Write The Love

53651619_10157473629653352_4215585030375735296_oOh, the power of our words.  Bad habits can creep in like the dry leaves that blow in the front door, rattling across the floor, accumulating all sneaky-like.  We don’t notice, we’re busy doing this, doing that.  It’s only when one finds a pile of leaves, or an entrenched habit, that the problem is truly seen for what it is.

I’ve noticed our short fuses and resultant words that cut and sting.  The casual put-downs, the snide remarks, the jokes that hurt.  When did we let all these leaves in?

I was walking through our local thrift store, trying to find white clothes for our upcoming chrismations/baptisms.  There amidst a jumble of Christmas items was a little white metal mailbox, with a sticker on the side of cardinals and a cursive “Merry Christmas!”  Fifty cents later, it was mine.

I guess it’s not obvious why I had to have it, but I believe in the power of words, for wounding and healing.  Lent is nearly upon us; how can we remember to fast from hurtful speech?  Perhaps, just perhaps, by feasting on kind words.  Thus, the mailbox.

My children love rituals, traditions, and surprises.  They delight in the suspense, the sense that normal time has been suspended, that a special season is upon us that we are compelled to feel, down in our marrow.  Could I make kindness, encouragement, and love a tradition; could it help us use this gift all year?

I had to make it easy; who has the time and energy to track down a working pen, nice paper, and so on?  I had to make it intentional; it needed a space of its own, right in the heart of the home.  I had to make it fun; personalized and anticipatory.  My Made In China, cardinal-clad mailbox put the rest into motion.

53545858_10157473629373352_6883640889567084544_oFolded cards and writing implements at the ready.  The cheerful mailbox, sporting a paper sign (sorry, cardinals!), stands ready to receive missives.53357806_10157473629448352_4832568313785614336_oUsing glass gems, a drop of transparent glue (you can use clear silicone too), tiny scrap pieces of paper, and little round magnets, I made these little alert gems to signal when the recipients have mail waiting for them.  This protects the privacy of those who are receiving notes as the other children aren’t allowed to look inside the box unless their name is on.  53679360_10157473629488352_5180555068142780416_oHe’s got mail!53089500_10157473629688352_5572183762583683072_oRight beside the writing station is an alms box.  I spoke with the children at length that any giving into it needed to be done in absolute secrecy, so that only God sees.  At the end of Lent we’ll count it together and donate it to a charity we agree upon, or a person we know needs timely help.  53472775_10157473629943352_3927092712758575104_oTo the left of this I assembled a Lenten bouquet; dried weeds and plants from a recent walk, that in their death, still are beautiful.  The brittleness reminds me that Lent can be difficult and can make us feel a bit dried up, especially as important work is done on our souls.  As Holy Week progresses, so will the bouquet, ending up resplendent.  53793183_10157473629773352_5414610397565026304_oOur candle calendar sits ready to mark the days of the Bright Sadness.53270766_10157473630008352_4616132898716647424_oAnd finally, our Lenten devotional, “Tending the Garden of Our Hearts”, which will help us once again to gather each evening and be blessed, challenged, and encouraged in our journeys to Pascha.

Tending the Garden of Our Hearts FINAL COVER53509571_10157473629888352_9020214349972635648_oAnd, prayer, sweet, glorious, challenging, prayer.

May your Lenten journey be blessed!

Lent a Hand

The approach of Lent is everywhere, hints in the flora outside; Lenten roses ready to unfold their majestic petals, the pussy willow whips full of emerging puffs, peeking out under brown husks.  The faithful are eating meat with a certain urgency, and the pre-Lenten Sundays tick by, marking the approach to the “bright sadness”.

