Love

CONSIDER THE SQUIRRELS

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Photo by Jacob Amson on Unsplash

One of the first things we bought when we moved into our current house was a matching pair of padded chairs. We hadn’t been looking but stumbled upon them at Costco with the tell-tale “closeout” asterisks on the price tag and a price that was hard to beat. 

Erik called my brother-in-law, who had a truck, and later that afternoon, the chairs were dropped off at our new home. 

Without even unwrapping them I knew where they would go. We have a large bay window that desperately needed seats and this value-priced set was perfect. We threw away the boxes, screwed on the feet, and set them side by side in their new home with a small table settled in between. 

Very quickly, the chair on the left became my morning chair. Each morning, cup of jasmine tea in hand, I’d settle in with a blanket and stare out the window. More often than not, within ten minutes I’d be giggling. 

“You sitting in those chairs and giggling is one of my favorite things about this house,” Erik said.

What was I giggling at? 

Squirrels. 

The cluster of tall trees that the bay window looks out on is  home to at least one colony of squirrels. Most mornings, they scamper their way over the branches and down the trunks to our front yard patch of lawn. What they do then is rather extraordinary, and I can’t witness it without giggling. 

The squirrels play as if nothing else in the world matters. 

Sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, their furry grey bodies tumble in summersaults as they zoom from one tree to the other, one stick to the next, pausing only long enough to juggle a pinecone with their feet before scurrying on with their joy-filled movement. 

They have no worries. 

They have no worries. 
They aren’t trying to collect food for the day. 
They are simply being. Playing. Delighting at being alive. 

As I watch them, I think of the birds and the flowers Jesus describes in Matthew 6:25-28. 

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? 

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.” 

In those morning moments, it’s as if Jesus is saying, “Be like the squirrels, Jess. Live. Delight. Play. I’m taking care of everything else. Trust me. Just enjoy.” 

While I’m thankful for those moments, and the lightness those long-tailed rodents bring to my heart, I must admit I don’t carry that feeling far past my morning chair. 

All it takes is two steps into the rest of the day and I’m back to worrying, striving, trying to earn my right to live, breathe, and take up space in this world. 

But most mornings, the squirrels are there, reminding me that I have another day to try again. 

In the TV series Ted Lasso, Jason Sudeikis’ character, becomes known for telling the players on his team to be like a goldfish. Why? Because according to him, goldish have the shortest memory of any animal. They can’t remember what happened five minutes ago, and therefore they can’t be mad about it. They can’t seek revenge. All they can do is be fully in the moment, giving that brief time in history their all. 

There’s some good truth to that idea, but I think I’d rather be like a squirrel. I don’t know how long their memory is, but after watching them every morning for the last several years, they always make time to play. 

I think we could all stand to do that a little more, and I’m not the only one. David Bently Hart, in a recent essay in Plough Quarterly, titled “Running in Circles,” wraps up a compelling argument about the value of baseball by saying, “Only in play… can we really understand the true nature, the original peacefulness, and the final purpose of creation.”

We were created only to play? I don’t think so. But I do believe that play can unlock the true purpose of life, which, as the Westminster Shorter Catechism says, is “to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.” 

ON BEAUTY

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Photo by Habila Mazawaje on Unsplash

I just finished reading The Mockingbird: The Beauty Issue. (The Mockingbird is non-profit print magazine that Erik subscribes to that I have come to really appreciate.) As I flipped through the pages, a multitude of questions popped into my mind.

What is beauty, really?
What do I believe about it?
Who or what have I allowed to define it?
 
Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I fell into the trap of believing that what I looked like mattered as much as (or more than) anything else.
 
I thought that if I looked “right,” I would be admired. Respected. Loved.
 
The scary thing is that I simply accepted the standard of beauty set by magazines, advertisers, the fashion industry, and Hollywood.
 
I didn’t question it.
I didn’t consider they could be wrong.
I assumed that to be beautiful, I had to conform.
 
So for years I tried, which left me depressed, struggling with my body image, and never feeling good or beautiful enough. But as I read through The Beauty Issue, I began to question my old thoughts.
 
Who is it that says a flat stomach is more beautiful than a round one?
Who says that thin and tall is more beautiful than short and stout?
Who says that long, highlighted hair is prettier than a bald head?
Who says that grey is the best color for my living room walls?
 
More important than “Who says it?” is “Why the heck have I believed them?”
 
Like a flash of lighting, I realized I don’t have to believe it anymore! And then, Romans 12:2 popped into my mind.
 
