Lessons from My Old Man

The frail old man wants to bandage the tips of his sore fingers. Every time he bathes the bandages come off and he must do this again.

He hunts for the cardboard box he keeps to contain all manner of bandaids, tape and scissors, then drops into his recliner where the light is good.

Dad has developed a habit of making little noises when he putters. Not song, or talking to himself. Not grunts, either. Pleasant noises that mark the rhythm of his movements. He makes them now.

With great care, he selects and unwraps a bandaid and painstakingly sets it to cover the tip of a finger. He rummages through his box again for a roll of tape. He picks up his magnifying glass to locate the end, which he then sticks precisely to the table edge. Using the bandaid wrapper as a measure, he takes pains to cut the tape to the precise length he needs. And another. Then a third. Two pieces get wrapped to cover the end of his digit in a criss-cross. The third he wraps around his finger so as to cover and protect the ends of the two. Full concentration. Little noises of activity and peaceable presence to a task that takes time and expends much of his limited energy. His arthritic fingers fumble with the small pieces and the awkwardness of one-handed work until three digits are covered. I am witness to remarkable ingenuity in his little tricks to address the difficulties loss of dexterity and deteriorating eyesight bring.

Infinitely patient. No haste. Fully engaged. Creative.

When he finishes, the sore fingertips are neatly wrapped. Not yet satisfied, he asks me to cut one small overlap. He puts his things away, and drops into a doze in his chair. Energy spent.

I am 56. Dad is 30 years older than me. You do the math. Lung cancer—untreatable and advancing—numbers his days. Dad still gets around, but it grows more difficult. He still understands, but it matters less and less as hours and days turn to haze and the quiet battle to simply wash, eat and visit with whoever comes by. I rarely see him online anymore. Hospice has entered the picture.

Since Mom’s death, I have walked with Dad--far more in seven years than in all the rest of my life. We’ve had some crazy adventures. I spent another few days with him in December, and came away moved by two simple things. Lessons. Ways of being that are worthy of imitation. Ways of loving to hope for in my advancing years.

The first is drawn from Dad’s character. As we age, our bodies are less and less able to do what our mind believes should happen with ease. Speed, balance, eyesight, dexterity.

Those changes advance on me. When my fingers fumble, or my mind can no longer focus on five things at once, or my body just won’t go that fast or lift that much, I get angry. Groaning impatience, and frustration that breeds hurry that breeds more fumbling mishaps. A particular flashpoint is when I am in a hurry and my fingers just can’t untangle the knot, or negotiate the complex one-handed effort to button or snap or insert. “WHY. CAN’T. I?” my inner child screams as I fumble faster.

I am touched profoundly by Dad’s kindness to himself. Self-care accomplished with calm intention. Quiet, methodical, gentle. Lord, my dad is teaching me something of infinite value.

The second “lesson” derives from watching others with Dad. As I boarded my plane to leave my heart was full of ways that I hope someone will love me as I grow older. I hope that my children and other caregivers will give me time. I hope they walk slowly alongside me while I shop for my bits and pieces of comfort and hospitality. I hope they sit with me and do nothing but savor the being together. I hope they let me tell again stories I love but have already told…a lot. I hope they will let me do those things for myself that I still have patience to do, even though they could do them so much better and faster for me.

I hope to be accompanied into old age by people who value the journey.

Thanks, Dad, for all the ways you allow me to go this journey with you. I love you.

Can I only imagine?

In 2001 MercyMe released a song by lead singer Bart Millard. “I Can Only Imagine” is a simple meditation that became enormously popular among Christians, and also among secular Country listeners.


I can only imagine
What it will be like
When I walk
By your side.

I can only imagine
What my eyes will see
When your face
Is before me.

I can only imagine.

Surrounded by Your glory, what will my heart feel?
Will I dance for you Jesus or in awe of you be still?
Will I stand in your presence or to my knees will I fall?
Will I sing hallelujah, will I be able to speak at all?
I can only imagine.


Our Abu Dhabi congregation was singing this song when we arrived for worship this week. The words grabbed at me.

“Is that true?” I wondered. “Can we ‘only imagine’ what it is to be in the Presence of Jesus?”

