Choosing Light

What happens when you decide to choose joy, and your week starts off horribly wrong?

Somehow I manage to wake up more tired than when I went to bed. There’s no milk in the house to put in my coffee.

Arden wakes up sobbing because she didn’t see the red moon last night. She “stayed up” in a chair by the window, and we promised to wake her up when the moon was red. We did. We brought her out to the chilly porch, and talked to her, and turned her around, and keep talking, and she mumbled a bit and opened her eyes and kept falling back asleep. She doesn’t remember. Now, all she knows this morning is that she didn’t get to see the red moon. She’s crying bitter tears of disappointment, I’m crying too, then the two-year old starts.

Two of out two pigs are supposed to be on their way to the butcher today. After wrestling, wrangling, multiple escapes, stepped on toes, and general pig stubbornness, there’s only one pig in the trailer. Jack’s apple fell in the pig muck, and he’s more upset about that than the fact that he nearly got plowed over by an animal eight times his weight. At the end of it all I’ve got pig poop smeared up my legs and there are a dozen burs stuck to the back pockets of my jeans. I need another coffee.

It’s going to be a long day.

How do you choose joy when Monday morning brings everyone to tears?

At the Rend Collective concert on Saturday night, amid riotous singing and dancing, they paused to say joy was a spiritual discipline. It’s something we need to cultivate. It’s a choice. I knew I needed to choose it again. For too long this giant of discouragement has been looming large over what I thought was going to be a happy season. I’ve been living in a shadow, where I know the light exists but somehow it just can’t get to me. I’ve been eclipsed.

I was given a beautiful painting earlier this year. It’s called “Choosing Light.”* It meant something then, at the beginning of the year. And now on this wearisome Monday, I go into the living room, pull back the curtains, and stand before it. The sun isn’t immediately visible in the brush strokes. But it’s there, behind the clouds. And if I look closely, I can see its golden presence, the promise that if I reach out for it, it will shine back.

So I determine, again, to choose joy.

As the kids are waiting in the car to go on the ride to the butcher with Daddy, with just one pig in the trailer, I make funny faces at the window. I press my face right up on the glass, squishing it into all kinds of contortions which little children find hilarious. There could be bird poop on this window for all I know, but I don’t care. I’m going to make myself a little ridiculous if it means putting a smile on their faces. I stand back to wipe the drool off the glass. I can see my reflection. Sure, a little tried, maybe a little harried. But I’m smiling.

I can do this, even when the week starts off all wrong. I won’t be eclipsed. I’m choosing light. I’m choosing joy.

~lg

* "Choosing Light" by Katy Rose. See more of her beautiful work and the goodwill living it supports on her website. 

Falling in Love

No one tells you, when you choose this life of marriage and family and sticking to covenant, that you will get to fall in love again.

It happens all at once one morning, when you are drinking coffee at the breakfast table, and there is a little boy sitting there eating bread with jam and chatting about airplanes and bad guys.

It happens when she sidles up unannounced and slips her hand into yours, even though she's a big girl and doesn't need you in the same way she once did.

It happens when you catch a particular smile you've never seen before, because he's just discovered something of importance and his hair has never been that shade of sun-kissed before.

It happens when she jumps off a new height and puts a little dizzy in the pit of your stomach, but you hide it because you are so flushed with pride, and as she turns to grin she has suddenly sprung up taller.

No one tells you the unending capacity children have to make you see things new, to be plunged into love in a thousand wondrous ways. You thought that "to forsake all others" was to shut up your heart to the thrill of love, but this narrow path of two-become-one floods into acres of freedom. This life of co-creation is deep and wide, and here is all your heart's desire.


