Wednesday, May 28, 2014

watch, wait, see


Lately, I've been reminded of how often I miss things.  I've often allowed distractions whether inside my head or outside of it to make me miss the things that are right in front of my eyes.  A hurry, rush, distract mindset keeps me from a watch, wait, and see kind of life, the kind I ultimately desire.

A few weeks ago I finished reading "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," a book of reflections by Annie Dillard from living next to and observing a creek and the life surrounding it and in it for a year.  I read it over the course of a few months, which was not the best way to read it, but I loved it despite struggling to sometimes grasp the overarching structure, which was fully revealed at the end.

The thing I learned, the thing that changed me from reading it was a reawakened desire to see, to be present and watch for things I would otherwise miss in my daily mental distraction.

Around the time I finished the book it finally started getting warm here in Chicago.  My daughter and I go on frequent walks together through our neighborhood, soaking up the sun I missed so badly, and my baby girl meeting the sun for the first time after spending her first months of life trapped inside by late fall and a long winter.

Now I watch, I try to see things I would normally miss.  So like Annie waiting on the bridge for muskrats, I look to see things in places that are familiar, waiting to see something new.  I saw a bird with black and white markings with a red badge on its chest, a kind I had never seen before in the next door neighbor's tree.  I marveled at the nearly naked trees exploding into vibrant green after the spring rain last week.  I saw bird droppings fall from a tree.  I stopped to breathe and smell lilacs.  I watched squirrels carry their trash turned treasure from the garbage cans along the fence.  I saw a tree bloom beautiful pink blossoms one day, and returned to see the petals covering the sidewalk a couple days later.

And I watch my baby.  I watch her take in everything for the first time.  I see her look up into the trees and gaze at the branches, stark against the blue sky.  I watch her grip the tray of her stroller, sticking out her little chin, braving the spring wind, looking like a tiny sea captain of a ship she can't steer.   I see neighbors smile at her whether or not they make eye contact with me.  I hear her babbling and cooing to the trees, the flowers, the wind.  I watch her give in to sleep and wait for her to wake up and discover more of the world surrounding her.

I'm seeing the beauty, the gifts around me, and the newness of life in spite of the brokenness around me.  

It isn't all idyllic in a Chicago neighborhood.  There were emergency vehicles on our block the other night. A man passed away a few houses down. We've seen graffiti on garages, on stop signs.  There are streets full of potholes.  There are homeless men peddling at the corner.  One look at the Tribune in the morning can sour your day to there being any hope in a violent city like this.

Pascal said, "Every religion that does not confirm that God is hidden, is not true."  The brokenness is often the blinder, the shield against seeing the God who heals and creates, the God who makes all things new.

The brokenness is evident not just among humans but in the world of creatures as well.  In the second half of Tinker Creek, Dillard spends time focusing on the violence in creation.  Animals eating their own young,  the mating ritual of praying mantises, bugs and animals living parasitically off of each other, the river floods.  Even in a pastoral setting with few humans to cause trouble, there is violence, there is pain.

Prolonged study of nature, be it the created world or mankind or both together, will dazzle the observer with breathtaking sights of beauty and bitter signs of corruption.  Things are beautiful and things are broken.

"Reading about nature is fine, but if a person walks in the woods and listens carefully, he can learn more than what is in books, for they speak with the voice of God."- George Washington Carver

I want the voice of God to speak to me in sunsets and spring rain, but could it be that the voice is just as loud when I walk by the dead body of a pigeon, a fallen tree, a smelly sewer grate, a one-eyed dog?

"For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities - His eternal power and divine nature - have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse." Romans 1:20


Perhaps the voice that shouts to me of the divine nature of God when I see the stars in the Northwoods is the same voice that screams inside me when another child is shot on the south side of my city, when someone dies too young, too soon.  The voice that cries "all is not right" begs me to recognize that there must be something, Somebody who is right, who is good.  That this world wasn't made for violence, and one day it will be violent no more.

Can the brokenness that hides God help us find Him once again?

Can the glimpses of beauty remind us there is something Beautiful behind it?

Will we be saved by observation that leads to sorrow that leads to repentance?