For the Bible tells us that we who believe Him are indwelt NOW by His Spirit, that together we are His body, Jesus in this world. That wherever two or three gather He is there, right there, PRESENT in our midst.

I now know that Millard’s words are about the death of his father, the heart-cry of an 18-year-old who longed to understand what is so great about God that his dad would rather be in Heaven that on earth with him. A different spin, and a meaningful one. But that morning in church my thoughts went to John and what he wrote in Revelation 1.

“On the Lord’s Day I was in the Spirit and I heard behind me a loud voice like a trumpet…. I turned around to see the voice that was speaking….” And John beheld Jesus in heavenly glory. “His face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance. When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead. Then he placed his right hand on me and said; ‘Do not be afraid.’”

John, exiled for his faith, maybe 90 years old, is worshipping on the Lord’s Day. Whatever “in the Spirit” means exactly, we know that John was consciously aware of God’s presence, actively watching and listening. He didn’t need to “only imagine.” But the surprise! Suddenly the veil between heaven and earth disappeared and he glimpsed Jesus in heavenly glory! John’s reaction? This one who once leaned on Jesus at that last meal together? He fell at Jesus’ feet in stark terror. So awed to behold utter purity and brilliance, and to know himself undeserving.

Then Jesus touched him with gracious love. What did John do next? He listened—carefully. And he did what Jesus told him to do. Am I alert to Jesus in a posture of listening dependence that amounts to consciously living in His Present Spirit in me and in my brothers and sisters? So that I hear Him in whatever surprising way He chooses to touch me? How about the doing? Jesus said, “Write!” and John wrote. Today, at this moment, am I doing what Jesus has told me to do—whether general or specific?

My mind meandered on to another story of human response to Jesus’ tangible presence. “Then the little children were brought to Jesus for him to place his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples rebuked those who brought them. Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.’” Matthew 19: 13-15. And they watched Jesus place on those small ones the same hands he would later lay on John. Oh, glorious touch of acceptance, blessing and compassion.

But think about it! There they were, with Jesus physically tangible in human body. “I can only imagine” that I would dance and swoon and give Him full attention! But watch these committed followers. They see the small ones, and their human culture tells them that Jesus is too important to give his time and attention to these. (And they are, too!) They shoo them away. They aren’t even kind about it. Ask Jesus what He wants? It does not occur to them. With Jesus right there, they cavalierly move to marginalize people He longs to bless!

Ouch! Before I move into action on Jesus’ behalf, do I ask Him what He wants me to do? Who are the small ones that cross my path? How is my welcome? Where are my hands? Oh, that’s right! They are His hands, for we who belong to Him are His living hands and feet in this world today!

Lord, the realm of imagination allows me to presume easy, exuberant awe and faithfulness. Here in the “real world,” well, it is not quite like that. Lord, change imagination to desire, desire to freedom to choose faithfulness, and faithfulness to tangible action. Amen!

(Photos in this post are by Angie Fuessel and Brad Kerr)

People who call me "Mom" (in order of appearance)

Caitlin. Unexpected treasure granted this “infertile” couple. “Ha ha!” spake the Father-God in the fall of 1982. “Let me show you what I can do!” Now grown to woman beautiful-in-form made more lovely through abiding faith, depth of character, and courageous mind. Funny. Creative. Lover of science in the real world. Ever ready to celebrate and play. Comfortable in her own skin. Wise in the ways of animals--like she can see into their spirits and capture them with compassion. Hero-eyes for her dad. Valued contributor wherever she goes. Watching for Aragorn, investing in everyone.

Daniel. Experts are defied again as God grants a second baby. Cait’s prayer answered in a strapping-in-size yet fragile baby brother. “I have a boy-sister!” the three-year-old proclaimed when told her prayer had come to pass. God celebrated Dan’s birth with a full-arch rainbow out the window. A child who arrived with promises. Taller than we would have dreamed, he builds “tallest” things. Experimental, agile, with deeply perceptive mind and fast reflexes. Adaptable to original work and contented life in the developing world. I love to hear him sing. Devoted husband full of tender connection to his great love. Respect must be earned with Dan, but once you have it he is unswervingly loyal in work and in friendship. Keeper of confidences. Giver of magnificent hugs.

