And They Danced

I went to Katie’s school the other day to have lunch with her. As I sat in the hallway waiting for her class to appear, I watched the children make their way through the cavernous hallways.

Single file…

Mouths shut tightly…

The familiar clip, clip of the teacher’s heels pounding on the tiled floors.

As they filed past I began to hum… all in all it’s just another brick in the wall. Oops… where did that come from? Pink Floyd?

When the next class came up the hallway, I watched as they marched silently, single file, close enough to the wall the keep the corridor clear. Hands clutching little metal lunch boxes, I began to sing… O EEE oh, O EEE Oh… (Picture Wizard of Oz march…)

The third class started around the corner… Hands by their sides, stepping in unison, silence and order reigned… until I saw him. Yes, you could not miss him.

As he rounded the corner the single file line took a detour. Arms flailing, hips moving to some unknown beat, the little boy danced his way down the corridor… everyone around him acting as if he did not exist.

As he danced, I sang … “Celebrate good times. Come on… it’s a celebration…” (Yes, still a child of the 70’s) I made it to the second “celebrate” before our mental music came to a screeching halt. Then came the voice. You know the voice. It is the voice that has told you all of your life that you must conform and fit in. From somewhere down the hall, just around the corner, I hear its weight shifting from burdened grown up, to carefree boy… the voice bellows… “That will be just about enough out of you, mister! You will now have a SILENT LUNCH (now picture the special effect echo...)… silent lunch… silent lunch…

A hush fell, accusing eyes darted toward the child who had dared break the rule. Dancing… in the middle of a school! How dare he?! The dancing stopped. The little boy stepped obediently into line, following the same path as everyone else, and went into the cafeteria, where he would now partake of his SILENT LUNCH. Order was restored once again. Chaos ceased to reign. All was well. The dancing had been brought under control. I mean, how dare he dance…?!

If I could go back and do it over, I would dance down every single hallway and risk the silent lunch.

I felt the little dancer dude’s pain. I thought about the many (and I do mean many) times Mrs. Margaret Bunch would sneak up behind me during naptime and swat my backside with that paddle just because I had something very life-changing and urgent to tell the person asleep on the mat next to mine. I mean, had it not been for this strong gifting of conversation that God had given me; I might have been truly scarred!

What’s my point?

Oh, I don’t know. Why does everything have to have a point? Sometimes you just want to talk about things… get them off your chest.

Ah, yes, my point is this:

There will be many times in your life – if you love God with all of your heart – that you will absolutely feel compelled to a heart rhythm, a different drum. You will hear music that no one else hears; feel a lightness in your step that woos you to dance instead of march. And when you feel His music, Darlin’ dance. Be willing to risk a silent lunch or two. Be ready to release what people think about you in exchange for caring what He thinks, because if you never risk it, you will miss the transcendent Celebrate moments.

Dear one, never let clicking heels – or wagging tongues – stop your dance. Or, as my four year old daughter so aptly sang as she danced her way absently down the aisle at church… “Our God is an awesome God… so shake, shake, shake,- shake, shake, shake, shake your booty.”

Selah

Still Waters

When I was a child I could not imagine why anyone would want to be “led beside still waters.” Who wants still waters? What fun is water when it is still? What were these grown-ups thinking that they would want a God who would lead them by still waters?

Me? Well, I wanted a God who would lead me down a log ride and splash headfirst into a waterfall. I wanted a God who was not afraid of whitewater.

Yep, it was cool that Peter walked on water, but could he ski?

Old people… I would think to myself ... they don’t know nothin’ about water. Didn’t they know that the only thing living in still water were turtles, tadpoles and catfish; mud-dwellers. Nope. That was not for me. I wanted to have to watch behind me for the next wave. I wanted to have to hold onto daddy to keep the undertow from taking me out. Rushing water - that was more my style. Now that was water!

Still water? Please….

Some forty years later, my perceptions have changed, for I have become one of those old people I could not understand. I know this because though the words still waters are still followed by the word please, the intonation is altogether different. The cry is not one of “you must be kidding,” but those of Oliver Twist “Please sir, can I have some more?” The thought of still waters evokes images of green grass and chaise lounges. Still waters call to me when I am in the midst of chaos. Still waters rest me when I am bone-weary.

