Hearing Crickets

I am late to start reading the Christmas story this season, but better late than never. What awes me, what lingers in my mind like that last hint of chocolate and swirls in a pattern too complex to grasp, is the faith. My thoughts snag on Zechariah and Mary. Zach caught my focus last year and my respect for him grows. And Mary, well the fact that there has ever been a 14 year-old girl that was ready to hang up her cell and put away the nail polish to become mother to God... truly miraculous.But for today I will talk about Zach.

Not only had Zach's own most fervent lifelong prayer--a God-honoring one, even, for a son--gone unanswered, but that was par for the course for the last five hundred years. Five hundred years. That's more than twice the length of time that the U.S. has been a nation. God had not acted for his people. His chosen nation lived under a Roman thumb eager to smush them. No miracles. No explanations.

No. Word.

And yet even when the only thing he heard were crickets, or their Middle Eastern relatives,
still Zach served. Throughout his life. Without expecting--though I believe, deep in his heart, hoping--to see something, anything, that would display God's nearness. Or at least his awareness. He left his wife at home and donned his robe every time it was his turn to man the temple. And he prayed and offered sacrifices and blessings. Faithfully.
Still. Nothing.

Then one day, his lot gets cast to go into the Holy of Holies and sprinkle the altar. A big deal. Exciting. Maybe nerve-wracking. I mean, there were bells on the robe and a rope around his ankle, so if he did something wrong and bit the dust right then and there, they could drag him out without further offending the Lord. Or maybe not so nerve wracking. I mean, would God break generations of stillness to snuff out one old man? Apparently Zack thought it was possible. He revered this God who did not provide good parking spots, or green lights, or last-second victories for the home team. Who hadn't given him a son. He was faithful. Righteous. 
In the midst of the nothing.

Well, when he went in, the angel appeared and all that silence shattered in an instant into thousands of tiny, irreparable pieces. An angel of the Lord says, "Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard, and your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you shall call his name John." Zack blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Scratches behind his right ear. I probably would have said, "what?" But not Zack. He's a step ahead.  "How?"

I think it's a testament to Zack's faith that the angel gets a little testy at this point. I mean, we're talking not just one entire life of zilch, but all the grands he can remember had zilch too. Except for weird Aunt Bertha who would always predict God's will and then change her forecast when it didn't come true.

For most of us, certainly for me, the angel would have had to scrape me off the ground and slap my cheeks a few times, let me pinch myself to ensure I wasn't dreaming, and then repeat the whole thing half a dozen times while I tried not to squint skeptically.

But Zack? His faith is so staid, so thick and solid that the angel really expects him to take all this in without question.
Even after all the nothing.

One seemingly fair question, and the angel makes Zach mute until his son is born and they name him John.

Only I think it was an act of grace, not temper, that silenced Zach. When you've lived in silence that long, there is nothing scarier than hope. Before he even got to the miracle-baby part...God had heard his prayers? God had listened? All that stillness wasn't a lack of attentiveness. It was just...stillness. Broken now, with an old guy. Not the wittiest priest, or strongest, or even the best teacher. For real?

Why him? Why now, when he and Elizabeth were so old? Running after a toddler? At his age, with knees that ached when it rained? And Elizabeth, as much as she would love a son...well, he'd heard the hollers and screams from other homes when a birth came. Could she make it through it? But then the angel had said they would have a son. Still, it was all too crazy.

It was the last time he'd eat Taco Bell before going on shift. That had to be it. Because if it was true...it would be the very best thing Zack could imagine. Just the thought lifted his heart off the ground, made it soar. That God heard his prayers, and promised to answer them. I mean, hoping for a special moment in the Holy of Holies was one thing, but this? To believe would lean him way further out over nothing but faith than he'd ever dared before.

And therein lay the problem. What if he was wrong? If he was being a foolish old man and it didn't happen, well, he really wasn't sure if he'd survive. No, that wasn't it. He was certain he wouldn't survive. The fall would crush his heart.
Yes, hope is so very dangerous.

