I have an app on my phone which logs my daily steps – and my food intake and weight if I desire to admit those components. On this first morning of this new year, I have walked three thousand steps. Walked the dog around the block. Brought him home and walked again by myself. Three thousand steps. Huh.

It is this day, this first day of a new year, that corners me to look back, take stock, and answer for a year’s worth of living. A year’s worth of steps. Now if I am satisfied, or at least comfortable, with the way those steps were logged, I can breathe a sigh of gratefulness – or relief – and say, “Thank you, Lord, for another year of life”. If, however, I carry regret or frustration into this new year, I then find myself doing that uncomfortable dance step that promises, “Ah, Lord, this year I’ll try harder”. Either way, it feels like a lot of self-effort that is tricky whichever way it lands at the end of one year and the first day of the new. Huh.

Sometimes I forget. The force of “what is happening right now” distracts, and I forget.  Or the right now is good, and a past ‘great’ invades my thoughts, and I forget. I forget the goodness of God; I forget that the God of the universe has never for a moment stopped moving and working on my behalf. I forget the ground that has been gained. The strength that has been granted. The mending that continues to heal my heart and mind and, yes, body. In the vortex of the present, the good gifts are lost to me. Author Ann Voskamp calls it ‘spiritual amnesia’. http://www.aholyexperience.com Perfect description.

Three nights ago I met with some friends to walk a local causeway bridge. Hike may be a better verb. The bridge is one of the few in our area that offers a (somewhat) challenging incline, so if you walk briskly enough (or not…), you will get a workout. We have frequented this bridge countless times to prepare for backpacking trips, general exercise, and simple camaraderie. Three nights ago would be the first time after a long absence that I would revisit this worthy expanse. The first time since spinal surgery. The first testing of strength and stamina. I felt ready. I felt happy. I felt thankful. We stood chatting while waiting for our final friend to arrive when it happened. A large group of cyclists – lean bodies bent, sleek bikes shining, moving as one – sailed silently past us as they made their way toward the expanse. Without warning, the vortex sucked me in. Like a wave of unexpected nausea, I was gripped with envy, loss, and sadness at all I had once enjoyed – and can no more. Without resistance, I let it wash over me, “I can’t do that anymore.” Amnesia.

“Bless the LORD, O my soul, And all that is within me, bless His Holy name.  Bless the LORD, O my soul, And forget none of His benefits.” Psalm 103:1,2

I walked that bridge three nights ago. I walked it yesterday morning, and I walked it this morning. I did not walk it because it was easy; I walked it because I am able. I am able because God is gracious to me and is allowing me to continue to do the things He knows I love to do, namely: be out of doors, exercise this body of mine (and push it just a little), enjoy the company of comrades while doing so, and most importantly, commune with my Father who never misses a chance to speak life into my soul. Maybe I will get back on my bike in the way I love to, or maybe I won’t. But this I know. Life will change. It is changing. I am changing. But God does not. His kindness and mercy and truth are offered to me each day. His strength is offered to me each day. I can watch a group of cyclists glide by and choose to say, “Thank you, Father, for the joy of time spent on my bike and the ways You spoke into my heart then. It was glorious. I won’t forget”. And I can feel not envy but eucharisteo – Grace. Thanksgiving. Joy. When those cyclists sail by, I can whisper to my heart, “I know their joy”.

And so I remember. I remember the gifts of yesterdays. I remember the gifts of this morning. And I acknowledge the gifts of right now. Life. Breath. Bridges. Beauty. And I know that with each change, each season, each current of life right up to the end, “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” Present tense. Period.

Now, what were you saying, Lord…?

I don’t believe if I live to be a thousand years old, I will be able to comprehend this love. In forty years of following this Messiah, this Redeemer Jesus, I have only begun to scratch the surface of my heart. It’s “Easter”, and as I don the robe of “Let’s Celebrate!”, I swear I can’t move beyond an almost stunned “Thank You Lord, for remembering me…” For some reason, this morning I am once again that nineteen-year-old girl, alone on my bedroom floor with no one but Shame to share my loneliness and utter helplessness to change my course. And there He is, listening to my confession of sinfulness and my cry for forgiveness. There He is, lifting me up from that floor, forgiving me and cleansing me and placing my feet on a very new journey. And what a journey it has been. Not the crisp, clear, pie-in-the-sky journey that some would promise to the newly rescued. No, my path has been anything but idyllic, and yet, for reasons that have defied my circumstances (and my wayward nature), here I am – humbled and grateful for a very alive Savior. And here He is today, completing what he began…