“Do not conform to the pattern of this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
 
I’ve spent a whole lot of my years trying to conform to the world’s standard of beauty, and by doing that I’ve actually been a part of the problem.
 
By complimenting people when they lose weight, I’m saying that skinny is beautiful.
By admiring someone’s smooth skin, I’m saying that wrinkles should be erased.
By telling someone how great they look after having Lasik, I’m saying that people who need glasses aren’t as attractive.
 
All this really hit home for me the other day. I was in the car, listening to the radio and a catchy song came on. I started to automatically sing along.
 
I knew all the words.
Verses.
Bridge.
Chorus.
 
But I hadn’t ever stopped to think about what the song was saying on a deeper level. As I listened, I realized the song was all about women dancing for the admiration of men.
 
WHAT?
 
I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve sung along with it for years without ever questioning the lyrics meaning. I’ve bobbed my head to it and tapped my feet. It’s got a good beat. But now I’m realizing that’s not enough.
 
Disgusted with what the singer was saying, I changed the station. But as I scrolled, I discovered most of the hit songs were about lust, sex, and physical beauty. Sometimes it was veiled, but it was always there.
 
So I turned off the radio. I decided that by listening to it and singing along, I was celebrating the lie that what we look like (and who we attract) matters more than anything else.
 
Ok, back to Romans 12:2.
 
I’ve spent too long conforming to this world.
I’ve spent too long letting society tell me who I should be and what I should look like.
I’ve spent too long believing that beauty is finite, when really, it’s infinite.
 
Even though I’ve spent years hearing about the impossible beauty standards our world sets, it’s taken me until middle age to realize that I’ve been part of the problem. By trying to match the world’s standard of beauty, or following trends, or whatever you want to call it, I have actually fostered it.
 
By trying to conform to it, I’ve said that it’s ok. That it’s right.
 
I don’t want to live that way anymore.
I don’t want to let the world tell me who I should be or how I should look.
I don’t want to keep nurturing a false ideal of beauty.
 
Instead, I want to celebrate the things that God says are beautiful. That type of beauty is nothing like what you’ll see on Instagram or TikTok. It won’t be on the cover of People magazine.
 
It’s too vast.
Too infinite.
Too  varied.
Too real.
 
True beauty includes bruises and blood.
Tears and sweat.
Broad smiles and chipped teeth.
 
Most importantly, it goes beyond what you see.
 
Rewriting my definition of beauty isn’t easy. I can already see that I have a long way to go. But I’m grateful that it’s starting and I’m grateful that The Mockingbird spent the time and money to put out a magazine that’s helping rebellion bloom in my heart.
 
I have a choice.
I get to choose to turn off the radio.
I get to choose to put down the magazines.
I get to choose to stop scrutinizing myself in the mirror.
 
You have a choice, too.
 
I know I’m not the first to recognize this problem. Just last month, I went to see the musical Hairspray  with some friends. It’s based on a 1988 film, and the storyline proves that people have been talking about (and wrestling with) false beauty standards for decades.  My prayer is that those conversations not only continue, but that someday the voices proclaiming real beauty — and all its many definitions — will be the loudest.
 
Following a standard of beauty is just another way of trying to people please, which dims your true beauty.
 
The beauty that God gave you.
The beauty that reflects His creativity and love.
The beauty that He delights in.
 
People will try to take that beauty away from you. They’ll tell you that you should change. Don’t listen. Even if the voice you’re hearing is your own.

BLACKBERRY SEASON

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Yesterday, I did what I’ve done since I was a little girl. I opened the cupboard, pulled out a Tupperware container, slipped on my shoes and went to pick blackberries. And for the briefest moment, I was child again.
 
It was a sunny afternoon, and I might as well have had braided pigtails and jelly sandals on, for how my body remembered to squat low and look under leaves for the juiciest berries. I’ve picked blackberries from random roadsides since I could walk. They are one of the joys of summer in the Northwest, and something that I deeply missed when we lived in Hawaii.
 
Sure, we could get blackberries, but they were usually at least $8 a container and would mold practically overnight. Plus, they just never tasted as good as the roadside berries I was used to. The ones that were warm from the sun and practically melted on my tongue.  
 
Our first summer back, I delighted in picking multiple containers of them, not sure what I’d use them for, but amazed at the bounty. Since then, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the magic of blackberry season, which starts well before the first berry can be plucked.
 