It reminds me of my rowing days.  In the weeks preceding a regatta I’d be an absolute bundle of nerves, all that tension settling in my stomach in a hard, twisty knot.  As a catechumen, I feel the same way as Lent approaches.  Will I make it?  Can I fast well, pray more, give more, attend more services, and grow spiritually…and not lose my ever-loving mind?  My thoughts are full of logistics and bean recipes and, honestly, a bit of panic.  It’s not just my journey, but my whole family’s; how can I help my kids connect to the beautiful, difficult season of Lent?  How can I make sure we don’t miss it?Tending the Garden of Our Hearts FINAL COVER

Last year we huddled around our aging laptop and listened to “Tending the Garden of Our Hearts”, a Lenten podcast on Ancient Faith Radio by Elissa Bjeletich and Kristina Wenger.  It was such an unmitigated blessing to have a spiritual meditation at the end of each day that wove in the strands we’d otherwise miss in our fatigue and busyness.  Stories of the saints mingled with the history behind the services we were attending, helping to anchor what we were seeing in a deeper understanding.  We were all challenged by the holy lives we read about.  This was a catalyst for great conversations with our toddlers, all the way up to our teenagers.

I’m thrilled that the podcast has been adapted into a book, and as I read through it again this month, I’m blessed anew by the thoughtful meditations that will again lead my family through Lent, one living room gathering at a time.  Being a visual person, I decided to make a calendar of sorts to further anchor the stories we read and the lessons we learned in our hearts.  I’ve included it here for your use as well, if it would be helpful for you!

The book is available on ancientfaith.com.  I pray you enjoy it as much as we do!

Tending the Garden of Our Hearts- Lenten Heart Calendar

Materials:

  • 12×12 piece of scrapbook paper for heart
  • scissors
  • thin ribbon, baker’s twine, or yarn
  • small safety pin
  • printable ornaments:  Page 1, and Page 2
  • color pencils
  • hole punch
  • marker

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Fold the piece of scrapbook paper in half, draw half of a heart and cut out.  While still folded, punch 25 holes along the edge.  Unfold and press flat.

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Each day, after the meditation, color in the ornament of the day.  The littlest children may enjoy the word ornaments where they can color quite freely, while the older ones may prefer the more intricate illustrations.  Cut out the ornament.

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Cut a length of your string or thin ribbon that is roughly two times as long as the perimeter of your heart.  Tie one end to the first hole, and the other to a small safety pin for a “needle”.
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Go up from underneath, looping each ornament into place each day, allowing the string to hang for the next addition.FullSizeRender-97

May your Lent be blessed!

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Customary Love

cropped-img_2107.jpg“Arising from sleep, I thank You, O Most Holy Trinity, that, for the sake of Your great kindness and long-suffering, You have not had indignation against me, for I am slothful and sinful….”

My voice was near a whisper as it formed the words and the morning light filled the window over my prayer bench last week.  The children’s school had been delayed and they’d gotten off to a later start so no candle was needed to illumine the words.

Neither have You destroyed me in my transgressions.  But You have shown Your customary love toward mankind, and have raised me up as I lay in heedlessness, that I might sing my morning hymn and glorify Your sovereignty….”

Fast forward to today, in which I was furious.  I looked into my childrens’ rooms and saw there every possible form of chaos and lack of care.  This has been a recurring theme for as long as they’ve been mobile, and we’ve tried every methodology we could think of to train them into neater habits. Yes, even boxing up their toys and putting them in the attic, but their hearts weren’t changed.  My voice was eerily calm as I gave them a monotone speech at breakfast that I was seriously considering getting rid of all their toys, since clearly they didn’t care about them.  Tears and quivering chins and promises that they’ll never let things get to such a state again.  I dryly remarked that I’d heard that a thousand times and yet they hadn’t reformed their ways.  Time was up, I was done, they’d gone too far, too many times.

Do now enlighten the eyes of my understanding, open my ears to receive Your words, and teach me Your commandments.  Help me to do Your will, to sing to You, to confess to You from my heart, and to praise Your All-Holy Name:  of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages.  Amen.”

I had finished the prayer and let the warm light pour over my kneeling form, and even with my eyes closed it was bright.  I got up from the floor and for whatever reason I turned around to sit a moment on my bench, lifting my eyes to the other side of the room.  There was our icon of Christ, a gift at Pascha last year from our dear friend Leon Miller, where I had placed it near our Lent candle calendar just the day before.

It was absolutely, stunningly, glowing.

The face was so full of light that I was startled.  Like I’d caught someone staring at me boldly.  The morning light had come in at just the right angle, and just at that moment, leaving only the face illuminated and everything to the sides in darkness.  I sat there dumbfounded, and it seemed special, but in a way I don’t have words for.  Many of the things of God are like that; He seems to leave us margin to see or not to see the burning bushes in our lives.  To take them as holy or coincidental.

