First punch: It was that birth control method you were using. It left a hole in her back.

Oh man! We got a doozy of a match here, Joe. If I didn't know better, I would say our Boxer doesn't even know where she is. Does she know she's in a ring here? She never saw that one coming. Caught her completely off guard.

Jab to the right: Your dream has ruined us financially.

Whoa. Ducked it. She's a quick study, our girl. Gotta love a smart fighter.

Jab to the left: You have made it impossible for me to have achieve a business and therefore I can not succeed financially.

She took a hit. That was a serious hit, Joe. She's down. But, wait. She's getting up. I can't believe it. I thought she was finished.

Stomach punch: If you had given me more sexual satisfaction, I wouldn't be in this situation now.

Ohh. That was below the belt. She's hurtin' now. She looks a little green around the gills. Is she going to throw up?? Watch her. She's lookin' around the ring. It almost seems like she is planning her escape. Do you think she'll run Joe?

Uppercut: I have no life. I have no friends. I have no family. There is no justice. Because of you. You will sit outside the gates of heaven.

She's taking them, she's taking every one of them. She is one tough contender. You gotta give her credit for stickin' it out. But, she is bloody.

Blow to the head: You should have taken him to the doctor's sooner. You waited too long. Maybe this could have been prevented. You think you know everything. And now look.

She's covering now. It's not looking good for our Boxer, Joe. I don't think she is going to make it.

Rabbit punch: You have destroyed my children. Ruined them.

That's it. She's down. She can't get up. It is all over.

One

two

Wait! Wait a minute, Joe. Did you see that? She opened her eyes ...

three

four

five 

I am sure now. You saw it, didn't you? She winked! I saw her wink at the referee ...

six

seven

She looks okay, but why? Why isn't she getting up?

eight

nine

I do believe she is choosing to stay down, Joe. Get up! Get up! I don't understand it. It just doesn't make sense, Joe. Why wouldn't she get up? 

ten!

KNOCKOUT.

It is dinner time. And it is not too stressful for a change. And there is a discussion of the veracity of the alleged jihadic perspective that a Muslim martyr's death results in a heavenly supply of 70 virgins.

Momma, wanting the honest and true view of their authority (but always coming up short): "Is it in the Koran? Is it in the Hadith's? How do you know if that is really true?"

Zain: "It is definitely not true, Mom. It is just another lie." What a sweet, sweet boy.   

Brownie, laughing hopefully and loudly, sidestepping the issue of authority. "I don't know about 70! I am thinking I might just get ..... [and he pauses to reflect on his goodness] ... two." Then, roaring laughter from all.

"Well." To me. "What are you going to do in heaven?"

Momma, looking at her Nylah, close at hand and in understanding. "I am going to knit heaven. What about you, Ny?" 

God bless us all.
 

1. my spouting jade plant

2. Wendy's Milk Duds, left over from Halloween

3. today a rainbow sprouting, wild and fluorescent, from the lake

4. reversals

5. hearts, always

6. every blessed friend

7. tee shirt traditions and art clipped

8. lap brawls

9. three sleeping girls

10. unbelievably straight, albeit expensive, teeth

11. secret estate sales

12. babies in heaven

13. hot, black coffee

14. breakfast out

15. a stash of Christmas magazines

16. artful script

17. a little lost Shih Tzu

18. worship

19. debt, redeemed and satisfied

20. an unexpected zero

21. dreams, once in a while

22. Dolores and the Pink 

23. steely blue in the sky

24. the first boy up

25. that brown shirt my husband gave me

26. under the covers with the window open on a chilly night

27. 5:00 am

28. pictures, finally sorted

29. Hannah's devotion

30. chasing graciousness   

31. second and third and more chances

32. a place waiting for me

33.  knitting

34. twenty years and twenty years

35. recognizing the extraordinary in every ordinary day

36. vicarious business success

37. so many deer, missed

38. every manner of silk

39. the crisp scent of autumn

40. Amanda, in love

41. a sudden, unanticipated  interest in purses

42. clarity of purpose

43. Rae's sweet hands, massaging my old shoulders

44. vintage thread

45.  strawberry frapps after church on Sunday

46. antique needlework journals

47. pods

48. peoples' stories

49. 70 times 7

50. my children, who tell me - and really believe - that I am pretty

51. CA

52. chex mix

53. warriors

54. sacrificial love

55. books, books, books

56. discernment

57. prayer

58. the universality of motherhood

59. wild, wacky boyhair in the morning

60. the good life

Satan!