~lg

A.W. Tozer on Private Prayer

"Retire from the world each day to some private spot, even if it be only the bedroom (for a while I retreated to the furnace room for want of a better place). Stay in the secret place till the surrounding noises begin to fade out of your heart heart and a sense of God's presence envelops you. Deliberately tune out the unpleasant sounds and come out of your closet determined not to hear them. Listen for the inward Voice till you learn to recognize it. Stop trying to compete with others. Give yourself to God and then be what and who you are without regard to what others think. Reduce your interests to a few. Don't try to know what will be of no service to you. Avoid the digest type of mind - short bits of unrelated facts, cute stories and bright sayings. Learn to pray inwardly every moment. After a while you can do this even while you work. Practice candor, childlike honesty, humility. Pray for a single eye. Read less, but read more of what is important to your inner life. Never let your mind remain scattered for very long. Call home your roving thoughts. Gaze on Christ with the eyes of your soul. Practice spiritual concentration."

A. W. Tozer
- Of God and Men

Lub-dub

I lay beside you under the dragonfly quilt. We've said goodnight to the moon and all the cars and trucks and things that go. The room is almost dark, but I can still see your sleepy face.

"Can I hear your heartbeat?" I ask. A smile, a nod, then I lay my ear over your small chest. "Lub-dub, lub-dub," I whisper, in time with the beats. You always find that funny.

"Do you want to hear mine?"
"Yes!"

I jump out of bed, do a little dance to get things pumping, then settle back in. You lay your head down, and I put my arms around you.

"Can you hear it?"
You nod. Pause.

"Is that your heart?" you ask, wide-eyed.
"Yes."
"The one that God gave you?"
"Yes."

Yes, yes, yes.

How is it possible to feel my heart beating in two bodies? How can I give adequate thanks for these three year old kisses and chubby arms around my neck? How can so much wonder be wrapped up in a dragonfly quilt?

Sometimes prayer is simply this, quiet breaths of awe.


~lg

morning prayer :: 3

From the Book of Common Prayer, "Forms of Prayer to Be Used in Families"


Thanksgiving for the gift of another day

We give thee hearty thanks, O heavenly Father, for the rest of the past night, and for the gift of a new day. Grant that we may so pass its hours in the perfect freedom of thy service, that at eventide we may again give thanks unto thee; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

* * *

~lg

When all you have is dust

"But of all who pray, how many pray poorly?

How many, then, straightway dismiss this gift of God? How many grow restless over a period of time and despair of prayer - not because the thing itself is ineffectual, but rather because their practice of the thing is cheap and incomplete? Many. Oh, too many of the people turn their groaning inward (where it swells helplessly like an angry gas) rather than Godward (where the Deity himself breathes it in and transforms it)."


- from Whole Prayer by Walter Wangerin


Yes, that is it. In prayer the Spirit of God Himself groans along with us, and, by his creative nature, turns our helpless groaning into something more. We cannot pollute him by our prayer. He takes our sorrows and shattered dreams, our despair and doubt, our frustration and failings, and takes them into his heart. It is from that place we find the room to breathe again. It is from there he begins his Genesis work of breathing life into dust. It is how we all began. And it is how we can all begin again.

Yes, there is great hope in prayer.



~lg

Beach Days and Prayer: An Update on Habits in Formation

Summer's here, and my routines and habits are being sorely tested! There's nothing like camping, company, and beach days to throw things delightfully out of whack. So where does that leave prayer?

Some things have stuck a little more than others. I've discovered that with habit training (which is what this life of prayer is, among other things) it's pretty hard to introduce a whole bunch of habits all at once and expect them to stick from the start. I may be trying to do only "one thing" - pray more - but each intentional moment of prayer throughout the day is, in a sense, its own habit. And with establishing new habits, the common wisdom is: one at a time.

So where have I been sticking the most to my pattern of prayer?

Morning prayer
In a way this has been the least consistent time of prayer. Getting up at different times, in different places, with different people around has meant that I haven't been sitting down in my cozy blue chair before the world around me gets going. The prayer book that I have been using as a guide for my morning prayer times hasn't been used as much. (It's pretty big, so I didn't take it camping with me.) I also usually like to build in time for reading Scripture with my morning prayer. (I like to get my daily bread first thing, if I can.) But with a more relaxed routine, that hasn't been happening as often in the mornings either.

