Snow Watching and Secrets

We just wrapped up a jubilant five-day weekend that concluded with three consecutive snow days.  In Texas, this is a rarity, so snow is met with equal portions of rejoicing at its fluffy white arrival and whining at its demise and the return to school.  Even though the ground that briefly was blanketed in glorious white is now a depressing muddy brown, the snow is still lightly falling.  And it is still stunningly exquisite.

I just took the dog out for a quick walk and stopped to examine the small collection of new snow on the kids’ trampoline.  What’s that grand old truth we all learned as kids?  “Every single snowflake is different and completely unique.”  My squinty, far-sighted eyes couldn’t see it, but I knew it was true, because I’ve seen the proof in pictures.  I have gotten lost marveling at images magnified hundreds and thousands of times to reveal the beauty in one tiny structure of frozen water.  Each one is sparkly and special and exclusively crafted to be one of a kind.

It hit me how this beauty must have lain undiscovered for a painfully long time.  When God first decided that snow would be a good idea, human eyes were unable to capture the magnificence.  It wasn’t until we humans invented some fancy looking glasses and other technological contraptions to help us out that we discovered this treasure.  Those tiny grand ice sculptures were there all along, but we had no idea.  Wow. I’m shaken a bit at this reminder that creation was not created just for us, but for its Creator and His “it is good” pleasure. 

I know some people who mirror this practice.  My friend, who is a passionate painter, often does a similar thing.  There are tiny secrets hidden in every painting, some sort of a shade or a stroke or a figure that only her eyes could pick out.  That detail has deep meaning to her. However, the rest of us could marvel at the beauty of the piece forever perhaps without discovering the secret, because she placed it there for herself, for her own amusement or sentiment.

The same is true with writers.  The turn of a word on itself, an allusion to a personal memory or love, a stashed-deep internal rhyme or even a character’s shoelaces may hold a cryptic treasure for its creator.  They exist as tiny pleasures that often only the artist can find, a specific thread woven into a massive tapestry.  And it makes him laugh or swell with warmth every time he sees it or hears it.  All because he knows the secret, he knows its significance and he alone can see its beauty.

But wait.  Then the artist shows YOU the treasure!  He excitedly points and says, “Look at this!  Look what I did here.  This is so special to me because . . .”  and suddenly the beauty is magnified to breathtaking, because you are in on the secret.  In fact, you begin to feel a deeper kinship with the artist himself, because now you have seen something below the surface.  You have been invited to know more, and now that treasured work becomes to you even more of a precious gift.

I like to imagine it like this:  There came a day some long time back when a man with a magnifying glass saw something different in the flakes of cold.  And in his heart he heard God say, “Look at this!  Look what I did here.”  And hopefully praise leapt to his lips in a way it had not before, because at last he was in on a holy secret and could finally see the full beauty intended by the Artist.

Whatever magnificent glories God is still holding tightly to His vest, I’m sure they all must make Him smile.  I wonder if He thinks of the day we'll "discover" them.  I wonder if He knows we could not handle seeing them all at once, so He reveals these little glimpses over the ages a bit at a time. However He is working, I’m resting assured those mysteries are there, awaiting our eyes and our praise. 

And that glorious white artistry just keeps on falling.

If I See One Black Balloon, Someone is Going to Bleed (or Bittersweet Cheesecake Coma)

So a few hours ago (yes, I counted it down in hours), I turned a corner.  Birthdays are usually not too big a deal, but turning 40 – well, it’s hard to escape the monumental nature of the number.  Mostly because no one will let you forget how big a deal it is!  I suppose it IS a big deal.  See, this is where being one of the oldest in your school class comes back to bite you in the butt.  First to become a teenager?  Woo-hoo!  First to drive?  Yes!  First to hit (hard swallow) 40?!  Ugh.  C'est la stinkin' vie.

I’m kidding (mostly).  I know that every day of breath is a blessed gift, no matter what age bracket you find yourself bumped into on surveys and questionnaires.