Eda. My first child-by-marriage is an Albanian beauty, gentle and incredibly strong. She first called me “Mom” to satisfy culture, and then we grew in love and our spirits intertwined. What privilege to have the young couple live in our home, to share with her the journeys of language-learning and all the rest of adapting to life in a strange new land. Quieter than my natural-born lot, she is the one who connects with others who, though so lovely, feel themselves outside the circle of rowdy American easiness. Yet she,too, will black a tooth and don a crazy hat to lip-synch a rock song. Or chase Cait through the house until both fall down and roll with laughter. Teacher of children, studious learner, and creative keeper of home, Eda may be the bravest woman I know. Proof-certain that Dan has wonderful taste in women!

Pawan. From Nepal, he was born just a month before Caitlin. We connected while he worked as guard in our building. I asked whether he knew of someone to do housework. He told me of Deepak, then said, “Madame, now I have told you about my friend, Deepak. Will you please tell me about your friend, Jesus?” Born to a Hindu family, Pawan met Jesus in Nepal and is ever-hungry to know Him better. Tai Kwan Do champion, supporter of his parents and siblings, networker to find work for his brothers. We love the evenings he comes by to cook his home food and share it with us. Pawan has vision to build his home church, and a heart that embraces many. A treasure.

Halil. Turkish. Married to Gül and father of sweet baby Yasmine. Lover of flowers who covers our table with garden blossoms whenever he senses a special occasion. A restaurant waiter caught in the cyclical tornado of the tourist year, Halil (and Gül, too, who is a cook) work non-stop through the season. Not wanting to leave his family for more plentiful off-season work, he finds what he can in Kaş in the winter. Time then to play backgammon with other men, and Halil willingly includes Curt with his local friends. Our family and guests—well, he takes them in as his own. It is “Momi” in Turkish to this lively, open young man. Halil worries some for the future and dreams for his little family. But he bounces, like some lively melody pours out from his core to give rhythm to his gait.

Tahir. The newest of the lot, just a year older than Dan and Eda. From Pakistan, he is another who guards our building. Trained in criminology, he longs for a position in his field. Just like Cait. Meanwhile he works 12-hour shifts, often seven days a week, watching and serving. His tenderness towards Dad and comfort around wheelchairs and walkers opened doors to learn that his mother suffered and died with MS. Like a few others, he loves to drop by to borrow DVDs, and to talk. Wants to know of our faith, and shares elements of his Islam. High hopes his family will arrange his marriage while he is home this month. So far he’s only named me “Mom” on a birthday card, but when he left on holiday he wanted a photo of his “family” here to share with those at home.

The first three—of course they call me “Mom.” High privilege to belong to them. Pawan, Halil, Tahir—well, do I just appear more motherly as I expand, wrinkle and sag? (My friend Chom, from Korea, longs to be fatter for she believes that softness in an older woman speaks of love and wisdom. Come to think of it, she, too, calls me "Mom," though she is older than me. For her it is the address for a spiritual mentor.) Or is it something else flowing through those cracks? Such admirable young men, all three. Hard-working, generous and sacrificial supporters of their own families. Elements of lonely longing in each journey. Diverse in faith, language, heritage. High privilege to be chosen by them.

Lord God, Father-by-adoption, thank you for this grace, pure gift from You. Bless them all, natural-born and born-of-love with ever-deeper knowledge of Your loving engagement in their lives.

Celebrating Cait

I recently did an article for Evangelical Missions Quarterly on the potential of expatriate professionals to global mission. I’d been asked to write about what I do, but wanted to say something of more substance. “Tales of a Trailing Spouse” shares stories of several like me who, though professionally skilled and experienced, have set career aside to “trail” their mates on expatriate assignments in “closed” countries in the Middle East. Along the way each was drawn into surprising and fruitful ministry, with access and legitimate presence to people that would never be available to “full-time Christian workers.”

As I often do, I invited Cait to read and comment on the draft. Her exuberant feedback: “I love the article, Mom! And I see myself—I’m a ‘trailing daughter’! I love being part of the ministry you do in Abu Dhabi.”

