Love

CLEAN SHEETS

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sheets

I washed sheets and blankets today. And don’t worry, it’s not the first time I’ve ever done my own laundry. But still, today was different.

As I pulled the blankets off of Jude’s favorite snoozing spot I cried. Hard.

I cried because I knew that once those blankets and sheets were fresh and clean, Jude would never again be able to make them dirty. That’s because after 16 years by my side, Jude is gone.

Even writing those words is hard. There’s a part of me that knows how true it is because I was with him when he died. And yet, there are large pockets of my mind and heart that keep expecting him to lick my feet when I come back from a run. I expect him to put his face at the edge of the couch and wag his tail as his puppy dog eyes look in mine.

I expect to hear his collar jingle when I open the front door. I expect to have to step carefully when I get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I expect him to be here.

But he’s not. And while I know that death is a part of life, and a part of owning pets, it doesn’t make it any easier. I’m thankful he lived over 16 years – 121 in dog years – but I still wish he had had more in him.

A good long life is never long enough. At least that’s how it seems to me. Pets, people. When they are gone we always want more.

I’m trying to hope in the day that God sets all things right in this world. I’m trying to believe the truth that He will, because in every molecule of my being I know that death is not right. It’s not how we were created. It’s evidence of how broken this world is.

And yet, it’s hard to hope when you are grieving. It’s hard to wipe the tears as you put blankets into the washer. It’s hard to know what life will look like next. Of course, not everything has changed, but a lot has. It’s a blank slate – a clean sheet – because in some big ways my days will look different now. The friend I’ve had by my side for most of my adult life isn’t here. That hurts. So if that means I cry while I do laundry, I’m going to cry. If that means I have to take a deep breath when I realize I won’t see him sleeping on my couch again, I will.

So as the sheets and blankets spin in the dryer, I’m not entirely sure what’s next. All I know is that the next time I wash them they won’t have dog hair on them. And while I prefer them clean, that reality still makes me sad.

TRUE BLUE

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The newest thing at my house is blue. Midnight blue. It’s hard but smooth, and has angles I’d never want to try to measure without a protractor.

And it’s glorious.

So what is this thing? It’s my birthday present. And in fact, there’s not just one, but two.

Two midnight blue, sleek, wooden (that part is key) Adirondack chairs. They sit outside as you walk up to our house, and seeing them makes me smile. And it also makes me wonder why it took us so long to get them.

I’m a person who loves being outside. I always have. I love the mountains, the ocean, parks, sunshine, and sitting outside at coffee shops. The green and blues of nature remind me that God is there and that He is good.

So when we moved to a place with a patio, you’d think the first thing I’d do would be to set up an outdoor space. But it wasn’t. Why? Because I was afraid of spending the money. So, instead we bought some used plastic chairs. Within two weeks they had cracked. Within a month they had scratched. Still, they were what we had, so I didn’t think much of it.

Until my husband told me that for my birthday he was getting me real, wooden Adirondack chairs.

We picked them out, came home and put them together and we spent the next two hours siting outside, talking, sipping on a cocktail and then eating dinner.

In the last two weeks I’ve spent more time sitting outside my little house than I have the three years combined. Why? Because I have something real and solid to sit in.

Yes, they cost more than the generic plastic chairs. Yes, they might chip or fade over time. But every penny was worth it. It was worth it for the quality. It was worth it for the joy it brings to me when I walk out in the morning with my Bible and a steaming mug of jasmine tea.

And it was worth it for what they say.

Those chairs speak loudly. They remind me that my husband he sees me. He knows me and knows what makes me smile. He knows what feeds my soul and he’s willing to spend the money to give it to me, even when I won’t spend it on myself.

And that is love. Real, true blue, stable, won’t crack when you sit on it love. And it’s pretty magnificent.

THE THIRD SPOON

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We have three wood spoons.

One we got as a wedding gift. It’s a good brand. It’s strong. It has a few scaly patches that may splinter your tongue, but it’s still in good shape. It’s the biggest of the bunch.

Another I’ve had for years. It’s rough and flaky. Not because it ended up in the dishwasher a few too many times, but because I probably bought it at the dollar store when I had just graduated from college.

And then there’s the third spoon. Its bowl is closer to a circle than an oval. Its handle not much bigger than a pencil. But when my fingers fall on this one, I smile.