But now I’ve entered a phase in my life where I remember things in terms of decades.   The last decade, my 30s, held some really hard things:  we lost both of our moms unexpectedly and a precious young nephew, dealt with walking our kids through a traumatic move, endured some minor health issues that caused major lingering anxiety.  But my thirties also brought the birth of my favorite little superhero (i.e. son), seeing my girls give their lives to the God who gave those lives to them, a reborn passion for writing and creating music and a ridiculous number of enriching friendships.  

I’m not sure why there’s so much talk about one specific event in which a poor soul goes irrevocably over the hill, because all of life seems to be a continuous cycle of hills and valleys. The more “experienced” I get, the more aware I become that the Light shines on the trenches and the mountaintops just the same.  It may take more determination to see it at those times of low elevation, but I promise it’s there.  He is there.

So we’ll see what the next (another hard swallow) decade holds.  When I turned over that last number ending in zero, I never could have imagined I would be where/who I am today.  By 50, whew, only God knows – literally.  I’m sure glad He does.

And now to wrap up the pity-party, praise-session, minor-overindulgence-in-oreo-cheesecake that has been my 40^th October 19^th on this planet, here’s some lyrics from a song I’ve been trying to finish writing for months now (mainly because it’s riddled with cheesy lines that I can’t seem to iron out).  It may not ever get finished, so consider it a poem of sorts, or maybe a self-pep-talk.  Say “amen” if you agree, or write it off as a foolish amount of metaphorical dribble, but either way it’s purely cathartic.  It IS my birthday, after all.

I don’t mind being vintage.  Let’s all get old together, friends.

FORTY AIN’T FATAL

I see a hill on the horizon
A precipice, a landmark in my life
And I’ve watched my feet slowly risin’
To take the summit and tiptoe on the other side
Legend has warned me
Magazines informed me
That it’s all downhill from here
But I’ll tell you forty ain’t fatal
I’m just now shifting gears

Time may be painting my highlights
And carving out these lines around my lips
And the sweet taste of living this high life
Has left some soft spots of the edges of my . . . heart ;)
But this stretchy skin
I’m getting comfy in it
And getting to know the real me
So I’ll tell you forty ain’t fatal
Unless you let it be

***Peace, blessings and birthday cake, y’all!

Road Rash

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

We really don’t have to go quite that dark -- good intentions pave a lot of roads.  Why lately, my own good intentions have paved the road to piles of stained and ruined clothes (thank you, stupid Pinterest projects!), as well as a little extra -- as my son so lovingly puts it -- “fatty-flubber” to compliment my ever-slowing metabolism (these quads don’t function under 32-degrees – sorry, fitness-level). 

In fact, just a few moments ago, my good intentions of getting some errands done before work led me directly down the road . . . to Chick-Fil-A.  Seriously, right now I’m typing with one hand so I don’t have to loose my death grip on the most delicious chicken sandwich on the planet!  Yes, diet drink, too.  I. Am. The worst. (But, CFA is the best!  Love you, Mr. Cathy!)

So with fast food in hand, as I count on one finger the number of times this body has purposefully been in motion this week, I am sad.  Feeling SAD at myself.  <insert violin music>  The past few months have been full of changes and  good intentions gone wrong, or at least gone in a way we didn’t expect at all.  It has inspired much apathy and laziness.  Even visiting this blog reminds me of another good intention that belly-flopped.  How long has it been since that last post?  I’m afraid I’ve lost my compass. I need to get my gumption back.

Care to join the pity party?  It’s the end of January, people.  How many resolutions have you already tossed in the can, kicked the can over, picked back up and tossed in again?  Oh well.  We’re getting a little negative here, so let’s turn this ship around.  Time to keep on keepin' on even through the trials.

I just finished James MacDonald’s book “Life is Hard”.  It was given to me by a dear friend who probably could have written the book herself.  It’s been a lifeline through what has been, and in many ways still is, a pretty confusing time.  Trials, pain, uncertainty – how do we deal?  How do we, as believers, reconcile it all?  Can we hope to actually benefit from failures and heartbreak and weeks that just, frankly, suck?