The thing that is so cool about that is that Cait has been on a journey shared by lots of bright, able, well-trained professionals in this economy. She left the Albanian mission field to seek work in her profession (environmental health) just as the world economy crashed. She spent nearly a year in the US, during which she found few openings for which to even apply. Never idle, she washed dogs and cared for children, served her grandfather and enabled him to have a last year in his own home. She took some hard hits, too. A meanly jealous supervisor in one job; the employer’s health crisis and bankruptcy (yep, lots of unpaid wages) in another. A paid-for education in the school of what-the-working-poor-face taught her compassion for people she might never have noticed had she not lived what she lived. Then she joined us in UAE, hoping that jobs would be more plentiful. She continues to search.

Along the journey, all the emotions: self-doubt, loneliness, anger, confusion, regret. Seasons of ardent prayer; seasons of prayerlessness because it seemed all had been said over and over. Self-pity. Feelings of worthlessness, of hopelessness, of being the only one no one wanted.

Through it, I watched Cait lean into her Lord Jesus. Then came a season like the dawn of a new day. Reflections on biblical stories that celebrate quiet humility, unorthodox fruit, like Mary “wasting” her precious perfume to lavish Jesus’ head and feet so that it ran down and the fragrance filled the house. The value of investing in lives over financial or career success. The freedom to walk her own journey without anxiety or fear. A coming-alongside of Jesus in the things He holds dear. As I prayed from the sidelines, I saw Cait take on joy and gratitude around a uniquely-precious love of her grandfather and quiet opportunities to encourage others. I listened to words that showed she went deep with the Lord and journeyed hidden paths of nourishment and satisfaction in His presence most rare in 26-year-old Americans. I saw her grasp that God’s economy and values are not of this world, that her life and destiny are truly safe in His watch-care, and that what will bring Him glory unfolds in the mundane of everyday life.

Today, in Abu Dhabi, Cait is a catalyst for connections and community. The pair—Cait and our daughter-in-law Eda—are unstoppable hostesses and homemakers. I know her as ministry partner, whether it’s about cooking or communicating or taking her grandfather (who lives with us now) to medical appointments. She has become research assistant on my book for the Albanian church, organizer of all manner of dynamic fun for singles, willing help around the church, and prayer partner to several young women. Perceptive, solidly grounded, gracious communicator. Generous.

And yes, she continues the job-search. We continue to pray for sustaining and engaging employment for her. All the while, full of joy in her noble (yet fun) beauty, proud of her intelligent maturity, and oh-so-grateful to know her not just as daughter, but also as ministry partner and friend.

Happy birthday, from Mom

Prodigal lovers

I want to tell you more about those parents….

You would enjoy them, I think. George and Martha are intelligent, lively, full of laughter and comfortable with themselves. Companionable in marriage, but outward-focused so that others are encompassed by their love rather than made to feel intruders on a private thing. The most mundane aspects of business and home become celebrations of God’s goodness when George and Martha are around. Whether things are calm or crazy, these two radiate inner stillness so that in all parts of their life and business generosity and compassion ripple out.

Martha—well, she’s a tad counter-culture, dressing softly with a glimmer of makeup. She exudes the artistry and fun of it. She and George both love the countryside. Their house rings with conversation and laughter as others find rest, safety and shelter there. Though life and home are ever full, George and Martha always seem to have time to listen, to make place, to pray.

These two have suffered much pain and prayer over both of their children. Though onlookers question their prodigal generosity, George and Martha are not fools, nor are they sentimental. They see both Grace and Hazel for who they are: immature, greedy, competitive, lustful, foolish and lost. It’s a place of great weariness, of restlessness—overwhelming at times with the sadness that neither child shares their vision or wants to grow to be like them and to grow to take their place.

As Grace returns home, and as Hazel is forced to confront her shallow understanding of the love and gift it is to be a child of this family, parenting has also become a place of fresh hope.


FOR REFLECTION:

The Prodigal Story is a Kingdom image. Even as they take and waste their parents’ prodigal generosity, neither child perceives what it means to be a child and heir—the call and the potential to one day step into their place. Neither child desires to be like the parents. And so BOTH the older and the younger miss tremendous blessing, and the whole community suffers loss.