The third spoon is smooth from decades of stirring. There’s no telling how many circles it has made around the pots and pans in my family. In spite of its age, there are no splinters, rough patches, or flakes. It looks like it could outlive us all.

It might.

I got this spoon as a hand-me-down. It was my grandmother’s. I don’t know how long she had it, but when I pick it up, I see her arthritic knuckles and neatly trimmed fingernails, her cream-softened hands and the love she had for making food for her family.

In the mornings, when I pick up the spoon to stir my steel cut oatmeal, I imagine her stirring her own version of the breakfast classic, which she called “mush.” I wonder how many times she made it? I wonder how many pounds of cracked oats she went through over the years? How many times did my grandfather sat down to a steaming bowl? My mother? Her siblings?

Those questions and the memories that flood back when I use the third spoon are what make it special.

It isn’t just a spoon. It’s an artifact.

The third spoon is teaching me how important it is to listen. It’s teaching me that new and flashy isn’t always best. It’s teaching me the importance of long lasting-quality, family, history and shared meals.

If anyone else picks up that spoon, they won’t hear the stories and lessons I do. They won’t picture my grandma’s grey, short, permed hair. They won’t taste her “Posner’s” chicken or spaghetti sauce with grated carrots.

But I will.

The third spoon connects me to her, even though she left this earth years ago.

For that I’m grateful. It makes me want to listen more carefully. It makes me want to sit down with my family. It makes me want to buy quality products that might last for generations.

But most of all, it makes me want to smile. And so, I do.

BEDSIDE MANNER

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Maybe you haven’t been there, but I’m willing to bet you have.

You’re sick, or have had surgery, or delivered a baby, and you need care. You need gentleness. You need reassurance that it’s all going to be ok.

Some doctors are good at it. Others aren’t. In fact, some are terrible. I had a procedure a few years ago and the doctor said she’d call Erik to tell him how it went as soon as I was in recovery.

She never called.

She didn’t tell us how it went. I was sent home drugged and wondering if it had been a success. It was a minor procedure. Something this doctor does multiple times a week. But for me, it was huge. It was my body. My life. I needed to know all the details, and yet, I got none.

The unknown — combined with the after effects of anesthesia, my body healing, and my sensitive soul — left me in a cloud of despair. I couldn’t shake it.

The pain from the procedure wasn’t that bad, and yet something in me was falling apart. I called to find out how it had gone, and was told, “Fine.” I said I had been extremely emotional and asked if that was normal. The reply I got was, “Well, some people have strange responses to anesthesia.”

That was all.

I was broken, bloody, and felt alone in it. And yet, that’s how all of us are in this world.

Maybe we aren’t literally bleeding every day, but we are broken. There is pain, there is hurt, there is abandonment, rejection, and betrayal.

We don’t merely need procedures and bandages to fix the injuries and sop up the blood. We need someone who will hold our hand while we heal.

We have that. In Jesus.

I forget this far too often. Instead of letting Him hold my hand, I search for someone — or something — else to calm my racing mind. But those brief moments when I am with Him, when I am raw and bare and He is bandaging me tenderly, holding my hand, telling me that I am not alone, those really are the best.

Let’s try to do that more, you and I. Let’s let Jesus be Jesus. Let’s let Him bandage our wounds and clean up the blood, all while holding us and telling us that everything is really, truly going to be ok.

HUNGRY?

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It’s been grey lately. Like, Seattle grey. Rain keeps falling and everything feels damp, even inside. Combine that with the life’s busyness and it has been weeks since we’ve been to the beach.

I realize that isn’t odd for most people. But when you are a beach girl who lives in Hawaii, it’s more than strange. It’s almost tragic.

When we packed up on Saturday morning, hoping to find a parking spot at a favorite lagoon, it felt long overdue. We watched the clouds as we drove west, silently praying that we’d find sun.

Parking. Check.
Sun. Looked promising.
Blanket out, chairs down, toes in the sand. Done.

And yet, it wasn’t enough. I thought it would be. I love the beach. How when the sun hits your skin in this tropical land it gets all the way to your bones. Warm, hot, a little scorching. Wrinkles and skin cancer be damned. It feels good.

But still, it wasn’t enough.