As an illustration, let’s go ahead and dive into something monumental:  craft/food projects. (okay, only slightly monumental). But seriously, folks, every single time I pin that DIY project or recipe, I have every intention of creating something beautiful or inspiring or yummy for those around me.  I really think I’m capable of making it happen, or I wouldn’t waste my time and money getting started.  Good intentions!  Not always so great a result. 

Now how about something that truly matters?  Let’s say I take a big step of faith, trusting that God is leading, ABSOLUTELY SURE that God is leading . . . and it all falls flat.  It was for Him and because of Him, but now things are hard.  What gives?  Or let’s say I do all I can to nurture and control my family’s environment and keep them safe, but they still get hurt.  Surely, this is not the way things work!  Do the right thing = get the reward, right?  That's amateur spirituality talking there.

Remember that refining gold is a dirty and painful process.  Amazing how I forget that so easily. 

If you would, allow me to share a little of what I’m learning.  Here are a few thoughts from “Life is Hard” that have been driving me lately:

*Every trial I face is allowed by God for my ultimate good. 

*Trials need not steal my joy.

*God is never more present than when His children are suffering.

*Until I embrace my trial in unwavering submission to God, I will not reap the good.

Tough stuff, right?  Just reading that list in the table of contents made me want to deposit that book right under the slimy dinner scraps and next to my New Year’s resolution list.  But, guys, I have to tell you, I wept and studied through every scripture, every page, and it’s true.  It’s hard and at times it stinks, but it’s true. 

The end of it all is that God loves me.  He loves my family.  He actually does have us in His hand (though sometimes UNDER His hand).  And, thankfully, God’s big Story trumps my good intentions every time.  He actually does want me to come out as gold -- beautiful the way He planned, not by my own design.

A crazy-talented songwriting mentor of mine says that if you start a song, finish it.  No matter that you think it’s beginning to grow mold and stink – finish it!  Every botched attempt is a stepping stone.  EVERY failure and disappointment gives you an experience, a new verse that the great Artist will color with His beauty and use to inspire the world.  Always, always finish.  Keep going.

I shared with my book-giving friend that, as God’s always intriguing sense of humor would have it, months and months ago when I started my year-long songwriting project (which, of course, I am behind on), the first song I wrote was called “After the Fire”.  It depicts the principles in this book to a tee, long before the current trials even began, long before I read Mr. MacDonald’s book.  I wrote the song for a few other friends going through the flames, and turns out God wanted me to hear it for myself, as well.  It drives me nuts --  and brings me unspeakable comfort -- when He does things like that!  God is truly good even when we’re swimming in the bad.

Probably most of you are struggling with a trial of some sort to one degree or another, each a unique journey with you and your God.  For me personally, He is showing me that one of my biggest hang-ups is control.  Yes, I tend to helicopter-mom everyone and everything around me.  My good intentions are really a means of controlling my world.  I can have plans A-Z mapped out for every possible scenario before you can say, “Take a chill pill.”  So, God has slapped me pretty hard with the reality that I do NOT have any real control – not over jobs or kids or plans or inspiration or health or my path in this life.

And, you know, I’m just starting to believe that THAT IS GOOD NEWS!

I'm realizing now that this post has been a little vent-y and wander-y, so sorry 'bout that.  Here's my heart in this matter at the moment:   “God is infinitely wise and infinitely loving.”  (borrowed that from a fabulous podcast yesterday) I'm holding on to that.  No matter my or your current situation, this truth is a constant.  I suppose that whether we see it or not depends on our seeking Him in the middle of the muck.  Pray. Believe. And keep going for the gold.

*You get that Olympic pun for free.  J

For the Love of Words and To-Do Lists

(Beware:  Somewhat mediocre home project pictures ahead.)

I loooooove words.  I do!  You can just ask anyone who's conversed with (or avoided conversation with) yours truly.  I come by it honestly -- I remember my grandpa profusely entertaining visitors over dinner, walking them out of the house still talking, walking them to their car still talking, asking them to roll down the window so he could finish his story as they backed out of the driveway . . . you get the idea.  An abundance of words is a family tradition.  At this point, I should point out what a wonderful fella I married in that he endures all those words with kindness and almost never falls asleep when I'm on a roll with an idea.  The kids have inherited my disease superpower, as well.  Why am I telling you this -- you already know it, and I'm already getting long-winded on what is supposed to be a short post.  Oy!

