Oh my Sole

Imagine the color gunmetal gray, only sparkly. Like Dolly Parton's six-shooter. That is the exact color of my toenails...and the only part of me that resembles anything Dolly.
My sister and I had a girls' night out on Tuesday, which started at Luxury Nails. Two nice people offered us drinks, and then went about pampering our feet while we sipped and chatted. I stopped chatting when they did the massage bit because it felt so good my words quit working properly. But, other than that we talked and laughed and tried not to squirm when they pumiced the bottoms our soles.
By the time we left, Courtney's toes were a glossy cherry red, and mine were the aforementioned shimmery silver. But, more than just our toes were more colorful when we pulled the little foam separators free and put on our shoes.
There's something about the occasional pampering that makes your soul a little prettier, too. It's a reminder that you're worth being looked after, that you can sit and relax, and let someone else take over. And then you feel pretty--and it doesn't require any pain or effort. 
You just feel special.
I think Heaven will be a lot like this. We'll feel like we're meant to feel--the way Jesus sees us always. As much as we want to be better people, our efforts are stilted at best, and massive, nuclear failures at worst. But God, He's the one with the ability to make us pretty. He calls us to sit back, and relax and chat with him, while he gets to work making us fancier on the inside.
I mean, Jesus even gave the disciples a pedicure of sorts before the last supper, so we must be on to something.
Well, given the current weather, I'm still the only one who has enjoyed my pretty toenails. But it was worth it. Not only did I get that taste of pure enjoyment, but now every time I take off my shoes, I get another little injection of that feeling.
Thank you, Jesus, for the nice people at Luxury Nails, the scientific geniuses at OPI who came up with this killer color, for sisters and girls' nights, and for that reminder that all is well and that when it comes to making me fancy, you do all the work and my job is just to sit back and enjoy the experience. All my love.

Revelling

Today I'm grateful for a good many things, but one most of all.
I was reminded recently that God is love. No, that doesn't quite capture it.
God is LOVE.
This morning he whispered it. While I felt a little battered and cried and left snot stains on the shoulder of his robe, He said, "Hon, you just look at me. I LOVE you. And you love me. No one else is a part of this thing, so don't let their words distract you from what you and I have."
So true.
I worship the God who so LOVED the world that He sent us sweet Jesus.
I worship a Savior whose blood is the purest thing this planet ever experienced, and by that sacrifice, all debts were satisfied.
I worship a Lord who is patient and long suffering and gentle. Whose heart breaks at the tragedy He sees. He doesn't want to see anyone die and longs for all of us.
I worship a King who never gives up. He is the Grandest Chess Master, who will have victory no matter what dark schemes Evil cooks up.
This Almighty, He came close today. He lifted off the burden I carried. Then he sent me a river of comfort and joy in the form of dear friends I got to talk with, an impromptu visit from my sis to look forward to, and...wait for it....
I got published!
okay, it wasn't my novel, it was an article in the Association of Retired Ministers and Missionaries, but still.
He is good. He is God. He is LOVE.
I can rest in that.
Heck, I can revel in that.
In fact, I think I will.

Shake your, um, broom.

There’s a man I see on my way to Panera. This is exceptional for at least two reasons.

1)      Panera is only three minutes away.

2)      The man is usually dancing with a broom and wearing a costume of some kind.

He’s not crazy, he’s the parking lot cleaner for the outdoor mall. I first saw him on Halloween and I thought the overalls and plaids and dance moves were a costume of sorts. But one night in the parking lot, I was treated to a solo of the moonwalk in the spotlight of my headlights.  He's no MJ but he gets serious spirit points.

I love this. A man dancing while he works. And he’s not an astronaut, president, world-class chef, or TV star. He’s just a normal man, with a normal job that he makes extraordinary one bust-a-move at a time.

I don’t want to get all deep and analogous…for once…except to say that it was a lovely reminder that life is what you make of it.

So today, I’m grateful for the man with the broom, for music, for dance—oh, how I’m grateful for dance—and for a job I enjoy. Even if the only one who gets to see me bust my workplace moves is Dirk the Blue Impala.

The worst ribbon ever found.

I heard about these people called haulers, who go online and blog about what they got for Christmas, and while that is tempting--okay, I will brag on some wicked cool gel pens I got--I will stick to something else I'm grateful for.

I spent the last week with the fam and drove home yesterday with Jellybean and Buckley snug in their carrier. All was well until Buckley made a little gagging face, then urped on his brother's tail. Understandably, Jellybean was  ready to be done with the trip then. But, alas, we had four more hours to go.

