Spring Is Renewal

Spring is the season of renewal.  Easter is the shedding of all that would hold our spirits down and keep us earthbound; it is the embracing of new life that transcends and ascends.

© Angela Kellogg

Spring is the birthplace of sacraments:  the washing of feet, the breaking of bread, the draining of the cup.  This is the season for pilgrimage:  the preparation of Gethsemane, the gathering in the upper room, the cross-laden journey to Golgotha, the weighty walk to the tomb, the joyful run to “go tell.”

© Angela Kellogg

The process of the seed, fallen, buried in the earth, is spring:  the shedding of protective coverings, the insistent unfolding in the quiet stillness beneath the surface of embryonic beginnings, the pull sunward of sprouting, living things.  A newfound courage to grow, to become—this is spring!

This is the time for resolutions that began this new year/decade to become reality.  This is the time for words to become deeds, for ought-to’s to become habit. 

© Angela Kellogg

In this morning of the year, may the resurrection be more than a day in the ecclesiastical calendar.  Deep in the veins of our souls, may life stir like the blood beginning to move in a man crucified.  May living warmth work its way from the heart to the hands, and may we begin to move as one made alive who was dead!

It’s morning, Lord, and my senses are rested from yesterday’s assault of stimulation. I am aware of the delicious regularness of this day:  the clean, cool sheets against my skin, the fragrant familiarness of this house, the sound of my husband’s much loved body breathing beside me, the white pine branch brushing against the window, the children talking and giggling upstairs in their parents’ childhood rooms.

© Angela Kellogg

Help me to savor the simplicity of today, Lord, to hold each tasty morsel on my tongue and enjoy its gift before I swallow it into the process of my life.

I would live sacramentally.

“This is my body...”

I hold this moment of Your Life and give transforming thanks.  May these simple elements be changed into Your very self as I partake of them.  May the life-blood of this scarlet morning move through my veins making me a part of this day…and of You.

I raise my chalice and toast the dawn.  “Do this in remembrance…”

Prayer 67 from A Book of Simple Prayers by Gloria Gaither, © Gloria Gaither. 2008 Gaither Music Group, Alexandria, Indiana

In the light of the present pandemic, I want to share the attached 4 minute video from our friend Andy Andrews. 

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Spring Cleaning

Spring is the time of new life.  Wonder sprouting everywhere!  Cleaning out the old to make room for the new is vital.  In our house that means pulling out furniture from the walls, cleaning in places hidden by winter’s accumulation, dusting ceiling corners and getting rid of “stuff” in drawers and cabinets and pantries.

Mother taught me (and her mother before her) that anything can be cleaned with vinegar or soda.  Surfaces cleaned with vinegar-water dry quickly and leave bacteria no place to grow.  Soda can take out stains, sweeten any place mold might have grown and scour away stains.

It’s time, too, for what Bill’s Aunt Lillie used to call “riddin’ out.”  Magazines, catalogs, newspapers and boxes saved for “someday” need to be taken to recycling centers.  Extra flower pots, glass vases, and “fancy” jars can be put in some charity’s yard sale.  Half-burned candles, silk flowers, extra dish towels, blankets, sheets and towels can find new uses at women’s shelters and missions where folks are trying to put together a life after tragedy or house fires.

Once the spaces of our lives are clean and neat, spring can happen even before the flowers are in full bloom.  Spring colors in bedspreads, couch pillows, towels, dish towels, tablecloths and candles can turn a winter room to spring in no time and with minimal expense.  Wicker baskets spray-painted white, yellow, pink or robin egg blue, then filled with clumps of silk daffodils, tulips or dogwood can accent a dining table, fireplace mantel or bedside stand.  Colorful brightly-enameled metal gardening containers filled with forsythia and pussywillows adds spring sparkle to an outdoor entry or porch.

There are five senses: sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste.  I like to think of these as five roads into the center city of our souls, so I try to use as many of these roads as I can when I decorate.

A bowl of lemons appeals to the eye and the taste buds.  A small fountain brings the sight and sound of a spring stream.   Textures of soft pussywillow, a ragged piece of rock or shell, a container of sand, the smooth surface of polished stone or a piece of lace or other fabric entices the hand to touch.  And music; don’t forget the music of spring.  My favorite is Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and I love to have it playing in my clean, spring-sprinkled house when the family comes for dinner.

Soon I will add symbols of Easter and resurrection:  a ceramic rabbit and her bunnies by the back door, a flowered straw hat over the fireplace, a soft lamb among the daybed pillows, some fuzzy chicks on the “children’s shelf,” a straw nest with five blue eggs by the flowers and candles on the kitchen island.

The extended family will gather here after everyone has changed from church clothes on Easter Sunday to watch the children search the hillside and creek bank for hidden eggs. Even the big kids love this family tradition.  The rocking chairs on the porch will be lined with grown-ups taking pictures and cheering them on.  (Our rule is that nothing low or on the ground may be “found” by the older children, but be left for the little ones.)