I am joyful, yes, JOYFUL, but this joy is residing a bit deeper this morning. Joy feels more like “Thank You”. I will enjoy the fellowship of family and friends around my table today, and we will laugh and eat and share our lives and food and mutual love for this risen Savior. We will re-affirm His workings in our lives and His heart that none should perish. But rather than embrace this day in the spirit of a holiday, I have this sense, not of religious festivity, but rather of intimate bond with the One who is the reason I stand today. Because He is risen, He calls me to honor my robe of righteousness, to walk worthy of my calling, and to allow His love and compassion to to be my heartbeat. He asks me to trust Him when I cannot understand, to love when love is not returned, to share Him when the fear of rejection tries to shut me up, to honor Him with my gifting, to hope without excuse. “…and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.” Romans 5:5

And so this morning I join my voice with the host of the rescued and redeemed to say, “He is risen indeed!”. But I can’t bring myself to say it just because it is “Easter”. I say it simply because…He is…

Eucharisteo~

Recently I underwent spinal surgery to remove, repair, and fuse vertebrae in my back that were completely destroyed. I am recovering at home – and listening for that still small Voice. This blog is taken from a personal email I sent to the women who are closer to me than any on the planet. I have revised it a bit to make it more suitable for a public audience. And as I said, I am still recovering, so if you find an error, then, oh well…Feel free to listen in…

 I am filled to the brim this morning with love and thankfulness – for the Lord and for each of you, so while the “glory hole” is full and spilling over, let me tell you that I awoke this morning feeling better than I have in almost two weeks. And I am sure that each of you has helped bring me to this moment.

Last night I slept in my own bed for the first time, and it was fantastic. I was able to get in and out with relative ease, and words can’t describe how good it was to stretch out in comfort and hear my husband Jan breathing next to me. That alone goes a long way in making me feel like life is getting back to normal. I slept for hours at a time, and well, life is good…

As I was getting dressed, my mind was rolling the tape of the last 12 days, and I want to share a few snapshots with you who have become so much “closer than brothers”:

1. Life is hard. There are no ‘get out of jail free’ tickets. It involves pain. Freedom – of all shapes and sizes – awaits us, but the path is right through the middle of that pain. No stepping round to the side. I had pain before this surgery, and I learned to negotiate it – walk a certain way, avoid this, overcompensate for that, drag, drug – and live with the pain. The answer was to repair the damage, and that involves more pain – way more intense pain than before – but this is the path to freedom because the damage has been addressed and submitted to the surgeon’s skill. Freedom awaits.

Freedom also awaits my heart. Pain is used to residing there, and negotiating it can become a way of life. My Great Physician is willing to use His skill to cut away each hurt and set me free. I must be willing to face it and walk through the process with Him. No side-stepping. No overcompensating. Right through the middle. Confession. Repentance.  Forgiveness. Freedom awaits.

2. The surgeon has done his part. My participation is non-negotiable.  I was fortunate enough to have one of the most experienced surgeons in my area perform my surgery. He spent his three or more hours in my back doing what he does best and doing it well. I can already tell a difference. And he is available to me for those follow-up visits. My willingness to work, to rehabilitate, however, will complete the healing process. I must get up and walk. I must rest in a prescribed manner. I must avoid certain movements and activities for awhile. It’s the vital part I am to play. I could never have healed myself, but I can work with my physician to ensure success. You know, the other day I found myself dragging my foot again. Nothing was wrong; I was reacting out of habit. A bad habit. I forgot I could walk whole again.

Jesus has come to bind up the brokenhearted, to set the captives free. He said so in Isaiah 61. He has done that. I cannot set myself free, but when He sets me free, I must be willing to step out of the prison cell and to walk in that freedom. No more limping and tripping over emotional wounds that have been healed. No more leaning on old agreements that no longer define who I am. No more running back to lies that whisper captivity where freedom has been won. There are areas of my heart where the Spirit of God has come and has truly healed. My part is to remember that and honor that and walk in that freedom.

