opened my heart and all the love I have in it that they might see Jesus there; but it's like opening the pantry doors for a hungry soul, and hearing,"There's nothing to eat," though I know I just stocked it with Costco-sized groceries.

I know that only they can let Jesus into their lives. And finding a doorknob in a heap of sin-yeah, sinners hoard sin-is like finding that gold ring I once accidentally dropped down the kitchen sink. I couldn't open the drain pipes under the sink to find it. Not by myself. I called this big German I married decades ago. He closed the space between his cave and my kitchen in about two strides, would've turned opened the pipes with his bare hands except that a wrench got in the way, and found my ring with the same ease that I'd like to have to turn open a few knobs of a few hearts clogged with last night's dinner scraps gone soggy.

Door Knobs at Home

Jesus talks about knocking at the door. I find it in my Bible, where He says, "I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come into him and dine with him and he with Me."

He's not interested in last night's dinner scraps, melted suds, tepid water any more than I am at this moment. "Dine with Me," He says. "Open the door and dine with Me."

Isn't it perfect that Jesus knocks at the door?

In a perfect world, His voice is heard, the doorknob is found, turned open, and Jesus is invited in to dine.

Well, it's been so long since I've read these words. I've heard them far more often then I've read them. I'm surprised to find them not in the Gospels, but in Revelation. I'm surprised that these words are not spoken to those who have never heard the name of Jesus, but to those who have heard Jesus' name, have been church-goers, but are lukewarm toward Him. 

I picture two faucets running hot and cold water. I imagine the waters mixing in the basin. What does this look like in a lukewarm people? In those who have known the name of Jesus, may have been on fire for Him at one point, but who now say, "I am rich, I've become wealthy, and have need of nothing"?

I ask the Lord about these things. I  picture those who have not heard the name of Jesus, and I see in my mind just piles of worldly treasure stocked high in their lives.

I picture the lukewarm, those who say they have become rich and need nothing. I see in my mind every treasure-holy and unholy, clean and unclean, the name of Jesus just buried in a pile of many other names. "Lord! They couldn't find a door the size of a two car garage let alone a knob!"

The lukewarm,those who may have been saved, may have opened the door to Jesus, and then drove Him out-that's messy.

"So,"the Lord says ,"do not store up for yourselves worldly treasures. Where your heart is, so will your treasure be."

I've been lukewarm before. I've wanted one gloved hand in church and one not, and never mind the gloves. They're green rubber. They work in any temperature-hot, cold, lukewarm.

I've stored up treasures before, but seems the next day they're soggy and close to rusted, moth-eaten, maybe thieved. Green rubber gloves don't care much what they grab.

Hot Suds 

Well, I'm praying for loved ones. Their lives are clogged. They can't find the knob to turn; the table in their heart isn't set for Jesus, and yesterday's feast is soggy.

I imagine Him reclining at the table of my heart.

I imagine the most amazing fragrances wafting from the banqueting table and maybe in His kitchen the dishes do clean themselves.

I imagine He doesn't serve left-overs; and I'm certain His kitchen sink, the one filled with water from the river of life which runs crystal clean, has never burped.

I'm praying for loved ones, and I feel it. Conviction. Hot, cold, lukewarm-I've been all three.

I yank open the dishwasher door and start loading it.

I don't want soggy.


written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

What Every Clay Jar Needs To Know

"They're lost. That's all. They're just coming in to get out of the rain, and now they don't know how to get out," Mr. Terminex man draws out all Southern sympathy.

I'm picturing miniature blue and white striped umbrellas abandoned at the patio door by their creepy, and dead, owners.

Terminex man isn't sympathetic toward me, but toward them. He's got the hospitality thing going, and I'm not feeling the Texas "Drive Friendly" slogan. No. I'm waiting for Terminex man to aim the hose, pull the trigger on the metal capsule strapped to his chest, and to run them off the road they've been carving to the crack just under the door where the wooden strip has worn loose.

"So," I want to make sure he understands the dire situation here, "one of them stunk like a skunk, and another lit up like a firefly, but it didn't look like a firefly, and they're all this big!" I want to stretch my arms out, but I'm not telling a fish story; so I settle for the span between my thumb and index

finger while eyeing that canister, with growing anticipation.

He chats on about species of beetles, and tells me they're not building nests or foraging for food or up to no good. "They're just wet and hungry and lost, Ma'am."

I think I hear a cricket playing a violin score from across the room.