One of my favorite times of the whole year is the early morning hiding the eggs.  I have them filled with prizes and ready to go the day before, but early morning hours are my private time.  Watching the sun rise, hearing the ducks and geese and swans stirring and conversing on the pond, listening for the happy song of morning birds, I make my way to every corner of our property placing eggs where the children will find the most delight in the discovery.  This is my personal sunrise service.

Finished, finally, with my mission, I sit for a moment on the old bench by the pond and think of that first Easter morning when the women made their way to the place where their Lord had been laid three days before.  I listen for the voice in my own soul that declares to me that there is no death here; He is alive.  He speaks.  And I, too, say “My Lord, and my God!”

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Poised for Spring

There was another big snow last week.  Every twig, every fence, every pine branch was heaped high with frosting.  Even the basketball net looked like expensive lace.  The whole landscape was a photograph in black and white.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Well, except there was a tell-tale hint that it might not be a black and white. In the dormant forsythia outside my kitchen window perched an outrageously scarlet cardinal.  (No wonder the cardinal is the Indiana state bird!) My photographer friend, Angela, popped in to say she was headed to the creek to take some pictures.  She sent back another hint that we were not living in a black and white photo.  Two of our white swans were swimming on the silver pond.  Their orange bills gave such a splash of color that they looked like they had been photoshopped in!

Photo by Angela Kellogg

The bones of the maples and oaks, willows and sycamores revealed the amazingly beautiful and strong framework that in summer holds the weight of such luxuriant foliage that it would break a weaker structure.  Winter tells the whole truth.  The cedars and arborvitae that are in summer a dark aggressive green have backed into a more submissive, humble brownish-gray so as not to intrude on the stark drama of winter.

It was time to put on boots and earmuffs and make a few tracks of my own.  Such a wonderland deserved a closer look.  I found it was too cold for the snow to pack; it was like angel dust, and the slightest gust of wind made the glistening flakes fall again—from the stack piled on every high branch.  I passed the northern magnolia and, lo!  The tips of each twig had a swollen, velvety bud.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

The maples that from a distance looked so bare, were not bare after all, but held clusters of last year’s seed—helicopters, we used to call them, because the new ones in spring fall spinning like propellers to pierce the loose soil of my gardens, sowing seed for maple and boxelder sprouts everywhere.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I held the fragile “bare” branches of every tree and shrub as I passed—the lilacs, the forsythia, the pussy willows, the dogwoods.  Each branch ended with a small tight bud. Life!  Just waiting and poised to respond to the first warming day, to open to the wooing of sunbeams.   Even in snow there is the promise of spring.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I get it.  I have discovered that in every dormant season of my soul, in every paused waiting period, there is a subtle moving of something deep in my roots that is pushing its way upward and outward toward a promise.  There is a throbbing in the frozen vessels that insists that in spite of the most colorless day, even in the most chilling discouragement, resurrection will not be denied.  The strong framework of former growth makes me know that the budding that seems tight and frozen now will burst open with new flower and thick leaves. The trunk and branches of proven faith will hold the weight of glory to come!  The roots that have been driven deeper by the frigid days will pump new energy up, up to the very tips of my being.  The sun will shine again.  The earth will green again.  Spring will come, and my heart will sing!

Though the skies be gray above me
And I can't see the light of day;
There's a ray breaking through the shadows
And His smile can't be far away.

Though the earth seems bleak and barren
And the seeds lay brown and dead;
Oh the promise of life throbs within them
And I know spring is just ahead. 

Thank God for the promise of springtime;
Once again my heart will sing.
There's a brand new day a-dawning;
Thank God for the promise of spring.

By William J. and Gloria Gaither
© 1973 Hanna Street Music (BMI) (adm. at CapitolCMGPublishing.com) All rights reserved. Used by permission.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Slippers and Running Shoes

A luxury afforded Bill and me at this juncture of our lives is most days to own the first couple of hours of the day.  We can actually put on slippers, wrap up in our warm robes, and leisurely drink our coffee, read the paper and our inspirational books, and discuss everything from new revelations and insights to Pacer basketball editorials and the current headlines.  We then make the bed together and get ready for the day.

The other morning, I noticed Bill just standing there by his bathroom closet, dressed and ready, but rocking back and forth in his new walking shoes.  He was smiling.

“What?”  I said, waiting for him to deliver a bit more information.

“I love these shoes,” he finally said.

“And...?” I asked.

“Well, I love drinking my coffee with my slippers on, but when I put on these shoes, I shift into another gear.  My brain clicks into excitement for whatever comes today.”

He smiled again, quit rocking on his cushy running shoes, and then left for the office.

