Sometimes Dancing is Our Work

Watch 200 people dance in a Belgium Train station. There is nothing like the sound of music.
Take time and to see what the world can be. Maybe we just need to switch our focus. If we could all dance in the trains station. . .maybe the world could change. Smiling children in a public display of happiness. . .now there is a focus. It's All in a days work.




If you notice, even the dance moves combine modern hip-hop styles with pinkies in the air tea drinking motions. This old versus new becomes a more obvious combination when the music itself switches and the macarena moves come out. Being where we are. . .as we go. . .it is tempting to long for the past, which we romanticize, but we must embrace this moment and create existence (and perspective) now. Or, maybe we should just dance in the train station.

To His Purpose or Fever in My Hands

When I was thirteen, I walked down the aisle of my church wearing my favorite yellow dress. I almost ran. I shook deacon's hand with fervor and said, "I am dedicating my life life and work to Christ." I had been down the isle the first time when I was 4 years old. But on this day of the yellow dress, I knew that my desire and existence had merged and I became a doer in the ways of Christ.

"What school will you attend?" he asked. Seeing my puzzled look, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "there is plenty of time for that." (At thirteen I was unaware there was a distinct formula in Baptist life when you wanted to serve God as a"calling.") My heart knew then, and my head knows now that we abide in him and he abides in us.

We serve because we are made ready to serve. . . where ever we are. As we look for what our hands find to do, we can read, here, together about our wandering paths and His purposeful hands. Joining the Higher Calling Blogs Network is a way to share life, work, and faith with others who mingle these things together in various ways.

Today, I do not know which way the wind will blow, and most days I am sure I am missing something important, especially since I grew up in the era of the street evangelist with Bibles and the Roman's Road tracts in their hands. ( I really miss the orange stickers. Does anyone else remember those?)

Joining the conversation,

Melody

500 Calories A Day

I have a neighbor at the end of my street. She is old and lives by herself. She was without a refrigerator suddenly, so I took her dinner while she waited for her new one. I walked into her yard holding the bag of groceries ready to eat. She hugged me with great abandon, " It is so nice of you to think of me, but I can't eat this." It was chicken and rice and bread. "I only eat 500 calories a day. Oatmeal and dry toast in the morning, and my Healthy Choice dinner in the evening. I have to watch my weight." She took another drag from her cigarette. "It means so much that you brought me food." She held my hand.

She is not overweight, not at all. I looked her in the eye and explained why no adult person can live on 500 calories a day. She responded, "I eat my vegetables." I pushed, but I quickly realized there was no talking to her about this. I was tempted to call her son to see if he knew about this. I was concerned for her life.

I walked away frustrated at her. "How can she live? This has to change." I said to myself, but I was powerless to change her. She had made up her mind.

I, too, make up my mind and refuse to listen to others, sometimes.





Wisdom is supreme; therefore get wisdom. Though it cost all you have, get understanding.
Proverbs 4:7

Little Light of Mine

We were late to school today. A late long night caught in a tornado warning. . .standing in the bathroom of a convenience store. . .caused us to be up late. . .

My son starts every school day with chapel. (I should be so lucky.) He sings songs to Jesus first thing every morning. Today, I sat next to him. In the back of the church, we sat hearing voices bounce off the wooden ceiling while being dimly lit by the stained class windows that point heavenward.

Asa smiled and raised his finger in the air to sing "This little light of mine." I started to put my finger up. . .then. . . I paused thinking," I am too old to raise my little light."
Then, I balked. . .catching myself in the real issue. . .

a life lived in political correctness inside a world that is not kind to people who show their light.

I raised my finger and choked on the loss of my childlike boldness. I raised my little light.

Meeting at Calvary

My son is attending a new school named Calvary Episcopal School. I find myself making notes on my calendar / phone to try to remember all the meetings and special events. When it comes time to put in the location of the parent meeting, craft fair, or Christmas Pageant, I find my self typing "Calvary."

Before I type the word, I pause. Each time I freeze and see the face of Jesus. Then, I realize how often I fail to meet him, at Calvary, on my knees. . .really envisioning him . . . the cross. Even the word Calvary is largely absent from my daily vocabulary.

I think this school might teach me as I walk past the stained glass windows and through the garden to pick up my son at Calvary.

Why I Go To Church, Still

I go to church because they let Bill play baseball with his one arm and crooked leg. They let him play AND they cheer him on. When he swings, the weight of the bat and the force with which he swings spins his whole body. His misses his shot and wobbles to a stop. They hug him genuinely glad he is on their team. Bill smiles even when he misses. God’s love extends.

I go to church because old women dress up in their best clothes and put on their jewelry and voluntarily sit next to teenagers with ipods, blue jeans, and flip flops. God’s heart visible.

