Labyrinth + A Snake = God's Heart

I took a walk yesterday – in a garden – alone (except for the snake) – isolated in the woods.  All things about that statement pretty much terrify me.  I’m not a nature gal, but appreciate it.  I’m rarely alone…so much so that my ears ring when it is quiet.  And snakes – don’t get me started!  I drive into the gardens and trails with an air of fear agitating me.  I pay to park, seeing only a mother and her young boys and the guide in the welcome center.  He says, “Take this path to the labyrinth…it’s…um, just better…you’ll see.”

I step forward, all fear dissipating…the beauty and wonder before me.  It is a blue sky, breezy, sun prism day – early fall, the crunch of leaves under my feet – not cool, not hot.  I head down the path, past the tended gardens, into the woods; enveloped in greenery overhead, beside, in front.  I turn and see the wooden bridge over the algae blanketed pond.  Noises of crickets and katydids welcome me.  I cross and enter the path.  I listen to the babble of the brook, the steady rush of the waterfall into the stream.  

I almost step on his chain-linked pattern body – tiny snake in the path.  He has heard me pounding up and is still…head poised up, listening.  I can’t resist him and stop to take a picture – the only picture of this trip.  He enchants me and I whisper, “You are so cute!”

I twist and turn on the path…the leaf and tree markers a blur in my peripheral.  As much as I would like to read them all and linger, I’m keenly aware of my mission and the fact that the sun sets earlier these days and I’m alone in this desolation.  

I approach the last bend before the labyrinth.  I pause at the opening and read – instructions, etiquette.  Labyrinth – “an intricate combination of paths or passages in which it is difficult to find one's way or to reach the exit.  A maze of paths bordered by high hedges, as in a park or garden, for the amusement of those who search for a way out.” (www.dictionary.com)  While this is the formal definition of the area I am about to enter, I made the pilgrimage here to find something and rest in the confidence that I am not lost.  In fact, I am sure I am found.

I pray as I walk into the limestone labyrinth path…silently, surely…trudging quietly; grasshoppers and locusts spraying outwards from the prairie grass as I disturb their rest; sun warming my face.  I am euphoric in my thanks and praise – not the usual tone of my discourse with God.  I listen, crunching feet, sun hiding in a small rainbow behind a cloud.  God tells me he loves me.  Of course, I knew, but like any relationship, it is important to be reminded.  He keeps saying, “Be quiet, my child.”  Why is this so hard for me, for us?  I prattle on in my mind.  I pray quietly and slowly.  In the middle of my quest God says, “I am mighty and strong and it would do you well to remember.”  Oh how often I have forgotten!  Put God in a box – limit him to my own understanding of the circumstances and situation.  And when we hurt – don’t we restrict him further?  Our pain in constant focus and his universe blurred, distorted…greatness lost in our human amnesia.

Somehow this makes me laugh – because I am his child and there is a bit of scolding in his voice.  I promise that I will remember.  I reach the center of the labyrinth.  I sit in the quiet – sun blazing past the cloud…I move to another boulder, to feel the heat on my back.  

I don’t want to walk out, but I perceive the sun sinking.  I am quiet now and I hear the words to an old, old song my mom sang in church.  I see a shadow pass over me – a hawk.  The song echoes in my memory, “And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breadth of dawn, make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of his hand.”  A reminder, promise, wonder, majesty, glory, our smallness, his infiniteness. 

 

I take the sunny path back through the prairie grasses.  I hear the crackly, ocean-like sound of the breeze blowing through the birch trees.  This experience so ordinary from the outward appearance, such mystery, and over abundant gift to my inner psyche.

Stretched Before Us

It is the end of August and we are holding desperately to the last days of summer.  We sat by the fire last night and in the twilight and flickering fire, I studied these three faces of ours.  I couldn’t take my eyes off Kayla.  Freckled face, long hair spilling down her shoulders, eyes fixed on a book, legs curled up into the chair.  At eight years old I ponder that in a mere ten years, she could be spreading her wings for the first time.  I can’t bear the thought; I look up to the stars, squinting to see the first ones appear.

I remember my own childhood – it seems – in snapshots…sledding down a hill in preschool, a yarn and burlap sewing project in kindergarten, making ice cream in second grade, relearning to hold a pencil in fourth grade, confirmation class in eighth grade.  In between those times were summer – somehow rolled together into hours of living outside, riding my bike, listening to rain under the metal awning.  When I ponder it all, the years mesh together into this rapid playing silent movie a lifetime ago.  

Today friends dropped their kids off at college for the first time – realizing that their years of preparing come down to this moment.  Letting them go free – hours from home, in undiscovered places.  I remember leaving home – I recall the mixed emotions of new found freedom, homesickness, anxiety, and looking forward to this new, strange life away from home.

Others said good-bye to twenty-something kids, driving cross country to new homes.  Miles of space and time opening into a chasm of separation.  It seems that as I look through my friends, I see the same road stretched before me – one that my own children are walking down since they left my womb – one where they slowly move away from me.  

I glance back at Kayla’s sweet face; she is smiling over her book – adventures found in her imagination.  I’m praying that I get this right – that they will remember these days with me.  I hope that in our hunting for green things in the spring, and discovering crickets in the summer, reading books near silent snow falling in winter that I have taught them how to view the world in wonder.  I’m overwhelmed by this ache rising in me that somehow grows stronger each year – discomfort realizing that I have such limited time.  And how am I using that time?  