But the angel left him mute. An inescapable sign that something had happened. A constant reminder. Whenever he wanted to welcome a parishioner, when he wanted to tell Elizabeth he was home, when he gave in and decided to order Taco Bell again, he would be reminded that God had broken his silence.
It was something.

He couldn't ask others to pray that God would fulfill his will, he couldn't share doubts and cynicism with Elizabeth. It was a bit ironic, certainly, that when God decided to speak, he also decided Zach shouldn't.
But then maybe not so ironic. Maybe that would be a gift we could all benefit from.

I get edgy when I don't hear God, don't feel him, don't sense his movement. I start to wonder what might be him, if he even sees me anymore. If in all the bustle of all the lives on the planet, I'm just not worth the time and energy it would take to relate.  And it hasn't been centuries since he's moved perceptibly. It hasn't even been my whole life. And even when I feel lost and can't find him, he moves in those around me. Even when I don't feel it, I see it.

I'm so thankful for these supports to my fragile faith. Thankful that God is faithful even when I am not, that his love extends to the Heavens. That two-thousand years ago he broke his stillness and sent his Son to this earth late Christmas night to answer prayers none of us knew to pray in the first place.

My Dearest, when I lose you I miss you desperately. I'm afraid so often to lean hard into you. I'm not even sure what that, distilled, means. Thank you for the pillars that do. For the Zachs I can lean on. Thank you most that you are love. That as far fetched as it sometimes seems, you always see me and love me more than I can take in. Help me get that. In the meantime, I will try to remember who you are and how narrow my perspective really is. To trust your love even when I can't see it.  All my love.

I bless the rains down in Aaaafricaaa

That ridge in the background is my knuckle.

There are some wonderful things about the changing of the seasons. Scarves, soup, Christmas carols, Christmas trees, and vegan green bean casserole to name a few.

However, as with anything there are some things that don't make the list. For some reason, when fall/winter hits, skin gets...dry doesn't cover it. Have you ever seen one of those nature shows, where the camera pans across a desert, so completely dry that the earth has cracked until it looks like a really boring, really difficult puzzle? Think that, minus cacti.

The same thing happens when I fly, and as I've flown to and from cold places this week, I've been considering using the back of my hand on dishes instead of a Brillo pad.

Which is why I'm grateful for lotion. It smells like coconut--I know, seasonally incorrect--and it shimmers and most importantly, it falls like a warm rain on the Serengeti of my winter hands.  Now I won't have to worry about snagging shirts or causing rug burn during handshakes.

Me: 1
Winter: 0

Thank you, Jesus, for lotion and whoever first thought of scenting it. Thank you for fall and yes, even winter, and that along with sandpaper hands, it also brings fireplaces fires, green bean casserole, tights, and best of Christmas. All my love.

The Miraculous Landing of the Flight 'O' Death: Told from my admittedly skewed perspective.

It was a bright and sunny day when I boarded my flight to Chicago, but it didn't take long to become a dark and stormy night. Yesterday, as winds and cyclones tore across the Midwest, I boarded a plane for Chicago.

The pilot cancelled beverage service, which was mildly annoying. I sat there thinking of the tomato juice I wouldn't have, and felt superior to all the thirsty passengers for having brought my own water. About twenty minutes in to our one and a half our flight, the jiggling started.  It wasn't too serious, though the guy next to me would disagree.

I couldn't find a picture of a plane in darks stormy skies, so
just imagine the light blue is an ominous gray-navy,
then pick up your laptop and shake it vigorously,
and you'll get the idea.

I continued reading, trying not to fall asleep lest I flop onto one of the guys on either side. (I fly Southwest so I'm always in the middle seat.) My seatmates weren't hard on the ol' peepers, so I wouldn't have minded making either of their shoulders a pillow, but I don't think they would have appreciated drool on their shirts.

