Jesus in Three Lines

Today I was presented with an interesting challenge. I was asked to share my “belief in and relationship with Jesus Christ” in the space of 2 ½ handwritten lines. Lucy really started to rebel and wanted to be quite flip about the whole thing, but seeing as how it was for a high school admissions application for my daughter I decided that “flip” might not be prudent.

So, I did what most normal people would do…I avoided the task. I procrastinated. I did a little journaling, read a few Bible verses and decided I was nearing a reasonable response when my beautiful friend, Lisa called. She and I share much in common with our faith having both grown up in pretty conservative circles and now as we have matured, we each find that simplicity is really what resonates most with us. I posed my predicament to Lisa and she quite simply responded, “When I am faced with describing Jesus I always fall back to unconditional love, acceptance and forgiveness.” Beautiful. Simple. Right on as far as Lisa and I are concerned.

After we hung up I went back to the dreaded form, considered Lisa’s words and my own ponderings and this is what I submitted:

“My relationship with Christ is everlasting, ever-changing and ever-seeking. When I describe Jesus, the words unconditional love, acceptance and forgiveness are foremost in my heart and actions.”

Three lines. Simple. Pure. True. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could see and experience God and life this simply?

Thanks Lisa!

photo - Lisa at Sunrise

Broken for You

Broken for you. These are the words that I awoke with this morning. Many images running through my head. Christ. Mosaic tiles. My own aching bones (from too much gardening.) Shattered families. Cracks and light. Hearts breaking open so that others may fall in. How will we approach the cracks and find the light?

The images then turning to two butterflies dancing in yesterday’s sunlight. White, perfect butterflies greeted me throughout the day. Actually they seemed quite oblivious of me yet they put on quite the show. Sometimes solo, sometimes in a pair, happy and gleeful, floating in the sunlight.

Broken. Broken wings. Broken soil. Broken ground. Broken body. Broken for you. Christ’s body broken for me. Communion. Christ’s beautiful, amazing sacrifice. Broken for me. The communion cup. The bread of life. How will we feed each other? Broken for you.

How are we broken again and again on behalf of each other? How can our own brokenness heal one another? Broken for you. The words ring in my head. Mother Teresa. Gabrielle. Jennifer. People I have never met. Broken for me. How will we fight on behalf of each other? One person at a time. One life at a time. With these thoughts, I begin my day.

Call Me Mom

Sunday was one of those magical days. I have decided to choose it as my Mother’s Day this year since that day has proven to be a bit tricky for me. Three years ago my mother died on Mother’s Day after a long battle with Alzheimer’s. It somehow seemed very fitting and appropriate for it was her time to go. She had endured a long battle with the big A and thankfully she went peacefully in her sleep before the rest of her body deteriorated slowly and painfully.

Two years ago my son (at almost 16) picked Mother’s Day (MD) weekend to disappear from our home. We did not hear from him for several days and it was an agonizing time. Last year while attending a dear friend’s memorial service in Prescott, AZ, we got the call that again MD had been marred. Our son had been arrested and was being held in the county jail. So, you see, it seems like a good idea for me to designate my own Mother’s Day. In fact, it helps to do it this way so fate cannot spoil a day that does not yet exist if it is not named until after it has already happened. So I choose yesterday.

It was a glorious sunny day which has been rare here this year. I delighted in spending some time snuggled up in bed with my books and pen and paper. The afternoon included watching my daughter play soccer—one of my absolute favorite things.

After the game we picked up our boy and had a wonderful lunch as a family—something we have not done since he moved out of the house in early January. He looked good and healthy and actually seemed glad to be with us. We went to a Mexican restaurant where the service was slow, the food was mediocre, but the conversation flowed like fresh water. My favorite part, of course, was a bit of laughter and watching J’s million dollar smile spread across his face.

I loved being with my whole family. They are beautiful, amazing and definitely individual people. After lunch, we dropped J off, took M to a friend’s house and came home for the afternoon. I then experienced the icing on the cake for a Sunday. I curled up like a cat, purred in the sunshine and took the Sabbath seriously with a dead-to-the-world, good old-fashioned nap. Ahhh. What could be better?

