Do This in Remembrance

Since this time last week, I have been engaged in some type of activity outside of my normal routine, and with the exception of two evenings last week, these activities carried me away from home. I am grateful, and I have had some wonderful days, and grace has abounded.

But man, am I tired.

My body has basically stopped believing it will be getting sleep, and its cues are a little off. So while I down my kava tea and wait for that stuff to take hold, I thought I'd share a little something from my day.

The subject is Communion. In 1998, I entered a period of doubt and confusion regarding my faith - particularly regarding my security as a believer. It was horrendous. But it was when I learned what it is to draw near to the heart of God. It was when I fell in love with His Word. It was when He began to lovingly show me how my mind works, and how the Spirit works, and how the two work together. And what to do when they do not. During this time, I didn't take Communion. I didn't feel it was right for a person to take of the Body and the Blood when she wasn't even sure if she was covered. Also, I rarely had the opportunity to take Communion. Springs on Singers tours and summers spent away doing mission work meant no church home for me. When the opportunity would present itself, I would sit in somber silence and meditation - usually confusing - glued to my seat, afraid to sin against the Body and the Blood with my doubtful hands.

Then I went to China. It was 2001. There was one state-approved church that we could safely attend, and on the Sunday we went, you guessed it - they took Communion. After the singing and the sermon, the bread and juice were passed around, and the pastor invited the congregation to pray, meditate, then eat and drink when they each were each ready. An older Chinese woman sat alone, in the center of the third pew from the front. She gingerly cupped the bread in her hands and rocked back and forth, weeping and praying, an endless stream of Mandarin. I was transfixed. I was certain that whatever she was saying had to be among the most eloquent of prayers uttered. I was in awe at the profundity of this moment, and I knew that if I could understand her words, I would never forget them...I would never forget her, this frail Chinese woman, weeping and praying over the Body and the Blood.

So I leaned forward, and I asked our translator, seated in front of me, what she was saying. She turned, looked at me, and said: "She is saying 'thank you.'" "What else?" I asked. "Nothing else," she replied, "only 'thank you.'" I sat back, stunned. The woman literally had not stopped speaking for minutes on end. And she had so much to say. For every sin forgiven, a thank you. For every grace received, thank you. For every breath, for every new mercy, for every gift: thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Gan xie. Shi fen gan ji.

After returning to the States, opportunities to take Communion were still rare, and when they presented themselves, I still held back. And then I wandered from the Lord. Heartbreakingly, foolishly, wandered. And I stopped going to church altogether. He drew me back to Him, and even in the midst of great pain, all was light and life. Through bitter tears, my eyes saw the depth of His grace, the breadth of His compassion. And one Sunday in April of 2006, I was invited to share in Communion at the church I'd just begun attending. It would be the first time since China that I had participated. As I sat there, cracker and juice in hand, I thought about the Chinese woman. I thought about the years since that day in China, the years that the locusts ate. And I wept. Only these tears were not as bitter. They were grateful. And all I could manage, the only words my lips wanted to form were: thank You. Oh, thank You.

This morning, we took Communion. Considering the schedule I've kept lately, and the issues I've been dealing with, I was concerned about partaking. I never want to be distracted in this...it is, after all, an act of remembering. And how can you remember something when you can't get your mind to be quiet? But I stood anyway, took the bread and the juice, and returned to my seat. And I began to pray. Rather, I closed my eyes and tried to pray. I was instantly overwhelmed. Guilt, shame and accusation tried to elbow their way into my mind. Feelings of inadequacy, of condemnation, even fear. But the thing about physical exhaustion is
that it makes it so much easier to get to the place where you throw up your hands and yell help!!! to the heavens. The moment I did, the Spirit brought to mind the Chinese woman and the simplicity with which she approached the sacrament. So I ate, and I drank, and I simply said thank You. And you know, the miracle of gratitude is in its growing more gratitude. One simple thank You became the act of remembering, of communing, of believing. And before I knew it, I couldn't think of anything but thanks.

And so I do not lose heart. I am hard-pressed, but I am not crushed. And though outwardly I waste away, yet inwardly He renews me day by day. And in the act of gratitude, He allows me to glimpse some of that far-outweighing eternal glory.

Somehow You Needed Me

(Archived post, written April 2011)


My child has always been a squirmy worm at the doctor’s office. Maybe all the poking, prodding, shot-giving and such that our little ones endure when they enter the world really does stay with them. They learn to recognize the walls of the clinic, the crackle of exam table paper, the faces and voices of doctors, receptionists, nurses. With all those triggers, it’s no surprise that my sensitive daughter won’t even let them take a look in her ears without putting up a fight.

Until today.