3. In the midst of excruciation, I cried out to Jesus to come and relieve my suffering. (My bowels were mercilessly impacted. Laugh at me or cry with me – it was horrific.) For fifteen hours I begged for relief. I knew that with one touch, God could have removed my agony. Miraculously. Painlessly. He did not. I suffered. My husband suffered while desperately trying to help me. When at last relief came, cries of thanksgiving and praise flew out of my mouth. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t resist it. Love for God filled me. Please don’t ask me to answer for God, to put Him on the bench and demand He answer for Himself. I cannot. All I know is that no matter the suffering, God’s Spirit resides deep inside me. I could have been angry. I could have been bitter or despondent that God did not come to my rescue. What I do know is that far beneath my human suffering resides a Spirit more eternal than me, and He is the reason my faith has not died through all of the heartbreaks I have been asked to carry. It is He who sustains me and not myself.

4. Healing is a process. Healing is not an isolated process. Healing includes community. There is no way on earth I could be doing this by myself. Neither could you. We need each other. I am so glad that I need each of you. For me to fully realize healing, I must allow myself to be ministered to. To finally let go of my intensely guarded privacy and stand naked in need. And when I weakly raise my bare and dripping head, there I find each of you. I am undone.

I have a fourteen-year-old grandson who lives in Seattle, and for that reason, time spent with him is rare. A crisis in my daughter’s family brought her and Wolfie (short for Wolfgang) here to Florida and has afforded me the opportunity to spend time him while Amy attends to the needs at hand.  Because Wolfie is autistic, Amy is very thorough in her explanations of his behaviors, potential problems, his desires, and so on. Spending time with Wolfie brings unique challenges and, as I have discovered anew, unique moments of unbridled joy and unexpected glimpses of truth.

 Story. It is how we live our lives. It offers sense when other explanations fail us. Our story is part of a much larger story. Our role on the stage of eternal history is replete with heroes, villains, setting, conflict, resolution, strength, support, joy, risk, – all the elements that make a story worth reading – and telling – and gives honor and glory to our existence. Sometimes I am keenly aware of my role; most times, though, I move through my days not giving it a second thought. I live in the moment, or at best, a few moments ahead.

 This morning Wolfie and I played in our pool. The weather was warm; the sun was bright; the water was perfect. At first I didn’t want to go in. I tried to get one of my sons to swim with him. No takers. So I donned my suit and relented to the pleas of my grandson. Once I was in, I was in.  I love water. I love it at the beach. I love it in the rapids. I love it in the creek. I love it in the pool. I love how it buoys me up. I love its cool refreshment. I love that it churns and bubbles and resists and gives way. And Wolfie loves this water too. We had fun. We laughed and twirled and jumped and loved the water together. It was glorious.

 Story. So what about Wolfie’s story?  Can he ever even come close to grasping what it means to live out his own? Wolfie navigates his life by clinging to what is predictable and repetitive. He watches the same films over and over. He requests the same food. He wants to know what’s coming. He doesn’t like surprise or change. His language, for the most part, is one of memorized lines and repeated phrases – many of which come from movies or songs. His communication springs from well-rehearsed, familiar, and predictable words which he has heard countless times. Until today I assumed it was simply rote repetition.

 Wolfie let me know when he had had enough of the pool. “Hot shower!” signaled that he was ready for the next transition. Amy had explained that he would want to swim, take a hot shower, go to Taco Bell for lunch, come home, have a snack, and watch “American Tail”. We made our way out of the pool and onto the deck to dry off.  Both of us were happy. We had shared our love of water and our love for each other. As we sat together warming and drying, I said to Wolf, “I love you”. He responded, “I know.” (Amy later told me he was quoting a line from “Star Wars”.)  A few moments later Wolfie looked at me and with no prompting from me, and in response to nothing I had said, quoted,

 “It’s a classic story. A toast – to us!”

 Story. It flows from the pen of God. There are no useless lines. Every breath, every move, every choice, every smile or glance or retracted hand becomes the transition to the next line. And we take our place in the grand story of life and love, of sorrow and loss, birth and death, of forgiveness and redemption. We write our lines into the story of our own lives and into the countless lives of those we touch. And sometimes, maybe most times, the setting takes us no further than our own backyard with our own grandchild.

 The day played out for Wolfie and me, and there was one point of difficulty and confusion. In one moment of frustration, he lashed out in aggression and anger. This occurred in a public setting where the opportunity for embarrassment could have overwhelmed me. The outburst took me by surprise, and there was no time to prepare myself for it. In that moment I knew only one thing – I needed to navigate this very wisely and with much grace. The incident was concluded as quickly as it had begun. In his own way Wolf was contrite. In that moment I knew one more thing, “This is not the truest thing about Wolf – about us. This is only one conflict in our story – a conflict which has just added depth and experience and expression.” 