What has been sticking though, is that stirring in my heart in those first moments of waking - O Lord, let my soul rise up to meet you as the day rises to meet the sun. This day is yours, and I am yours. Some days this leads into a focused time of prayer and Scripture, if I've gotten up before the rest of the house. Some days I pray as I get ready ready for the day, showering and dressing, seeking to clothe myself with Christ and consecrate myself and my day to him. So it's been looking different, but the desire is the same. And if desire is such a thing that can be trained (and I do believe it is), then I think I have created a consistent habit of desire when it comes to morning prayer.


Midmorning prayer
This is the prayer the children and I do together with our morning snack. When we are home in the mornings, this almost always happens. The children help remind me! Which brings me to two important things about habit training:

1. It's easier to stick to a habit when it's linked to another daily ritual (in this case, a regular snack).

Linking a new habit to an existing one is a great way to ensure it "sticks." It removes a whole level of having to remember. It ties the new habit to something already anchored. It strengthens the new habit by supporting it with embodied actions. Now I can't sit down at our homemade harvest table for a morning snack without thinking about praying together. This is also the time we read a Bible story. It's now a package deal - snack, story, prayer. It's just what we do, and the kids don't let me forget it!

2. It's easier to stick to a habit when it's done in community (in this case, my own kids).

Forming new habits with others may take a little more work at first, but the community reinforcement is invaluable. If one person forgets, doesn't feel like it, or gets off track, there are others to help keep things going. Sometimes the momentum of the community is the only thing dragging me along (MOM! We forgot to pray!), and I'm thankful for it. We keep each other moving in the right direction.


Noon prayer
This is a habit that hasn't been firmly established yet. Most days I forget. I'm probably just distracted at this point. Or maybe it's just a matter of letting other habits get established before tackling this one. I don't have a wall clock in the kitchen. A simple thing, but it might help. High noon hands - time to lift my own in thanksgiving. Either that, or a little sign or sticky note by the kitchen sink to remind me to pause and praise.


Afternoon prayer
Here's another one I haven't gotten the knack of yet. I think it's partly because afternoons can be so unpredictable, especially in the summer. I've "tied" this prayer time to the kids' quiet time. If we're in our regular routine, it's much easier for me to take a few minutes and re-root myself in the Vine. There is still a struggle in those precious moments of quiet to silence the distractions and pull of the computer screen. To be sure, there is always something to attract my attention. But, realistically, this is often the only opportunity I have to go deeper into God's word for a few minutes, seek God's wisdom for the needs of the day, or put pen to paper. When I've done that first, I find my interactions with people afterwards (yes, sometimes on social media) are more meaningful. I find my activity around the house to be more productive and purposeful. When I prioritize prayer, other things fall into place, are put in proper perspective, and are filled with renewed purpose.


Supper prayer
This one is fairly consistent, if short. We thank God for providing and pray a blessing over our meal before we begin. Sometimes the adults pray, sometimes it's one of the kids. When the meal is over, we read a portion of Scripture before the kids are excused from the table. Right now we are reading the daily psalm excerpt from my prayer book. (It's easy in that the reading is printed right there for each day of the year.) Other times we've gone slowly through a book of the Bible together. The bones of this habit are there. I'm not sure how it may develop in the future into more of a family devotional time.


Evening prayer
This is another one of those still in formation. It all depends on how much brain power is left when my head hits the pillow! It has been a great help to process the day in the light of prayer, instead of fruitless worrying or replaying. I find the desire is usually there - the movement of the spirit toward God before sleep. Especially after a trying day, I can repent, release, and rest.



So that's how it's all been working out in the day to day. I'm encouraged by the habits that are sticking, because I'm seeing fruit! I still have a long way to go, and a lot to learn. This is more to do with the framework than the content of prayer right now. This is nuts and bolts stuff, but it matters. I am making opportunities for encountering the living God. I am training my heart to seek him. I am tuning my ears to hear his voice. He is not far off, no indeed. He is right here in the middle of it all, wanting to weave his life with mine.

The closer I stick to him, the more I see him everywhere - in the lively discussion with summer guests, and the quiet sunset over a campground, and the roll of waves as the children roam the beach. One of the rewards of prayer is how this sweet communion spills over into all of life, infusing it with colours of grace and making the ordinary sing with holiness. Thanks be to God.

