I've been reading the book of Hosea, and been so struck by God's passion for His people, and His great desire to redeem them.

How deeply humbling to know more deeply God's love.

May He turn this Valley of Trouble into a Door of Hope, and may His name be glorious.

My pastor in college spoke often of building holy habits: studying scripture, worshiping, being in community with the body of Christ.

So I find myself in church on Tuesdays, down at the local Anglican fellowship.

There's the most beautiful little garden outside the chapel. The back of the chapel is a wall of floor to ceiling windows through which you can see the cross in its usual place behind the altar, and all around it the blooming beauty of summer.

There was a beautiful magnolia flower blooming beside the cross this week. The deepest, purest white. It was impossible not to think of the beauty and purity of Christ, that He makes our own.

Amazing grace.

My God, how the storm thrashes. How it threatens to overturn my little bark.

My God, how fearsome is the storm.

Church again today. Thank God, Sunday comes every single week, talk about miracles.

The last thing I read when I went to bed last night were Brother Job's words, "The Lord gave and the Lord takes away, may the name of the Lord be praised."

And that was the prayer on my lips as I closed my eyes.

This morning at church we sang, "Blessed be your name" when the world's all as it should be, and also when the darkness closes in.

Through deep, sorrowful tears I sang. Sometimes not even able to make sound, but the Holy Spirit takes the groaning of our hearts, doesn't He. So there's no need to worry that my praise and prayer goes unheard by God.

But though the storm crashes, in the grace of God, I shall not despair, nor shall I remove my hope from Christ.

God has promised to work all things for good. God has said that those who sow in tears, shall reap in songs of joy.

So may the name of the Lord be blessed, at all times, and in all places. We were made to praise Him, it's our bounden right and duty to give thanks and praise.

Thank you God, that my little boat stays afloat in your guidance.

Thank you God, that the storm shall not drown me.

Thank you God, that you go beside me in each step, you are the God who comes near.

Somehow it's possible to give thanks in tears. God grants grace to have faith even while the storm rages and surrounds.

With my faith in God, and under His abounding grace, I set my little boat into the wind. I believe the Lord will bring me safely to the other side.

For the purposes of our writing today, let’s rename grief as soul trauma, and let’s say that it occurs when that proverbial rug is yanked out from under your feet, it occurs when things of great sadness happen, and it seems the more I live I’m learning that great sadness is not confined to specific situations, like death.

Great sadness, soul trauma, as it were, can occur when all that one hoped for, planned for, worked for is suddenly gone, consumed in an unexpected wild fire that came more quickly than could be imagined.

Now here’s the thing. I’m not one for wearing my heart entirely on my sleeve. I choose silence a lot rather than a ramble of words describing, expressing and exploring what I experience. Though I know it currently in vogue to bare all, I choose not to engage in that.

I store things up in my heart, and it resembles something of a wine and cheese shop, cheery, but quiet enough that the things stored up in bottles, the cheeses being washed over as they age and ripen, are able to come into their fullest.

I store good things and terrible things that are difficult for me to understand, and sometimes the harvest comes up as beautiful, costly wine, sweeter because I know the difficulty of its harvest. But time has to have its way with those stored offerings to see what they may be.

We writers, we’ve got to tell the whole story don’t we. We can’t tell only the nice bits, we’ve got to the story to fullness. And what’s more we writers can’t act as though we live a hermetically sealed environment. Story telling is an act of community, from our earliest traditions when our story tellers didn’t write, but stored up in memory all of our stories – of heroes and villains, of years when crops failed and how the people survived. Telling stories so that we people could remember and learn, telling soul stories that all can ken to, so that when the truest story arrived we might recognize it.

To tell a story is to weave a tapestry, and the tapestry is the story of life, and it is so big that we writers throw the shuttle out over our loom, and we need someone who recognizes the thread from their own life to throw it back. And in this way, the fragile, gossamer threads of life weave into the great stories of the world. The people that look upon the stories can find familiar threads in their hearts, and recognition is made, and so we learn.

Soul trauma is one of those threads that may be recognized by all, without limitation of language, or culture. For all who live, breath, and risk love, will experience soul trauma at some point. That’s just life, and it’s a good life despite the painful things we must undergo.

Lately I’ve been writing only sparing of the great dark place in my life. I’ve been writing about the light that I can see far way right now, but there burning bright. And in doing so, I’ve not told the whole of it.