 I need to find out what Wolfie was quoting from earlier. Without even realizing it, he acknowledged what I know to be true, and this is it: we live in a story. Our lives are invaluably linked in ways we may never know. We may actively engage in the writing, or we may be oblivious to the process, but it does not change the truth of our existence. In one loving response, my grandson, who lives out his own story set on the stage of autism, penned a line on the tablet of my heart that he may never be aware of, yet the line is written for eternity. It’s what is true.

 “It’s a classic story. A toast – to us!”

Note: I first wrote this in May of 2011. Wolf is now sixteen-years-old, and while many of his mannerisms remain as I described, he continues to grow into an amazing and delightful young man. He and my daughter Amy just visited from Seattle, and it was a longed-for joy to spend time with them. The ink from this chapter is still wet on our hearts….

Sitting in the silence of early morning calm, favorite mug in hand, favorite dog asleep at my side, I let my eyes rest on the beauty of our Christmas tree. At least I think it is beautiful. It is filled to overflowing with ornaments of every assortment. Some are offerings carefully crafted with chubby, childlike “precision”. Some reveal particular interests or hobbies. Some hang in tribute to family members who have gone before us. Still others are inexpensive baubles included simply to illuminate and multiply light. I like a lot of light. Together they lend their unique charm as they hang in silent, majestic memory and splendor. There is so much of my heart that is addressed by this tree. It goes way back….

Recalling yesterday’s “Let’s put up the Christmas tree” undertaking (it took all day), I smile as I replay particular moments. Five-year-old Sofiia exclaiming that every single ornament she unwrapped was just bee-YOU-tee-ful! “Oh Pama, look at theese one!” It was a small, cheap plastic green candy cane. Couldn’t tell you where it came from, but in the eyes of this small child, it was lovely. The cats, as soon as the tree skirt was laid down, rushing in for their annual, “Hey, they brought us a tree again!” celebration. And of course, my husband Jan leaning close with his camera buried deep in the tree to capture that unique shot.

In my reverie, my eyes fix on one of my favorite adornments. It is a ceramic Native American angel, one of a set of three that my daughter Lisa gave me years ago. I always wait to put them up last because I want them displayed in just the right spots. Looking at her now, I remember pulling her from the box yesterday, and for a moment, thinking, “Oh, maybe I won’t put them up this year. I don’t want them to get broken”. Jan had the same knee-jerk reaction as a favorite ornament would be resurrected from its resting place. “We don’t need to put this one up if you don’t want to…..” Protect rather than offer beauty….

As I bask in the loveliness of our Christmas tree, I take special note of our most prized ornaments – the ones that display their beauty in the presence of inherent risk. For the first time, I acknowledge that I have had to release them to truly enjoy them. Their place of honor in the community of beauty and memories on our tree would sit stark and empty as a testament to fear and to the loss of true beauty that only comes in the face of risk.

And as always, the question comes back to me, “Am I willing to risk in order to offer the beauty of love in me? Risk rejection? Risk hurt? Risk misunderstanding? It is easy to put my heart in a box to ensure it will never get broken. It would be safe there. But my place in the world to which I have been asked to shine will sit stark and empty as a testament to fear. My true beauty, the beauty of Christ in me, will be never be offered. I think I will take the risk. I will offer my heart – the heart of God. My world, my family, my friends are worth it.

Shine.

And so I awake to the aftermath of Thanksgiving. Or maybe I should say afterglow. It was a good day in all, a good Thanksgiving. Family and friends graced my home and table with mutual affability and love. The food was good; the weather was gorgeous. My youngest son and his friend expressed a selfless concern for those less fortunate than us and set out to do something about it. Each of us was conscious of how much we have to be thankful for – we even wrote it down on little styrofoam leaves and glued them to a little styrofoam tree. And the things that hurt and disappoint were respectfully kept at bay because, after all, it was Thanksgiving – the day we celebrate and acknowledge gratitude for all that blesses our lives, the things for which we are thankful. And rightly so.