In fall and winter, the vines die back, then in the early spring the begin to climb and stretch. Early summer brings white blossoms, which gradually transform into green berries. Those green berries slowly redden and then turn to a purple so deep that it appears black.
 
Our daily walking route passes multiple berry patches, so Erik and I have been watching and waiting for them to be ready for weeks. The first few we tasted in late July made us pucker. But now, now they are perfect. And that brings me back to yesterday.
 
As I dropped berry after berry into my container and watched it fill, I was struck by two things.
 
First, the resilience of these berry plants. They are cut back, stomped on, sprayed with chemicals, and still find a way to thrive. (I do know that most of them are Himalayans, an invasive variety, but I’m not going to get into that today.)
 
What might I learn from watching these berries persist year after year, producing fruit because it’s what they were created to do? They don’t care that they are sometimes unwanted. They don’t care that they are scorned. They just go on doing what they were created to do – producing the fruit they were meant to produce.
 
The second thing these berries are teaching me is to be awed by the beauty — and bounty — of God’s provision.
 
No person works to produce these fruits, and we don’t do anything to deserve them. Yet, they are there, vines heavy with berries. The abundance is so astonishing that even after my container is full, I struggle to turn away. There are still so many good ones. So much deliciousness just waiting to be enjoyed.
 
As I slip a warm sun-warmed berry between my lips, I think back to my childhood and the countless number of buckets, jars, and containers my family and I have collected over the years. Back then, the picking was unhurried, but as soon as we got home, the action would start. Immediately, my mom would start washing the berries and then begin to transform them into  jam, fruit leather, and cobbler. Entire gallons would be tucked into the chest freezer in the garage to be made into pie, more jam, or muffins throughout the year ahead so that we would get to taste summer’s sweetness on the coldest of winter days.
 
Where I live now, there are blackberries everywhere, just like there were in the neighborhood I grew up in.
 
They are abundant and endless.
Resilient and determined.
Just like God’s love.

GRANDMA’S HOMEGOING

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Fourteen years ago, last Sunday, my grandma died.
 
I have the date on my calendar – along with the dates of several other loved ones who have passed away – so that I take some time to remember them each year, on that day.
 
Usually my remembrance feels solemn, and part of me always thought that was a good thing. After all, death is serious business. It’s sorrowful and grief-worthy because it’s not how things were created to be.
 
Every time someone or something we love dies we feel it from our toes to our souls because every part of us knows it’s wrong. Death is a part of this broken world. It’s a reminder that all things haven’t been made right, yet.
 
So, on Sunday, when my phone popped up, “Anniversary of Grandma Millie’s passing,” I took a deep breath, bracing for the wave of sadness to hit. But this time, it didn’t. Instead, I smiled.
 
This year, my heart didn’t see the anniversary as the day my grandma left the earth, but as the day she finally went home to Jesus.  In my mind I started calling it her “Going home birthday,” even rushing to my office before church to scribble the words down on a piece of scrap paper. I didn’t want to forget how I felt in the moment. How this tickle of joy in the back of my eyes made my lips curve into a smile.
 
Those of us still on earth mourn, and rightfully so, when someone we love passes away. But as I think about my grandma on that day 14 years ago, I know she wasn’t sad to leave. In fact, she spent the better part of the last 10 years of her life telling God to hurry up and come get her already.
 
“I don’t know what’s taking Him so long,” she’d say at family gatherings. “I don’t know why I’m still here.”
 
Occasionally, she’d also add, “I just want to be with Ralphie.”
 
Ralph, or Ralphie, as my grandma called him, was her husband. He passed away decades earlier, when I was just 10 years old.
 
Grandma missed him every day after, but instead of his death making her faith shaky, it seemed to make it stronger, at least in my childhood eyes. She went to church weekly, and her Bible, nestled into it blue embroidered cover, was never too far away. When she moved from California up to Washington, it was always on the coffee table in front of the blue and white striped couch in her combination sewing/guest room. The couch was a pull-out, and I slept on it several times, always careful to move the table (and Bible) aside before attempting to unearth the iron legs from underneath the cushions.
 
I don’t remember if she told me, or if I just assumed, that she sat on the couch every morning, doing her quiet time, talking to God. We found several journals of her prayers after she passed away.
 
So grandma, she wasn’t scared of death. On the contrary, she was ready for it long before she tasted it.
 