God, as our Father, invites us to grow up into His likeness, to become increasingly worthy partners through ever greater appropriation of His endless love and resources. These resources, He says, are already ours, but we:
• see them as scarce
• see them as insufficient
• see the Father’s ways as foolish and wasteful
• see the Father’s priorities as boring
• think our own agendas and plans are better
• compete with and judge our siblings
• dwell in fear of loss
• can’t wait until the Father releases His grip and lets us own in it all and run things our way
• miss the whole point of our adoption as heirs, that is, that children are to grow up into the character and responsibilities of worthy parents.

Again, let me invite you to spend time with this parent Jesus describes in Luke 15. What does it mean to you to be a child and an heir of this Person? By your choices, actions and responses—your treatment of His love and bounty--what role have you cast Him in?

I wonder what He will say to you through this story as you contemplate Him.

The other daughter

Back to George and Martha.

Their youngest is home, safely at rest in her room. In their relief and joy they prepare to celebrate. Can’t wait for Hazel to get home--how thrilled she will be to share the family joy!

Hazel is the older daughter. To bolster the family business, she studied community development with emphasis on cottage industry. She works and lives on the estate in a small house set apart from the other buildings. Hazel is a valuable asset as she focuses her energy on development and resurrection of arts and crafts native to the area. Her vision is towards expansion, to increase the impact and profitability of what her parents have created. She puts in long hours, coming and going as she scours the region.

Hazel is her own woman, creative and effective, but always maintaining boundaries. She is less than close to her parents and judges them less business-minded than she likes as she pursues a stronger model and prepares for the day when she will take over.

Hazel was horrified when George undermined their financial base to give Grace that crazy spa. From a place of weary loneliness she watched her parents pray relentlessly for that ungrateful beauty while Hazel toiled to recoup the loss. She can be biting in her criticism: “Get over it! She’s gone! Move on!”

In truth, she doesn’t much like the family business. Still, it’s her inheritance, and it’s already been halved and squandered. So Hazel keeps her options open, alert to a better offer elsewhere, planning what she will do once her parents are out of the picture. Meantime, though a daughter of the house, she insists on a business arrangement. She has made herself an employee with salary, contractual rights and duties, benefits and paid holidays. She toes the line, and makes sure her parents do, too.

Just as she has stayed with the business, she has stayed with her parents’ faith—interpreted in her own self-protective style.

In fact, Hazel is due back from a two-week mission trip this same evening. Not quite in time for dinner, but George and Martha are delighted she will make it home by dessert—in time to celebrate.

Hazel reads their joyful text as the plane taxis towards the terminal. Can’t believe it. She’s angry. “It’s late! I’m exhausted! I’ve paid my dues, and now this?!” The house and grounds are packed with cars; alive with light, music, laughter. Hazel pulls right by and heads straight to her cottage. And yes, when she clears her front door there is explosion and tears.

But it’s not so easy to escape, to hide. Martha was alert for her car, and both parents leave the party to find her. “What’s going on? Didn’t you get our message?”

Cornered, Hazel turns cruel. “All this time I’ve stayed with the business! Gave up good offers and worked to salvage what your blind stupidity squandered! Put up with your naïve generosity! Stuck with your church, and even supported your missions. Look at me! I only just got back—again—but no grand welcome for me! I’m just staff to you!”

“Hazel! You’ve always been here! This house, your ‘employment’—that was all your idea!Your holiday—it’s up to you. We don’t expect you to do all this. No big hooplah for you? How we’ve longed to celebrate, but you don’t enjoy our company. We respect that. We give you your space.”

“And, Hazel, there’s plenty in this business to go around. You didn’t know that?”


FOR REFLECTION:

Spend some time again in Jesus’ prodigal story recorded in Luke 15. This time you might take the position of the elder child. How does that child perceive the parent? The family wealth and heritage? His or her position in the household? Community, talents and gifts? Could it be that you are, or have been, that child?

What do the parents’ words of regretful love bring up in you?

A prodigal homecoming

Though never my experience, I am told by some that they struggle to place themselves in the stories of the Bible if the actors are not of their gender. Men read right past stormy Martha, mournfully barren Hannah, or reflective Mary. Women are put off by soldier images, the man Abraham willing to kill his son, Adam laying blame for human sin on Eve, kings like David and Soloman with their many wives, twelve men as Jesus’ chosen, and sometimes even by the Fatherhood of God.