I had a dream not too long ago about one of my friends that made me feel a moment of piercing jealousy. In the dream, she was laying beside a gently flowing stream. The water was cool and clear, the sound peaceful. In the dream, she was lying on her left side, her left arm curled under her head, her right hand skimming the waters surface as she rested. She looked so peaceful in this dream. She had found her place by the waters. Everything in me wanted to go there. My spirit longed for that place in Him.

When I told my friend about the dream she cried, for I was the second to tell her of such a dream, and the third to call her to the waters. His Spirit had called her first, When she had failed to respond to the drawing call, He had then sent two others to confirm what she already knew in her spirit: she was simply too busy. She was overloaded and way too tired to function, but she still had so much to do she could not see how to lay it all down. But the Lord knew. He knew she needed to come away and be refreshed and renewed. She was exhausted and Her beloved knew what she needed. She needed a time of still waters.

So, she repented and began to listen to the Fathers wooing, and I watched as one by one she began to lay down the balls she had been juggling, and began a journey with Him toward still waters.

In my minds eye I can see it so clearly - see the cares and responsibilities falling away like so many yesterdays - as she walks toward what she knows is there, but cannot touch as of yet. Then, as she catches sight of the water, I see her reaching down and sliding the shoes off of her feet. Walking barefoot, her head thrown back, she looks into the face of her Beloved, as her tired feet finally touch the crystal waters. Tears fall unchecked as the waters run through the weary places in her soul, making all things new.

She sits at the waters edge, soft grass welcoming, the fragrance of Presence surrounding her, as a million worries begin to wash away in the waters. Breath fills her for the first time in ages, as the One with the voice of many waters begins to sing over her.

She lies down on her left side, her left arm curled under her head. Her right hand skims the waters surface…

And my heart longs.

It is time, my friend, to seek out the still waters.

In Process

Malachi 3
2.For he will be like a refiner's fire or a launderer's soap. 3 He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver; he will purify the Levites and refine them like gold and silver. Then the LORD will have men who will bring offerings in righteousness, 4 and the offerings of Judah and Jerusalem will be acceptable to the LORD, as in days gone by, as in former years.

When I was a little girl, we loved to make homemade ice cream at my granny’s house. We did it with the hand crank ice cream mixer. It seemed like it took forever on those hot summer days. That ice cream just did not want to freeze! I would turn and turn until I thought my arm would surely fall off. “Granny! Granny! How long’s this gonna take?” I’d fuss. “I reckon it’s gonna take as long as it takes.” Would always be her reply.

It was not what I wanted to hear, but it was true.

The work just takes however long it takes. You cannot predict when ice cream will freeze in the summer, and you cannot predict how long the Refiners fire will have to burn before the work is completed. One thing you can be sure of, however, is that the Refiner never leaves the fire unattended. As children, we knew that if we left the ice cream and ran off to play – it took longer. The work that had been accomplished up to that point then had to be redone.

By the same token, if we run from the flames and reject His purifying process – we just might find ourselves in the same flame at a future date. God finishes what He starts.

Did you know that if you do not put your trust in the Refiner and stay committed to the completed work, all the flames will bring about is a brittle hardness? You place something in an oven long enough, it is reduced to ashes… but long before the ash process is a hardening process. In both cases, the work is incomplete.

We have seen it time after time. Someone goes through a hard time and a difficult place and instead of being refined, they come away bitter and hard, and do not want to let anyone in. The refining process was not accepted, and therefore the hardness of heart increases, ashes and hardness mark their path, and most who come in contact with them feel the sting of their dry places.

Oh, dear ones, stay in the process until the work is completed. I know the temperature is rising, and your metal is being tested, but beauty truly is on the way. Do not run. Keep your mind centered on the Refiner instead of the fire. He will keep you in perfect peace – no matter how hot it gets!

And when the work is done... find a nice shade tree and have that bowl of ice cream:0)

The Wedding

I stood and looked out over the field in front of my mother’s house. Acres of old garden and dried hay stretched before me. The Blallock’s old farmhouse stood on the hill across the dirt road, a stark white contrast to the deepening shadows of the day. In between the two aged dwellings something wonderful was taking place – something of eternal significance; my cousin was marrying his bride.