Having had it up to here with her particularly persistent sinus issues, I decide to take her in and get things checked out. The nurse weighs her, asks me the standard questions, and Liv sets about her usual wandering around the exam room, picking up this book and that, jumping on the step stool, asking to play Angry Birds on my phone. As the doctor walks in, I’m prepared – as usual – for Liv to come sit on my lap, act shy/scared, bury her head in my chest and then generally resist, squirm, wriggle, whine while the doctor and I awkwardly try to hold her still for the exam. Instead, my little Olivia Carolyn Grace ever so casually wanders over to the bench just beside mine, climbs up, smiles sweetly at Dr. Y, opens her mouth, and says, “Aaaaaaahhhh.” With as far as my jaw drops at that moment, the doc may very well decide to have a good look at my tonsils, too. I am stunned at this new display of independence. The exam progresses as it has began, and I wonder at how well Liv is behaving for the doctor, making a mental note to call my mother and tell her what a big girl I have…until I realize that she is sitting there, by herself, in the doctor’s office, unphased, and what a big girl I have.

With the actual examination over, the doctor turns her attention to me. I wonder if she has ever felt her own mommy heart pride-swell and break in time’s hands. We talk about treatment, she recommends a certain course. I take notes and make sure I’m straight on times and doses. Smiling, Dr. Y offers the standard end-of-visit assurances. I stand, gather our things, and walk with my daughter out of the clinic, still unsure of exactly what just happened back there.

We return home to rest and let the medicine do its work, and my child – stubborn as a splinter in the heel of your hand – refuses to sleep. I refuse to rebut her refusal and opt instead for low-energy activities like coloring and Blue’s Clues. As she occupies herself and I focus on bits of work, I keep remembering how she looked, sitting there so tall and confident. So grown up. So not needing me. I chide myself for my melodramatic mommy moment even as April thunder shakes the walls of our house and I turn on my heel to comfort my daughter who, as luck would have it, is unimpressed with the storm.

I want to honor and encourage her growth. I want to be present for that journey, to see her become an amazing woman. So I want her to experience all of the right levels of independence at all of the right times. Like, when she’s 27.

After the Little Naptime That Wouldn’t, dinner and a worship team rehearsal, I prepare my sleepy one for bath and bed. Because I am her mother, I know that she is too tired to manage bath time on her own tonight. No nap and new meds – that’s enough for one day, and after getting her into the tub, I ask her to tilt her head back so I can begin washing her hair. She insists she can do it herself. I insist that, tonight, she will not. She splashes. She dives. She grapples and cries and screams – loud, angry screams that actually alarm me. As steadily as I can manage, I hurry through shampoo and soap and rinsing until I can finally drain the water and rescue the both of us from drowning in this hysterical moment. When I wrap her in the towels and pick her up, her previously tense and punch-throwing body instantly relaxes into my arms and she goes quiet. Moments later, dry, warm and pajama-clad, she crawls under her covers as I cue Lullabies on Pandora and sit up in bed next to her. It’s one of those nights when I know that we both need a little extra comforting, so I promise to stay with her until she falls asleep. She rests her clean, wet head on my chest, and we stay there, just like that, through Rock-a-bye Baby, Sleep Baby Sleep, Good Night and Beautiful Dreamer. She asks me to rub her back, and I feel her eyelashes flutter shut against my chest, giving thanks for this little one who needs me after all.

What I Learned in Louisiana

Tonight I sat down to add to my gratitude journal, and my eyes wandered from what I was writing to what I recorded last weekend. I drove to South Toledo Bend, Louisiana, with my sweet friend Robin, to stay with her family on the lake and enjoy a few days away. My mom even offered to keep Liv so I could relax as much as possible while down there. And relax I did. If you're a state parks kind of person and you don't mind crossing on over into Louisiana, do yourself a favor: go to South Toledo Bend State Park. It is everything a state park should be.

I must admit, I had an agenda in mind as we were planning the trip. See, there's this issue I've been processing for the last several weeks, and it has to do with worship, callings, gifts, community....all of that. Since I first started mulling all of it over, I've realized that I can just as easily talk myself out of one corner and into the next, and I just can't seem to gain a clear sense of direction on things. So I figured I'd go to the backwoods of Louisiana, spend exactly 48 hours being quiet and get myself an answer. Cause that's how God works, right?

Needless to say, I did not return to Arkansas knowing exactly what to do with all of the question marks in my head. And at first I felt a little disappointed, like maybe I had somehow missed the point. Then I remembered that just because I planted myself somewhere without cell reception for a day or two didn't necessarily mean I would find clarity on this complex, multi-faceted issue. In fact, it stayed fairly far from my mind the entire time I was down there. And maybe that was the point.

Whatever the reason for my being there, I remembered tonight some of the grace-filled moments that I took the time to jot down in my journal. And they are....

Six-hour car rides with bestests where the radio is never necessary

Learning more about what makes our dear ones who they are

Awe-struck at stories of humble parents raising children well

Welcoming families

Saturday morning coffee made just for me

Pajama walks to the dock, coffee mug in hand

Robin's Texas nephews with their unmistakable Texas accents

Eagles swooping down over lakes

Cloaked in wilderness, all greens, browns and blues

Pine trees and ceiling fan breezes

Screened-in porches and pouring Louisiana rain

And tonight, I call those sweet moments to mind, and my sleepy hand scrawls...

Lists that help us remember