Soul trauma tells us in a lie that we are alone in what we experience, we need the storytellers to remind us that we are not alone, we need someone to toss us the matching thread in the tapestry so that we know that the soul trauma is part of our wider human story, not some cruel punishment meted out only to us as individuals.

Can you hear the sound of the shuttle racing from my loom? Toss it back if you please, we’ll share our stories as we go.

We’re in the dry months of Texas right now, when each rain is an experience for Thanksgiving. The clouds darken, the thunder rolls, and the sky flashes out of that brewing energy, but the rain does not fall in this time. The clouds pass, and the sun beats down and parches the ground, and the air is still, the animals are still, and the hope of rain throbs deep in us.

Occasionally, the clouds burst forth while the sun still shines brightly. These are quick rains, but sometimes they leave a rainbow, faint and difficult to see because of the blazing sun.

There are rainbows though, that I’ve seen, against the background of a dark cloud, and they are brilliant, those Roy G. Biv colors shining like jewels against a velvet backdrop.

There are more artful writers who could weave this better, but I must weave my own tapestry.
This dark, deep cloud is difficult to bear for me. Food tastes as dust to me. I wake up grateful to have slept through the night. There are times when bursts of tears come over me, and I sink to the floor, and I think about where I could get some sackcloth and ashes. Is there a store for that? And sometimes when I’m sitting there, I never want to get up again, I just want to sit there, sackcloth and ashes, for surely I don’t have any strength left with which to stand.

But just through the dust of the ashes, I can sense that brilliant rainbow, I can make it out against the dark cloud, so I get up, and my tears are dried, and I run a bit farther towards those colors.

I read gratefully in the story of Job that after the great soul trauma came upon him, he didn’t jump right up and move on to the next thing. He sat still. And his friends came and sat with him, and for a long time none of them spoke.

And I read too that those who sow in tears will reap in songs of joy.

Knowing those things makes that rainbow stand out so brilliantly against the cloud; it restores my soul.

This dark cloud is going to pass, not easily and probably not quickly, but pass it will.

So when I write about the healing balm on my soul, and when I write about waiting upon the Lord, and when I write about how Christ comes to redeem all this tumbling, jumbling, beautiful world, and my heart in it, I’m writing on the rainbow that’s spread across this dark cloud I’m standing under.

I know the dark, the depth, the sorrow of the storm. But I see the rainbow, and it’s the rainbow that outshines the dark, and that reminds me to keep heading towards the light out there on the horizon.

There’s a hymn that’s a favorite of mine called “O Love that Will Not Let Me Go”, and one of the verses says just that:

“O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee
I trace the rainbow through the rain
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.”

My great hope and my prayer.

And on that tearless morn, which I trust is coming, I shall take from the vintage of my heart, and I shall raise my cup in great gratitude.

Even as in the midst of the great soul trauma, I lift my face from where I sit on the ground, and give thanks for God’s love that follows me, and holds me dear, and safe, neither forgotten nor abandoned in this darkest of clouds.

The late night writing shift just came on board.

Punched in at the time clock, threw their stuff in the locker. Sat down to start pounding away at the image the day shift left on deck.

When knees were skinned as a kid, my Grandmother's treatment was a thick, goupy salve. I think it was called Black salve, though it was creamy white and thicker than vaseline.

It had a distinctive smell that is sitting just past where I can reach in my memory, otherwise I would describe it to you. Someday, I'm sure I'll be wandering through an antique emporium, or some small town drugstore tucked between a church and a laundromat, and I'll smell it. It will all come back to me, I will instinctively roll up my pant leg to reveal my knee as though ready for a fresh application. And then I will be sure and write you all and tell you exactly how it smelled.

It smelled thick. And the smell hung on you as you ran back outside to commence play, or settled with your summer evening dish of ice cream. It smelled like salve, a little iffy, a little dicey. A smell that made you wonder if it was actual going to your wound any good. But Grandma didn't ask you whether you wanted it, she just kept daubing away at you. And you trusted her faith in that ointment.

I bring this up because I can't get that ointment out of my head.

If you've been following the blog recently, you'll know that I am in the midst of what may be referred to as "a time of trial," or alternately "deep, searing, painful ache," or "a great sadness."
And in the midst of that I keep thinking about that thick, gloppy, ointment that always felt a little warm as it got applied.