I watched as men in overalls and women in gingham dresses made their sojourn across the field, not to an arbor, or a lace covered gazebo, but simply to the center of the field… the same field that had grown their crops, fed their families, and resounded with the feet of running children. The tender circle began to form. There was no wedding coordinator to lead the way, or ushers to seat grand ladies, there was simply a gathering – a gathering of good people.

As the country minister made his way to the center of the circle, the father of the groom threw a stone at a barking hound dog, prompting it to head back to its lazy perch upon the worn rug that graced the weathered front porch. Then I saw them – the bride and the groom – walking hand in hand toward the gathering. She wore a simple white dress, and he – well, he shone brightly in his dress uniform – the same he would wear when he left for Iraq the same week.

As the couple walked close, the circle opened to receive them, then closed once again around them. They were surrounded by generations of faithful hearts and strong backs, generous souls with calloused hands. And as I watched, the good people bowed to thank their Creator for the blessed bounty of this day. A day without crystal goblets and chandeliers. A day without string quartets and satin slippers. A day when cotton dresses and work boots would stand witness to God’s goodness in fields of promise.

The sun began its descent just as the preacher whispered shyly to the groom – “You can kiss her now.” The soldier bent his head and kissed his pink cheeked bride, holding her close to his heart, as the circle grew quite small. Hands were shaken, backs patted and embraces shared as the couple was absorbed into the hearts of their kin.

Men and women, hand in hand, turned and made their way across the field and down the road to their own dwellings.

Life resumed… and the field brought forth life, once again.

FOCUS

When I was fifteen, I had my first real date. I remember it distinctly. I was living with my grandmother at the time and thought my ship had finally come in. I was going on an honest to goodness, guy pick you up in a car, date.

It wasn’t that I had actually liked the boy that much when he asked me out, it was everything that had happened since the asking. I had begun to FOCUS. What would I wear? How would I do my hair? How clean could I get granny’s house before he walked in it to pick me up? What would he wear? Where would we go? What would we do? Was he THE ONE? Would he like me? What if I bit into the pizza and it was too hot and I pulled burning cheese out of my mouth in front of him? What does one wear to the emergency room when burned by pizza cheese?

By the time Saturday morning arrived, I was a wreck. I think I was dressed, hair done and in full make-up by 7:00 … AM. All I had left to do for the next twelve hours was lay in front of my granny’s old turntable and listen to Boston’s “More Than a Feeling.”

Needless to say, by the time he arrived in his black T-Top Trans Am, I already knew how many children we would have, ( two - Brandy and Chayse), what kind of house we would live in, (two story red brick), what color my Camero would be, (red), and that our black Persian cat would be named FIFI.

Poor guy. He thought we were going out for a coke.

So, what happened during those twelve hours that took me from getting a coke with a boy, to spending the rest of my days on earth with him?

FOCUS.

Prov 23:7
7 For as he thinketh in his heart, so is he (KJV)

We truly do fall in love with what we focus on, with what we invest our time in.
So, I guess the question of the week is this: Where is your focus? What, or who occupies your mind? Where is your treasure? For it is there that you will find your heart.

I do not think I ever went out with that guy again… but thanks to a healthy imagination and a whole lot of intense focus, for twelve hours in a fifteen-year-old girl’s life, I was married with children.

THE INVITATION

My uncle Tommy had an in ground pool. Understand, where I came from, only rich people had pools, and an in-ground… well, those were almost unheard of.

His house sat high upon the hill overlooking my grandmother's little homestead. From his perch he could see when the grandchildren all pulled into the yard, and in his more benevolent moments, he would make that much anticipated call. We would all kind of hold our breath when the phone rang, hoping against hope that it was our invitation to come up and swim. We were not allowed to ask if we could come up, we came by invitation only… his rules, not ours.