But what of this day after Thanksgiving when the special plates are returned to their cupboards (or the paper plates are bagged on the curb) and the styrofoam tree sits silent on the extended table which has yet to be dismantled? The joyful chatter of yesterday is receding, and the thanks are not so verbal. Fatigue wraps me lightly like a soft blanket, and routine settles back in – and so do the companions who were not invited to the table yesterday. Hurt. Uncertainty. Loss. Struggle. A son who rebuffs every attempt at reconciliation. A friend who lies in a hospital bed with a diseased heart in critical need of repair. Parents who now grace my life only through their memory. Pain that gains increasing ground each day. I could be wrong, but I don’t think I wrote these down on my styrofoam leaf….

So what ABOUT the day after – and all the days before – Thanksgiving, Pam? What if I stopped viewing Thanksgiving as a holiday and made it a way of life? Yes, yes, I know. I am to be thankful in all things. I am to live my life with a grateful heart. I am to recognize God’s involvement in working the issues of my life for the good. But if I’m honest, that usually feels more like grit-my-teeth-and-bear-it rather than outright thankfulness. You know, the kind I write on a leaf one day a year. What if I offered thanks for the storyline of my life with the same intention and focus every day as I do on the one day? No seriously. What if I did? Maybe, just maybe, the gratefulness and joy that I embraced yesterday would become the heartbeat of my life.

Eucharisteo~

Those who know me intimately know that I live with pain. I have for a very long time. It is not my practice or desire to display or elaborate on this issue publicly, but for a glimpse of God’s grace, a shared truth, I will pull back the veil of privacy and offer another piece of my story. It is the story that God is writing, really, and I hope the offering of it will pull back the eternal veil to remind us that the Author is busy writing….

This body of mine has served me faithfully for decades, with little mercy from me. I have abused it. I have worshiped it. I have starved it. I have stuffed it. I have ignored it. I have pushed it hard in an attempt to appease the slavish god of Thin. I have required it to run on some pretty toxic fuel – much of which has come from the grocery isles. In recent years I have learned. I have repented. I have changed the way I eat and think – or at least I am on that journey. I have been caring for my body for awhile now. I am considerably happy in life. I have an uncommonly good and kind husband. I am learning grace for the journey. I have extraordinary comrades who share the journey with me. And I live with pain.

For the most part, I have resented this pain. I have fought it. I have apologized for it. I have pitied myself. I have chided myself. I have gone to envy. I have gone to resignation. And none of these responses has served me well. They may feel valid in the moment, but when they are spent, I am left depleted in their aftermath. No comfort. No encouragement. No life. They only diminish life. They offer only the age-old suggestion that this is as good as it gets. This is what now defines me. This is what I am stuck with. It’s just life. Take my meds and deal with it. And yet, I know better. I know there is more. I know that, should I choose to see and accept, my pain is a mediator of grace. The invitation to accept its presence is a holy, other-worldly gift. I can be free.

Hinds’ Feet on High Places, Hannah Hurnard, an excerpt:

“Here are the two guides which I promised,” said the Shepherd quietly.

“Who are they?” she whispered to the Shepherd. “Will you tell me their names?”

“They are good teachers; indeed, I have few better.” This, said He, motioning toward the first of the silent figures, “is named Sorrow. And the other is her twin sister, Suffering”.

“I can’t go with them,” she gasped. “I can’t! I can’t! O my Lord Shepherd, why do you do this to me? How can I travel in their company? It is more than I can bear!”

******************************
At the familiar gesture, Grace and Glory knew them and cried out with a joy which was almost more than she could bear.

“Why, you are Suffering and Sorrow! Oh, welcome, welcome! I was longing to find you again.”

“Oh no!” they laughed, “We are no more Suffering and Sorrow than you are Much-Afraid. Don’t you know that everything that comes to the High Places is transformed? Since you brought us here with you, we are turned to Joy and Peace.”

And so I embrace the matter of pain and health in a different light these days – or at least I am trying.

Yesterday I endured yet another procedure to hopefully alleviate some of my discomfort and restore a quality of life that allows me to enjoy the things that bring me pleasure. The things I do now in the presence of pain. For the longest time my hope and goal has been to be pain free – free of this interloper, this enemy, this thief of joy. Yet, unexpectedly, a new desire is growing in me. The desire, not to be free from all the discomfort and pain that I consider hindrances to a full life, but rather the desire to live fully and free in the midst of the pain, in the midst of the stuff. To live freely enough to embrace whatever my kind Redeemer chooses to be my companions – and to call them Joy and Peace.