So here’s my offering:

“Martha, I can’t believe it! Are you sitting down?” Sarah, from the next farm over, was on the phone. “I just saw Grace coming up the road towards your place!”

“What? Grace? What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t sure at first. It’s been a long time, and she looked, well… beat. Bedraggled. Nothing like her usual flash and energy. But I’m sure it’s her!”

Martha and her husband George are farmers with a big place in the Italian countryside. More than farmers: their love of beauty, growing things, and good food can’t be contained. The estate expresses their vibrant appreciation of goodness. Besides vineyards there are flocks and orchards, a small winery and a really fine restaurant. Their deep faith in Jesus pours out in a love for people just as vital, splashing and bubbling outward to draw a whole community of craftspeople and employees who joyfully join this celebration of heritage and flavor. A separate house with lovely aspect provides retreat space for guests who seek solitude to pray and listen, drawing writers, weary well-doers, and other mystics of the quotidian.

George and Martha have two grown daughters. Hazel and Grace grew up surrounded by the beauty of the land, the exuberant bustle of creative endeavors and hospitality, and the people, conversation, peace and good books so natural to their parents’ life of creative faithfulness. Surrounded by the nurturing affluence of their parents’ love and example.

Grace is the younger. Beautiful and trendy, she experienced the farm as a small place, a limited place. She couldn’t wait to get away to university where she gave herself over to wild experience and all the “latest” of this and that, returning home less and less often. Upon graduation Grace announced that the family business wasn’t for her, and asked her parents to set her up in another business, a luxury spa in a resort town by the sea. People couldn’t believe Grace would ask such a thing. But George quietly emptied accounts and took out a mortgage to purchase Grace’s dream. “I want to let her choose.” He was disappointed. Concerned for his headstrong beauty. But peaceably certain of his path.

Grace took her father’s gift and left. Never truly interested in business, she used the spa to gain attention and status. Fast social life, flashy spending, gambling, drugs. Handsome men who would use her and leave her as the money dried up. She lost the spa within a couple of years, but kept the lifestyle by selling herself as a high-class prostitute. Well, high-class at first, then descending as her appetites increased and her body wasted and wore out. The men turned ugly and sometimes violent, until she could bear it no more. Nervous and undone, Grace could barely hold a job at a roadside diner. The boss was stingy, wasting no compassion on this one who had held herself so high and fallen so far. A day came when Grace noticed herself eying leftovers on customers’ plates.

Appalled, Grace reflected on the warm, intimate restaurant at her parents’ place. How much better to wait tables there where staff were treated with dignity and tips were generous. Or to weave in the craftshop, or even shovel stalls as a farmhand. Her parents were enterprising and successful in such an open-handed way that the standard of living had risen in the whole locality!

Galvanized by shame and memory, Grace decided to go home. She didn’t dare phone ahead for fear she would be rejected, so she hitch-hiked and then walked the back roads of the last five miles, all the while rehearsing her little, pleading speech. Wondering if she really dared to ask. Counting on her parents’ goodness.

Martha dropped the phone after Sarah’s call. “George! George!” her cry rang over the courtyard. “It’s Grace! She’s just up the road! She’s coming!”

George dropped what he was doing, and the two RAN down the road to meet Grace. Martha falling on the roadside with Grace in her arms, unable to stop caressing her and weeping; George kneeling over them as tears streamed down his lined, tanned cheeks.

Grace tried to say her little speech, but George was busy with his phone, texting the whole town. Everybody from local government officials to businesspeople to the hired hands in the fields and the security guy at the gate got the news. “Grace is back! Come! Come tonight! Rejoice with us!” Phoning the restaurant manager: “Cancel all reservations! We’re taking over the restaurant for we MUST celebrate!”

They helped Grace home to her old room, kept ready for this day. A long and fragrant bath, delicious sleep in the familiar bed, beautiful new garments brought in from the designers’ shop. Rejoicing, they prepared a banquet as Grace rested in the richness and welcome of their love.