We jostled along, the flight attendants trying to tell the thirsty people they had to stay seated, while the thirsty people--whose last beverage had worked its way through their system--weighed the pros and cons of ignoring them to risk a broken limb on the way to the bathroom, or obeying and wetting themselves. Most chose option A, for which, I admit, I'm grateful.

It wasn't until we neared Chicago that the jiggling turned to jostling. More and more people went rigid and clung to arm rests. I praised Jesus for Dramamine and read on. Then the jostling turned to bumping, and the bumping almost immediately turned to that roller coaster sensation when you fall several hundred feet and your insides refuse to go with you.

I love turbulence about as much as I love mosquito bites, or realizing first thing in the morning that I'm out of coffee. But I was doing alright.

Until.....(insert dramatic musical riff) I peered past my terrified seatmate and out the window.  There, maybe 100 yards below our steeply angled wing, a little house sat with its lights on. We were so close I could see a dog burrowing under the fence. Okay, it was dark, but if it were lighter and a dog had been burrowing under a fence, I would have seen him.

I had just finished thinking, "My, that house is close," when, with a Six Flags-worthy drop, we were suddenly much much closer to the house. I think we scraped a few tiles off the roof as we passed.

This must have scared my hand because it clung to the arm rest. And while I think reading is as good as any activity to be caught up in when you die, I couldn't concentrate. I decided to ignore the window, thought about those inflatable slides and how I'd have to remember to go feet first, and reminded myself that lots of pilots had landed already in this tornado-force gale. I prayed ours was skilled.

Well, we wobbled all the way to the runway, hit hard, but we stuck the landing. Hallelujah. The plane broke out in applause and we all gave each other that knowing look you get when you feel a near death experience has enlightened you.

The weather is still rough today, I just hope it gets better before I return. Unless you're a burglar reading this. Then I'm home already with my two pit bulls, Jellybean and Buckley.

Thank you, Jesus, for airplanes, water bottles, Dramamine--oh, thank you for Dramamine--and the lovely Christmas tree I found waiting at the hotel. Please be with all of those affected by this storm. All my love.

Insert some clever pun with the word "Fall" or "Leaves"

Yosemite.
Maui.
The moon.
Northwest Arkansas.

What do these places have in common? Very cool landscape.

What do they not have in common? Cool sounding names. Sorry, Northwest, Arkansas.

But it truly is beautiful countryside. I drove home today through the Ozarks. They're just on the cusp of turning all the rich colors of autumn. It was a nice drive, one I always enjoy. But in a few weeks it will be breathtaking and I hope I have a reason to head that way and see it.

Which made me think how much I like change. It's weird. It's one of those things that is intimidating. I don't go out of my to find it. I cringe a little when I see it coming. Cover my eyes. But once I get the nerve to peer out from between my fingers, it's....good. Interesting. Even if it's not the change to vibrance that fall brings, having things be different makes those fall colors seem so gorgeous.

So, I'm going to have to remind myself of this at some point when I get freaked out because something is about to get different, but I really am grateful that the only thing that's consistent in life is change.

Thank you, God, for variety and change, for fall and colors and trees designed to vary throughout the year.  All my love.

Time is on my side. For once.

I believe in miracles, but some are a little wackier than others. Like mud making a blind guy see, and walking on water, and fishes that never run out.

Some are a little easier. For instance, there's a story in the Old Testament about how God made the sun stand still so Joshua and his peeps could route the enemy. I have no trouble believing this.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I experience it on a regular basis.

Every afternoon at work between one thirty and four thirty, I write reports, review reports, analyze reports. And instead of passing, time just oozes. Like molasses flowing uphill on a cold day. I'm pretty sure I could defeat a few armies in the afternoons and still have time to paint my toes. If I didn't have to write reports, that is.

Well, today was the exception!  I came back from lunch at 1:15ish and started grinding out those reports.  When I glanced up, expecting it to be, oh, 1:16, it was already after 2:00!  And then a mere blink later it was going on 3:00! And in less time than it would take to take down an Amorite, the work day was over.

Hallelujah! It's a miracle indeed.