One more thing, I'm a sucker for a to-do list.  I've been known to add extra things to the list AFTER I've done them just so I can check them off.  C'mon, I know some of you have done this, too.  I need that encouragement and focus to get things done.  Constant reminders are good, and apparently necessary, for me.

Anyway, I say allllll that just to say that I firmly believe that words have power.  It was the words of our God that spoke the whole of creation into being.  Seriously powerful words!  As Image-bearers, we also hold power in our words.  Isn't that what we teach our kids -- to use their words wisely, to build up and never to tear down?

So really long story short, we're incorporating some powerful words into our decor at home in the hopes of inspiring goodness and beauty in our family and in those who pass through our doors.  (Props to Pinterest, of course, for all the how-to blogs that helped give these little projects legs).  Quick disclaimer:  Yes, my house is over-decorated.  We like color and "art".  That's just how we roll in the Hilde-crib.  :)  So here goes:

The welcome sign and the first sight inside the entry:

Words from Mother Teresa, the whole quote goes something like "We cannot all do great things, but we can all do small things with great love."  So that's the assignment for each of us as soon as we walk though the front door -- to do those small things for one another with some big, BIG love.  Within our walls, love in all things, no matter how small the activity.

Next . . . 

Once inside, we seek to encourage peace:  Shalom -- in big silvery letters, no less.  The Hebrew word implies not only physical peace, but a spiritual calm, peace with man and with our Maker.  That's our to-do once inside the home:  PEACE (although usually not quiet :)  ).  I'm just now noticing that "A" is a little askew -- gotta fix that.

Don't let the door hit ya . . .

Finally, the last assignment:  "Love God.  Love People" when headed out the front door,   As Jesus stated, these are the two greatest commandments and our family's intended focus when we leave the sweet little hub of love and shalom at home to enter the mean ole world.  Love God, love people.  A tough one to check off the list at times, but so very necessary.

Just a few words.  Just a simple way to "speak" truth and encouragement for good living into ourselves.  We need it -- EVERYday!  It's kind of like the whole Old Testament philosophy of writing truth on your doorposts.  It's always there, right in your face, inescapable, to remind you -- so the truth of God's words are impressed on the deepest part of us. 

And also, full disclosure, I stink at painting or drawing actual objects, so I really do need to stick to words if I'm doing the decor myself.  :)

Does your family have some words "on the doorposts"?  Let's hear 'em.

Blessings!

CHALL-AUNGE!

"CHALL-AUNGE!"

Go ahead, watch it!  This is greatness.  Every time I decide to give myself a challenge, I can see this scene in my head:  "CHALL-AUNGE!"  Man, I wish I could tap like that!  Honestly, pretty much all of my synapses link, in some way, to either old song lyrics or to The Cosby Show.

Anyway, since it's spring, it's time for some rebirth and rededication to the craft.  Usually when I decide I need a "CHALL-AUNGE", I pick a race to train for or pick up a new book/study of some sort.  This year, I'm feeling called to something different, something maybe even more difficult for me and my lack of stick-to-it-iveness (and a little more annoying for all those around me who must endure it).

"Truth sounds true-er in music."  I recently picked up this nugget from some great writers much further along in the game than I, and I love that principle.  It's been ringing in my brain for the past week or so -- now what to do with it?

 "Light bulb."


I also love the acrostic poems, songs and writings found in the psalms and other places throughout the Old Testament -- each line a successive letter from their alphabet.  The idea that the writer, guided by the Spirit of God Himself, could take truth and express it within a kind of limiting framework is a beautiful challenge -- excuse me, "CHALL-AUNGE!"  C'mon, say it with me!  (See what I mean by annoying for those around me?)

So here I go:  in an attempt to sharpen my song-crafting skills and force myself to work even when I'd rather tackle a new Pinterest project or camp out with some old episodes of Parks and Rec, a year-long assignment is taking shape. Between this Easter and next Easter, here's what needs to happen:  26 new songs, one title for each successive letter of the alphabet.  That's 52 weeks, one new song every two weeks (or so -- a little grace here on this part).