We took a walk last week and passed the house that was visited by emergency vehicles a few days earlier.  Our little neighbor was running through the grass and laying dandelions and tulip petals on the porch steps.  "I'm decorating the porch for my neighbor who died," she told us solemnly.  Beauty in brokenness.

The world around us is one grand parable of a hidden God that will make Himself known to children and those with child-like hearts. He will speak in the splendor and the suffering.  We must wait, watch, and see that we may know and understand.  Open eyes may lead to our salvation.

"Jesus asked, "Do you see anything?"  He looked up and said, "I see people; they look like trees walking around." Once more Jesus put His hands on the man's eyes.  Then his eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly." Mark 8:23-25

We can't stop looking for the God who gives sight to the blind, makes the lame walk, and the deaf hear.  The God who made things perfectly is renewing that which is broken.  Whole or shattered, He is still here amongst the pieces for those who look for Him.

"And He who was seated on the throne said, "Behold, I am making all things new." Revelation 21:5


Thursday, April 10, 2014

the lake: poem & song



the waves crest white with foam
not ice
the thaw has settled in

my fingertips test the lake's shallowest place

recoil
though thawed still frigid

breathe in deeply, the wind races by

skyline
cuts across bike path and sand

first time by the water, sun's warmth

her face
she smiles and laughs, eyes full with wonder

we will return, not this week but maybe next

summer
is coming and the waiting won't be long

one last look as we return to the car, not goodbye

good day
we'll see you again soon

____________________


Poem & song inspired by our daughter's first trip to the Lakeshore.

Friday, March 28, 2014

"Speak Lord, Your servant is listening."

I tune things out.  Tim alerted me to this one day a few years ago at my parents' house.  I was having a nice conversation when Tim interrupted, "Do you realize two of your sisters are trying to talk to you and one is crying in the next room?"

Embarrassed I defended myself by saying that if you grow up in a house with 13 people, you'll have to tune some things out if you want to get anything done.  There is a little truth to my defense, but it was indefensible to let my sister cry while I chatted away.

Since having a baby of my own, I've noticed that I still tune out most things, but I'm always ready to hear her voice.

When she is laying down for a nap, I quietly catch up on tasks, listening intently all the while for the first whimper that signals nap time is over.  I check regularly whether I hear a sound or not to make sure I haven't missed her cry.  But when I do hear her, it is unmistakable.  I know her voice so well; the voice of my baby. Five months of intensive one-on-one time has attuned me to her voice, even when we are in a large crowd of people.

My sensitivity to my baby's voice is a sensitivity I long to have to the voice of God.

In our daily devotional, we have been going through 1st Samuel.  At the beginning of the book, Samuel, the child of Hannah's prayers, is called by name in the middle of the night.  He mistakes it for the voice of the old prophet Eli.  Eli, groggy with sleep, tells him to go back to bed.  This happens three times before Eli "realized that the Lord was calling the boy." (1 Sam. 3:8)  Eli then instructs Samuel to go back to bed, "and if He calls you, say, 'Speak, Lord, for Your servant is listening.'" (1 Sam. 3:9)

The Lord then speaks to Samuel, telling of the downfall of the house of Eli.  Samuel shares the word of the Lord with Eli, which Eli accepts as the Lord's will.  Samuel continues serving the Lord, and the Scripture says that "the Lord was with Samuel as he grew up and He let none of his words fall to the ground." (1 Sam. 3:19)

Eli is a tragic figure in the book of Samuel. He knew the Lord, but he has raised worthless sons that have been leading the people away from God with their wickedness.  Eli is rarely, if ever, hearing the voice of God anymore. It says earlier in the passage that "in those days the word of the Lord was rare; there were not many visions." (1 Sam. 3:1)

I often identify with Samuel in this passage, wanting the simplicity of the words, "Speak Lord, for Your servant is listening," to be the theme of my life, the story of my days, the echoing cry of each minute I breathe.  I want ears that not only hear the voice of God, but listen to it, and obey it.

Though I have long identified with Samuel, I fear becoming like Eli.  I'm afraid that years of disobedience, or half-obedience may deaden my ears to the voice of the Lord, the voice calling my name in the quiet hours of the night.  I'm afraid that I won't be ready to hear His voice, afraid that I will become complacent and miss it.  Like Eli, I might miss the voice of God because I am out of practice and no longer attentive, instead of waiting to hear His voice at all times like I wait to hear my baby's voice.