And all of your secreted, conspiratorial, government impugnants? Take a back seat, baby. I will not fall; nor will you cause me to lie down. You are nothing more than a manifestation of lawlessness in the principalities.

My feet are clad. My helmet donned. I lift my shield and raise His sword. I will not cease to pray. You cannot make me. 

I will remain, standing.    

Bring it on. I am not afraid.    

Lord, I lift to you  this story and I pray that You take it where You will. I pray that You would bless the readers and encourage them. I pray that it would be only for good and only for Your glory. 

And, Father God, I pray for Your continued direction, Your holiness in my heart, and Your love to pour out through me.   

For we walk by faith, not by sight
2nd Corinthians 5:7 

And they said, Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved, and thy house.
Acts 16:31

... but let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price. For after this manner in the old time the holy women also, who trusted in God,  adorned themselves, being in subjection unto their own husbands; Even as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord: whose daughters ye are, as long as ye do well, and are not afraid with any amazement.
1 Peter 3: 4-6

"Hi Grace!"

I heard that frequently as a kid.

It is not my name. Grace, I mean. It was the derogative nickname that my dad used to bellow out every time I took a fall. Not a spiritual fall, but a literal one. Inevitably as I clunked to the ground, I could hear his finest sarcasm and he meant - in his own crude, but well intentioned way - that my life did not exhibit any ladylike fluidity as I walked through the house. I lugged around and fell over a lot. You wouldn't confuse me with Audrey Hepburn or, excuse the play on words, Grace Kelley. I was, in his terms, graceless.

It is hard not to remember some of the bigger exemplifications of my Dad's accurate, if discouraging, appraisal. Just recently, for example, I was walking from the library to my car and I had forgotten that the step from the curb into the parking lot is slightly deeper than normal steps. I was struggling to contain my books when I should have been paying more attention to where I was placing my feet.

You can imagine what happens next, right? I misjudged that step off the curb and plunged forward, falling to the pavement. It was one of those painful, slow motion, lurching falls. You know the kind where you fall, lurch forward, and fall again at least three times before you hit the ground. This time, though, my trip through space was even more pronounced and more comical because I had all those books in my hands. Even I was laughing as I plummeted into the folly of trying to catch the books on my way down.

Finally, after what I am sure looked like a really bad juggling act, and what felt like an hour and a half, I hit the ground. Hard. It was a shock to my body. As the pain began to register, and blood spill, I saw the man in front of me turn around and run back to help me. It was so embarrassing. I was surprised, and grateful, that he didn't call me Grace, but it was impossible not to hear my father's words screaming into my memory. I guess I have never really acquired that graceful fluidity as I travel from one place to the next.

But, as a child of God, I am not without grace. Real grace is understanding. It is receiving unmerited love and favor. God has given that to me.

No matter how many times I stumble, God is there to lend me a hand. Just like the gentleman who helped me gather my books and stand back up, God is always there to reassemble the pieces when I fall apart. And I do, regularly, fall apart. Sometimes, pretty hard. But God is not deterred by my clumsiness. He never tells me that I lack grace because, of course, He is the author of all my grace.

With grace, though, comes holy consecration. And holy responsibility. It is, simply, the law of love. It is the giving of unmerited favor and understanding.

And many of those who understand shall stumble, to refine and purge them, and to make white, to the time of the end. Because it is still for the appointed time. Daniel 11:35

It is not about the hard falls we take and, in a way, it is not even about the grace we receive when we fall. It is what we do with the grace that God has given us.

These days, despite his own faltering gate, my dad will still yell out, "Hi Grace!" when someone, usually my mom, stumbles. Or, if you can imagine, he actually says, "Hi Graceless."

And I feel so bad for him. He is blind to the holy grace in his own life. I wonder and I look up to God and ask, "Why?" And, in a twinkling far faster than it takes for one clumsy girl to fall from the curb and hit the pavement, my heart hears the answer.

So, Dad, I love you. It is okay that you have hurt my feelings. I know that you didn't really mean to do that. And, anyway, I forgive you.

And, in the days ahead, should my dad fall, I will turn around and run to him. And I will help him to his feet. Because that is what my amazing God does for me.

But working together, we also call on you not to receive the grace of God in vain. 2 Corinthians 6:1.