That left me to process this weird behavior.  Just maybe, I thought, there is a balance, a lovely rhythm to the intake—output of life.  I am coming to believe that both are so necessary.  Just maybe to start off into the flurry of activity without any intake may not only be unhealthy, but may leave the mind and heart gasping for spiritual and emotional oxygen somewhere in the middle of the day’s demands. To spiritually and relationally stretch and breathe deeply, take in the beauty of gratitude, to inhale the fresh gift of one more day, to just BE before we hasten off to DO, changes our perspective and widens our sensitivities to all good things to come. Maybe it is as necessary as stretch conditioning before a physical workout.

But there also comes a time to use that fresh energy to “run the race,” to kick off our slippers and appreciate the bounce in the running shoes of life.  It works both ways.  Too much lounging in slippers and not enough running shoes makes our leg muscles antropy; the blood never gets pumping to our brains—or the contemplation to our souls.  Yet too much running around in frantic flurry of activity without quiet intake, spending time with the lover of our hearts, absorbing the wisdom from that “still small voice” that speaks peace produces little but stress, exhaustion, and frustration.

I can’t help thinking of the “run the race” metaphor from Saint Paul, who advises us to rid ourselves of encumbrances, things that hinder and entangle, and do some deep breathing and changing of our aspirations, setting our goals on much higher expectations.  Then when we kick off the slippers and tie on our running shoes, Paul inspires us to run with determination and endurance, knowing that there is a stand full of accomplished veteran runners who have “finished the race” cheering us on. The promise is that if we fix our eyes on the “pioneer and perfecter of our faith,” who is empowering us with the fresh air of victory, “we will not grow weary and lose heart.”

Too long in slippers makes for too little running. But too little slipper time makes for purposeless running.  It’s almost never either/or.  It’s almost always both/and.  Isn’t there a shoe called new balance?  Oh, I so hope to find it!

A valentine for the love of your life.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Things I Must Tell the Children

This is the fifth in a series I call “The Blessings” that have both the visual of words and images, and audio, so you can listen while you drive or walk or clean. 

Over the course of a year of speaking at week-end retreats, I asked parents this question:

“If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you want to have gotten said to your children, no matter the ages of your children?”  The answers I received on the questionnaire I handed out were varied and wise, profound and joyful.

I gave the responses the title of one of our songs, Things I Must Tell the Children, and turned them into a gift book.  I have asked our family to speak them for you.  So here they are.  I hope you will take time to listen to them and share them.  I’d love to hear back from you, too, with your answer to my question.

If you would like to share this blessing, it is available in a gift book below.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

The Fly-over Zone

Tonight Bill and I went to Cracker Barrel together before he met some buddies to go to the Pacer basketball game.  There was a wood fire burning in the big fireplace, which made the place smell like our farm kitchen.

After we ordered, we were catching up on each other’s day when a big man came over to our table.  We didn’t know him but found out he had farmed in our county all his life, and his family was the third generation to live in the same house and farm the same land.  Retired now, he just wanted to thank us for the music he had listened to most of his life.  He said he had originally farmed 1500 acres, most of which by now had been sold off to corporate agriculture.  Smart, wise, and personable, he told us his family’s story and how our songs had intersected with his life.

Our chicken dinners came.  While we ate we noticed a man with his father at the next table.  The sun was setting and was at the place where it shone straight into the older man’s eyes.  The son immediately got up, and I heard him say, “Here, dad, trade places with me.  My eyes can take the brightness better than yours,” as he switched chairs with his father.  Their food arrived, and they paused in their pleasant conversation; the son took his father’s hand across the table, and they bowed their heads and prayed a blessing over their food.

Behind Bill was a couple that looked to be in their late 70s.  Still beautiful, the woman had well-groomed grey hair, and the man engaged her in a conversation about pictures she was showing him on her cell phone; I’m guessing grandkids.

I watched as another couple came in and settled at the table to our left.  The gentleman was pushing his wife in a portable wheel chair.  As the waitress took their order, I noticed that the woman held the menu in her right hand while her left hand rested in her lap.  When their meals came, the husband quietly got up and went around to her side of the table and began cutting her food in manageable pieces; I knew, then, that she only had use of one hand.

Our little waitress was about college age and was working so hard to make sure we had everything we needed, while she juggled the service of four or five other tables.

Three long-term marriages, a middle-aged man enjoying his father, a husband caring for his sweetheart after so many years, a young woman who shows up for work and is full of joy doing it....  These are stories that don’t make the ratings-driven 24/7 news shows.  It isn’t likely that they show up in the political poles.  These folks probably don’t have election signs in their yards or bumper-sticker banners on their cars.