Several years before she passed, she unknowingly had an infection which had weakened her body. She fell getting out of bed early in the morning, and my mom found her a few hours later, when she had stopped in for a visit. Grandma was unconscious and my mom did the only thing she could think of. She called 9-1-1. The ambulance came and the paramedics revived grandma before loading her in the back and taking her to the hospital.
 
My mom was relieved. It looked like grandma was going to be ok!
 
Grandma, on the other hand, was furious.
 
“Why didn’t you let me go?” she grumbled to my mother. “I was almost there.”
 
According to my mom, she stayed mad about it for months, maybe longer.
 
Grandma knew where she was going and nothing was going to stop her from getting there as soon as she could. Except God’s timing, and He had several more years before He finally took her home.
 
When I got the call, 14 years ago, that she was gone, I wept. She was 90, but it was still not what I expected that July day. And it’s taken me this long to turn the corner from honoring the day she died to wanting to celebrate.
 
My grandma is where she always wanted to be.
 
She’s home.
She’s with Jesus.
She’s not in pain.
She’s not lonely.
She isn’t wondering what her purpose is.
 
She knows.
 
As I think about her homegoing now, I’m confident she wasn’t the only one rejoicing. She had something like 9 or 10 brothers and sisters, all of whom passed on before her. Her parents, her own grandparents, and of course, my grandpa, had all left this earth decades earlier. It’s fun to imagine them welcoming her home with hugs, kisses, and embraces that never have to end. But I think their celebration was nothing compared to the celebration of the angels and God, knowing that their beloved Millie was finally home with them and would be for all eternity.
 
Psalm 116:15 says, “Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his faithful servants,” and from what I saw, my grandmother was a faithful servant.

EXPECTATIONS

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I don’t know about you, but I’ve been told several times in my life to lower my expectations. 

I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was out of college, so everyone told me my expectations were too high. 

When I said I hoped my literature major would allow me to write for a living, people shook their heads and said, “You’ll end up a teacher.” 

The message was clear: don’t expect too much — or too many good things — otherwise you’ll be disappointed. I totally get it. People close to me have seen my tender heart and wanted to protect it. They’ve wanted to spare me from pain. 

In response, I’ve tried to tamper my expectations for years. But if I’m honest, it hasn’t served me very well. Instead of fully embracing the delight of a long-planned gathering with friends, I tell myself not to expect it to be too good or I’ll be disappointed. When I go to a new doctor, I tell myself if I plan for the worst — another “Well that is weird” statement when I list my symptoms — then I won’t be disappointed when someone fails to give me a solid diagnosis yet again. 

But the self-talk and emotional preparations rarely do what I hope they will. Because we can’t really protect ourselves from disappointment. 

It just happens. 

It’s part of life. 

But today, as I was reading a section of God’s Joyful Surprise, by Sue Monk Kidd, I realized that I’ve been thinking of expectations all wrong. Maybe you have, too.

In the book, Kidd talks about expecting to hear God’s voice. Expecting to see His love. Expecting to see Him work in our lives. Every single day. 

If God is who He says He is — and the Bible offers a myriad of evidence that He indeed is  — I don’t think we need to lower our expectations. I think we need to expand them. 

We need to expect God to show us His love. 

We need to expect Him to work good out of even the hardest situation. 

We need to expect miracles. 

We need to expect Him to direct our paths through the nudging of the Spirit. 

We need to expect to see Him, and then, I think we will…more than we could ever expect. 

THE SUDS OF GRACE

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Our kitchen sink has a built-in soap dispenser. While I’m sure you could fill it with hand soap, we use dish soap. That way we have easy access for all the things we handwash, like sharp knives, pots, pans, and our favorite mugs. 

The dispenser works great, except when it comes time to refill it, which I did today. I often ask Erik to do this little task — having studied biology and chemistry in college, he knows how to pour slowly, with steady hands. But he was busy and I figured if I was careful, I’d be fine. 

Within seconds of starting to squeeze the soap out of the bottle and into the dispenser I decided it was taking too long. So, to speed things along I unscrewed the flip-top cap and set it aside. Now we were talking! Soap steadily streamed from the bottle into the neck of the dispenser. Not one drip escaped. Feeling smug, I tipped the bottle a little more, ignoring the fact that because the sink was solid chrome, I couldn’t see how full the reservoir was getting. 

Convincing myself that there would be some sort of miraculous sign from heaven when it was time for me to stop pouring, I gently squeezed the side of the bottle and kept watching. 

But there was no sign. 
Not even a tiny bubble telling me the dispenser was almost full.
Then it was too late. 