Thank you, God, for a fast workday. Thank you for time. Please keep making it go fast during work and slow all the other times. All my love.

Charge!

There are a lot of messages I like. For instance the email from Starbucks that I've earned a free drink, or the note in my mailbox saying I have a package at the apartment offices.

There are also messages I don't like. One of my least favorites is this.

photo from mons-diary.blogspot.com 

Okay, so it's not exactly like that, but you know what I mean.  In my habit of jumping on bandwagons just as a new bandwagon takes off, I bought an iPhone 5 mere weeks before the 5s was released.

I like it. I really do. And I have the cutest blue polka dot cover.

But the battery lives as long as your average fruit fly. And if I play Pandora, its cut even shorter. Like a fruit fly with a bad nicotine habit.

Which makes me grateful for car chargers. While I would like to be the kind of organized that always has a pen in her purse, a plan for dinner, and fully charged electronics, I'm just not. Even with a car charger my phone does die on occasion and its misery. I mean, I just know that the pivotal call/text/email/facebook message/tweet/retweet that never comes while my phone is on will soar through cyberspace and hit the brick wall of my dead phone leading to nebulous but serious consequences.*

Okay, yes, I do have control issues.When I think back to the pre-cell days when you stood tethered by a cord to the kitchen phone counting twenty-two rings before you decided the other party must not have an answering machine, it's all hazy like a bad, low-tech dream. Less stressful, but still.(Shiver.)

While walking around with a dead phone is probably a good exercise in letting go, its a lesson I don't have to learn, thanks to my lovely blue car charger. And for that I'm grateful.

Thank you, God, for whoever put the cigarette lighter in cars that now serves to charge things. Thank you for portable technology, for my phone and its cute blue cover, for all the crazy apps it lets me use. Thank you for friends who send me texts, tweets, emails, and messages elevating my phone from an electronic paperweight to a means of connecting. All my love.

*Note: I have no qualms whatsoever when my work blackberry dies. In fact, I gloat a bit over its still form.

Fortune

Long ago, an industrious restaurateur realized he had a bunch of extra cardboard coasters he didn't know what to do with. After a bit of thinking and fiddling, he discovered that if he folded them into a U-shaped pocket and slipped a piece of paper inside, he could give them out as cookies to grateful patrons.

Okay, I made that up. But I am not convinced anyone actually likes fortune cookies. They are to cookies what charcoal is to gems. But, that little scrap of paper inside makes us crack it open anyway to see what our fortune is, and then eat the halves because it would be wasteful not to.

Tonight at P.F. Chang's I got this:

Not really a fortune, P.F., but trueish. I would amend that by saying summits. As in, plural. And then I agree, even if it's still not a fortune.

Thankfully, we don't climb alone. This past weekend at the American Christian Fiction Writers conference I got to spend time with my peeps.  I left my day job behind, including my blackberry (suck it, blackberry!) packed up my favorite outfits, and jetted off to Indianapolis.

It was fabulous to catch up with old friends and meet so many new amazing writers.

But even in Indianapolis,  I was approaching the summit. I couldn't leave the hard bits of life behind, which I thought would be a liability. But, even though I didn't know it at the time, this was the very reason I went this year. Because I talked with two dear friends who helped share the load. Who can look over the other side of the mountain, can see the view that I can't yet envision, and help me continue to climb. 

Rachel Hauck and Reba Hoffman are two people I want to be when I grow up. Both had their own biz goin' on at the conference, but each took time to stop, talk with me, pray with me, and exhort me. To help me free my feet from the cold packed snow and start to climb again. These are the encounters that change you. Give a fresh view of the world that cannot be taken away. After all, that's really all that changes at the summit. You're still on top of a mound of rock, but the perspective is wide and long and beautiful.

Yes, I pitched and learned and pitched and learned. And that was fabulous. But the most lovely of blessings is seeing that God had prepared these two and gave them to me. Just the gifts I needed right when I needed them.

Thank you, God, for your people who you have been generous with. For painful/wonderful writing. For hope.  All my love.