They are not naïve, uneducated, or susceptible to campaigns to cultivate the swing vote. They don’t look to empty platitudes to solve their problems, take care of their aged, or escape responsibility for caring for the less fortunate across the street or down the road. They read, think, love their families, and seek out enriching relationships in their neighborhoods, their churches, and their families.  They care about the hungry and the disenfranchised and show up for organizations that try to address these issues.

Like you, there are days when I think the world is going to hell in a handbag, and then my sweet husband takes me out for fried chicken at the Cracker Barrel down the road, and I come home knowing that there are still strong fibers in the fabric of faith and commitment in this country.  The roots of goodness are deeper than the news would have us believe, and real people are still making a real difference in real places—like Indiana.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

O, Come Let Us Adore Him

When God shows up, we can do nothing but fall down in praise and adoration.  That’s what happened the very first time God made an appearance on this earth in human form.  It’s what will always happen whenever we find ourselves in the presence of the living Christ!  All discussions of the “how’s” and “what’s” of worship styles, or worship aids and devices, will fall silent in the presence of the Holy One.

When God is present we will at first stand in awe, fall down in wonder, or bow low in repentance; then, finding our voices, we will sing, shout, weep, dance, beat drums, play instruments, clap hands, make banners, march around the altar (or the manger or the stable or the living room)….  Indeed, we will not be able to find enough ways to express our praise.  We will not argue about old songs or new songs, hymnals or screens, robed choirs or blue-jeaned worship teams, pipe organs or guitars.  We only argue about such things before God shows up or a very long time after He’s gone away. 

But when He comes – when God Himself is born among us, we may have to shut up entirely and let the angels sing.  One thing for sure, there will not be dissension and fussing and dividing of services or churches.  No, there will be peace on earth, goodwill toward men, and women, and children, and neighbors, and strangers, and all the world!

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

The After-Christmas Carol

The Christmas music has died down in the department stores, and the JANUARY SALES signs have taken its place.  The relatives have mostly headed back home to work and to school, and the needles are falling from the real trees as we take down the ornaments and store them away for next year.  The after-celebration reality has settled in, and for many the post-Christmas-depression is lurking around the corner as we vacuum out the car and sweep up the glitter and styrofoam packing balls from the living room. The jingle of Christmas bells have been silenced by the 6:00 news, and bewildering lead stories are shattering the spell of “joy to the world.”

Perhaps now is the perfect time to break out another carol, a timeless, unconquerable carol for the spirit.  It was written in 1863 by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow after the death of his wife, and following the departure of their oldest son to fight in the Civil War without his father’s blessing.

From that Christmas of 1863 until the present, people have entered the “season of peace” when the world and their personal lives were in chaos.  No, this year is certainly no exception, yet the Peace Jesus came to bring is not and never has been at the mercy of the current lead story.

The Song that started with the angels one night on a Judean hillside cannot be silenced by the dissonance of opposing political or religious factions or the cacophony of war.

There has to be a Song!  No one can live without hope!  The gift of “the Song” is the best gift of all.  Let us fill our own hearts with it.  Let’s fill our homes with it and our cars with it as we travel back to our regular routine.  Let’s give it to those who mourn and to those who struggle with debilitating illnesses.  Let’s sing it in the ears of our children as we tuck them into bed, and take it to the discouraged and the lonely.  Because, as Longfellow wrote those decades ago: God is not dead nor doth he sleep!  The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, good will to men.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet, the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Then in despair I bowed my head,
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of Peace on earth good will to men.”

 Then pealed the bells more loud and deep
“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep!
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

In the gray winter of our days, let’s not only believe but practice with our last breath and action, the lived-out message of the new life of Christmas and the new life of the resurrection, LIFE WINS!  LOVE IS STRONGER!

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

The Water of Life on Earth's Shore

The great Creator who breathed galaxies into existence began the creation of our world by speaking into the swirling, formless void of nothingness, “Let it be!”  Because He is light, His first “let it be” was “light.”  And there was light.  Then He separated the light from darkness and gave them both names:  day and night.

Then He called the firm particles out from the misty wetness, drawing the firm together and separating what was solid from the liquid.  He named the firm firmament and the liquid water—water below, vapor above and land in between.  His first foundational work was done.  There was light.  There was night.  There was earth, and there were seas.  “Good work!  Necessary work!” He breathed.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Eons later, this great Creator would choose to plant Himself on this planet.  He longed for His created work to know Him, especially the creation He had named man.  But this would require an enormous risk of limitation.  Life itself would have to distill itself into the smallest denomination of life of which this tiny planet was capable:  a single cell.  This cosmic singularity must become a single cell to combine with a human cell.  This great God would become one of us in our most vulnerable form—a helpless baby.