The blue soap started oozing over the neck of the dispenser and within seconds had puddled on the top of the sink and started running down the sides. 

Dang it. And here I thought I was doing such a great job. Oh well, it’s just dish soap. It should be easy to clean up, right? 

Do you see where this is going? 

Water + liquid soap = suds. And because we buy the concentrated soap, a little goes a long way. Within a few seconds of turning on the faucet, my soap volcano erupted into a mass of suds. The more I rinsed, the more it grew. 

Looking down at the mountain of tiny bubbles, I was transported back to middle school on a night when it was my turn to do the dishes. I was alone in the kitchen. My parents had gone out for a few hours. My older sister was probably watching TV or hiding in her room. 

As I slid the last plate the dishwasher, I thought of a commercial I’d seen recently. It was for a brand-new (at the time) product: gel dishwasher detergent. The commercial made this new innovation seem cleaner and simpler to use than the powdered stuff in the green box my family always bought. So, thinking I was being clever, I reached under the kitchen sink, grabbed the liquid dish soap, filled the triangle dispenser, closed the door, hit start, and left the kitchen. 

About five minutes later I wanted something to drink, so went back in and found a river of tiny bubbles pouring out of the dishwasher. I hollered for my sister, who came in and said something equivalent to, “You’re gonna be in big trouble.” 
I grabbed the nearest dish towel and started to frantically wipe at the explosion of bubbles escaping through the sides of the dishwasher door. It was no use. A waterfall of suds kept pouring out. 

My pulse pounded in my ears. 
What had I done? 
Could I get it cleaned up in time?

Nope. Mid-clean up, my parents came back home. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said and explained that I thought I could use liquid soap in the dishwasher because of the commercials.
My mom grabbed some rags and larger towels, got onto her knees, and started mopping up the mess. She was silent as she cleaned. My heart pounded as I braced for my punishment.

Then my mom spoke. 

“This is a lesson everyone has to learn once. Now you know and you won’t make the same mistake again.” 

Today, as I looked at the mound of suds in my sink, I smiled remembering the sweet relief I felt in that moment. Even though it was totally my fault, even though I had deviated from what I’d been taught, and even though I had made a huge mess, my mom didn’t scold me, yell at me, or punish me.

Instead, she got on her knees and cleaned up my mess. 

I haven’t thought about that day for years. But today, the suds lining the bottom of my sink led me right back to that moment. I think this is the first time I’m seeing my mom’s response for what it really was. 

A lesson in the grace of God.

When we’ve made a mistake, He doesn’t yell at us and storm away. 
He doesn’t dole out a list of punishments — even if we deserve them. 
He doesn’t abandon us to our consequences. 

Instead, He gets on His knees and cleans up our mess. 

That is grace. 
That is love. 
That is Jesus. 

MY LIFE IN ORCHIDS

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There are three orchids sitting on the windowsill in my office. Each one was a gift. 

One given as a housewarming welcome. 

One given as an encouragement for surgery. 

One given by a friend moving away who wanted her plant to continue to live. 

Right now, all three are blooming. Bursting forth in various shades of dark violet, magenta, and white. Their flowers a splash of hope against the rain that’s falling from a grey sky outside. 

But as I look at those orchids I see more than flowers, or even hope. I see my life. 

I went to Hawaii for the first time when I was in middle school. The warm air, balmy breezes, swaying palm trees and turquoise waters captured my soul. Orchid leis were everywhere; their monkey-face flowers strung through to make necklaces. I don’t remember if I got one on that trip or if it was years later when one was lifted over my head, given with a kiss on the cheek. 

For years we returned and the orchids were always there to greet us, no matter what island we landed on. 

The ocean called to me more than the vibrant blossoms, but they were always a part of the experience. A part of all the trips I took to the place I loved. 

The day of my college graduation, my dad surprised me with an orchid lei. Its flowers were the same bright magenta that now adorns my windowsill. Leis are a big deal in Hawaii. They mark special occasions. Moments of note. Celebrations to remember. And even though we weren’t Hawaiian, or anywhere near Hawaii, my dad wanted me to have a touch of the place we all loved, a reminder of all the beauty and color that exists in the world. 

Fast forward a few years and I’m in my mid-twenties, walking home from the bus stop on a drizzly Seattle day. Just as I get to the hill, I look up and see Erik walking towards me. In his hands he held two things. A bottle of 7-up and a bouquet of orchids. 

“You always feel queasy when it’s a rainy day and you can’t see out the bus window,” he said, handing me the soda. 