I go to church because Big B sits collectedly in a room of 5 year old boys calmly whispering the body of Christ with an orange crayon in his hand, modeling Christ’s heart for my son. Christ’s love shown.

I go to church because God shows up in his people, and his people show up ready to serve and love (most days).

I go to church because some days I need the love, and - some days - I am able to give it.

I go to church because God is there. I see him in wrinkled skin, and tattered jeans, the cracks, the hairnets, fancy jewelry, and the flip flops. God’s presence in crooked smiles and wobbly swings.

Lincoln Log Church

I sit on the hard wooden bench, but I don't notice because I am too busy singing and waving my arms. I am laughing, listening and watching the construction. The wind blows in the cool of the evening and the unmistakable fresh clean wet smell of the Frio Canyon wafts through the air filling the moment and renewing our lungs. Our hearts turn to God in worship.

She sits smiling on a small rug banging two Lincoln Logs together and ripping the wings off of a plastic airplane. It is the work of the 21 month old praising God. Her bleach blond hair tumbles around her smile as she breathes in the canyon air. After carefully spreading all the Lincoln logs out on the bright green carpet, she turns the pasteboard canister over. She uses one log as a drum stick just about the time the preacher decides to read his important illustration. She tinkers at his feet. He talks on. He is not phased. He finishes his illustration to the beat of her drum.

She decides it is time to put the Lincoln logs in to the bucket one by one and listen to them clink as they bounce off the bottom. After a few times of this, she rolls on her back and looks up. Worship continues.

Another baby fusses in the distance, another sleeps on dads shoulder absorbing the sounds of God and the canyon in his rest. We who are awake, sing and raise our hands.

This is church at Laity Lodge Family Camp. A church filled with families (including the children of all ages and abilities) absorbing God together. Perhaps this experience of workshop amongst the noises of children is a better construction, one we should hold on to. Perhaps we have missed something by separating our children from the experience of worship and giving them their own rooms and activities. Maybe listening to them while we listen to God is another way of hearing His voice and His blessing on the lives and community He has given us. He is fully present in every life that sits here in this Holy circle.

Laity Lodge Family Camp allowed room for worship, for noise, for play, for being in the presence of the children and the King. If we are supposed to become like little children in order to enter the kingdom of heaven, maybe they should more often be up front at the worship service and not in the back room.

May our hearts be ready to listen to the mighty rush of wind or the still small voice when He is ready to speak. May we be attuned no matter how small the voice.

Dropped Eggs and Monumental Moments

The colored basket was swinging from his arm. He already had three eggs. At the giant and jumbled madhouse of the city park Egg Hunt where you are lucky to get more than three eggs, these plastic delights are a valued commodity.

He ran looking down, when suddenly he watched another egg drop and appear near his foot. He bent to pick it up. With it in his hand, he froze. . .thinking.

Even before he saw her turn-- he hesitated. His mind turning about where this egg came from. He contemplated the morality of placing this lost treasure into his own basket. It was written on his face.
. . .He watched her as he felt the weight of the situation. He realized the right thing and stood there holding the egg in a socially awkward and morally laden moment. Meanwhile, other kids ran on grabbing at would be treasures.
She finally turned. His eyes met hers, and with grace, he kindly handed her the dropped egg. She took it, paused to look at him, and placed it in her basket. She looked at him gently then ran on.

In that moment, he took a major step toward the kind of man he would become. This child hesitated - contemplated his choice. No one was watching him(that he knew of). It is likely no one would be mad. No tears would come (This is a big deal when you are four.). He could have kept the egg. The egg that someone else lost. But, he chose well.

The short scene reminded me that Life is made of small, often instantaneous, decisions that shape us . . . form us, and speak to who we are. (It also reminded me that I needed to look for my son who was still running and collecting eggs.)

Nearby Community Service

I live in a city where people do a lot of good things. People often talk about "doing community service." Someone asked me recently if I would like to participate in some "community service." I smiled and said "yes." What else was there to say. In the back of my mind I was wondering exactly when I would fit this "service day" in to my life. Inside my overworked and overtired brain, I thought "really what is community service." As the mom of a toddler who is currently working 3 jobs and staying at home all but two days a week, I struggle to get enough sleep. Do I need to go somewhere for my life to include community service? For me, at this point in my life, my community service is very local. I try to make sure that the elderly woman who lives at the end of the street does not wander off this street. (She likes to walk.) I help the other single moms and grandparents on the street by watching there kids sometimes. I try to raise my son to be kind, courteous, and a conscientious citizen. I help the child in the mall who can't find his mom. These may seem like small efforts, but it is all I have for now. As I try to teach my son about life, I am sure there will be a time and a place for a more organized type of community service. But, for now, I will try to continue my lifestyle of nearby community service.