I sat and I thought.  I had just begun the practice of saying the morning and evening prayers from my Orthodox study Bible the day before.  If the weather had not been predicted to be bad, the children would not have had a delay, and my prayers would have been in the morning’s dark rather than the light.  I had just placed the icon there the day before, and uncharacteristically, I placed it oddly, off-center; not at all as I would normally arrange things.  I had turned around and sat down, I hadn’t just leapt up and started in on the day’s duties as I normally would.  The light had filled that one square foot of space and no other, almost like a spotlight.  But, still, it could be a happy coincidence.FullSizeRender-43Icons might be one of the most misunderstood things in Christianity.  In western eyes they are at the worst, idols, and at the best, unnecessary and potentially dangerous.

ICON:  A transliterated Greek word meaning “IMAGE”.  Icons of Christ and His saints depict the reality of the incarnation; because the Son of God became Man, He can be imaged.  Orthodox Christians honor or venerate icons, but never worship them, for worship is due the Holy Trinity alone.  The honor given to icons passes on to the one represented on the icon, as a means of thanksgiving for what God has done in that person’s life.  (The Orthodox Study Bible, p.1782)

This icon is known as Christ Pantocrator, “Ruler of All”.  In this year of church-homelessness I have been blessed by this visual, physical reminder that God has all things in His control and that he steadily cares for us.  As the prayer reads:  “You have shown Your customary love towards mankind...”  Customary, as in habitual, constant.  What grace.

So my day went on and the afternoon found me in study at my desk._MG_4776It’s a cherished spot in our home.  The children love the special occasions when I let them do work there, but most of the time it is a place set aside just for me.  Again, for whatever reason, I turned my chair around and looked across the room.  I have there hanging a print of Christ praying in Gethsemane.  It was an image clipped from a Ladies Home Journal in 1922 and carefully matted with strips of cardboard by a loving hand.  I’d purchased it at a thrift store, stunned by the care someone had given to preserve the cheap print.

Well, the face was glowing bright.

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My first thought was that I’d never noticed how drastically the painting was done; like a Rembrandt with his startling use of shadow and light that made the bright points of the painting near leap off the canvas.  I kept staring and was suddenly sure that something was different; the painting had never been so striking before.  I got up and walked toward it.  All of a sudden the light calmed flat as my presence interrupted a singular ray of light that had pierced the filigree on my front porch, sliced through the uppermost corner of one of the tall windows and hit solely upon the inch-wide face of Christ, leaving the rest of the painting in shadow.

I stepped back and the face filled with that singular light again.  In another moment the light had shifted and was gone.

Again, God leaves margin; there is nothing miraculous in sunlight striking where it pleases as the earth rotates and orbits the sun.  It is, however, highly unlikely that the face of Christ in two distinct works of art would be illuminated singularly twice in one day and that both times I would pause uncharacteristically in my work and witness it.

I was hesitant to tell my husband; afraid I’d be dismissed as the sort who saw the Virgin Mary in a tortilla or something of that sort.  But it felt so special, so astonishing, that at evening’s end I did share it with him.  He shared my wonder and my pleasure and the mystery of it.  We didn’t try to wrangle a meaning out of it.  I was left with two strong emotions:  joy and surprise.  It was the feeling when you know someone thought of you especially and sent you flowers or a note.  That “I am noticed and loved” sort of pleasure.

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I had sent the children up to their rooms to clean, my disapproval a palpable presence in the house.  There was a nudge in my spirit though, and I was drawn to the morning prayer.  God filled my heart with the words;

“Arising from sleep, I thank You, O Most Holy Trinity, that, for the sake of Your great kindness and long-suffering, You have not had indignation against me, for I am slothful and sinful.  Neither have You destroyed me in my transgressions. But You have shown Your customary love toward mankind, and have raised me up as I lay in heedlessness…”

Daily He extends mercy and grace.  Daily I fall into sin and repent of it bitterly.  I resolve in my heart to hold my tongue, to exercise more patience and grace, and daily I must repent of my failings to do so.  I was ashamed that I had offered my children less than I had received.  I called them downstairs.