He unstraps the hose from the canister, shakes his head, pulls the trigger and over the hissing stream of chemical tells me, "This probably won't make a difference, you know; 'cause they've got hard shells."

Did he just cluck his tongue, tsk-tsk?

I now know more about beetles than I ever wanted to know. Seems to me there's been a crawly theme in my days as of late. A grub in my backyard, beetles in my home and I'm feeling a wee bit defensive about my housekeeping skills right about now. Terminex man wouldn't understand.

"Lord?" Yeah, He understands. "I don't get it. What's up with the beetles?"

He knows I have a favorite beetle, but that doesn't mean I want it on my floor. I've decided that my favorite beetle is only my favorite as long as it's outside blinking in the evening wood.

Maybe there's not much to say about the stinky beetles, except "Don't be like that." But fireflies? I know enough about them to know there's a lot more to be said.

"Go get that children's book you wrote." He's going to tell me what's up with the beetles. Mentally, I turn to the pages about fireflies, while I look for the book.

"Here it is!" I begin reading what I wrote.

"Fireflies have everything they need to glow. They shine their light from the inside out! It's just what they were made to do! You were made for God's light to shine inside you! Shine His light from the inside out, too! What do you think that means?"

Mason jars with solar lights inside of them hang from peach tree branches. I placed the small lights inside the jars, and hung them last summer. They remind me of the fireflies my children caught in jars on summer evenings in the tall grass, barefoot at wood's edge.

"Wanna do it again?" His eyes flicker firelight from within because that's what happens when you're filled with light.

"You mean make another firefly jar?" Just to clarify He's not asking if I want to run in the tall grass in my nighty and barefoot. What would the neighbors think?

"Mm-hmm," there's a smirk in His voice. He knows I have one remaining solar light and mason jar left over over.

We unscrew the lid to the jar, and the solar head from it's stand, and I decide whether to fill the jar halfway with colorful plastic beads, or blue sand left over from one of my children's craft projects years ago, or the bedazzle beads left over from the jeans we bedazzled and painted AHS down the legs for Senior Spirit Day at Allen High School.

"Lord?"

"Hm-mm?" Is He sharing the same memories I am?

"Remember?"

"Mm-hmm, I remember."

The blue sand is too blue. I don't mind being a bit sentimental, but I stop where it turns kind of melancholic. I pick the bedazzle beads and pour them into the jar, "Fill me with Your dazzle, Lord!"

He is dazzling.

"My pleasure!" I think He loves dazzle. He loves gems. He must love the sea of glass which dazzles as crystal before His throne and, I imagine, because of His light. And isn't there a rainbow around His throne, in appearance like an emerald? There is. I read it in Revelation. I've also read that He Himself is in appearance like jasper and sardius gemstones, and that He possibly might see me in appearance as a ruby. It's how He describes the infamous Proverbs 31 woman who is, if anything, His ideal.

I stand the solar light in the bedazzle beads. Gems. And I dress it up with a splash of red before I take a picture because I'm getting into this gem of a gig!

"I'd like to bring Your joy, Your care, Your energy to others with as little effort as it takes these solar lights to light up, or even better, that it takes a firefly to light up and play." I'm thinking that if it feels as heavy burden to bring the light of God to others, then I'm probably striving to make my own light.

I measure out some twine and snip it.

"Let your light so shine before others, that they may see your good works and glorify Me." He reminds me of His word.

"You put Your light in me!" Letting my light shine just happens when my light is His light given. It's as if He says to me, of His light, This is yours. I'm giving My light to you. Play with it!

"Wanna go hang this on the branch out there?" I play with Him.

"Let's go!"

I'm finding out that it's all joy to shine the light that He put in me to shine. I'm grateful that it's His joy to bedazzle me. It's what He does.

I hang the firefly jar around the old branch, stand back and look at the firefly jar and sense His pleasure. "It's like a necklace of gems and light!"

"It's a garland of grace," He whispers His delight beneath the green canopy of leaves overhead.

"Ah, yeah." The words are mostly just exhale in the breathtaking. "A garland of grace."

I'm not as a glass mason jar. I'm clay jar. I'm cracked in places. But isn't this what grace is for?

Isn't grace for the cracked clay jars?

Isn't it grace that His light shines through the cracks where I've been broken?

It is, to me.

It's grace that light shines through the hard shells of firefly beetles, too.


written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig 

A Hundred Grubby Feet

Not pretty, these characters. They've been hanging out in my backyard. Yellow dog chewed their button eyes and noses. They've been soaked to the stuffing, matted in leaves and debris. They are the dispersed, the weary, the forgotten. I meant to gather them inside a few days ago, but yeah, they  are truly the forgotten.