I was a terrible babysitter growing up, but despite that, I had a few regulars.  When I think back to those days, I remember the kids, but I don’t remember experiences or bonding with them. I remember watching TV or cleaning the kitchen – I never took the time to really get to know them.  In my early teen mind, I was just there to watch over them, but somehow not become involved.  I’m sure that I was the sitter they didn’t like.

 

I can’t help but thinking that there is a little bit of that teen babysitter left in me…that I don’t cultivate memories, but perform tasks instead.  This thought tugs at my heart making me realize that every action I choose while the kids are still with me is a chance to say yes or no to them.  I look at our days and I’m afraid to admit that in saying yes to chores and checklists that I unwittingly am saying no to them.  

Another day goes by and I see the twisting turning path leading them away from me and I know that every shred of me wants to do something drastic, but drastic measures are not needed.  Small, everyday changes need to be embraced…more yesses and less noes.  Only one week until school starts.  What kind of memories can we create in one week?

Reflections on the M-14 Overpass

Driving home tonight on this familiar stretch of road I’m tempted to give into the highway hypnosis…allowing my car to go into autopilot…to ignore the journey to home.  But as I begin to crest the M-14 overpass, I’m struck by the memories that overtake me of this ordinary stretch of pavement.  Sheryl Crow sings that “every day is a winding road…I get a little bit closer” and every time I hear that song, I am sure that life is preparing to change drastically.  

As I crest this apex of concrete, all four seasons flash in my mind recalling 17 years of driving this road every day.  Winter’s blinding unearthly white, spring’s deluge clouding my view, summer’s much too orange brightness, and fall’s blustery winds blasting my car. Night moon rising on my left, sunset in glorious splendor on my right.  

My car hugs the road, crowning the overpass, embracing this well-worn path.  I’ve often ignored the route from one place inching closer to the next and I realize that these last few years have always been about the drive, the road, the seasons changing outside, that cityscape sunset best seen from the top of the M-14 overpass. 

 

There is beauty in the driving, discovery in the delay.  I am finally enjoying the journey…this road of life.  I’m okay with not knowing what I’m getting closer to because I can celebrate the way I’m getting there. 

Sounds of Summer

The last couple of weeks have been agreeable and cool enough to have the air conditioning off and windows open.  I love this time of year – mid August – sounds throughout the day and night – creaking crickets, chirping birds, clicking bugs.  These outside sounds enhance the rhythm of our days inside and about.  These sounds remind me of moving into our much-too-suburbia home years ago.  We were floored by how many crickets we heard that first night – soft ones, noisy ones and the one we were sure was living right outside our window gracing us in vibrant serenade.

I was pondering this morning that I have never spent so many days outside as I have this year, playing, reading, running, eating, gazing, and smelling the smoky goodness of a fire.  Outside is the essence of summer.  I recall the baby bunny and blue heron I saw this morning when running, but it is the heavy, steamy smell of dew and the rhythmic thudding of my feet on the pavement that put it all together. Sights and smells and sounds woven into this summer symphony carrying me on.  

The other day we sat under trees at Independence Lake talking.  Before the park became busy and loud, I could hear those familiar echoes from home paired with the soft waves and rippling water in front of us.  As much as these sights of summer serenity bring me peace, it is the sounds that link each day and experience together into a seamless season of outside brought in, inside brought out.

I think of the years I spent too much time inside working, closed windows deafening the sounds, HVAC drowning out the life right outside. I am grateful for everyday that I am here, listening, living alongside these beautiful gifts of wonder that God has given us all.

 

Some days I crave the quiet, but when winter’s silent snow falls, I will wish for the crickets, the long crisp call of blue jays, tweet of robins and long to relive these summer days and nights.

When God Changes Our Plans

The last few weeks have been taxing.  Kids have been sick, the weather has been stinky and I’ve had my fair share of waiting on things unmanageable and unrestrained. 

I’m a planner and when plans go askew due to forces out of my control, I become undone.  In the past, this moved me to anger, discomfort and utter frustration.  While today, I still deal with those same feelings, I’ve learned that having three kids and staying home lends itself to a certain percentage of uncertainty.

Circumstances have caused us to stay at home quite a bit over the last week.  I don’t mind being home in general – it’s my job really – the physical aspect of being home is not a serious issue to me.  What I’ve struggled with is getting through the illnesses and changes and asking myself, “Why do we need to get through this?  Why us?  Why another derailment – especially so close to the last one?”  

A wise friend asked me recently, “Why does God want you home, Jen?”  I couldn’t answer the question.  But doesn’t God know best?  If these interruptions are what have forced us to stay home and embrace the serenity (if you want to call it that) of this gift of home and the resources we have, then maybe that is fine.  

We had one of the best weekends I can recall in a long time – all because we had to stay home and enjoy each other’s company.  The kids spent both days outside nearly all day.  I sat on the deck and drank iced coffee and read.  Jerry and I conversed.  We ate every dinner outside.  Without trying, we made the best of the change in our plans and somehow we are better for it.  

While I don’t always like it, I’ve come to realize that when God changes our plans it is always for our good.  From the simple, but mind blowing leaving the house too late and realizing that you would have been in that serious car accident, to the weighty life-changing pregnancy that you weren’t sure about.  And now you look at your sweet daughter and realize that life wouldn’t be this rich, crazy, bundle of goodness without her.  

We go kicking and screaming when our plans change, but if we can find the gratitude and lose the attitude, God always shows us that his ways are so much better.