The story of this Creator-God reaching all this unfathomable distance is a wonder that stretches credulity.  Yet, it is simple enough on its surface for a child to understand and so profound that the most brilliant and most schooled of minds cannot truly comprehend. So all, the simple and the brilliant, must hold the mystery with an open hand like one holds for a moment a snowflake on an eyelash in the moonlight.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

How fitting that this human-encased God-essence, pure and true, walked in sandaled feet the sandy shores of a small sea—a place where firmament and water come together—telling the secrets of the mystery in earthy stories filled with metaphor, so that we who were made of the very earth He called forth could have inklings, now and again, of a truth beyond words and a Life that transcends the living out of our days.

This Holy child that was born in earth’s simplest of circumstances never got very far from a seashore where water and grains of firmament meet.  There He taught with stories that explanations could never impart, so that we ourselves could transcend time and space, earth and water to recognize the essential kinship between eternity and this moment.

Click below to listen to the podcast “The Story You Never Heard” featuring Gloria Gaither.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

By This Fire

This is the fourth in the series of “vlogs” or video blogs that have included the three blessings books (Marriage, Home, and Child). This one is a personal tribute to long-term marriage.

Our first baby was 18 months old when we built our house that we have lived in all these years. The house has grown up with us, and our family has grown up in it.  We always had a fireplace, but when we added our “new” kitchen to the original house, our son was seven years old.  We knew we wanted a fireplace in the kitchen, and a day bed, and a window seat.  We wanted a big island for serving as many people as would fit in our house, and a big long table where at least 10 people could comfortably sit together.

Little did we know that the fireplace in that big new kitchen would become much more than a fireplace.  It would become the soul of our house.  And it would witness all the things that a marriage comes to experience in more than a half century of living and loving together.  Somehow, the marriage, the family, and the house have endured—as has the sweet habit of building fires through the seasons of our lives.  We would like to share with you a bit of what those fires have witnessed over the years.  All of our children are now fire-builders on their own, thanks to Bill’s passion for drawing us all together around a fire.  And that son who was seven when we built this fireplace now is building fires for his own family and created the music score for the reading of all of the Blessing Books as well as the following tribute to the memories we all made BY THIS FIRE.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

HOME -- The Most Loaded Word

Writers, especially poets, learn to choose words that come with their own built-in emotional baggage. This is especially true when one wants to say a lot in as few words as possible. The right well-chosen few words can cover more territory than a whole carelessly constructed paragraph.

One of the words that carries such built-in DNA is the word home.  There are other words listed in the thesaurus as synonyms: house, dwelling, abode, residence. See what I mean? Home says more. Most of us have lived in several houses.  We have had many addresses.  We have built or bought different styles of dwellings and stayed there long enough for them to qualify as residences.  But home—well, that’s another story.  If your heart says you need to go home, where would that be?  What does that place look like in your mind?

Some of would say it’s the place we now live, the place we raised our babies and planted our gardens and decorated rooms to suit the tastes and activities of our family.  Others of us would name a place we haven’t been in years; the home-place where grandma lived or daddy built or the kids grew up. For some, home means a part of the country that shaped our view of things or gave us our roots.  The South, or the Plains, the Smokies, or Colorado.  Some of us long for the lake country or the red dirt of Georgia, the coast or the wide-open spaces of the old west.

Some long for a home they’ve never had.  Abuse, estrangement, mobility, or divorce may have kept them from ever having a sense of place.  On the outside looking in, they’ve ached in some deep place to identify with that tone in others’ voices they hear when they say “home.”

This is the season for going home. Songs like “Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go...” and “I’ll be home for Christmas; you can count on me”  call us to make our way back to the places and the people that shaped us and help us to remember who we are.  Going home helps us remember the stories, hopefully, the good ones, that we want to pass on to our children so they will know who they are, too. Sadly, for far too many, though, this is the time for digging deeper into a commitment to recovery from pain, estrangement, or alienation.

The good news is that whether or not we have had a healthy shaping place, we are being called by one, nevertheless.  One way or another we can all go home.  That’s what the gospel is all about.  That is what this Jesus we follow came to do: to bring all the lost children of the Father to the only perfect home. And when we get there, we’ll know our hearts have been there all along.  We’ll hear the only perfect Father—say, “Welcome home, my child.  I’ve been waiting for you!”

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Gratitude Changes Us

The joy of summer is the harvest, whether it be golden grains, the bounty from the vegetable gardens and orchards, or the armloads of blooms that border our yards.  The season of the summer of life, too, results in harvests that bring us joy:  children and grandchildren, enduring friendships, and well-established relationships with neighbors and our broader communities.

It is impossible to enjoy these joys without being grateful.  And when a roomful of dear friends and family gather to express their gratitude in stories and singing, games and crafts, something unforgettable is bound to happen.  Yes, when families bring the gift of time and bounty just to give thanks, to eat and talk together, and to sing our hearts out to God for all the blessings they have experienced, we are somehow changed.