They don't even have to be really good songs, just an exercise in dedication to the craft.  At this point, some of you may be saying, "Well, you've already gotten that 'not really good' part down to a science," to which I would reply, "That's rude."  To which I would further reply (and remind myself) that you only get to excellence through dedication, hard work, and more dedication.  So perhaps by the time I hit letter W, I'll be a better writer.  It can't hurt to try anyway.

Why am I telling you all this when you're probably busy coming up with your own "CHALL-AUNGE"s for yourselves?  I need some accountability.  So if you would, please periodically ask me what letter I'm on, make me feel really bad about not staying on top of this thing (shame is a powerful motivator), remind me that something good might just be born out of this little (er, large) endeavor.

Can you tell I'm not very self-motivated?

I need you, people!  As a side note, I'm a bit of a nut job when I'm not writing -- it's the only therapy I can afford, and you would not like me when I'm un-"treated".

So for the next week or so, I'm scoping out titles.  I will be eavesdropping on your conversations and writing down the interesting words or phrases you utter. You may not even realize that lyrical gold has just dripped from your lips!  Then hopefully you will forget that you were the one who came up with those words so I won't have to give you partial credit.  Also, I'm thinking the letter X may be tough, so I'm just flat-out taking suggestions for that one.

There it is.  Keep me honest, friends.  If you need some accountability on your own "CHALL-AUNGE!", then by all means stomp your tap shoes and share it.  I'm more than happy to also help you feel badly about yourself for being a slacker in whatever it is you are endeavoring to accomplish.  Let's do this together. ;)

Acrostic album, go!

Scars (and a Rabbit Hole)

How often do you think about your scars?  Well, it's not necessarily polite dinner conversation, but we've all got a few, I'm sure, and some stories to go with them.

My son has one on his chin that he got when he was four years old and decided it would be a good idea to “power slide” on his belly across a concrete gym floor. I've got a few permanent marks on my knees from bike wrecks as a kid and a few more from a surgery in college to repair a torn muscle. In fact, I've got a big scar that traces the outline of my entire spine, because, even though I truly am “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139), I was also unique in that my spine was “crooked as a question mark” (the great Forrest Gump) and needed straightening out during my teen years – as did my attitude during that same time, by the way.

It's all just part of being human, I guess. But in looking to the future, I've always assumed that in heaven there would be no scars. You know, “no tears, no sickness,” etc. I always figured that our injurious disfigurements would fall into those categories, but now I'm not so sure.

 <now entering rabbit hole>

Case in point: when Jesus was resurrected, triumphed over death, and appeared to the disciples, he did, in fact, offer his scars as evidence of his identity. His body was renewed, but the wounds were still there. Poor ole Thomas gained his discouraging nickname by demanding to see and touch the scars in Jesus' hands and side before he would believe. The continuance of the scars is part of the Gospel story.

As a disclaimer, let me say that I am by no means an expert theologian when it comes to end-time events and the details of our next life, but I'm just wondering and wandering down this little rabbit hole, so I thought I'd invite you along . . .

What if what we deem with our earthly eyes to be ugly scars, God sees in truth as holy landmarks on our journey here. Like literal “plot points” on our person or markers in each of our stories, rather than something hideous to be rid of.  And perhaps they're more permanent and hold more significance than we can even imagine right now.

Jesus' scars in his resurrected body demonstrated not only that he was indeed who he claimed to be, but they also proclaimed the greatness of what God had done in the death and resurrection of the Messiah. The scars were a testimony.  His flesh was ripped and gaping, his human life faded away with a few shallow breaths, and it hurt, it really hurt!  But now – now he had been brought beyond all that by the power and plan of the Father. He had stepped into a new existence, an eternal one. But he still carried the scars of his earthly journey as a necessary testimony to the power of the Almighty God!