A friend texted, "Will you do me a favor and pray on Matthew 10 with me?"

I have, and I am, and more. I've backed up to Matthew 9 with this question that I doubt I'll ever know the complete answer to. Theologians don't even know-not really. I wonder about faith and healing. It's what's being talked about in these Matthew chapters.

Seems faith isn't the only holy topic here. Seems healing is holy topic, too. There's a relationship between faith and healing, and I wonder about it. Why isn't this relationship understood as clearly as it's written about? What's the muddle?

I'm muddled by it; and so are the scholars and denominations, and even nations. I wonder, Does the holy relationship between faith and healing seem to be securely wed in worship meetings held beneath a big African sky, or on a littered beach in Southern India, or in a remote Haitian village and not so trustfully wed in the tidy wrap where worship is dressed up pretty?

I read about the diseased, the possessed, the leprous, dressed in rags and dirty.

I read about the paralyzed, and picture them looking a bit like the mangy characters in my backyard. They are the paralyzed. The beggars who can't move indoors when it rains hard and debris falls about them and gets soft and smelly in the damp.

I read about the young girl who died from sickness. He father traveled far to find Jesus, certain that He would raise her from the dead.

Then there's a woman whose flow hasn't stopped for twelve years. She's outcast and she smells and, thanks to physicians' fees, she's down to her last cent. Braving the crowds, she searched for Jesus, certain that He would heal her.

Well, I'm searching for Him, too. "Walk me through these chapters in Matthew, Lord." I'm certain He will mend the gaps in my understanding. "Darn the holes," I picture Him with darning needle in hand; and, "Darn them holes!" I mean it like it sounds. I do.

Grub

"Let's go for a walk." He doesn't expect seamless understanding, but is happy I desire it. And I'm happy that I don't have to brave crowds, travel to the next town, or be jostled in a multitude the likes of the blind and the mute I've lifted from the damp and placed on patio chair. Maybe I shouldn't be happy about the convenience, but the presence of Jesus is something to be happy about.

I've read the Pharisees saw that Jesus sat and supped with tax collectors and sinners, and then asked His disciples, "Why does your Teacher eat with them?"

I don't know what the disciples' answer would have been. Maybe they didn't know, either. Maybe that's why Jesus was the one who answered; because there is no formula answer and just maybe Jesus comes to the rescue. Yeah, maybe He does.

"Those who are well have no need of a physician,but those who are sick," He answered the Pharisees.

"So, Jesus, what does Your answer have to do with their question?" I'm not connecting the dots.

Why does He talk about those who are well and those who are sick in answer to a question about why He eats with tax collectors and sinners?

I ask Him out here in the backyard where we walk, me with holes in my understanding, "Are You saying that tax collectors and, well, just everyday, backyard sinners the likes of me, are actually those who are the sick?" I know I need the Physician.

Poisonous Mushrooms

I bend down to rescue the sopping lion, and there's this grub, just thick and pale white with eyes and a mouth-and a hundred grubby feet paddling the air-stuck in a compost of cankered leaves. It twists this way and that, but gets nowhere. Can't get out of the mess it's in.

A few steps over there to the right, the mushroom I noticed the day before is full open and the gills on the underside tell me it's poisonous.

"Nice walking with You, Lord." With two fingers, a tad squeamish, I pick up lion by the tail. It dangles above grub and drips, and poisonous mushroom looks every bit just everything sick as sin.

But, I'm a faith hunter on a walk with the Lord and I sense I'm on the right track back here in the wild backyard.

I seat the lion on patio chair and take pictures of the mushroom and this ugly-as-sin grub. It just is that ugly.

I watch the poor sick thing writhe in place and, "Ha! I get it, Lord!" I snap a picture and mentally tag it, Live Example of How Sin Gets Me Nowhere.

Lion is washed.

I've cropped the pictures I took on my walk with Jesus today, and I don't miss the irony that I've got a carton full of small Portabella mushrooms in the fridge. I'm thinking about what to make for dinner, grateful for these beautiful Portabellas and, not to ruin appetites, but I do thank God for clean meat because, thing is, grubs are protein in places like Africa, India, and Haiti.

With thanksgiving, I roll dough. Singing to praise music, I slice the Portabellas. Gratefully, I place meat into the skillet.

Before dinner's done, I've asked the blessing on every ingredient.