While playing hymns at the piano - "All creatures of our God and King," and in the back of mind I can hear that flat, oval cannister of ointment being opened.

"Lift up your voice and with us sing," and I can see a hand digging down deep into the salve, getting more than enough.

"Alleluia," and I see an image of my heart (or soul - maybe they're the same). And my heart's skinned up, my soul's got little bits of gravel at the edge of the scrape. It's banged up like it fell hard, and skidded several yards.

I had a bicycle wreck like that once when I was a kid. I hit a bump funny and flew headfirst (no helmet!) over my handle bars. My elbows took the brunt of it, with my knees following after them.

"Oh Praise Him" and as I keep playing, keep sounding those dear and sturdy chords, I see that hand, all heaped up with that salve. And I can nearly smell it. The hand pauses before my soul, considering the best approach.

"Thou burning sun with golden beam," and suddenly there's cool water pouring out over my soul, it's washing away all that ground dirt, all that gravel, all that peeled, and blistered soul skin. And the water keeps pouring over my soul. It is cool and sweet, and it runs till some of the heat of the wound is gone.

"Thou silver moon with softer gleam." Now the ointment comes. I remember that in its application as a child, it always seemed to fill up the wound, to cover it completely so that no dirt could get in, and so that the body would do it's work of healing. This ointment's being dabbed all over my soul, in deep cuts and at the edges where the skin is pink. I can feel the warmth of it.

"Oh, praise Him, Alleluia."

My Lord gave Moses a burning bush.

My Lord gave Balaam a talking donkey.

My Lord gave the disciples a ridiculously, impossible catch of fish.

My Lord has given me the unshakeable image of a thick, odd smelling ointment.

"Oh Praise Him, Alleluia."

When I was still small enough that my feet dangled from the church pew, I remember singing about a balm in Gilead, reading about a balm in Gilead, giving thanks in prayer for the balm in Gilead.

I was utterly baffled by what a balm in Gilead was. But somewhere along the way, still in that feet dangling era, I made the connection between that black salve that got glopped on my wounds, and the balm in Gilead.

There is one who knows best how to care for a skinned, banged up, weary, weary soul. He knows better than I, and so I submit to His balm. To that heavenly salve, that looks so strikingly similar to what was in my Grandmother's medicine cabinet.

Now, as then, I trust that the one who applies it knows the good it will do.

Wounded souls, like wounded knees, don't heal in an instant, I'm learning. Mine's tender yet, still a little raw.

But I know that my Lord has the ointment nearby, and that He is applying it regularly, as long as I just sit still for a bit and let Him.

So I keep sitting down to the piano, and pounding out those hymns. And as I pound them out, concentrating on the chords, my Lord comes near, and He washes my soul with that cool water, and He digs down deep into that balm, and restores my soul. It is an ongoing, everyday process.

And then we rest together. I keep pounding and singing. And my Lord, He delights in my song.

Oh praise Him indeed.

The old gray dog is crunched up in his chair, his head pillowed by a little red stuffed toy. His nose is twitching like he's smelling a delicate dream smell, his ears moving to delicate dream sounds.

Somehow this is comforting to me in ways that I can't explain. God gave us good companions when He gave us dogs.

As I walked out the door this morning to head to the library, I saw a brilliant blue jay, and I immediately thought what a gift of God that was.

You might rightly assume that I've not been praying to see a beautiful blue jay. I've been praying for many other things, but definitely not that.

Still, the jay was a gift as he bobbed in and out of his tree, and in my spirit rested the words, I have not forgotten you.

And so I wait on the Lord.

At some earlier point in my life, I might have been petulant. Stomped my foot. Rejected the gift. And those reactions did cross my mind.

I've been praying for God to restore my soul, to abandon me not, to grant abiding peace, to heal that which is broken.

And I got a blue jay...? A blue jay and the words, "I have not forgotten you."

It did cross my mind to wail to the heavens, to yell "A blue jay? What is that? That's not what I've asked for."

Fortunately the moment quickly passed. It struck me how often we presume to know best what we need, and precisely when we need it. When all the while God calls to our souls, which bear his thumbprint,

"Be still and know."

For someone who's been reading the Bible for a long time - nearly 20 years now, it seems a bit silly that the thought is just now beginning to dawn on me that God's time is not our time.