The Card at the End of March: How One Prayer Keeps on Giving

Every year, at the end of March, one of these envelopes arrives in the mailbox at the end of the lane. 

It's from Wycliffe College, where I did my Master of Theological Studies, and I know exactly what's inside. This one piece of mail has had a large influence in my journey toward more intentional prayer. 

When I read it, I remember I am part of something bigger. When I read it, I know I am thought of with intention. When I read it, I feel as if a great circle of prayer has opened up and drawn me inside. 

I know what will happen, at some point in April, in the little brick chapel with the stained glass saints, at the end of the long hall lined with alumnae faces. 

A real live person will say my name in prayer, out loud, and the sound will rise up past those wooden rafters and make its way to heaven. 

I know because I've been there, and I've heard the prayers. It's all part of the Wycliffe Cycle of Prayer. A long time ago, the communal wisdom decided it would be a good idea to write down the names of all of the living Wycliffe alumnae, and pray for each person once a year as part of the daily offices. There's even a little booklet made up each year, sent to all the alumnae, with all these names divided up by date. It's not rocket science, nor is it empty ritual. It's an audible, tangible, intentional working out of Paul's admonition to "Devote yourselves to prayer" (Colossians 4:12). 

Somebody thought of me, and didn't want to forget, so they wrote my name down. They prayed for me by name. And they sent me this card. 

I don't know about anyone else, but I can be forgetful. I can have good intentions to pray for a lot of people, and a lot of things, but unless these intentions are formed into a plan, they too easily get lost along the way or elbowed out by the urgent. 

It's been a growing desire, these past years, to put more devotion into my prayer. And whenever I get one of these in the mail, I am reminded that a little planning can go a long way. 

This April, I kept it up on the fridge all month. And I started thinking what it would look like to create my own cycle of prayer, for me, and our family. Something simple. A starting point. A place to hang those dear names, those concerns and burdens, those stirrings of the Spirit, those passions and pursuits. A way to remember, and a way to keep me going in the habit of prayer. I've been experimenting with one or two ideas, and maybe I'll share them in posts to come. 

So, thanks Wycliffe! Your prayer keeps on giving. 

~lg

June ramblings

I've got seeds in my pocket and a sonata on my fingertips. It is a June evening, blushing with the colours of the sun up past its bedtime. These night hours seem stolen from some other world, some other time. There is the only the wind in the trees, and its noise does not demand, though we all bow to its power. There is no past, only these seeds that I place in the soil, space, cover up, then step to the next row. The garden gives, long before its fruits are ripe. Solitude. Solidarity with the earth and the mother spider that scuttles her egg nest to safer ground. Here is time, true and ticking, tuned to the turn of the earth and tilt of sun. Before the dark settles I put the tools in the shed and scrub the black dirt from my knuckles. Now limbered up, fingers fall easily on the smooth ivory keys, remembering patterns learned a decade and a half ago. The window is open to the night air, and I linger with the diminuendo, feeling the last vibrations sink away into the walls and floor of this old house. Then there is quiet. The quiet of children sleeping, and the breeze blowing through the rooms, and the frogs across the valley. There is a peace that comes when all the portals to the racing, rabid world are closed, and a thought can wander and turn without the clamoring opinions of a never-sleeping network. The house fills with the glow of lamps, but there is yet indigo through the windowpanes. Soon the night will leave us with only mirrors, and then what will we see gazing back at us? I have danced with June, let it in and taken its bait - and there, it smiles with me.


~lg

Time to Sow

When life looms large and my efforts are not enough, you whisper it quiet:

Make yourself small.

Make yourself as a seed, curled in the dark earth, invisible but for the Father’s eye.

Make yourself sown, hurled by another’s hand and abandoned to the death of this dry husk.

Make yourself soft, able to receive the water of your germination.

When life looms large, make yourself small.

From this hiddenness, something radicle emerges.