I think of our Christian brothers and sisters in foreign lands, some here in the states even, who literally carry the scars of Christ on their bodies. They understand better than most what it is to suffer for holding to their faith in the one true God, and they have the marks to prove it. Those injuries certainly live as a testimony! But go beyond the physical and think of the emotional and psychological, the unseen scars that you and I bear. The injury is healed, perhaps, but the scars remain in the corners of our minds and hearts as a fresh reminder of where we've been and how much it hurt. But hopefully those scars also stand as testimony to the power of God and His relentless pursuit and redemption of His creation (i.e. “you and me”!), and thus, they are beautiful.  They exhibit to the world the healing, saving power of the Creator that lives in you and in me.

I, myself, have numerous physical scars that tell about my life – nothing movie-worthy, I'm afraid, but they do color my story. The unseen scars, however, are just as real and usually remain tender to the touch. Will those marks carry over into eternity?  I'm not sure. But if they do, I hope that both now and later they serve the same purpose as the wounds in my Savior's hands and side – to testify to the magnificence of God and the extravagance of His love for a broken world and a helpless one like me.

So perhaps we shouldn't take such care to cover up our scars. Maybe we should share them more openly and embrace the fact that they tell the tale God is writing with our own flesh and blood until the day we meet perfection (however that looks) in eternity. May He help us revel in the uniqueness of our “life-marks”. I desperately want mine to tell a good story.

Dust

Around our house, we generally follow one rule for updating essential (read "not creative, cutesy, or crafty") items in our home:

Wait until it's REALLY broken, then figure out a way to fix it.

I like doing the fun stuff of home-makeover-ing -- not the necessities.  But the other day when my son's dresser pulls broke for the fiftieth time, I figured it was time for a cheap update.  So off to Lowe's we went to convince a six-year-old how cool it would be to pick the $1.27 handles to put on his only big piece of furniture.  For some reason, he was picky about it -- he actually wanted some sort of Wild Kratts inspired jungle-motif wild animal handles, but, alas, we did what we could and bought what actually existed.

The old oak dresser in his room has seen many homes.  It's an old hand-me-down piece that originated in my grandparents' house in Mt. Holly, Arkansas many years ago.  It was later gifted to my folks and lived in their master bedroom for years before making its home in my room during my teen years.  So I couldn't help but reminisce a little as I carefully removed each broken brass drawer pull.  I remembered stashing boxes of notes and letters from our school days in those top drawers alongside VHS tapes of my favorite MTV shows.  I remembered the multitude of  cheerleading and prom photos that topped that dresser right beside my black and gold homecoming corsages.

Little flecks of memories came chipping off those rusted screws.

And what had come before my own memories?  Candles and family photos, hand-crocheted bedspreads dripping with history, love notes and maternity clothes and papers from my grandfather's stint in World War II, graduation caps and awards papers and my own baby clothes, perhaps.  History.

And behind each weathered brass plate lay the imprint of its life on the wood's face.  A good eighty years of dust existed beneath those ornaments.  Eighty years of life hidden for decades behind a weathered old brass decoration.  These tiny personal building blocks of our history and existence had traveled this life with us, and we didn't even know they were there.

I gently brushed away each little smudge of history as I placed a new sturdier handle in its place.  And just like that, it's footprint was gone. Three generations had touched this old piece of wood, tugged at its handles, stored treasures, lived life, and then moved on.  Today it still stands tall holding precious plastic trinkets and super hero underwear.  Life, as they say, goes on.

God speaks to our hearts in these small things.  With each brushing away of the dust hidden behind those old brass plates, a verse pounded in my head:  "You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes."  (James 4:14)  Their lives, my life:  a mist, a vapor, literally dust in the wind (or on the wood, in this case).  I don't mean this to be a depressing thing, but to emphasize our beautiful, yet tiny part in this big, BIG story that God is still writing.  Those generations before me told a good story.  Now it's my turn.

We continue to step into the next chapter, with hearts full of encouraging memories, anticipation, and promise.  And it's a remarkable promise -- one assuring a future remaking of this little ole dust of our existence.

Blessings!



**And in follow-up to the previous post "Gotta Get a Goal" -- I'm looking forward to sharing my summer writing experience with you.  Details soon.  Hoping these new songs will also tell a good story.  :)