Sometimes I have to trek through the real ugly to find the real lovely. Real faith is on the move like that.

Faith doesn't beat the air as a hundred grubby feet, but it goes and finds the Physician.



written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

When There Are Three Days Till Graduation

Melted Butter

So, yeah, I'm at the coffee pot and there's this mess of butter just sprawled like a couch potato in the dish.

"Rough night?" I pour coffee grateful I don't feel the way that butter looks.

Sunshine melts through the kitchen window. Shadows lean as laid back as a Blues Band on a hot summer morning waiting for their gig. I lean against the counter. Just three more days till the high school graduation gig.  This mamma feels like a graduate herself.

In three days I'll watch my youngest of four walk.

At the fridge, I pull out the sandwich bread, lettuce, deli chicken sliced just so for sandwiches and I make a sack lunch sandwich for the thousandth time. This is the last sack lunch that will ride in a high school bound backpack.

I make the sandwich with the kind of care that borders on reverence. I remember the first sack lunch I made some twenty years ago; then the middle years when I'd line up twelve slices of bread for six sandwiches. My six-foot sons were eating two sandwiches each, and this kitchen was humming wide awake at 6:00 in the morning. Breakfast sizzled on the skillet, lunch sacks stood lined up on this counter like soldiers reporting for duty, and  roll was taken in the van.

Well, one sandwich. One Ziploc bag holds a handful of baby carrots. I slip a few slices of cucumber in there, too. One apple and a water bottle. I'm tempted to write a note on her napkin like I did all through elementary school, but she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. So, no note.

Three days till graduation.

The band will play. The announcements and speeches will be made. The graduates will stand under the hot sun in dark blue gowns, and wait for their names to be called.

My girl is going to graduate, and this time I feel like I'm graduating, too. Only, I get to do it in the stands, dressed in something breezy. I don't need a cap and gown to graduate. Just one last sack lunch.

I wash an apple, dry it, and set it beside the water bottle in the sack. Then I fold the sack closed, and that's it.

I re-heat my coffee in the microwave where the butter folded last night; and I hold my own quiet ceremony here in my kitchen.

Sack Lunch

Sun and shadow drape in folds over the counter as if inviting me to put them on. I step into the light. It gowns me.

"Lord, it's more than enough to put Your light on." I run my hand over the counter and sweep bread crumbs into a little pile.

"Come to My throne," He announces my name.

I come, grateful to be draped in the gown of His righteousness; His light.

Right now, the stair banister is draped in the dark blue gown. The cap's been hung on the newel. And my gown? I'm wearing it. I'm wearing light. It covers me, because that's how God dresses those who wear the cap of salvation.

The robe goes with the cap.

Thing is, I've been wearing this robe and cap for so long that sometimes I forget I'm wearing them. I forget that the light of God isn't meant for me to hide behind, but to stand in. I know what it looks like to hide behind His light. I've done it-used His robe to skirt around questions such as, "How are you?" when I don't feel like answering. Lately, the Christianese answer is, "God is good!"

I've answered like that before, and mid-answer felt that holy pin-prick as if God has purposefully left a few pins in the fabric of light for just such times as when I use it to hide behind.

I've heard others answer the same way, too, when I've asked them how they're doing. "God is good!"

In cantankerous moments, I've felt like responding, "I know that, but I didn't ask who God is; I asked how you're doing."

So, there it is.

Cap and Gown

I purpose to choose, the next time I'm asked, one of two answers. I'm sure there are more answers to give, but I can only think of two.

There's the honest truth which may be more than they bargained for, or take too much time. And there's the, "Thank you for asking. We should get together and catch up." Personally, I'd like to try the second version. It opens the way for establishing fellowship beyond a once-in-a-while question that's asked between church services.

Honestly, sometimes the best standing-in-the-light kind of fellowship I've had has been in the aisles of the grocery store, or, as happened this morning, on the sidewalk outside.

We chatted about God's faithfulness.

We chatted about His sovereignty and amazing ways of colliding so many prayers from so many people into holy order and purpose,

We caught up with one another's lives. "My youngest is graduating in three days," said I.

"My youngest is getting married in three months," said she.

We laughed about the graduation ceremonies we've held for ourselves in our kitchens, packing up the last sack lunch.

Then we scheduled a morning next week to sip iced tea together out on the patio. Maybe there'll be sunlight and lazy-leaning shadows.

I catch the bread crumbs in my hand and toss them into the sink.

That's it. I walk.

And in three days my youngest graduates. She'll walk.


written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig