on gardening and making things grow.

We pulled out the old plow when we wanted deeper furrows. Father said all the earth needed to be turned upside down and we had the morning to make life out there. The top soil was dry, but when we shoveled down we found the left-over moisture of April showers. It is not so very hard, to dig down and bring up freshness.

We put in the sweet onions and whistled something like a tune we somewhat knew. Sister and I repeated lines by Frances Hodgson Burnett—“a bit of earth… to plant seeds in—to make things grow—to see them come alive.” Then we put in the corn. And it took us time to find the watering can brother lost. But we collected worms in an old pot the whole time so we could go fishing later.

When the sun hit the top of the sky, mother brought us iced tea. And we all laughed at the little games we played while we worked. There is not much we could think of that would be better to do. Because we all need a garden, if for nothing else, than to make life in.

sunset in the sound.

For the beauty of the earth. The words plink about like a church piano. But the symphony joins in as eyes see surroundings. Moss on everything. Light, in the crevices and splattered over water. Salt water. Nose wrinkles as tongue tastes wet fingers. Salty alright. And fishermen go to work as the remaining gather, to rest to a seaside sunset. Sea lions safely away yet curious. Great pines stoic per normal.

For the beauty of each hour. It is dramatic, though true to scene, how breaths catch each time the sun melts a little lower. A beach of waiting, until the glow sinks all the way through the Olympics, right into the Puget Sound. Hard to go home after finales. The many over-shoulder glances testify to hearts wanting to want. And don’t we? There are only a smattering of still moments to sit in like these. We miss them more than we live them. Oh, to even know of all we fly by, that we might begin to change, to pace rightly the race.

For the joy of ear and eye. The words remind to take in the grandeur with full treasure stores of acknowledging—true, well-deep thoughts that taper into gratitude. Then single file. The remaining climb up and out of sandy pebbles. Back to firesides we won’t light because, and this is glorious, the warmth didn’t melt away. So we will sing truly all the way home.

For Thyself, best Gift Divine.

life, we love thee.

We stand tip-toed to sky-high dreams, and wonder at life. It is delight to ask. To listen. It is delight to learn from the answers.

There are dark months. But when we walk into light we see it better for those long tunnels.

“And Life, I love thee. Not because thou art long, or because thou hast done great things for me, but simply because I have thee from God.”[1]

Sunrise at Lake Washington.

We have life. Not for an extraordinary amount of time, not for the purposes we often end up making it about. We have it all the same. Easy to forget to love it though. Easy to say we hate it instead.

We walk into long lines and bad health. We fail, we hurt, and we declare joy-doom over it all—“Hate this. So much.” Most times we have perfectly good reasons to, but that does not make us the happier. Complaining, even if justifiable, is a sure shot to a poor, frowning type of life.

And we have to stop. Stop complaining.

We have to mean it when we tell them, “it is okay.” No more shoving the anger down into the pot. It always boils over. It does. When we are inconvenienced, that is right when life is. It is when we decide whether or not we keep treating people like people. When we choose to rush, or to sit silent in a moment, that is right when life is. When we do the work and whistle like jolly dwarves in the mine. May not be any diamonds today, but let us whistle our hearts back to happiness. For this is right when life is.

We want to say it, in all authenticity—“Life, I love thee!” So we should try. See it as the given thing of precious days that it is. See the Giver in His goodness. And when we look up this morning, we find a sun and feel a breeze that thick scales of discontent would not let us experience those mornings before. Life—we love thee.

---

[1] Jim Elliot

snow-walking to widows in paradise.

There are an odd mix of thoughts that lead me outdoors, but they muffle and drift with my first steps into white. How is it so bright this late?—Like all the city lights snatched into a hazy net hanging from tree tops.

I laugh to walk infinity footprints into the snow. Won’t last long, but it is forever for now.

Over the hill, across the golf course is the lake. Or it was. Seems everything is disguised in ice pearls tonight. The song plays—“I’d do anything for you”[1]—and I wonder, “Would I?” Careful not to step into water, wherever it went.

What if “anything” was digging underneath the whiteness? Not so pure once further down, not so soft. Hit ground, hit soul. And it is hard to admit faults.

Maybe I didn’t love as I should have. Where I couldn’t believe how often no one said thank you, perhaps kind-doing would not have expected it. Possible that I could say a lot of sorry’s and still not fully repair. I might have made it about me when they cried, “help.” Might have not done so well. Likely even, that I didn’t. Can I truth it, to better it? Can I do that “anything”?

I walk home backwards to see footprints fresh.

The song finishes—“I did everything for you”—and I remember, “He did.”

---

[1] For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Ypsilanti, Sufjan Stevens, 2003

elderflower tea.

“And I'll build a fire, you fetch the water and I'll lay the table.
And in our hearts, we still pray for sons and daughters.
And all those evenings out in the garden, red, red, wine,
These quiet hours turning to years.” –Allman Brown

We sit by the fire, sipping elderflower tea and reading here and there. It is a lovely moment. A lovely life. And yet, there is a little question in the shadows, a hint of sad, or curiosity maybe. Is this life? The one we imagined?

Words go fuzzy as brain goes rambling—what is it that we want, beyond adventure, love, and fireside silence? When we try to fall asleep and think instead, what are the thoughts we keep awake for?

There is sweet looking back: coffee on the beach after sunset, tired lungs on a mountain, laughing over food with friends, the cozy-home days and unforgettable travels. The way our heart loved.

There is sweet looking forward: the new things that scare-excite, the trip, the weekend, the art to create, the deepening of friendship, the walks. All the potential for more love.

There is sweet looking now: tea by the fire, the long thoughts before sleep, work to do, people to care for, the music to serenade every bit of it. Love.

We want that—to see beauty no matter which direction we look at time. Whether “that-which-happened,” “that-which-will-hopefully-come,” or, and especially, “that-which-is-now.”

Is it lovely to us?

Because—we hardly need say it—for all the sweet looking there is much bitter too. And though it feels a near impossible discipline, our way of looking is self-chosen.

Stained glass collects water drops on the back porch and not everything goes the way that seems to lead to happiness. It can be beautiful in the rain though. Hearts, keep praying. May it be joy for all, to see the quiet hours turn to years.

worship.

We watched her fade. And it wasn’t for one second what we wanted. Somehow there were reconciled thoughts all around the room though. ‘Till the last is defiance—why must things be as they are? But with it can come some strange acceptance—well, they just are so.

It is a rainy Christmas and we figure, at least it’s still warm enough to rain. No matter cloudy skies and gloom. There are always a few different ways of looking at circumstances. I don’t want the bitter taste any more than you, but I do want to walk away uncrippled. If we lean on each other a little here a little there, we’ll put the crutches out of business and be ready to give a hand to others soon. Theoretically at least.

Asking why is okay. Perhaps even healthy. Our fists were made to shake to the rhythm of what is right. “Let justice roll down like water,”[1] declared the Lord through the ancient prophet. And may it roll down, down, down.

Then again, think how it would sweep us all away. Not one of us would be left standing with stone in hand. Throw first, ye sinless. The world trembles at the thud of all condemnations dropping to the ground.

Just look at the evil here. Evil in us. It’s not so much a wonder bad happens; it’s more a wonder good does.

The best we see to do is take longer to sip the coffee, love deeper each chance we get, praise the Lord for life every dark or well-lit day. Follow His footprints as clear as you can track them. Reconcile thoughts with this—

Hands lift wood to hilltop as stones and water roll down over innocence instead. So come and worship. Come.

---

[1] Amos 5:24

bring lazarus back.

The preacher stood and told us stories about the ones that had fallen away. He told it broken, as he felt. But he did not leave us without an explanation.

“They just couldn’t,” he paused. It was hard. He looked right at our souls, “they couldn’t reconcile their pain with who Jesus is.”*

Neither can we.

The Father turns His face away, and how deep we don’t feel Him. Or His love for us.