It is really true that “the hand that gives, gathers.”  Whether times are sparse or abundant, let’s keep being generous with whatever blessings we have.  If we are blessed with good memories, share them.  If we have been given the gift of music or art or writing, sing or paint or write something to share.  If we are good at sports, an afternoon on the drive-way basketball court or the front yard football field is great for the heart, the body, and relationships!  Making something together around the cleared Thanksgiving table will unfailingly lead to the greatest conversation and lots of laughs.  Give what you have!  And enjoy and revel in the gifts of others. No matter how hard we try, we can never, never out-give the Lord!  Let’s live these end of summer days with an attitude of gratitude!

I am thankful for the beautiful comments you have posted on this blog.  Not only do I read them, but they are also encouragement to others who read them.  Every time you share the blog with others or register a ‘like’ spurs me on to keep sharing with you.  Thanks!

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

What If?

Last summer our daughter, Amy, went to visit a few places in England she had missed the year her family was living there.  She sent me this picture with a text that simply said:  “I had breakfast here this morning.”  The picture took my breath away.

“Where are you?” I texted back. 

She answered that she was in Durham and had stayed at the castle which is used as a Bed & Breakfast in the summer.  The whole estate has become part of Durham University, the third oldest university in England (after Oxford and Cambridge); the university uses the Durham Cathedral as a dining hall for students and guests.

 But my mind was stuck on the picture.  Wow!  What if this were a church?  And what if when you went there on Sunday, this is what you saw when you entered the sanctuary?  And what if there was a seat with a place card for you—a card with a mirror on it so that you would see your face when you picked it up?

And  what if  there were twice as many places set as the church thought would be there?  And what if after you had your fill of food and fellowship and singing and conversations, you took an extra place card with you and gave it to that young man at work or the single mom next door, or the new immigrant family across the street and said:  We had this special place set for you at the table.  Want to come sit by me next Sunday for breakfast?

And what if there were no “church-building” ulterior motives except to break bread together, sing our hearts out, and enjoy the bounties of the Lord?  What if we could confess our most urgent worry and find prayer, support, and understanding without judgement or condescension? 

 I know now that this was just a bed in a castle and breakfast in a cathedral, but what if...?

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Bless This Child

My mother always said that we human beings get real about life at two times:  when somebody we love dies, and when a baby is born.  I’ve lived long enough now to learn that she was right.  I have handed off the hand of those I love into the hand of their Maker, and I’ve sat by our two daughters and our son’s sweet wife when they were giving birth to our seven grandchildren.

I think of those plastic pet doors people put over openings to their garages so that puppies can go in and out in the winter.  It seems that in watching someone I love pass into eternity or a new baby entering this world from eternity, there is a moment when the flap of eternity opens, and the sparkling dust and the warmth of somewhere-else gets on me just enough to change my perspective for the rest of my life.

This glimpse of forever must be celebrated, for we who stand and watch can never be the same; we have stood on holy ground.   The birth our babies with eternal souls is call for the community that will surround these children to commit to be there, not just when the children are little and cute, but also when they go through the difficult or awkward passages of life—to love, to encourage, to support, and to patiently nurture them to wholeness.  Together, let’s bless this child.

If you want to share this blessing with anyone expecting or welcoming a new baby, it is available in gift book below.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Bless This House

The house where Bill and Gloria began their married life together.

The establishing of a home takes more than a house, but a home certainly needs a place to be, and that place is very important.  If it is a place where someone else has lived before the new occupants move in, what has taken place in that space is mostly unknown.  To begin fresh, no matter the history of the place, it is a good idea to dedicate and celebrate the new place with good friends and family who will be there to share and enjoy the space in the years to come.  A blessing of this new home is the best way to clear and christen the rooms, inviting God to be the center of all activities and relationships to come.  Joy and laughter, music and good food might follow to set the tone for future expectations.

CLICK BELOW TO WATCH AND LISTEN TO GLORIA READ THE BLESSING

If you want to share this blessing with a new home owner, it is available in gift book below.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Bless This Marriage

I believe that life is sacred—all of it—because it is God’s currency of time, given to us to spend on this side of eternity.   The passages of our lives deserve to be marked by a sacred celebration and a renewed commitment to recognize what is eternal in every moment.  We need times to stop down and refocus on the “why” of life and to prioritize the way we are spending this precious gift we have been given.

Marriage is not only one of the most important passages of life, but also should be a holy sacrament, bringing together two people, two families, two histories, and two futures.  It is much more than a civil contract; it is a serious long-term commitment, because it marks the beginning of a new home, the natural habitat for human beings and their nurture to maturity physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

This blog (or vlog) and the two to follow will be audio/video blogs, celebrating three of the most significant passages of life:  marriage, the dedication of a new home, and the birth of a baby.  They will also be available in gift book form for sharing with friends who are celebrating these passages of life.