That day, I knew the water would be brisk. Not for tourists, but for me. After a few years here your blood changes. The fluid in your veins learns the difference between 77 and 80.

I didn’t think it would happen, not to me. That first winter I dove in the water, laughing at the locals on the sidelines who thought it was too cold to swim. And now, while I go in year-round, I can’t stay in as long in the winter before goose bumps overtake my arms and even my liver starts to shiver.

I wasn’t up for snorkeling. I knew I wouldn’t last. But the water pulled me. A blew up my bright pink inner-tube, and walked in up to my ankles. Silver fish flashed as the water licked the shore. I had to take my time. Inch by inch, letting the next part of my body get used to the chill. And then, all at once, I was there. Floating. My legs dangling, my hands paddles to take me to the rocky outcropping where yellow and black convict tang flitted away from my shadow.

That was it. That’s what I needed. In an instant, my soul was filled. The water silenced growing uncertainty about what the future holds.

As Erik and I walked along the shore, I could put words to it.

“I forgot how much the water feeds my soul,” I said to him.

He smiled knowingly and said, “I know.”

He’d been trying to get us to the beach for weeks. My agitation had been growing. My discontented heart now a regular guest at our dinner table.

But the ocean waves washed it away that day. As I dropped onto my towel, sand sticking to the gaps between my toes, everything in the world seemed right. And I realized that’s how good God is. He gives us things in this world that feed our souls. That makes us who we are, make us complete. He gives us people, places, feelings, memories. While some theologians would brush their meaning away in favor of hours spent in Scripture, for me, the beach, the waves, the water are holy.

It’s not the Bible. But it’s time. It’s time in God’s presence, and that is what I needed. That day, only the ocean would do. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten this about myself. Water is woven into the very core of by being.

I grew up with a view of Puget Sound. Every summer, I would have to be drug out of my grandparent’s pool when the sun went down. Fishing with my dad. Ferry rides to see family. Hours going up and down between lane lines in my high school swimming pool. Snorkeling.

I have never been far from water. That’s how God created me.

As we left the beach that afternoon, hungry but completely full, I realized I need to pay better attention. My husband knows. My family knows. Some of my friends even know. Why had I been blind to it? Why had I forgotten this essential part of me? What else feeds my soul that I have forgotten about?

If nothing else, I know that no matter where we live, I need water. I need to get in it. I need to paddle on top of it, kick my feet in it, float in boats on top of it. I need it because it feeds my soul and when I get hungry, I get cranky, and nothing seems right until I’m fed.

The ocean may not be feed your soul. But something does. Find out what it is and chase it, because we’ve all spent too long being hungry.

CROW’S FEET CONFESSIONS

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I’ve been looking at my friends faces a lot lately. Looking at their Instagram posts, zooming in on Facebook pictures, looking closely at them when we are talking. I wish I could say it was because I just can’t get enough of them. That they are all so beautiful I have to stare.

There is some truth to that. They are beautiful, and yet, I’m not looking at them in admiration. There are two other reasons—and those reasons are ugly.

1. Comparison
2. Jealousy

I know I am not the first person to compare myself to others. Sadly, I also won’t be the last. I think it’s part of the Fall. I don’t have a specific scripture in mind to back that up, but I know I could make a biblical case for it.

That said, here’s a glimpse inside how I compare—it may or may not be different than how you do. I look at someone I know or admire, and then see how I stack up. Often I do this in things that the world sees as flaws. Now that I’m in my mid-thirties, it’s taken a very specific focus: wrinkles.

Yep, wrinkles.

I have some and I hate them. So if I look at people that I love and admire and see that they have wrinkles too, somehow it quiets the anxiety inside me. Somehow it makes me feel like I’m ok. After all, if women whom I admire and love have wrinkles, then surely, wrinkles are ok. Right? RIGHT?

Once I get to the place of recognizing that amazing, lovely, awe-inspiring women have wrinkles too, that’s when #2 kicks in—jealousy.

Jealousy? “You, Jessica, are jealous of wrinkles?”

Yep. I’ve (mostly) accepted the fact that wrinkles happen, so now I want the best wrinkles I can have. In my opinion, those are the smile lines and crow’s feet. Those little creases that not only show that you’ve lived a few years of life, but that you’ve lived it happily.