I am not young Samuel anymore, hearing the voice of God for the first time.  I have heard the voice of God in my life and responded to it.  God has been with me. But mine is not a story of perfect obedience, and there are days that feel like the word of the Lord is rare.  Times that I'm in danger of becoming the house of Eli, instead of the faithful Samuel.

Why don't I always listen?  I'm afraid to listen because I'm afraid of the call to repentance, the voice calling me to smash an idol, to give more, to love more sacrificially, to stop living like my life is about me and my plans, to start losing this life to Jesus instead of scrambling to save it for myself.

What I forget though, is that every time I listen, God reminds of this first: "I love you Abby."  The words that I so desperately need to hear always precede the words I'm afraid to hear.  I am loved by God, and His kindness leads to me to repentance. (Romans 2:4)  I repent because of God's love for me, out of love for Him.

Dallas Willard writes, "Our failure to hear His voice when we want to is due to the fact that we do not in general want to hear it, that we want it only when we think we need it."  I want my desire to hear the voice of God to supersede my fear about what He might say, or what I hope to hear Him say.

The reason I can hear my baby's voice above all others is I practice listening to it.  I strain to hear it. Sometimes I even imagine I have heard it and then check and find she is still sleeping quietly in the bedroom.  I am ready at any given moment to hear her voice and drop whatever else I am doing immediately.  I know her voice from practice and I hear it out of attentiveness.

I don't want to just listen to God when I have an important decision to make and need direction.  I want to hear Him calling me to a better attitude as I wash the dishes, I want to hear Him speak of His love for my neighbors as I walk down our block, I want to hear Him when He calls me to little acts of faithfulness throughout the day.  I want to hear the call to repentance, the call of mercy bringing me back from my sin.  I want to hear the voice that says I love you not because of the things you do, but because I am love, and you are my beloved daughter.  I want to practice attentiveness to the voice of God so I'm ready whenever He calls, not just when I want to hear Him.

Relationships collapse when the lines of communication are broken.  We all want to be heard, but it's much harder to listen.  I'm ready to stop talking at God and start listening.

"A man prayed, and at first he thought that prayer was talking.  But he became more and more quiet until in the end he realized that prayer is listening." -Søren Kierkegaard.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

this child in His hands

Less than a year ago I was crying out to the Lord asking Him to give us a Samuel that we could give back to Him.

A few months later I was crying in the bathroom, holding a positive pregnancy test.

Today, we are a month and half from our due date, and I'm still having a hard time grasping the fact that our daughter is moving around inside me and we will soon, Lord willing, be holding her in our arms.

I've learned so much about how God really is the One holding all things together over this past year, and how little I'm in control.

When we got pregnant, it was so easy to worry.  At the beginning you have little assurance that everything is going okay with your little lentil-sized baby.  You can't hear the heartbeat, you can't feel her kicking, and the doctor has very little to say to you other than "I hope your nausea and vomiting subsides soon."

There is so much fear that you will do something, eat something, or that something else you can't control will happen to you that will cause you to lose this baby you have waited for, this baby that you prayed for.

And I found myself right where I was in November, on my knees, asking God to do what I could not.  This time it was begging Him to sustain the life that He created inside me.

As I gave Him control over our baby's life, I realized that this wasn't something I was just going to do while I was pregnant, but something I'm going to need to do for the rest of our daughter's life, no matter how long or how short it is, for each day that God gives her. He must be the one sustaining her and giving her life.

There are so many things in this world that can cause her harm, and I won't have the power to protect her from them.  Even if I kept her cooped up in the apartment with me for the rest of my life like a Miss Haversham she could still get hurt, still get burned by a broken world.

And the more effort I expend trying to control her life, that will only give her reason to hate me and the unreasonable constraints I try to impose on her for her safety.

God does use parents as a means of provision and protection for the little ones of creation.  But He never intended that we try to become the gods of their lives by controlling them and protecting them from all harm.  We couldn't do it even if we tried.  We are helpless to give them all that they need, but God can and will be the everything for them that we could never be.