When life whacks you so hard your head flies off, sew it back on and keep going.
~ Mary Pierce ~

***************************************************************

It is that time: dinner time. I am running behind; the water is on for the pasta, but I haven't even started the sauce yet. The tossed salad may not make it all. I can hear the hum of tired and cranky children, and the dryer is buzzing me. I had really hoped to do three more loads of laundry, but I can see that it will not likely happen.

I hear Hannah before I see her. She is crying. "Mommy, Geoffrey's been hurt. Look."

"Just a minute, honey, I am almost done chopping these mushrooms."

"No, Mommy, you must look now. It is Geoffrey. It is really important."

I put the knife down and, searching for the kitchen towel, I see her sweet face, tear stained and flushed. And then I see Geoffrey. His back is gaping open and there is emptiness where there should be stuffing. He doesn't look good.

"He is just a little baby, Mommy."

"I know, I know. He will be okay," I said. I stole a look at the clock as I turned off the stove. Five minutes until Daddy comes home. "Okay. Go up and get my sewing basket." After she carefully places the small stuffed giraffe in my arms, she flies out of the room.

She returns with my sewing supplies, and we sit together on the red chair. As I start to stitch the hole closed I am mindful of  the open backs (and fronts) in the lives of my children; scars that are large and visible, still so frought with meaning. They are a constant visual reminder that God's hand is in my life and in the lives of my children. I determine not to cry and I force myself to focus on the child next to me.

"You do a very good job taking care of Geoffrey, Hannah. He is very blessed to have you as his Mommy." She looks up at me, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

"Really, Momma?"

"Mmm hmmm. Do you remember that time that we took Geoffrey to the playground and he fell from the very highest slide?"

"Oh, yes. That was horrible. He fell right into the mud. He was a real mess."

"And we brought him home and cleaned up and gave him a good fluffing. Remember?" Her eyes brightened a bit. 

"That's what God does for us. Sometimes we can find ourselves in such a mess; God is the only one who can clean us off and fluff us up. And He will do it as often as we need. Again and again and again. Do you know what I mean?"

She nods, slightly. "What about that time Zain was swinging Geoffrey around by his tail? I thought that Zain was going to rip Geoffrey's tail right out."

"I guess God was protecting Geoffrey because he and his tail are just fine." I am almost lost in the moment, thinking again about the incredible protection that God has provided me and my family over the years.

"You know, Hannah, it is important to remember that, in life, we will all have difficult times. We won't always expect them, but they will come. You can count on it."

"Just like Geoffrey?"

"Just like Geoffrey," I agreed.  "And when those difficult times come, it is important to remember that God loves you and He wants to help you. God will send other people to do His helping work just like He sent you and me to help Geoffrey. And we should thank those people who help us, but we mustn't forget to also thank God. All of our help ultimately comes from God. It is such a special gift. It is how God takes care of us. It is how He shows His love for us."

I hear the car pull into the driveway and I glance up at the cold stove. There are no wafting smells of homemade sauce or bread baking. Just a few more stitches, though, and then the knot.

"You have to encourage, Geoffrey. Okay, Hannah? Encourage him not to give up when he has hard times. Remind him that God is protecting him and that God will help him if he is in trouble. Can you be Geoffrey's encourager??

The door swings open.

"Daddy!!" Hannah grabs Geoffrey, jumps out of the chair, and runs to greet her father. 

"I'll remember, Mommy," she says, without turning around. "Thank you."

"Daddy look! Look at what a good boy Geoffrey is. He had to have his back stitched up and he didn't cry at all! Isn't that great, Daddy?"

Her Daddy smiles, and scoops her right up. He savors that incredible first hug of the evening; the one he waits for all day. Then, the moment is over and he quickly finds himself face to nose with a stuffed giraffe. He obliges a small kiss on the tip of Geoffrey's nose. I can't help but smile as I see him wince.

"What's for dinner, Momma?" he asks as he looks around and gives a little hopeful sniff.

"Oh, it is coming. I am running a little behind schedule tonight. I had to take a little stitching break to sew up a baby giraffe."

As I walk over to greet him, I am overwhelmed by the grace of God. That He would love us and protect us. That He would stitch us together when we are gaping wide open. That He would, time and time again, clean us off and fluff us up. What an amazing thing.

Over dinner, the two of us preside like royalty. He, the king, at one end of our outstretched table and I, the queen, at the other. We robe ourselves, not with pomp (because, God knows, there is little of that) but with the jewel of every day. We walk in our riches. Our velvet babies. They are our wealth; indeed, our fairest of commonalities. On that we can agree, but the rest of our unity, even our kingdom, is tenuous. And, honey, we know it.