Abraham and Sarah waited, and longed and hoped and trusted for decades.

Some people think it took a century for Noah to build the ark.

David did not receive his crown the instant Samuel annointed him.

It took Jesus 33 years to get to the cross.

Haste in many circumstances is not apparently how God works.

That's not to say He can't move swiftly and powerfully.

I remember that when I was a teacher, I would wonder sometimes at the now-focus of my kids. When we talked about setting goals and achieving them, we also had to talk about the fact that it would take time. In August, the end of the school year seemed unimagineable to my kids.

It was hard to get my kids to think past the immediate. I recognized then as I do now that this is part of the human condition.

But God consistently calls us to forebear, and to take a longer view than the immediate.

So the Jay this morning was a gift, from my creator who delights in His creation. It was a good gift in its simplicity, beauty and joy. And in the message that came with it, "I have not forgotten you."

I wait upon the Lord, and I trust His timing. May He grant me the patience to continue in that path.

Chapel Choir and Orchestra

When I was a junior in high-school, I joined the Chapel Choir and Orchestra at the First Baptist Church of Dallas.

At the time it was a great to do something I liked - play my saxophone in a band, hang out with my friends and go on Choir tours to Alaska and to Atlanta.

What I didn't know was how influential an experience that would be in my life. In all the rehearsals, in the playing every week for the Sunday Service, in going on tour and giving concerts, and doing mission work, I would learn a lot about what it means to truly not be ashamed of the gospel.

Because when you are 16, and wearing a choir uniform (blue button down shirt, a uniform khaki pant, and the brightest yellow anorak you've ever seen) and singing about Jesus on top of it, well, that's a big step for a high-schooler.

And I think having done that, and worked in the VBSes that we did on tour, and singing the blessing when we sat down to eat in restaurants, I learned a lot about what it means to be unmistakeably counted among a number.

There are some really pivotal moments that I remember from my tours, that helped form the faith I carry to this day. But I also know now that the act of those rehearsals, the weekly leading of worship in the church service were just as formative if less memorable.

Sometimes it seems like a lot of our faith is made up of rehearsing the truths we know till we can sing them from memory. Just like we did in Chapel Choir.

This weekend I'm spending my time at the 50th reunion of the Chapel Choir Ministry. The choir loft is full, and so is the orchestra, of old faces and young faces, directors I know and ones I don't.
And everyone is having a ton of fun. We sang and played all day today, and then when we got done rehearsing, people kept singing.

And you know what, through all those years, the song remains the same:

At the name of Jesus, every knee shall bow.

For in Him we know, No More Night

We Bless His Mighty Name.

It's a real privilege to join in the song again.

Hail.

Of the advice I have received in recent weeks, there is some, a particular vein, that rings not true within me, and puzzles me as I both know that it is a widely accepted train of thought in our culture, as I don't know that it has been ever before in places where honor and virtue were valued.

And that is the advice to have a nice long wallow, to feel the extent of this pain to its utmost, to wander in despair. To not feel as though I need to be okay too quickly.

I've never liked the story "Wuthering Heights," and that approach strikes me as peculiarly Heathcliff and Kathy-ish. Aside from the fact that it's difficult to find a misty English moor about which to wander in desperation and despair in Texas, it is I should hope, also out of my character to do so.

Am I in the middle of a trial that is sometimes sad and confusing? Yes. But I am sustained not by exploring the hurt and sorrow I feel, nor by re-imagining in an endless replay loop what might have been done differently to achieve a different result. I am sustained rather by a continued commitment to reflecting upon the character of God, King, Creator, and reconciler of our souls.

The grace to continue turning my mind to the truth that:

The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.

That nothing shall separate me from the love of Christ.

That in all things, He works for the good of those who love him.

That those who sow in tears shall reap in songs of joy.

That those who trust in the Lord, shall not be put to shame.

That we have a Savior who knows intimately the struggles of this mortal flesh. For He put aside His glory, to bear our struggles, and our shame, that He might bring us as much loved children to His Father.

It never occurred to me before this Sunday, when a preacher mentioned it, that Jesus was 30 when He began his ministry. Older than I am currently.

It's so tempting when one hurts to believe that no one else has ever experienced the same depth of heartache or sorrow before. That's not to diminish the amount of sorrow that can exist. But it would be false to give myself wholly to that belief, for I know that Jesus is the high priest who can sympathize with our struggles.

