Finding our teachers

Our Sunday School is exploring the life of Jesus this Lent. I'm making small paintings for each story, a project I enjoy even though human figures aren't my strong suit.

In tomorrow's story, the boy Jesus leaves his parents' caravan. They look for him everywhere before they find him happily sitting at the feet of the teachers in the temple, soaking up their wisdom. He knows where he needs to be.

Jesus won't begin his ministry for perhaps another twenty years. But here he is, already seeking out the teachers he needs. He learns the prophecies that he will be called to fulfill, the good news that he will be called to share.

Whose feet would you like to sit at? Who brings you peace and helps you see the right path?
The time we spend learning from our own wise ones is never wasted. We deepen our understanding now, never knowing who God will call us to be someday.

If I open the door

Weeks ago we invited friends over for dinner this Saturday. Then we found out that the tilers are ready to start our kitchen floor, so today the plumber disconnected our stove and shoved it into another room. Guests are coming tomorrow, and there is an ugly hole where my stove should be.

It's hard to invite God in when we're afraid to share the unfinished edges of our souls. I am reminded of a song by Greg Brown, an achingly honest lament that could have come right out of the Psalms:

Oh Lord, I have made you a place in my heart
among the rags and the bones and the dirt.
There's piles of lies, the love gone from her eyes,
and old moving boxes full of hurt.
...If I open the door, you will know that I'm poor
and my secrets are all that I own.
Oh Lord, I have made you a place in my heart
and I hope that you leave it alone.

But I wanted

While the kids were picking out their clothes this morning, I found myself staring out the skylight in my room. "The last thing I want," I grumbled to myself, "is another cold rainy day."

With two young children in the house, my days are punctuated with cries of "I get to choose!" and "But I wanted...!" The desire to control our lives runs deep.

When I let myself get wrapped up in whether or not I am getting my own way, it's hard to notice anything else. Like the gentle patter of the rain, or the patterns it makes as it hits the glass. Like the bundle of sticks high up in the oak tree that is a home for one of our neighbor squirrels. Like the healthy, happy kids making each other giggle across the hall. Like God, ever at my elbow, offering to show me the beauty in even this gray and soggy day.

The steady rhythm

The rain poured down on my way to work this morning. Even at their full speed, the wipers could barely keep up. The cars ahead blurred for a second before the wipers swept the windshield clear again. I traveled to the steady beat of the wiper blades, sweep...sweep...sweep.

As we move through life, our way is so often clouded by our assumptions about the past and our anxieties about the future. We need to come back to God, over and over again, for a brief moment of peace. Then our eyes are cleared enough that we can safely move forward.

I treasure our shared confession and the reassurance that we are forgiven. For a moment, all uncertainties are swept away, and I can see the truth of God's unchanging love. I depend on this weekly rhythm to keep my path clear.

A lot of growing

My kids are big fans of Jan Van Leeuwen's stories about Oliver Pig and his little sister Amanda. In one of the first stories, Oliver plants a squash seed in his father's garden. He waters it and shades it and weeds it, and finally a little sprout comes up and produces a tiny baby squash. "Can we pick it now?" Oliver asks. "Not yet," his father says. "This is a lot of waiting!" Oliver complains. "Well," his father answers, "it is a lot of growing."

This is a simpler way of saying what Pierre Teihard de Chardin wrote: "Above all, trust in the slow work of God....Your ideas mature gradually - let them grow, let them shape themselves, without undue haste. Don't try to force them on, as though you could be today what time (that is to say, grace and circumstances acting on your own good will) will make you tomorrow. Only God could say what this new spirit gradually forming within you will be. Give our Lord the benefit of believing that his hand is leading you, and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete."

Our true face

"But Mom," Carrie says, "I'm not the kind of person who would do this." In this scene from Ann Packer's novel The Dive from Clausen's Pier, Carrie has abruptly left her hometown of Madison, Wisconsin, and moved to New York without telling her parents where she was. Worse, she has left Michael, her high-school sweetheart and fiance, who was recently paralyzed. On the other end of the phone line, Carrie's mother listens to her and then gently says, "You did leave us. So you are exactly the kind of person who would do this."

Carrie's mother wants her to let go of her ideal self and acknowledge her real needs and desires. Even before the accident, she was pretending to be closer to Michael than she was in order to preserve the image of the perfect couple. She was settling down in Madison, without even asking herself what she wanted to do with her life. Her actions, much more than her ideas about herself, showed who she really needed to be.

Jesus teaches us that, if we follow him, we will know the truth, and the truth will set us free. He invites us to look at our lives, at our actual choices, and see clearly who we are. Only then we can begin to discover who God is calling us to be.

Laying the burden down

In a classic Buddhist story, an experienced monk and a novice are walking down a muddy road. They hear a voice yelling insults, and turn to see a rich young woman sitting in a sedan chair across the road. She is berating her servants because she cannot get down to cross the road without ruining her fine silk dress and her fancy shoes. The servants can't help because their hands are already full with her packages. The older monk crosses the road, takes the woman on his back, and carries her across the road. When she gets down, she shoves past him into a merchant's store without a word. As the monks continue their journey, the younger one seethes in silence. Finally, after several hours of walking, he bursts out: "Why did you bother to help that rude woman? She didn't even thank you!" The older monk turns to him and answers, "I put her down back at the side of the road. Why are you still carrying her?"

Is there someone or something that you're still carrying around? What might happen if you asked God to help you put it down?