So, we hold on to the pretense - say, the tradition of mealtime - hoping that it will lead us somewhere. Maybe in, maybe around, but, at least, somewhere. Even that hint of import fades, though, when pressed hard up against the reality of filling all those baby bird bellies. Some nights, amidst "pass the peas" or "will you boys stop fussing," our eyes and our conversation barely meet. You wouldn't even guess that a skirmish was brewing or that a duel had been recently executed. Other nights, though, unearth a palpable discontent.

"You know," he said, "There is a book about people like you."

"Really." My brow lifts and I look for him at the other end of the elongated table. I have to squint, he is so far away, and I still can't see his heart. It is laughable; my forty four year old eyes can't see a bloody thing anymore and I so prefer being able to look into someone's eyes, and heart, while talking with them. But, apparently, when you are 44, this is not always possible.

I wait but he doesn't take a step forward. This incites my natural inclination to lunge and shred, but I manage some restraint. "That's a good idea, honey. You should pause before you offend."

Even this, though, is too much. All dinnertime banter is quickly silenced and I am ever mindful of the royal stage. Twelve little eyes, all upon me, waiting for potential bloodfall, wondering whose it will be. I try to thank God for this reminder of my own need to pause and not sin.

I sit myself straight up, ready and hopeful for something meaningful. I smile. I really mean it, too. "Oh, just tell me. I want to know. I doubt you will offend me. You've known me long enough to know that I am pretty hard to rile."

He hems and haws, but eventually, after some pleading on my part, he spits it out. His flaming gun, his best shot.

"Christ Freak." He looks almost stunned, like he can't believe the force of his own weaponry.

"It is Jesus Freak."

"What?"

"Jesus Freak. The vernacular is 'Jesus Freak.'"

"What's vernacular?"

"It's every day usage. Common language. You know, what people say."

As the success of my cross examination unfolds, I am rightly convicted. I have, effectively, distracted him from his own story - the one he wants to tell. This is classic lawyering. I have weakened his blast by changing the subject from his view of my inappropriate zealousness to my view of his linguistic deficiencies. And I have weakened his credibility by pointing out, to the jurors, that which he does not know. I didn't mean to. I don't know why it comes so natural to me with him. It was never that easy in the courtroom.

God reminds me that there is no need for me to be defensive and that my royal responsibility is to build up, not tear down. I repent by outstretching my hand to my husband, offering to help him back to his track. "It doesn't matter what you call it, though; it doesn't offend me. I would call myself a Jesus Freak too. I remember seeing a book by that very title at the homeschooling convention. I almost bought it."

Then, we talked about them - the Jesus Freaks we have known and loved. Like my husband's best bud at family gatherings, my Uncle Ed. I remember, with love and admiration, my uncle's tenacity in the faith. I remember one particular occasion when I was very young and my uncle, who was newly inflamed at the time, was sharing the joy with my father, his brother. As I think back on it now, I also recall that their discussion lay atop a friendly bout of firearm play. What boys do: guns and rifles and things. Shooting out the back door, as it were.

Can you imagine? Evangelizing MY father while he had a gun in his hand?? Oh yeah. That is a freaky level of commitment. I wonder if my Uncle Ed would still be game for that today? I am not so sure.

But I am certain that I would not be game. Are you kidding? Talk with MY dad about the saving grace of Jesus Christ while he had a gun in his hand??? Oh, my goodness gracious, no. I have children to mother and feed, after all. It would not be wise stewardship, let's just say that.

Then, Peter - my favorite disciple - comes to mind. "Not, I, Lord, not I; I will die before I abandon you, Lord." And we all know where that effusive tenacity got Peter. But, his weakness is no greater than my own. There is no good reason for me not to share the gospel with my father other than I fear him, even without the gun, more than I fear God. That is a stance that is a cowardly as the Old Testament is long.

As we left the table, and cleaned up after dinner, I was grateful that our marital jousting didn't amount to too much this time. Thankful that I mostly contained my temper and my inclination to over react at the onset of what proved to be nothing more than a minor assault. My heart sin was present, which is undeniable and completely unacceptable, but at least it wasn't painted over the sweet memories of my children as one of those times that Mom really acted like a flaming jerk in the name of God.