So, I declare yesterday my Mother’s Day. I’m not sure I could ask for much more. Today I share my anniversary of 20 years with a wonderful man, my children are safe and healthy, I feel rested and at peace, there are flowers blooming outside and fresh tulips in my kitchen and yesterday God shined his light on me. Call me Crazy. Call me Simple. Or, how about this?—Call me Mom.

Chinese on the Bus

He studied Chinese. I studied the faces around me. I love the bus. It is delightful and scary all at the same time. So much humanity contained in a narrow transporter of people. Where are they going? What do they do? How do they dream?

The other day a young man sat down next to me. He was nice looking in an offbeat sort of way. Like most riders, he didn’t make eye contact and tried to honor the space between us. A tantalizing aroma wafted my direction and I was temporarily overcome by the smell of his fresh latte and heard myself saying, “Wow, your coffee smells really good.” He smiled and pointed toward the stand by the roadside, mentioned they were pretty quick and that we had a red light. Just then the bus started to move. “Not quite quick enough,” I replied. And then he made a very tender gesture that took me by surprise. “Want a sip?” he asked. I chuckled and politely declined, moved by his offer nonetheless. He may have just been teasing, but I had the distinct feeling he would have honored his word had I responded “yes” to his offer.

We rode along and I noticed he had some handwritten vocabulary cards he was flipping through in a study-like fashion. “What language?” I inquired. “Chinese,” he responded. “Going on a trip?” “Nope. Just a hobby.” Our conversation continued for a few more moments. It was brief, but definitely brightened my day.

I always wonder about the people on the bus. They seem so solitary—plugged into their i-pods and hiding behind books, newspapers and blank expressions.

A woman sat across from me on the ride home. She was self-contained and quiet like the rest of the riders, but at one point in the trip someone got on the bus and caught her attention. She must have been fond of the person because her face lit up and transformed into a beautiful smile. It was like magic.

We desire community. Communion means ‘union with.’ Maybe that’s why people ride the bus and don’t even realize it. Maybe it’s not economic or ecological, but rather it is communal. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch to consider, but it’s definitely a world in which I’d like to believe. A place where smiles light up faces and strangers offer to share their coffee. Hmmm. I think I’ll keep riding for now. After all, it’s good for my wallet, the earth benefits in a small way and my soul gets surprised in unimaginable ways. Who knows… maybe I’ll even learn a word or two of Chinese next time?

photo by bill hughlett

The Woman on the Bus

Well, much as I would like to say I have another wonderful, peaceful story to share…that would not be the case with this tale—although it does start out that way. Monday afternoon I once again boarded a very full bus for my ride home. It started out delightfully as a man offered me his seat—an action almost never seen in my experience. I said, ‘thanks, I’m okay,’ but he insisted and told me that ‘chivalry was not dead.’ We laughed and conversed with a couple of other passengers until the next stop when he exited the bus. The exchange left me smiling and with a sense of hope.

The ride continued and I found myself between the window and a youngish man wearing large headphones, ensconced in his own world. As the bus came to a stop the woman in front of me needed to exit and her seat partner stood to let her out. The partner was facing me and just as I was about to nod and smile, her face darkened and she spit out, “Quit staring at me because I’m black!!” and then as she plopped into her seat she muttered rather loudly, “Bitch.”

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Thoughts raced through my head. Is she talking to me? How could she think that? What did I do? She’s black? Her color had not even registered in my thoughts. I found myself wanting to apologize and say something to her, but realized that would be for my benefit not hers. I then started to wonder about the obvious anger and hurt inside of her. How had she become so guarded? Who had done this to her? Why must people be so unkind and cruel? It felt like she was spitting hatred onto me that had been heaped onto her throughout her twenty-something years of life.

And so, while very different experiences, this one has continued to stay with me as does "The Man on the Bus." These encounters have been added to the fabric of my life. It feels somehow trite to say, but I pray specifically for this man and woman and wonder where their lives will lead them. I have been changed by my experience of them while realizing my existence may not even register for them. We never know in life when or how we touch others.

"In surrendering to the miracle of the everyday, the Warrior of the Light notices he cannot always foresee the consequences of his actions. Sometimes he acts without even knowing that he is doing so, he saves someone without even knowing he is saving them, he suffers without even knowing why he is sad." --Paulo Coelho

May we all choose to surrender to the miracle of the everyday!

photo by bill hughlett