When the call would come, shrieks and laughter would follow. There was no need to run into granny's house and change... since we had all worn our swimsuits under our clothes (just in case). T shirts and shorts went flying as bare feet made their painful and hasty ascent up the gravel driveway. Looking back, it must have seemed a bit daunting, this charge of the tiny shoeless kid cavalry coming up that hill. In retrospect, I can (almost) see why Uncle Tommy made the invitation only rule. But, at the time, it was like Chinese water torture, this knowing there was cool water I could not get to. In my minds eye I knew that true joy awaited me on that mountain… if only I had an invitation to come up.

And the invitations were rare.

Yet somehow, even when invited I never felt like a guest, but a tolerated obligation. I never truly felt welcome and wanted on those grounds. Even as a child I sensed that they were waiting for us to leave. But our love for the water overrode the uneasiness of the guilt induced invitation. We just wanted to play in the water... no strings attached.

When I first learned that there was water to be had in the Kingdom of God… true, no-more-thirst kind of water, I thought there must surely be a catch. How could there be costly, pure, refreshing spiritual water… more than I could possibly imagine, and how could it be there for the taking? I mean, surely there would have to be rules and stipulations, guidelines and by-laws. Surely the trip must be invitation only; and how presumptuous would it be if I asked Him if I could come up?

My heart could barely take it in, this open invitation to pristine waters. What kind of God would leave an open path up the mountain, and preferred a crazy shoeless ascent? What kind of generosity birthed an unending access to private pools, and cascading rivers of unquenchable life? And what kind of love could make you feel like they never wanted you to leave?

Oh, dear one, that is what I have found in Him. Open invitation, generous welcome, and embracing love. Crystal clear waters and unending refreshing.

I love Him so.

When I think about God today I see Him amidst waters. He is always flowing and rich with life. I see Him as welcoming and waiting. I see Him watching the children run up the mountain, His eyes alight with merriment, His shoulders shaking with the rich sound of laughter.

This is my God. He is brave and good and mighty. He is generous, wise and kind. His is the voice that awakens the waters, and invites all to come up the mountain.

His feet glowed like burnished (bright) bronze as it is refined in a furnace,

and His voice was like the sound of many waters. [Dan 10:6 ]
Revelation 1:14-16

UNRAVELED

I think I must be tired. I’m not sure.

If I could sit down for a few minutes and actually think, I might be able to figure it out. Lately it seems as if the moment I sit down the phone rings or the door bell dings. This causes me to entertain the thought that my phone and doorbell are somehow attached to the seat of my comfy chair in the corner. Alas, it cannot be true, for others sit in that chair and there is no knock at the door for hours on end.

I have noticed that my email message board constantly reminds me that it is time to archive old items… which means there are way too many messages stored in its finite memory. I have decided that my computer and I have the same problem. Too many messages, so little space. My email inbox stays full, and I am quite sure there are many of you sitting out there wondering… just like the line from Dances With Wolves… Why don’t she write?

I truly mean to. I have every intention of doing so... soon. I am trusting that all of you who know me have already reached the conclusion that I do love you, and will, therefore, extend me a bit of grace. Those who do not know me… well, I will answer yours first, for I do not expect that same grace extension from you. In time, you may be asked to extend, but for now, just let me say, “The response is in the mail.”

Why do I ramble on with such nonsense? Many have asked that question. But what I find is that my mental meanderings are something of an unwinding for me. If you can for one moment picture a huge ball of yarn rolling across a polished floor, leaving its singular threaded trail, you will understand my rambling. It is as if I have wound myself around something important, and must unravel to get at the hidden center.

So what is hidden today that has prompted this trail of twine? Let’s see, I must push just a bit to straighten that last bit of unruly thread… Ah, yes, there it is. I see it clearly now. Four little letters: sert; no, ters, wait… estr… oh, there it is… rest.

I must unravel to rest. I must unwind and rest. I must meander to find my place of rest.

The Father speaks, “Rest, child.” The words cause me to breathe deep. “Rest, child.” My shoulders relax, my head bent forward, I test the neck muscles with a slow side-to-side stretch. “Rest, Child.” Head in my hands, my eyes begin to feel their own weight. Like a soft wind blowing through the trees, His voice disturbs me beautifully, “Rest, child.” One more breath; it reaches deep and sends the yarn spinning forward, one single strand meets four letters…

And I rest.

· Matthew 11:28
"…Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.