How did he know that? I hadn’t even realized it. We hadn’t even been dating that long! 

Next, he handed me the orchids. 

“These are for you,” he said. 

As I remember it, there was no reason. No anniversary or birthday to celebrate. Those “just because” orchids were the first flowers he ever gave me. Even though we hadn’t said  “I love you,” yet, they made me feel special and, well, loved. 

A little less than a year later, “I love yous” already said countless times, I got on a plane to Maui with my parents and sister, but without him. We scheduled a phone date for the same time every day, and each day I pestered him with the same question, “Are you coming?” 

His response was always Socratic: “Did you buy me a plane ticket?” “Did you want me to come?” “Did you talk to my boss and get the time off for me?”

Little did I know that he and my parents had planned to surprise me so he could propose on the beach. A few days later, he arrived, fresh off the plane. Shocked and delighted to see him, it took me a while to understand his mission for being there. Finally, he talked me into going for a walk on the beach, where he proposed. 

I didn’t say yes once. I said yes three, maybe four times. 

Overjoyed, we celebrated at a nearby restaurant – the Sea House – each plate and cocktail glass garnished with, you guessed it, orchids. 

When I designed our wedding invitations, I made sure there were orchids on them. After all, they were part of our story, even if only a small part. The bouquet I carried down the isle also had orchids. Orchids that Erik scoured the Seattle-area for after our original order was lost. 

At the time, neither of us knew that years later, we’d move to Oahu and be greeted by people who would become some of our best friends with more orchid leis. 

Birthdays. Anniversaries. Special occasions, the orchids would show up. We’d find wild ones on hikes and nearly every grocery store sold different versions of the potted flowers. I tried growing them several of the places we lived. Orchids are supposed to thrive in Hawaii, right? Mine always died. But even though I wasn’t growing them myself, orchids were a part of our life in Hawaii. 

Then we moved back to Washington and in with my parents. Somehow my mom has mastered the art of growing orchids and almost always seemed to have some in bloom. Yellow. White. Purple. We had left Hawaii, but the orchids still surrounded me, surrounded us. 

The day we moved into the house we live in now, some friends brought over the first orchid I mentioned. The housewarming one. How fitting, I thought, but was leery that I wouldn’t be able to keep it alive. Over three year later, it’s still happily growing alongside the other two. 

All three have been blooming for months. And that’s the thing about orchids. When still connected to the stem, each flower can last for weeks, if not months. Their blooms on display far longer than any other flower I know of. 

I don’t know how these three plants are thriving in my office in Washington, far from their native lands, but I’m glad they are. I’m thankful for their blessing that reminds me that you never know what will be around the corner. But God-willing, there will always be beauty … and maybe an orchid…to remind you that life is good, beauty is worth celebrating, and things can thrive in unexpected places. 

LOVE AND A LAPTOP

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Erik bought me a new laptop. It’s still in the box, sitting on top of the armoire in my office. 

I haven’t even taken it out of the cardboard yet.

Part of that is practical. Erik will help me set it up and he’s been busy with work all week. I’m telling myself I want to keep it pristine until I actually start using it. But that’s not the whole story. 

Hiding behind that practicality is the fact that I don’t think I deserve a new computer. If I keep it in the box, I don’t have to face some of the realities of life right now. One of the biggest ones is the loss of my job. 

I loved the writing job I had, but it ended a little over six months ago. My computer has been a reminder of the 15 years I did that work, and now, the new laptop is sitting here, ready to be opened, reminding me that the season is over. 

I want to open it. 

I want to use it. 

I want this computer to mark a new season of my life. 

But I don’t know what that will look like yet, and because I don’t know, I don’t feel ready to step into it. Especially because right now, I can’t “pay back” the cost of the laptop with my next paycheck because I don’t know when my next paycheck will come. 

Never mind the money was already in the account. 

Never mind that I’m the one who earned it at my last job. 

Never mind that my current laptop is six years old — ancient in technology terms. 

I still feel the pressure to make the cost worthwhile. To somehow prove that I’m worth it. 

And that gets to the heart of it, doesn’t it? The reality is, I’m afraid I’m not worth it. Not only of the new laptop, but of the love Erik has for me. So I keep trying to do things that prove my worth. 

See? I can earn the money back. 

See? I can grow a garden so we have food. 

See? I can cook a good meal.

See? You made a good choice marrying me. 

It’s not that I don’t like gifts. I do. But I accept them much more easily when they are small and don’t cost too much. 