I read them the prayer and tears filled my eyes.  I told them the story of the debtor who was forgiven his great debt and then had demanded unjustly the payment of a small debt from another in anger.  I told them that I had no grounds on which to withhold forgiveness and mercy from them when they failed, because forgiveness and mercy were not withheld from me when I did. Seventy times seventy times seventy.  I looked into their eyes that swam with emotion which matched my own.  I said, “You will screw up, just as I do.  But I will forgive you as I have been forgiven, and each of us will try again.  God promises to forgive our every failing and to help us to do what is right.”

The prayer writes of the “customary love” that God has for us, and that is just what I seek to grow in; customary, habitual, constant love, a reflex of sorts towards compassion and mercy and kindness.  The experience with the light last week has reminded me of God’s presence with us, His interest in us, and His lovingkindness towards us.  The prayer has reminded me to extend that great mercy and love to those who’d be most keenly effected by the absence of it in my words and actions, my children.

God whispers in His Word and in our hearts and through art and burning bushes, and let us pause so that we do not miss a word of it.

 

Why I Need Spring

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It isn’t just the cabin fever.  The raucous noise level in our home with these four children gifted with high spirits and lots of energy.  The fact that even outdoor excursions produce indoor explosions of drippy boots, tracked-in mud, sopping wet mittens, and jackets drying over the backs of dining room chairs.  It isn’t just that.

It’s my weak heart, my weak faith, see.  I need that tangible, visual evidence that there’s hope, rebirth, renewal, life again.  That under fall’s leaf scatter, under winter’s hard white, life will again muscle its way up through all that, and thrive.  It is my favorite season; all that freshness and garden hose spray and flowers and thunder storm majesty.  It’s the whole world waking up with a smile.

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Oh, what a Lent.  Next Monday I’ll be able to share with you what has weighed us down so, what has sapped our joy and left us needing Spring in our very marrow.  Until then, oh, please pray.

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Hands Full of Bread

I stood there, with all the beautiful voices rising, rising up to the top of the dome where the painted saints looked down, looked down on my hands overflowing with bread.  “Taste and see”, intoned the liturgy and more bread was piled into my cupped hands, given with smiles and warmth and welcome.  My joy giggled out as my hands got ever-fuller.

My children were astonished by all this bread gifting.  Their mouths were as stuffed as their hands.  Reuben was in carb heaven.  Sophia leaned in and said, “Mommy, this church is so beautiful.  Why aren’t Mennonite churches colorful like this?”  I smiled.  Oh the variety among God’s children.

The music, oh the music.  The voices just swell and lift in ancient, unhurried rhythm.  Lots of repetition, lots of time for the words to become prayers and the heart to turn towards God.  Our friend, Leon Miller, guided us through with whispered hints, where to turn in the liturgy, when to lay prostrate, even giving us a quick lesson in making the sign of the cross, the Orthodox way, in hushed whispers in the cloak room before the service.  He had also passed us each a thin beeswax taper which we each lit while we offered a prayer to God, and stuck into a trough of smooth sand, a whole little beach of lights symbolizing prayers.

The scripture, oh the scripture.  Not just a dash or a dose of a passage, but broad sweeps of it, big long draughts of it, whole psalms devoured, sung.  While the priest swings the censer of incense beyond the royal doors, up and down the aisle.

I didn’t understand all of it, but I appreciated it; like seeing a complicated national dance and knowing that the movements and symbols are all intrinsically connected to the culture and history of that nation.  That every bit of it is intentional, it all has meaning.  And when you see these forms of worship and hear this liturgy that goes back to the time of Christ, something within you recognizes the flavor, if not the form.

We stood nearly the whole time and I cannot remember feeling fatigue.  Our children were with us, which I dearly love, being a fan of families worshipping together and not parceled out to age-specific programs.  Reuben told me, “Mom, I just loved listening to the pastor and the beautiful music”.  And, of course, he liked all the lovely people filling his hands with bread.

We ended with a feast and my heart was as full as my stomach.  If I had to pare down the experience into a few words, they would be:  beauty, warmth, and a sense of being at home within Christian history.  Quite the experience.

Our warm thanks to Leon for your invitation and to the dear ones at St. John Chrysostom Antiochian Orthodox Church for your warm hospitality.