Those are not the wrinkles I have. I have the furrowed brow kind. The ones that show that I’ve spent hours and years thinking, wrestling, despairing and, well, frowning.

Just the mere fact of writing that down is causing me anxiety. The next time one of you who reads these sees me, I fear your eyes will go straight to my forehead. And yet, I’m on a journey. A long journey to accept myself in the way that God made me. And part of that is the furrows that show that I think deeply, and fret, and ponder.

Do I wish It was different? Yes, sometimes I do. But in wishing things were different—wishing I was different—I think I’m missing out on what this life is really about. Loving. Not by comparing. Not by putting someone on a pedestal, but by seeing who they really are—people made in God’s own image. People He loves enough to have created and chased after. People He died for. People He still is still chasing after today.

I want to see people that way. I want to see you that way. And really, I want to see myself that way. I want to put aside the comparison and the jealousy and just be. I want to be me, and I want you to be you. I want to not care if my face has wrinkles—or what kind it has—and just be thankful that I get to breathe deeply, feel sun on my face, and live in a world full of beautiful, wrinkled (and non-wrinkled) people who were all made in the image of God.

 

WHAT DOES TRUST LOOK LIKE?

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I’m sure you’ve reached that moment in your life. If you haven’t yet, you will. Probably many times. Sorry, but it’s the truth.

It’s the moment when you have to trust. When the ground feels shaky, you feel like you swallowed a boulder and your head is spinning.

That’s the place I’m at today. I’ve been here for a while. If we’re honest, we are here everyday, but the pace of our society and technology lets us keep it at bay. When we keep busy enough we don’t have time to peer into the unknown or look at the roadmap only to see there’s no path marked, just thousands of routes with no direction on which turn to take.

But today, today is quiet. Today I can’t hide behind a “To Do” list or a mountain of work, because God has cleared my plate. Some of you may be thinking, “I’d give anything for a day like that.” Let me tell you, it’s harder than it sounds.

How do you stare a day in the face knowing that nothing you do will really matter? How do you look at an empty calendar and feel purpose? How do you encourage the man who you love that God has a plan when you don’t see it? How do you trust when looking back you see a lot of dead ends?

The only answer I can come up with today is this:

Trust is a conversation.

Trust is being willing to be open, vulnerable and honest. Trust is crying with Job and saying to God, “I don’t like what you are doing, but I will not deny you.”

You can’t be real with someone if you don’t trust them. You can’t pour out your heart—and your hurts—if you don’t believe in them. You can’t be vulnerable if you don’t feel safe.

So today I’m choosing to claim my conversations with God, dark as they may be, as a victory because they remind me that I trust Him.

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

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Sometimes there are days when all you want to do is get to the end of it. Now, I’m not talking about those ugly, no-good, terrible, very-bad days, but I’m talking about some of those regular, ho-hum days where you just can’t seem to get any traction.

I don’t know about you, but I am not a stranger to those days. They are sometimes frequent and always draining, when no amount of energy can be mustered to pull myself up by my bootstraps and put my nose to the grindstone.

No. Those days are days when, no matter how hard I try to ignore it, I’m confronted with the truth that I am human. I am imperfect and I need Jesus.

Those are the days when I want to crawl in bed and watch Netflix on my phone. That I want to go to bed at noon and try again tomorrow.

But you know what? Even on those days, Jesus loves me. And that’s what I have the hardest time remembering.

I am not what I do.
I am not what I accomplish.
I am not what I look like.
I am not how lazy I feel.
I am not disposable.

No. Even when I am at low points, I am loved.

I am loved because of Him.

He loved me first. Before I ever did anything of note. Before I ever tried to comb my hair or wipe the crumbs from my face.

I am loved because of Him. I needed that reminder today, and I thought you might need it, too. So here it is:

YOU ARE LOVED. Just as you are.

That, my friend, is good news. In fact, it’s such good news it’s hard to wrap your head around, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

You’re loved even if there are piles of dishes in your sink and dirty laundry littering your floor. You are loved if you don’t cross one thing off your to-do list.

You are loved. I forget this often, so I give you permission — actually I beg you — to keep reminding me.

I WAS WRONG

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Our little rascally dog Jude is going to be 13 years old next month. Jude is pretty happy sleeping on the couch for hours on end, but of course, like any other creature, he needs potty breaks.