A surprise matcha late? Sure!

Extra vegetable seedings? Absolutely! 

Clothes you don’t want anymore? Yes, please! 

But a laptop? That wasn’t cheap. That was a sacrifice. I’m not sure I’m worth it. 

As I thought about it, I began to wonder, how often do I say the same thing to God? 

How often do I try to pay back the gift of salvation? 

How often do I attempt to earn the love I’m already given? 

Why do I feel like when I’m given a gift I need to figure out a payment plan? 

I think it comes down to a quote from the late author and spiritual director, Judy Cannato, that I’ve been pondering for weeks. Here it is:

“Everywhere the Holy One is shouting and whispering, ‘Let me love you.’ And all that is asked of us is to receive. In reality, that is our life’s work. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

I could have easily missed those four sentences. They were in a forward from my uncle, sandwiched between morning spam emails all wanting something from me. 

Money. 

Time. 

Attention. 

But my uncle’s email didn’t want anything from me — it was offering me something. So, I read it. Then I read it again. And again. Now, this idea of simply accepting love has lodged itself in my brain, like a worm in an apple. I can’t get it out, and even if I do, there will be a trail left that can never be erased. 

I have spent so much of my life trying to be worthy of the gifts other people give me. Of their time. Attention. Love. 

But what if, instead of trying to make myself worthy, I let myself be loved? What if I open the new laptop, ask Erik to set it up, and focus on being grateful that God loves me enough to have given me a man who encourages me at every turn? 

Oh what grace! Make no mistake, it is grace. I’ve attended churches that have talked about grace my entire life, but it’s still a struggle for me. Not only when it comes to things like laptops, but ultimately, to the love of God. 

Just like letting yourself be loved, at its core, grace sounds simple. The most common definition I’ve heard is that grace is unmerited favor. It’s goodness and generosity given to you even though you didn’t “earn” it and can’t pay it back, and that gets to the heart of it. Erik doesn’t expect me to pay back the cost of my new computer. He’d laugh at me if I even tried. He knows that it will be a blessing for me and he wants me to have it. He wants me to delight in it. He knows it’s a tool that will help me to do whatever job I get next. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

The grace of God isn’t something He expects us to pay back. There’s no way we ever can. He knows that, but He gives it to us anyway. In His mercy, kindness, and love He wants to bless us. He delights in it. And He wants to equip us to do the work He is calling us to do. 

 But how often do I — do you — leave the grace of God in a box on the shelf thinking that if I work hard enough, then I can enjoy it? 

What would it look like to live in the fullness of the gifts I’ve already received? 

To live in the love that has already been poured out? 

To live as a chosen, ransomed daughter of the God of the universe?

To live in freedom from the chains of death?  

To live fully forgiven, fully loved, fully redeemed? 

Maybe this new laptop is just the start. Not of a new “work” life, but of my life’s work. Letting myself be loved. 

If Judy Cannato was right, and I think she was, it’s your work, too. 

REFUGE

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

There are a few sections of our yard that are overgrown. As weird as that may sound, it’s intentional. We want to have pockets that are all natural, even if that means they look a little crazy. Those natural patches provide a refuge for the things we want to welcome into our yard. 

Birds. 

Frogs. 

Pollinators. 

Squirrels. 

The occasional rabbit. 

We love all these little guys. Seeing them each day makes us smile, and so, because we want them to visit us — and feel safe enough even make their home here — we leave a few sections wild and untouched. 

But a few weeks ago, we had an unexpected visitor. 

A disheveled, long-haired, Siamese (or at least part Siamese) cat. 

We recognized it as the neighbors’, who live kitty corner. They have two cats and both have visited our yard on occasion. While we have nothing against cats, we tend to shoe them away, hollering things like. . .

“Go home.”

“You don’t live here.”

“Leave the birds and the squirrels alone.”

“This isn’t your yard.”

It often works. At least for the other cat. But this one, this one just stares back at us and lays his head back down and closes his blue eyes. We can walk all the way up to it and it doesn’t flinch. 

I admit, at first, I was annoyed. After all, he had decided to make my flower bed into his preferred nap spot.  He didn’t care that he was crushing the irises I planted from blub last fall. Didn’t care that he was knocking the blooms over, destroying the beauty I had tried to manicure. 

A few days went by and Mr. Cat kept coming back to the same spot. He’d be there when we went to bed and sometimes when we woke up. That’s when we got worried. Maybe he was sick. 