From this burial, life will swell and root, a life that is stronger than the push of the world, as strong in this small place as any of the forces of nature. Here is the secret of the kingdom of heaven, the mystery of the cross, and the origin of being.

Do you feel it? Futility? Emptiness? The rattle of lifeless limbs? Then lean in close, leave all this striving, place yourself there between finger and thumb.

You whisper:

It is time to sow.

~lg

afternoon prayer :: 1

The prayer of the leaky cistern

By this time, O Lord, my leaks are showing and patches coming unglued. I bring my battered cistern, and lay it down beside your spring. Here is a source that never runs dry, never leaks out, never needs patching. Here is a source everlasting, everflowing, everquenching. Here is life, not to bucket away, but to draw near and drink deep. Here, your mercies are new again. Here, I am renewed.

Amen.

~lg

morning prayer :: 2

O Lord of open ears,

When I wake up with no voice of my own, I turn to the voices that you breathed into long ago.
I enter into their prayers and join my heart with theirs, till their words become my strength, my song, my own, and I am carried into your presence.

"Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love,

for I have put my trust in you.

Show me the way I should go,

for to you I lift up my soul.

Rescue me from my enemies, O LORD,

for I hide myself in you.

Teach me to do your will,

for you are my God;

may your good Spirit 

lead me on level ground." 

(Psalm 143:8-10)

Amen.

~lg

Morning Prayer :: The morning after five years

This morning, a newly minted five year old snuggles in for a cuddle on the front porch swing, while the first green of spring bursts out on the trees. "The same old world, but new."* And every breath she takes against my body, every glint of light upon the river, every birdsong carol, all are morning prayers rising from the fresh dawn to the Father of creation.

Here is perfection, often glimpsed yet rarely grasped, and it lives and breathes in my arms.
Here is beauty so pure, and who am I to behold it, and how can a windswept hill make me want to cry for joy and longing?
Here is wonder in the warmth of a freckled face, and the curious nature of seeds, and this one child that I have woken to each morning for five years.

Here is life, life more abundantly.

It is right to give our thanks and praise!

* From Come and See: A Christmas Story by Monica Mayper

~lg

Reading list thus far

I realized the other day I hadn't yet written down any of the books I've read this year. I thought back to my bedside stacks, and this is what I came up with.

Farewell to the East End (Jennifer Worth)

The Geography of Nowhere (James Howard Kunstler)

Longbourn (Jo Baker)

Little House in the Big Woods (Laura Ingalls Wilder) - Read aloud with Arden

Pilgrim’s Inn (Elizabeth Goudge)

The Bird in the Tree (Elizabeth Goudge)

The Heart of the Family (Elizabeth Goudge)

On Hope (Josef Pieper)

The Gospel of the Kingdom (George Eldon Ladd)

Timeless Simplicity: Creative Living in a Consumer Society (John Lane) 

It's been a long, stormy winter, which has been a definite benefit for the book list! Things may slow down as spring picks up. 

On the "To Read" list for the rest of the year:

Emma (Jane Austen)

Till We Have Faces (C.S. Lewis) - it's been a few years since I've read this one

Revelation (Joseph Mangina) - a few chapters left

More Elizabeth Goudge

~lg 

~lg

Fools of Spring

May Day, and the bells ring out in distant Oxford, and the grass grows green on the sunny side of the house, and the blackbirds make a racket in the bracken, and we are shouting the same glad song for winter’s death with each stomp of our rubber boots.

Spring turns us all into yabbering fools, sprouting sincere, if unoriginal, poetry. And why not? Spring awakens our childlikeness. No one has ever said of a child’s first stab at a cat or the sun or their father, “Not bad, but I think it’s been done before.”

We are children, delighting in life and trying to get at its very essence, and all we have are shadow words next to its glory. Yet that should not, must not, stop us, for part of the glory we share is this urge of reproduction, the desire to create, and in creating to somehow comprehend our own origins in the freshness deep down.

Spring is not notable for its originality, but for its origin. God makes the spring come to Oxford and our island alike, this I tell my son. Woven into the patterns of the earth, spun up in its turning, spring is the recurring invitation to become the child we were born to be. 

~lg