One day, he and I were checking out a new route in our neighborhood when I heard what I thought was intense moaning. Looking around our tightly packed neighborhood, I noticed an elderly man lying in his carport.

“Oh no!” I thought. “He’s dying, or sick, or injured. What do I do?”

I of course frantically looked around hoping someone else had heard the noise and silently wished that this man hadn’t been left alone. Knowing I couldn’t just leave him there, I took a deep breath and called out to him.

“Hello? Are you ok? Do you need help?”

Instantly, and I mean with the speed of a bullet train, this guy shot up and just stared at me. It was obvious I had startled him and that he didn’t speak English. It was also obvious by the way he jumped up that he was in no way incapacitated.

“Oh my gosh,” I thought to myself, as my face grew warm with embarrassment. “He’s not in pain. He was chanting and meditating.”

Because it was something out of the ordinary for me, I assumed that something was wrong. But in my assumption, I was wrong.

There are people all around us living different lives — especially here in Hawaii, where cultures meld together in a way that you can’t understand unless you’ve lived here — and I think we can probably all learn from each other.

None of is Jesus. None of us sees and knows all. None of us is right all the time.

It’s amazing when you listen to that still, quiet voice of the Spirit how much you can learn about yourself — and how flawed you are.

So I’ve learned a few things from this little encounter:

1. If someone is chanting, it doesn’t mean that they are dying.
2. It’s ok to be different. Maybe, instead of letting our differences push us apart, they could bring us together. Jesus wasn’t a prostitute, but he hung out with them. He wasn’t a sinner, but he talked to people about their sin.
3. I need to do a better job of meeting people where they are at and getting to know them and what they think.
4. Don’t always assume what you think is happening, is in fact happening.

And one parting thought I can’t sign off without sharing:

If someone sounds like they are in trouble, by all means find out if they are. But then, don’t just shyly run away in embarrassment. Start a conversation if you can and see what you can learn.

NAMES & FACES

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I haven’t spent much of my life around people in the military. My dad served during Vietnam and both of my grandfathers served during World War II. But we didn’t talk about it too often. It was in the past. Maybe there were too many searing memories that seemed better left in the dark.

I’ve always respected people in the military, but I’m more of a put your gun down kinda gal in most situations. Then I moved to Oahu.

Here on the island we have bases for all the major branches of the military: Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Air Force and Marines.

The military is now in my backyard.

I know people who serve. I’ve high-fived their kids. I have shared meals with them, prayed with them, sang worship songs with them, laughed with them and lived life with them. I’ve heard the pain in their wives’ voices as their husbands leave for overseas.

So this morning, when I saw a news story about two Marine helicopters colliding on the North Shore, my heart sank. I know a helicopter pilot and his face immediately came to mind. He’s safe, but there are still 12 people missing.

Twelve people. Twelve people with families and friends.

Winter waves of 30 and 40 feet are making the search as hard as it could be. And so, even though I don’t know the people who are being tossed in that ocean right now, I feel for them in a new way.

I’ve seen the oil still bubbling up from the U.S.S. Arizona with my own eyes and tried to imagine what it felt like to have bombs rain down on December 11, 1941 as Pearl Harbor was attacked.

In all of it, I’m thankful. I’m thankful for their service, but more than that, I’m thankful for the people they are. I’m thankful I have the opportunity to know them, because now, the military isn’t just an idea to me. It’s real. The people fighting for our freedom are real. I know some of their names. I can picture their faces.

It has helped me understand in a fresh way why it’s so important to know people’s stories. What if instead of keeping the people we don’t understand at a distance we got to know them?

What if we heard laughed at their jokes, shared their grief and dared to love them for who they are, for who God created them to be?

Here’s where I’m making a jump. It’s a rather big one so stick with me.

What if, instead of crossing the street to avoid that homeless man, we smiled at him and shook his hand? What if we took the time to look in his eyes and hear his story? Wouldn’t that make our world a better place? Isn’t that what Jesus would want us to do?

Now please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not trying to compare military personnel directly to people who have been pushed to the margins (although there are far too many veterans who end up homeless). What I am saying is that names, faces and stories matter. They help us not only understand the world around us, but ourselves better.

Names and faces give us compassion, something our world is in desperate need of.