Well, despite his protests, we kept going and made it home. I unloaded the cats and their litter box, and not five minutes later, the source of Buckley's upset tummy became apparent. Six inches of curling ribbon came out the other end.

Just so you know, eating curling ribbon is a bad idea.  While it may emerge intact, the accompanying odor could kill you.

I would have preferred if Buckley hadn't eaten ribbon. Or since he did, if he would have expelled it in the litter box instead of on the carpet. But honestly, I'm just grateful that he waited until we got home or, they'd three gassed bodies in a blue Impala on the side of the road.

Thank you, Jesus, for small mercies.

Zack gets His Wish

I just love the Christmas story.  Everything about it. The more I read it the more I see how brilliant and symbolic God is.
Sending his own son as a baby to this earth? It doesn't get more renegade than that. That's straight up bold. Inviting angels and people who lived in the fields with their animals to the same shindig? Clearly His love and Salvation are an all-skate.
But what stood out to me recently was something that happened a tad earlier.
Zack was a good man. A priest from a good family, with a wife from a good family. They'd been married for a long time and if you could retire from being a priest, he'd be getting toward that point.
His job required some travel to the temple when he was on duty, but he liked the work. Well, one day while He was on, as they cast lots to see who got to go in the temple and burn incense before the Lord. It was like being chosen to talk with the CEO about life on the front lines, only much cooler and with incense.
The lots rolled, and Zack's number came up. Sweet!  There was no guarantee that would ever happen in his lifetime, but it just had. No doubt he was a little nervous. I mean, this is God. Talk about a career make-or-break scenario.  So Zack gets up early, brushes his beard, puts on his nicest priest outfit and hat, and goes to the temple, hoping nobody else can see his heart pounding behind his robes.
When the time comes, he tries to play it cool as he enters the inner court.  The thick curtain mutes the sound of singing and prayer from those in the courtyard. As his eyes adjust to the dimness, he takes a moment just to inhale. The rich, familiar scent of the incense is a boon and a weight. He's smelled this for years, wreathing the Holy of Holies, caught a whiff of the prayers of the saints and been reminded he worshiped a God who hears, even if He had been silent for a long time. Like, oh, five hundred years, including all of Zack's life.
But it was this God, this timeless God, who he now shuffled forward to honor by burning the incense. It was he, Zack, priest, father of none, who honored the Lord of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob this day.
He bends to put his lamp flame to the incense, and out of the corner of his eyes, a flash.
He straightens, and suddenly, he's not alone. A golden man in cloud-white robes stands there.
Um, is this supposed to happen?  Who is this guy and how did he get in here? But no, he's not...normal. He couldn't have come in behind me. He must have come from... Why has no one mentioned before that some man appears when you light the incense?
"Don't be afraid," the guys says, in a voice that Zack can feel in his bones. Like James Earl Jones, only bigger. Then he tells him that he'll have a son who will pave the way for the Christ.
Zack is no doubt blinking furiously and rubbing at his ears. It's all too much. Like that last part. A son? He'd prayed for a son for decades.
Every. Day. For. Years.
And his wife had none. He loved her anyway, and he'd even given that wound, that unmet desire over to God. He'd decided that God's people would be his children. He'd love on them. And now, a glowing dude pops up in the temple and says He's going to have a kid?
I might have asked about that too.
But the man doesn't respond by slapping his own forehead, and saying, "Oops, your Zechariah, I was supposed to talk to Pechariah. I'm sorry for the confusion."
No, he tilts his chin down, eyeballs Zack, and says, "For real? I'm an angel. Of God. I literally stand in His court every day."
Oh, right. The God Zack has served for a lifetime. The God who has promised to rescue his people. Who had given an heir to old folks before.  That God.
But the angel isn't done. "And now, so you'll be certain, blammo." He didn't really say blammo, but that's probably what it sounded like when His words twined around Zack's vocal cords.
Well, darn. Now he can't talk, can't explain what he saw. It's a bit of a reprimand, but I bet it was also a blessing. When Zack woke up the next morning--when the hype had muted, and his roommate gave him the cynical eye--if he opened his mouth to say, "It might not have happened. I mean, I forgot to eat breakfast yesterday, so maybe I imagined it," the words wouldn't come. He couldnt' speak.
It was true.
He was about to be a dad! And his son would be weird, but Godly. He'd be an outsider on earth, but precious to heaven and to his own, old, parents.
I love that the lifelong priest didn't get it just right. I love that God didn't revoke his blessing or Zack's place in His will because of this. I love that when all hope seemed lost, God granted the desire of an old couple's heart.
It's all one more example of the kindness and love of a good God who rarely makes sense but always makes good.  Thank you, my Lord, my love, for your vastness. Thank you for every drop of you I have seen, heard, felt, and known. And thank you for the many more to come. I long for you, to know you, to see you, and I can't wait for more. And thank you for your stunning grace. That even when I mess up, you are faithful and you won't retreat from me, you'll just grow me.  All  my life, all  my soul, all  my heart, all my love.