It's comforting to me to remember that the deep and overwhelming love I feel for this little one inside me is not even a fraction of the love that God has for her.  He loves her more than I ever can, and that is someone I can trust with taking care of her when I am powerless and weak.

"Now they were bringing even infants to Him that He might touch them.  And when the disciples saw it, they rebuked them.  But Jesus called them to Him, saying, 'Let the children come to Me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God.  Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.'"  Luke 18:15-17

I pray that God would protect me from ever hindering His little one from coming to Him, and I hope that everyday will be a chance for me to bring our baby girl to Him that He might touch her and make her whole.

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

spring

my shoulders relax as the sun defrosts my body,
the stress, the cold that made me ache melts away.
my mood lifts as the temperature rises
and I feel that I'm alive again, I'm being renewed.

the sky is bluer, the air is warmer.
I can hear the birds once again, the breeze is fragrant.
the wind doesn't cut through to my bone, down to the marrow.
I welcome the rush round my face and through my hair.

the clouds are golden as the sun sets after dinner.
I don't mourn its departure, for I know tomorrow,
tomorrow it will rise before I do and wake me with its brightness,
and the day will be new, fresh, and light.

once again death is held at bay, the cold is banished.
for a time we will revel in the sun and heat
and remember that no cold will ever stay forever
and death will never win.

Monday, January 28, 2013

on passing, love, and regret.

Great Grandma Smit passed away a few months ago.

It was hard not to feel pangs of guilt, the aftermath after she took her last breath.  Grandma was always quiet.  She said very little and usually just sat watching you play and chatter away with your cousins.

As I heard the stories and the memories about Grandma, I felt not just, "I miss Grandma," but "I missed Grandma."  I missed her while she was here, I missed out on getting to know her.

Even though I didn't see Grandma that much growing up, over the course of my life there were many parties that I could have sat next to her, asked her about her childhood, what it was like having eight children, what she missed most about Grandpa, why she loved Jesus, and so on.

But I didn't.  I was young enough to care more about presents, care more about me.  And the older I got, I didn't always know where to start.  So being with Grandma meant giving her a hug and telling her it was good to see her, but that was all.

Despite the regret, there are memories.  Touches of Grandma that thread through my childhood and my sibling's childhood too.  The receiving blankets that she crocheted borders to, wrapped around all of my brothers and sisters as infants.  The washcloths she made that wiped off sticky hands and counter tops   The handmade caramels that were the most important part of the Smit Family Christmas to my brother Isaac and I.  We would stuff our dress clothes pockets with them and savor them for days.

And one day, when I was small, she knelt down on the floor with me and helped me make a puzzle that was too difficult for me to do on my own.  Grandma was a master when it came to puzzles.  I never would have finished that Little Mermaid puzzle without her help.

As I reflected over the passing of Grandma, I wondered if regret was unavoidable.  Whether we don't spend enough time with our loved ones, don't listen enough, don't say I love you enough, or the last thing we said isn't what we wanted it to be... our lives are tinged with regret.  We just aren't as perfect as we want to be, and that unavoidably affects our relationships, especially with those who are closest to us.

A fallen world means fallen relationships, and we feel the sting most bitterly at the passing of loved ones.  What hope is there, when hurt is unavoidable?

As we sat in Grandma's funeral service, I was struck with the depth of her spirit and her love as I heard stories from the pastor and family members.  When Grandma died she left a legacy of love for Jesus and her family, and that legacy lives on today.  I experience it in my family and my extended family... and it is getting passed onto to the next generation already, to our cousins' children and my brother's newborn son Ezra.

This legacy is bigger than the regret in my own heart.  Through the very act of fellowship with family, through loving them and being present with them, we pass on their legacy of love to the ones they loved so dearly.  And one day, we too shall pass away and be reunited with Christ, our loved ones, and there will be no more tears.  The regret is soothed by being with family and making right what was wrong in the past through neglect or selfishness.

Not all families though have a legacy of Christ, or some parts of your family may be more broken than others.  The amazing thing is that the love, the legacy can start with you.  Anyone of us can choose to be the ones to break cycles of dysfunction and familial pain and be that Grandma or Grandpa.... the one that generations from now your children's children will remember and say, we are where we are because Great Grandma loved Jesus.