FOR REFLECTION:
You recognize Jesus’ oft-told story of the lost son (Luke 15). Most dub him the “prodigal” son, but I think that misses Jesus’ point. The young man is surely foolish, wasteful, and self-focused, but he gives the word “prodigal” a bad name. “Prodigal” means lavishly, extravagantly, even foolishly generous. Could be with money, but could also be with love, with welcome and forgiveness. I think the REAL prodigals here are those parents who love without limit and then keep on loving when all their good gifts are squandered and never returned. They make fools of themselves for love as they welcome a very foolish, selfish child home.

Luke 15 records three “lost” stories: the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost child. In the parable of the lost sheep, the (male) shepherd represents Jesus. In the parable of the lost coin, the God-image is a woman. A father stands for God in the prodigal story, but I have drawn my version with two parents because in the Bible God images Himself in both fatherly and motherly word-pictures: “Abba (Daddy),” a mother hen gathering chicks, a father of two sons, a mother with babe at her breast.

In these varied gender images, I trust you will find freedom to find yourself as that child looking for home.

I invite you to take out your Bible and journal and spend some time listening to Jesus tell the story in Luke 15. One way to do this is to imagine yourself in the scene. Can you put yourself in the place of that lost child, that one who has so flagrantly wasted the parent’s resources and taken advantage of extravagant love? Can you hold yourself there for 15 minutes, or an hour or two, and explore memories or current situations in your life that the story brings to mind? Or other parts of the Bible that the story reminds you about? Will you invite Jesus to speak to you truly, into your inner being, about whatever comes to light, and choose to ride the words, thoughts, images, and emotions that arise through this small slice of His Word?

And then go forth in joy and in the peace of His presence with you in your day.

Out of my head...

Sometimes when I pray I try to picture Jesus in the room with me. As a thinker (you know--“thinker” as opposed to “feeler,” one of those intense folk whose guiding star is analysis and logic—and, honest, I can’t help it!), I have not always been sure when I was truly at prayer, talking to and listening for the eternal sovereign God, and when I was still trapped in my own head analyzing, applying truth, imagining what I think God might think. To picture Jesus can help. As I move out of internal conversation and into communion/communication, He surprises me like fresh wind. Another is present Who introduces surprising perspective, a way of seeing that I am simply unable to get to on my own.

Journal: 25 February--Abu Dhabi and a full house. “To picture You, Lord, present in each room of this house…. As I look around our bedroom, suddenly conscious of my environment, I’m struck by evidences of Your grace in our life together: Cait’s childhood art, ‘miracle’ furniture we could not have afforded, the artistry of the carpet under my feet. The kitchen: You see what I eat and HOW I eat it (with furtive guilt, or with gratitude and health), and You are present during all the meal prep, fellowship and laughter. The living room: the words on the wall become Your words; the warmth and space reflect Your safety, welcome, protection.

Journal: 2 July—the flat in Kas, Turkey. “Early morning, watching the town awake. When I close my eyes and try to picture You, Lord Jesus, I again sense You standing and stooping to serve us communion—the same impression I had as we prayed together on the balcony at the Gokseke house Sunday night. This balcony and that other—places You have chosen and anointed to share Your flesh and blood. Dare I believe this image is from You and not my own hope alone?”

Journal: 4 July 2008, home in Abu Dhabi after nearly four months away. “Your presence here today: You twisted the tree that became the lamp. You knew the Indian carpenter that carved the flowers on the high bench, and the American one that built the oak sofa 100 years ago. You gifted Steve Gordon to paint, and You love the women who knotted the carpets, and the metal smiths of Oman, Afghanistan and Iran who pounded the pots and trays. You created cows that give meat and leather, sheep that provide wool, peacocks, whale bone, moose, and sand for concrete and glass.

“You call forth the creativity in artists and inventors—people You gift to see possibilities in raw materials. You see and love the workers who work today in the heat of Abu Dhabi, Suleyman who installs his handcrafted cabinets in our kitchen in Kas, and the sweet daughter who helps him.”

Journal: 21 July 2008. “This morning as I turn my mind to focus on You, Jesus, here with me, I am awed (and timid) to recognize that life lived in Your presence is HOLY.

“We are children-at-play in whom You delight as we listen and take You seriously with childlike trust, and as we ‘work out’ our day before You with the sober understanding that our “play’ has purpose, hope, reality. For a child, ‘play’ is serious business, concentrated, abandoned in time and energy, experimental, and rich in love.”