CLICK THE VIDEO BELOW TO WATCH AND LISTEN

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

It Ain't Done 'Til It's Done

Photo by Angela Kellogg

While I was growing up, my mother said more times than I wanted to hear, “It’s not done until it’s done!”  This would apply to everything from taking the bait “clean off the hook” before I put away a fishing rod, to hosing off the spade and rake (and, at the end of the gardening season, oiling the spade) before I put the tools away in the tool shed.  It was applied to putting my bike in the garage before I went to bed, neatly hanging up the dish towel after the dishes were dried, and making my bed and straightening the bathroom before I left for school.  Along with this valuable training, came the ethic I learned from my parents and grandparents before them: pay your bills in full, don’t buy what you can’t afford, and always “pay your tithe” first, if you want God to bless the rest.  Oh yes, and never live so close to the edge financially that you can’t help those who are in need and offer hospitality to whomever God brings into your life.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I have been so grateful for this heritage of responsibility. My parents didn’t leave my sister and me much of an inheritance, but they left us a legacy of great value.  I hope Bill and I have passed that legacy on to our kids.

We have learned that we must be frugal so that we can be generous.  We’ve learned the value of “deferred gratification,” that the things we wait for are all the dearer when they come.  We’ve discovered that gratitude makes every day a treasure and the simplest pleasures sweet.  And we’ve learned that how we do a thing is as important as the doing of it, whether it is writing a song, making a recording, pruning a grape vine, or putting garden tools away for the winter.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

We have experienced in our own home and in our homes of origin the joy of deep rest after a day of honest labor, the contentment in knowing we have paid our debts, and the rich reward in sharing our blessings with others.  We have been as enriched by drives into the Indiana countryside as by trips around the world.  In our travels we’ve enjoyed a few really lovely hotels and some of the simplest accommodations, but we always think the best place of all is home.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

                  We have found true what Paul once wrote to the believers in Phillippi:

“I’ve learned by now to be quite content whatever my circumstances.  I’m just as happy with little as with much, with much as with little.  I’ve found the recipe for being happy, whether full or hungry, hands full or hands empty.  Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am.”  (Phil. 4:12-13  The Message)

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Plumb Lines and Levels

Photo by Angela Kellogg

My Daddy was a carpenter.  I grew up making “villages” for my miniature people and animals out of piles of sawdust and pinning curls of wood shavings into my hair when I was pretending to be a princess.  I became familiar with Daddy’s tools, and he showed me how to use them: the plain, the saws, the sanders, and, of course, hammers, nails and screwdrivers.  To this day I love beautiful woods with interesting grains and can’t help running my hands over their smooth polished surfaces.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

One of my father’s tools often made its way into his sermons.  It was his “plumb line”, a piece of heavy metal shaped like a tiny child’s top and tied to a piece of twine.  He used it as the acid test on vertical supports like wall framing, beams, pillars and the finished edges of walls of wood and masonry.  The plumb line was pulled by gravity, so even unlevel ground that could fool the naked eye, couldn’t fool the plumb line.  If the plumb line said the board was straight, it was straight.  Cross beams could then be lined up on the horizontal and their accuracy could be measured with the “level”, a wooden board with a hole in the center across which two tiny tubes of oil had been fixed, each with a bubble inside.  The “plumb line” and the ”level” measured the quality of a carpenter’s work and predicted whether or not, years later, the plaster applied to that wall would crack or the floor joists laid would creak.  The plumb line and the level could even prophesy whether a hundred years from now a building would still stand straight and strong. 

Photo by Angela Kellogg

There are in any age, at any time, winds of public opinion, changing trends, and popular viewpoints.  There are styles of dress, transportation, décor and behavior.  There are “fads” and “stars” and “influencers” and “idols”.  There is political rhetoric mainly designed to get votes by appealing to voters’ immediate material advantage and current felt needs.

But there is only one perfect model and one accurate measuring stick that is trustworthy.  It is the “plumb line” of God’s word and the walking, living Word – Christ himself, the great leveler.  Against this Living Word everything else must be measured if it is to stand the winds of change and the storms of time.

The prophet Amos lived at a time not unlike our own.  It was a time of control freaks, self-sufficiency and affluence, yet a time when the poor were too often oppressed and injustice was an accepted practice.  Religious performance was common but spiritual integrity and real obedience to God was uncommon.  Here in his own words Amos said: “The Lord was standing beside a wall built with a plumb line, checking it with a plumb line to see if it was straight”. 

And the Lord said to me, “Amos, what do you see?”

I answered, “A plumb line.”