Abraham was a man like that.  He responded to the call of God and left a history of paganism to become a spiritual father to thousands of generations who love God.

Let the love of Christ take root in your own heart and share it with those you love.  You can change your family's story by letting the legacy begin with you. 

I am learning through all of this, to work on being present with those I love.  To focus, cut down distractions and cherish the moments because young or old, none of us are guaranteed to live tomorrow, next week, or next year.  I want to share the love of Christ everyday through word and deed.

 I  am thankful for Grandma.  I will remember her love for Jesus and her family.  And I look forward to giving her a hug again one day in heaven.

Monday, November 5, 2012

praying for samuel

 "She was deeply distressed and prayed to the Lord and wept bitterly.  And she vowed a vow and said, "O Lord of hosts, if You will indeed look on the affliction of Your servant and remember me and not forget Your servant, but will give Your servant a son, then I will give him to the Lord all the days of his life."  1 Samuel 1:10-11

Yesterday in church, as I watched families walk in and the worship team sang... my eyes filled with tears.  I stood there crying and prayed silently in my heart.

"Even if You just give us one Lord, I will be satisfied.  Please give us our Samuel and I will give him back to You."

As Sarah sang about the extravagant love of Jesus, I wiped away the tears and prayed again.

"Lord, even if You do not give us any children, I will still praise You.  Blessed be Your name."

Waiting for our Samuel has been an emotional roller-coaster over the past couple years.  There are times when I'm more okay with it then others, times where it stings a little more and times where I am soothed.  Times that I remember the things God has done while we wait, and times that I feel hurt and bitter.  Times that I'm excited still for opportunities we may have while we are still childless and times that I simply wonder why?  Times that I feel like it will happen and times that I feel like it never will.

I haven't often prayed specifically for a baby because I have been afraid to.  It's hard to sort through the emotions that keep me from praying for a child but they seem to fall into two categories.

Sometimes I'm afraid to pray for a baby because I know it may not be God's timing yet and that there are more things for us to do.  I know things will change a lot and maybe I'm not ready.  Maybe there are a few more adventures that are planned for Tim and I without children.  I worry that I will pray for a baby and then will see that God gave me what I wanted but it wasn't what He wanted.

And other times I'm afraid to pray because I'm afraid of the answer being no.  It's almost like if I hold back on that prayer, there's still a chance that we will have a baby.  There's a chance that I haven't tried everything yet, and I want that answer to be yes so I'll wait.

It's all very emotionally convoluted and I realize it doesn't make much sense because it doesn't make sense to me.  I also realize that there are many couples who have waited much longer than we have.  This struggle is widespread and painful for many.   It is difficult because you are reminded of it every month you aren't pregnant.  Some months are better than others, but the disappointment remains.

I often think about the women in the Bible that were barren.  Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, Hannah, and Elizabeth.  Many of them waited many years, some of them until they were very old (Sarah & Elizabeth) to bear a child.

I love how in those stories it isn't punishment that is causing them to be barren, but for God's glory He chooses to wait sometimes.  Sometimes the answer is not yet, and sometimes it is never, but God always works things for good to those that love Him.

I didn't want to post this.  I cried about it in the car yesterday because I felt like it was what I needed to write and I didn't want to share.  I didn't want to let anyone in to my pain, I wanted to lick my wounds alone.  But I know that often it is through the sharing of our suffering that we are healed.

While we drove to my parents house and talked about praying for a baby, "Casimir Pulaski Day" played in the background through our speakers.

As I shoved the tears off my cheeks the last lines repeated in my ears.

"And He takes, and He takes, and He takes."

In my mind I heard the words to "Blessed Be Your Name" as an echo.

"You give and take away, You give and take away.  My heart will choose to say, Lord blessed be Your name."

I will pray and wait patiently for our Samuel.  Whether he comes from my womb or the womb of another, I will pray for him.  And I know that barren or fruitful, children or no children, the Lord is good, the Lord is love, and His mercies endure forever.  I will praise Him as long as I have breath.  My heart will choose to say, Lord blessed be Your name.