But, I think I have a ways to press on before I get to wear the Christ Freak crown.

What I have come to understand is that I have this incredible need to be known. Thoroughly and deeply and with great forward passion, I want to be known. Especially, it seems, in marriage. Maybe it is not just me. Maybe that kind of need is universal to all married people, whether they know it or not. I suspect women likely know it better than men. Lonely people must have, at least, a sense of it. I don't know, though; I sure don't hear people talking about it. So, maybe it is just me.

It boils down to relationship, really. Any vague expectation I had of an ideal marriage was, for me, a small dream planted a long time ago. Not just in a particular boy, though there was that, but in him there was this encapsulated idea of the relationship that I thought might someday meet my needs. Funny thing is, I think I was right. I am amazed that the very thing which drew me in some 30 years ago, draws me still. I would not call it by the same name now, but I see that it is substantively the same dream. I wonder, was that You, God, speaking in those old days?

It doesn't really matter because, of course, it was not to be. I did not have the self worth to believe the dream possible. I certainly did not have the patience (not to mention the good sense) to wait it out and give myself some time for the necessary reflection that dreams require. I had no relationship with God; no discernment.

And the whole thing was quite unremarkable. The boy and I went along and apart, joining hands only infrequently and, mostly, in times of great joy or great sadness. The marriage ideal also faded unremarkably. Like a pair of candles slowly and steadily burned down, each dream dimmed except for the occasional, unexpected, flicker of light into the night's nagging darkness. 

And life proceeds, doesn't it? Years can go by, even decades, spouses come and go, children too, crisis, and every big and small thing in between. And, yet, in one out of the blue day, over one cup of coffee, I am amazed at the constancy of my heart. The ideal still sings to me and, despite the obvious danger, I allow myself to wonder, just for a minute, could it have been? Could it still be? Would the reality of it finally satiate the dream now so overgrown and misshapen? It is hard to imagine that it would and equally hard to imagine that it wouldn't.

The whole thing would have been a lot easier to push back into its proper box if I hadn't recognized a clearly discernible, reciprocal need. And, most shockingly, I had a sinking surety of my ability to meet that need. I wonder, wasn't it obvious? I didn't dare look to see.  I would have been weak to the pain of it.

And, to add to my discomfiture, right in the middle of everything, I thought I heard Your voice. It  was very quiet, almost distant, but I thought I heard You say, "This was My intention all along."

What? I know that You wouldn't tease me. What is this, then? How could it be? What do You mean? Is it simply one more manifestation of sin that such dreams could be so misplaced? Or, maybe it was one more picture of my personal and raging need for a Savior? Please help me to understand, God. Oh, that I would hear clearly.

Perhaps, it wasn't Your voice at all. More likely it was figment of my own rampant and fleshly imagination. Even as it was happening, I laughed a little to myself and wondered if this wasn't simply a warfare issue. After all, wasn't I baptized just last week? I expected a little taunting from that snake: "Oh, really?? You think you are dead and buried to sin? Here, then; try this."

That must be it. What better way for the opposition to tear up my recommited heart and deter me from You? What better way to detract me from the purposeful work that You have called me to?

God forgive me. And enlighten me. Consecrate me and purify me. Strengthen me to Your will and Your dream and Your ideal for me. I pray for Your peace and Your voice and Your vision in my heart.

Confusion can only lead to prayer and the study. This time, You brought me again to Habakkuk. I just love Habakkuk. I love his understanding of how to hear the voice of God and I thought it relevant here. 

I will stand on my watch and set myself on the tower, and will watch to see what He will say to me, and what I shall answer when I am reproved.

And Jehovah answered me and said, Write the vision, and make it plain on the tablets, that he who reads it may run.

For the vision is still for an appointed time, but it speaks to the end, and it does not lie. Though it lingers, wait for it; because it will surely come. It will not tarry.

Behold, the soul of him is lifted up, and is not upright; but the just shall live by his faith.

Habakkuk 2: 1-4 

Stand. Watch expectantly. Ready yourself for correction. Write. Wait patiently. Have faith.

That is really the only thing I know to do. I will stand on what I know to be Truth. I will watch for You, God, listening with a heart ready to move in any way that you would have me move. I am humble to Your work in me and I desire Your righteous pruning. I will write so that I, and (though it is hard to imagine) maybe others, may run. I will wait and joyfully. I  will steady myself with faith that Your plan for me is far more ideal than I could ever dream.