Beyond the truth of those things, I don't think I could bear to wallow in despair out of my firm belief that one's life should be outward facing in the service of God and others. To my shame, this is not always what I achieve, but I trust that God will continue to show me how to live.

***

Why does that train of thought, to feel to the extreme, seem so common in our society? And is it really beneficial? Does it lead to more honor or more virtue? Does it build up good character, or simply lead to intemperance?

Sabbath Rest

I attended church today at ChristChurch, Plano, Tx.

The sermon reminded of God's commitment to us, of what He endured to rescue us, of how Christ came to rescue us because it was the Father's will that we might be reconciled.

But what really got to me was a couple of things:

One, one of the ushers who collected the offering was a young man with Down's syndrome. It was he, who brought the collection plates back up to the front to present to God. And to know that God used him, who so many would not, that God honored him by using him to collect the tithes and offerings of God's people. That Christ's grace goes freely to him, who to so many could be seen as the least of these. Well, how great indeed is our God, whose love and mercy for people knows no end.

Secondly was communion.

Everytime, I've ever taken communion, I always have this one fleeting moment where I think, "What if there's not enough for me? What if the usher forgets me, forgets my row?" But Christ's grace never runs out, and I know He will never pass me by or forget me. He will not forget to look upon me, to offer His body and His blood for my rescue and resurrection.

How rich am I then. A dear one of Christ and of His Father. Beloved of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

And what's more, so were the people around me at the altar. How immense is the love of God for the people He has created.

There were the most beautiful clouds surrounding the moon tonight.

Round moon.

It looked like if you could find where the clouds touched the earth, that you'd be able to walk right up them, up to the moon, and then follow them past to where e'er they led in the deep satiny heavens.

My mom and I watched a satellite flash across the sky to night, so far up in the heavens that it seemed like a dream.

"We used to lie in front yard and watch the Sputnik," she said. "It was so exciting."

Church again today. No mockingbird to wonder at the cross the week, but the truth remains the same.

And the gospel passage from Mark, where Jesus heals the blind man at Bethsaida.

Jesus touches him twice.

The first time, the man can only see fuzzy things, the people, he says, look like trees.

The second time, his sight is restored.

And then a few verses later, Peter confesses that Jesus is the Christ.

The pastor today likened us to the blind man and to Peter, we have this fuzzy glimpse of Christ and the great gift of salvation, but we can't fully see it. It's through a mirror darkly.

But what I heard was that healing can take time, and thank God, Jesus doesn't abandon us. He stays with us until things aren't so fuzzy, and even beyond.

Another long walk today.

And the thought that kept coming to me was, "Can you be still and wait?"

"Yes, Lord, I can be still and wait with your help."

And that truly is all one can do sometimes.

The other thought I had was that Jesus can heal today. He can heal today. And He can redeem our sorrows.

So I wait expectantly on Him. I have great hope, and I'm sure my hope will not be disappointed.

There are times when the waiting is enormously difficult, but nonetheless, He is good and true. His love faileth never, and so I continue to wait in hope.

My favorite word ever is the word "esperar" it is Spanish and means both to hope and to wait, one word for both, so that waiting is hoping, and hoping is waiting. That is beautiful. Because we know that both those who wait and those who hope in the Lord will not be disappointed.

Yo espero.

I heard the most beautiful adaptation of the 23 Psalm this morning at church by Francis Patrick O'Brien.

My shepherd is the Lord, for nothing shall I want; green are the pastures where I'm led to repose.

Near waters still and deep God will refresh my soul, I am led onwward in ways true to the Name.

Guide me, O Shephered of my heart; lead me homeward through the dark into everlasting day. Show me the way of truth and light, keep me always in your sight. May my life never part from the shepherd of my heart.

If I should walk one day into the vale of darkness, no evil shall I fear with God at my side. There with your crook and staff, you give me strength and comfort:

You spread a banquet in the sight of my foes.

You anoint my head with oil; my cup is overflowing; goodness and kindness crown the days of my life.

Within the Lord's own house I dwell in peace forever; within the house of God my soul is at rest.

Guide me, O Shepherd of my heart; lead me homeward through the dark, into everlasting day. Show me the way of truth and light; keep me always in your sight. May my life never part from the shepherd of my heart.