Erik walked over to the neighbors and asked them about it. They said he does his own thing and for a while slept in our other neighbor’s shed. Huh. Ok. But then we told them that he’s been letting us get close and pet him and they got worried. That’s not like him. He usually runs away from people. 

Uh oh. 

So they came and gingerly scooped the cat out of a shady spot on our lawn and took him to the vet for a check-up. Apparently he was fine, because the next day, the cat was back. 

It’s been weeks now and nearly every day, we find Mr. Cat snoozing somewhere in our yard. Usually, he’s curled up somewhere against the side of the house. Yesterday, he was tucked between branches under a bush. 

Now, I don’t look for the cat to shoe it away. I look for the cat to see where he is. I’ve realized that for him, our yard is a safe and quiet space. A place he can rest. A refuge. And as much as I wasn’t thrilled about it at first, as I’ve thought more about it, I’ve been able to recognize we all need that. 

We all need a safe, quiet space to curl up in. 

We need a place where we can let go. 

A place that doesn’t demand anything from us. 

For Mr. Cat, that’s our yard. 

For a lot of people, that’s the church. Or at least it should be. 

The church should be a place that makes space for anyone and everyone. Even if they look a little rough around the edges. Even if you wouldn’t pick them to be your best friend. Even if they sometimes drive you a little crazy. Even if you think they’re freaks.

It makes me sad to think about how many people don’t feel welcome in the church. They think they have to look a certain way, act a certain way, wear certain clothes. On one hand, I get it. Church is often a place where we bring our best selves because it’s a small way that we can honor God. 

But on the other hand, I don’t think that God really cares that much what we’re wearing or what we look like. I think he’s just glad we’ve taken the risk to step into new terriority. And I think He wants us to find safety, refuge, and love there. 

The only way that happens is if we stop chasing away the people we don’t want and make room for everyone. 

Even the ones that don’t look like us. 

Even the ones who say the wrong the at the wrong time. 

Even the ones who haven’t showered in a week. 

Even the ones who think differently than we do. 

What would happen if instead of trying to protect their own space, Christian churches threw their doors wide open and welcomed anyone – and everyone – who needed refuge. 

What if we greeted them warmly?

What if we got them a cup of coffee? 

What if we made them feel safe and welcome? 

What if they curled up and decided to stay? 

I think that’s the life – and the gospel – that Jesus invites His followers to live out. He knows it’s not easy. He knows we are all about self-protection. He knows we want to keep things neat, tidy, and pretty. But He also knows that if we look carefully enough, we’ll see ourselves in every person we encounter. Because no matter how we look, at our core, all of us, are  the “least of these.” 

Is it easy? No. 

Is it worth it? You tell me. 

SUMMER IS COMING

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

Monday the rain was back. Yes, it’s only May. Yes, summer isn’t officially here yet, but we all know I’m impatient and my impatience has grown over the last several weeks. Why? Teaser days. 

You know what I’m talking about, right?

Those days in spring when the sky is bright blue, the sun is out, and it stretches into the upper 70s. Those are the teaser days and we’ve had a few of them in this last month. But today, as I zipped up a winter coat to brave the 40-something morning air for a walk, I had to face the facts. No matter how much I want it to be, It’s just not quite time for my Birkenstock sandals yet. I wore them this weekend, and it was wonderful. My toes happily stretched, feeling the fresh air and sunbeams as I walked though a patch of grass.  

At the time, I was grateful for the summer-like weather. I still am. But I’ll also admit, at the time, all I wanted was more. 

I wanted the days of 70+ weather to arrive and settle in. 

I wanted to pack away my sweaters, vests, and coats. 

I wanted to be done with winter. 

But yesterday, as drizzle continued to fall and I was forced to zip up before stepping outside, God whispered to me. 

“Those days were just a taste, Jess. It’s coming. But it’s not here yet.” 

That’s when I realized that in many ways, every day of this life is a taste of what’s to come. 

A taste of heaven. 

Of eternity. 

Of the goodness and beauty of God.

Of things yet to come.

Is it a perfect analogy? No, but God still used it to remind me that when I feel trapped in the slog of winter, summer – His summer, the summer He bled and died for – is coming. 

He sends us glimpses of it. Tastes of it. Teaser days, if you will, to give us glimpses of the day when things will be reconciled and fully redeemed in Christ. 

We’re not there yet. But He promises it’s coming. And those sunbeams breaking through the clouds remind me of that. 

May they remind you, too.