It's time...or is it?

So I have Netflix--the online version--and lately I've been watching Frasier. It's a super funny show, and in watching it I've noticed that the humor is based on 1) Frasier's own hypocrisy, 2) puns, and 3) really bad timing.
There are a lot of times when I fall victim to number three, and too many times I fall victim to number one. And, occasionally I fall victim to number two, I suppose.
It's so frustrating when time feels off. When I worry I've missed the boat, or that I was two seconds away from the life I should have led. It's tempting, especially when I feel dissatisfied, to think I've missed out on life because I wasn't paying attention. It's not true. I have a great life, and I love it...usually. But sometimes a girl starts to wonder.
 So, today I'm grateful today that I belong to a God who is big. Bigger than my propensity for bad timing. Even if I did all I could to mess up God's plan for me, I couldn't, because He won't let that happen. He's got too much going on in me, through me, and for me. I don't have to worry about having missed the boat because maybe I wasn't born for boating. Maybe there's another boat coming and it's better for me. Or maybe I'm a flier.  Either way, time has had a mind of its own lately and I'm glad to know I can rest in Him.

Mrs. Lyon and the first song

Growing up we had a glossy black baby grand piano. We used it to practice on with no idea how lovely the instrument really was. I remember dragging my heels all the way to the black leather bench to run scales and practice songs for the required 30 minutes. For seven years I did this between three and five times a week, then put a check mark on the practice sheet Mrs. Lyon sent home. Oh, who am I kidding? I filled out my practice sheet on the day of my lesson because if I brought it back I would get to pick one of the bright jolly ranchers from her basket of rewards.
Two things stand out about Mrs. Lyon even now. She always had incredible jewelery. Pins, necklaces, earrings, the whole sparkly nine yards. And second, she was always cheerful and warm. This is amazing enough for anyone, but when you consider she had to sit through hours of unmotivated, marginally talented kids like me, the word saint comes to mind.
For years I sat and plunked out the tunes she'd assigned, my skill growing more slowly than my stature.
Then one day, things changed.
I'd had a really rotten day and hadn't had anyone to tell about it. I sat down at Mrs. Lyon's piano, and opened my book to the assigned piece. I think it was called Angel's Voices. It really was beautiful. It had lots of runs from the deep, throaty notes all the way to the silvery ones. And it was simple enough that I could play it through without hitting a wrong note and jarring myself out of the piece. I'd enjoyed plunking it out all week.
Well, on that bad day I sat in front of the keys, and with nowhere else to pour my angst, I let it run down my arms and into the music. It was like the song felt it with me. Though I hadn't voiced my frustrations and hurts, they'd been heard. It felt good. Liberating.
When I finished, I straightened and looked to my teacher for evaluation. Mrs. Lyon sat there for a moment in complete silence. I wasn't sure what that meant and started to get a little nervous. Then, she said, "Kim, that was beautiful."
Wow.
It wasn't even the words, it was the way she said them. She was a very encouraging instructor, but this time it was different. She was choked up. As if she was able to feel what I'd poured out in song.
That was the first day I realized that music, that art of any kind, can truly convey emotion. That it can tell others our hearts. And that sometimes it can reach deeper than words themselves.
After that, she lent me a piece of music called Exodus. It is drenched in power and emotion, and with my limited talents and boundless unshared emotions, I did all I could to guide it to its potential. Mrs. Lyon gave me that sheet music after my lesson and I still have it. Still wring it out of the keys on the rare occasions that I have access to a piano.
I love music. I rarely do anything without listening to it, including writing. Heck, especially writing. It helps bridge the gap between my head and my heart and my soul.
Anyway, it was a beautiful memory to chance upon while I readied for bed. It made me remember how grateful I am for music, for the way God knew that words could never be enough to express his beauty or even our own meager hearts. I'm grateful for the mad crazy talent he gave composers, and the mad crazy patience he gave piano teachers like Mrs. Lyon.
My Jesus, I am stirred to you by song and I can't wait to listen to it by your side.  All my love.