We meander out the doors, leaving as soon as it is not obvious that we want to. And it is not that we don’t daily seek Him. It is that in knowing more, we aren’t necessarily awed. Driving through hills and city, there is beauty. We are not blind to it, for we rose when He called, “Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead.” (Eph. 5:14 AMPC)

Yet we are living as this—“O wretched man that I am!”(Rom. 7:24 NKJV)—a flock of chief sinners who get a lot farther along than a lot of others, but it doesn’t eradicate guilt. And we understand He sacrificed for that. For us. Thanks.

Mostly it is impossible to love Him the height and depth we want to. I won’t admit it if you don’t, but it is for a lot of the classic reasons. Primarily, He could have rescued in places that are now dead. We wail, like Mary, “Lord, if You had been there…” Does He groan for us? Would the Jews say, “See how He loved…” while looking upon His face looking upon our sorrow? Because He isn’t bringing Lazarus back (John 11:32-27 NKJV). And we know it is wrong, but we demand “rights.” Of which we have none. Thanks.

Who are You, Jesus?

The problem is memory—being so happy. If we hadn’t been so happy, we wouldn’t be so miserable now. We should say thanks and mean it, but the prince of the power of the air has some kind of a nasty hold on our thoughts. We want to sleep. Want to stop thinking how happy we were. We are okay and we get things done and then someone mentions something or we view memory, like pictures near unbelievable, and we ache and we cry and we hate once more. We read about gifts, all the things we do not see nor express gratitude for. Would we mean it if we did? We serve the Church again, again, and think, “God loves a cheerful giver” (2 Cor. 9:7 NKJV). But we do not muster cheer, and so we wonder if He does not love us.

Do You love us?

We are sure there is fullness of joy in this life with Him somehow. Or at least in the hope of the life to come. We drink tea and read more and long for purpose. A friend sends a verse: “Until now you have asked nothing in My name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full.” (John 16:24) We have been begging Him—give Lazarus back! But what does it mean to ask in His name? Is it to say, “in the name of Yourself, O mighty Jesus Christ, please… return, restore, rebuild”? He gave so generously and beautifully before—we are sorry not to have thanked more—that all other giving looks sad next to it now.

We want nothing else but what we want. We try to forget that because it sounds and feels and is pathetic. But we remember and we scream, “WHY?” a thousand times in our heads.

How do we ask in Your name? How? Do You hate us yet? We hate ourselves.

We try pretending we just want… in general, and that is why we are lonely. But we dress up for the party and smile and detest everyone there. This is not it. Must be sinful, or sacrilegious, because we feel ashamed to think so, but we question Him ending that which brought Him glory. Because it did, didn’t it? Please, awaken Lazarus.

If what we ask for is wrong [is it?], then what do we ask for in Your name?

He gave salvation. Though, wretches that we are, we don’t deserve it. What else shall we ask for? People say we should know Him more. His word speaks of increasing our knowledge of Him.

But we smell the absent spices, and You must be a God that hates us. We feel the heat of those days and hear the heartbeat we had, and You are a God that toys with our feelings. The lost beautiful speaks up, and You are a God that breaks our hearts.

What should we ask for? Have we not blasphemed Your name yet? Are we doomed to hell?

No. Because we love Him. Still. Most. Lazarus or not. We recognize that He can withhold the rain, He can use sorrow to speak. May we not hear Him say, “Yet they have not returned to Me” (Amos 4:7-8 NKJV). And You are a God that wants us. When we praise, when we do nothing, when we call out among the scoffers. Shame, hear your mocking voice. But grace, hear what saves. It is not, now, 

in the raising of the dead, it is in the making of all things new.

Make all things new? Please. It would reconcile the pain with who You are, wouldn’t it, Jesus?

Questions answer questions. Though comfort isn’t so much in asking, as in having someone to ask. And You are a God that is here.

So we go back to listen to the preacher, knowing the small distance between us and those that have fallen away. As we listen, it is good, because that is what He is, and that is what He will make us.

“It will not, it will never be enough
Just to know about You, Jesus, but never call You my own …

Draw to me, Jesus.
I’ve made my heart a home.”(Home - Bethel Music)

*Matt Rose