And he replied, “I will test my people with a plumb line……” (Amos 7:7-8a)

Jesus was a carpenter. He would have been very familiar with this measuring device. He came to be the living, walking plumb line so that our lives would stand straight and strong, enduring and withstanding all the pressures of the times. He asks us to be citizens of another Kingdom, and to measure wealth, success, acceptance, and status by another measuring device than the fickle opinion of the current culture. It is an eternal edifice that we are building with the moments and choices of this day.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Folding Sox

We were on vacation with our son and Bill’s father whom I’ve always called by his first name George.  One morning George found on his dresser the socks I had washed and folded for him with his underwear.  He came out of the bedroom grinning, unfolding a pair.

“Lela used to fold socks like this,” he said.  “But I never learned how to do it.  I just can’t get it right.”

He was pleased and was relishing this small gesture of holding a household together, treasuring a family.  He and Lela had been married 65 years when she died.  I wondered if he ever noticed this while he had her.  I wondered if he ever told her thank you for the millions of socks she folded.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

When Bill and I got married, Bill still lived at home.  His mother changed his bed with air-dried sheets she used to carry, wet and heavy up from the basement where she did the washing – up and out to the clothesline where she carefully shook each sheet free of its wrinkles with a crisp snap, folded it in half, and pinned it with wooden clothespins to the line in the back yard where the sheets were dried by the Indiana prairie wind and the sun.  She would fold them and all the other wash – underwear, dish towels, bath towels, pillowcases, and dozens of socks – and put them all clean and smelling of summer breeze and marigolds into drawers and linen closets.  The dozens of pairs of underwear – boxer shorts and white tee shirts – and the pillowcases and cotton handkerchiefs she sprinkled, folded into themselves into round mounds that looked like bread dough rising, and placed them in a laundry basket to be ironed that night by the T.V.  Yes, the underwear, pillowcases and linen handkerchiefs, white shirts, blue shirts, work shirts and blue jeans, housedresses, aprons, and feed sack dish towels were all ironed.

Gestures of love – touching the clothes, smoothing, patting, folding, patting some more – when sometimes she couldn’t pat the bodies they went on because they had changed from little boys to men before her eyes, or because they were too busy or too “grown-up” or too gone-all-the-time to be touched and enfolded or patted any more.

I couldn’t help thinking about all the nights this family of five had crawled into bed between fragrant sheets and burrowed their heads into sweet-smelling freshly ironed pillowcases, felt the comfort, inhaled the “summer” and caressed their pillows.  Did Lela long to be caressed sometimes too, and patted?  On cold nights did George sometimes burrow his nose into her soft neck smelling of Estée Lauder after her bath, and tell her how much he loved having his socks folded, his shorts ironed, his meals hot, his house clean, his needs met, and a warm body to hold?  Or did he just trust that there are some things that don’t have to be said.  Does he still think that now?

Maybe not, maybe now he knows how important it is to say it.  So he says it to me.  “Lela used to fold my socks like this.  I’ve never been able to do it, but Lela did – just like this.”

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below:

Dwarfed by Majesty

There is a certain thing that can happen in a one-night concert in an auditorium or arena, and Bill and I have been sharing such evenings with beautiful people all over the world for more than fifty years.  We have seen many a cold sports center or city auditorium turned into a cathedral by the presence of the Lord.

But there is something quite different that can happen when a group of seekers travel together on a ship for a whole week, bumping into each other over breakfast, experiencing a salmon bake in the pine woods by a cold spring-fed stream, or being reduced to silence by the intimidation of a glacier.  Or how about smelling the pristine waters where blue icebergs float by just a few feet away carrying a family of seals?

Some of my most memorable conversations have “just happened” in a little Russian Orthodox church in Sitka or while standing at the ship’s rail listening to the once-in-a-lifetime sound of a glacier “calving.” 

I have to admit that Alaska is my favorite trip.  Maybe that is because I grew up in Michigan where there were logging villages in the Upper Peninsula and cold rivers where the Coho salmon climbed the “ladders” to fight their way upstream.  I guess that may have been where I learned to love people who are willing to swim upstream against the current of common opinion.  I love the hardiness of people toughened and tempered by weather and sometimes the struggle to conquer the elements and survive.

This summer, cruising the intercoastal waterway in Alaska, I especially loved being surprised by a waterfall as the ship sailed round a bend of an emerald green mountain,  or seeing a pod of orcas playing like children in the icy waters.  Most of all I loved both the solitude and community—the quiet moments by myself to listen to the “still small voice,” as well as the accidental chance to  have coffee with old friends I’d never met.

For whatever reason, there is a certain thing that happens when the Family of God gets away from the plastic pressures of dulling routine to sail to a place where we are once more reminded what God had in mind when he created the beautiful, unspoiled wilderness and gave it to us to enjoy and preserve.  Fill that ship with music celebrating the wonders of not only God’s creation, but the marvel of a God who walks with us (or in this case, sails with us) through the oceans of our lives, and something so memorable happens that it continues to inform years of landlocked days back home.

To share this post with others on Facebook, click below: