Rocking Chair Lessons

I sat there in the dark. The weight of her too-light body in my arms. and I ponder, I wonder, why it's taken me so long to get to this place, to this moment.

~~~~~

It started well. I gave them a bath, brushed the blonde wisps of hair, zipped the cupcake jammies and held them while they prayed. Laid them in their beds, found Snuffy and Dimples, covered up little girls with fuzzy blankets, turned off the lights and shut the door.

Not five minutes had passed before the first "Deedeeeeeeee. I have to go pottyyyyyyyyyy."

And because there's two of them, everything has to be done twice.

Two pairs of jammies unzipped.

Two diapers off.

Two girls wanting a new roll of "paper toilet."

Diapers back on.

Jammies zipped back up.

Blankets covering two girls up.

I sank back down into the red lazy boy downstairs when, moments later,

"Deedee. I hot and cold. Deedeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

Back up the stairs I went.

An hour later, we had solved these issues and more:

Dimples had "fallen" out of Ellie's crib
Two girls were thirsty and wanted water "right now" not in the morning
The hall light must be off, but the night light must be on
Hannah wanted to know what I had said to Ellie- "last time."
I must remember when Mommy gets home that both girls want "a big hug and a tiss"

It was almost 10 when I went up again. Standing there in front of Ellie’s crib, exhaustion and annoyance rose up within me.

But then,

“I give you second chances by the oceanful. Will you extend grace to her?”

So I put on the soft voice, pick her up, hold her tight and sink into the rocker in the corner. A few hymns later, I lay her drowsy body back into the bed and move on to the next little girl- who has been patiently waiting ever since I lifted Ell-Girl up.

I finish singing through Little Women, singing every quiet song whose words I can remember all of.

Then I sit, just dwelling in the quiet of the room. Wondering why I get exasperated so easily and why it can be so hard to love those closest to you.

Wondering how much soon I could have gone to bed if I had tried this grace an hour ago.

But I realize that it’s a lesson that must be learned and that I have the best Teacher possible.

And Hanni’s big blue orbs blink open, connect with mine, and close for the night.

Another Example of Working Prayer

Our leads for Wonka have been working hard. exceptionally hard. Final dress rehearsal went amazingly well. They sang. They danced. They improv-ed. especially Breilen. He belted so hard that Friday morning (Jan. 27) - opening night- he woke up with a sore throat.

The day went downhill from there.

When we arrived at HPA, his momma was pinning a sign on his shirt that read, "I'm on voice rest. Mum's the word from me!" As playful as this seems, Breilen was not smiling.

We didn't hear him speak until he sang the opening note of the show that night and as he worked his way through both acts- with the help of tea, raw honey and gargling salt water in the kitchenette- my heart hurt for this young man who had worked so hard, yet had to perform under circumstances that were beyond his ability. The moment the show was over, his parents swept him home to rest.

That night I prayed and went to bed. Around one I woke up. and no matter what, I couldn't go back to sleep. God brought Breilen to mind. So I spent about an hour praying for him.

We were up bright and early, at HPA by 9:30 to be ready for the two more shows that day. We poured out effert, prayed hard and cried. We -the crew- poured out ourselves to do anything -anything- we could to help this cast.

By the end of the day, I had talked to 5 other people who, from 1-2 that morning, had been awake and praying for Breilen.

That night I had chills.

It was amazing to me that I was able to be a part of something bigger, something stronger. Never before had I experienced being part of a group prayer... when the "group" wasn't together. Mrs. C told me that she had told Breilen that he was being bathed in prayer, but she hadn't known how much. Only God could unite our hearts to lift up our "Wonka" during a time when we all should have been asleep- but were petitioning on our knees instead.

(For those wondering, that Saturday's shows went better than could be expected. God came through, answering prayers, giving strength and voice. This weekend's show were amazing. A healed Breilen did wonders for this cast and no pain enabled Breilen to be Wonka- to be himself- and to be better then we ever could have prayed.)

Opening scene- a healed Breilen Wonka. All praise due to Jesus Christ.

"I have created Two Hundred Original and Sensational Candy Bars- Each with a Different center and each one sweeter and creamier than the last...."
Photo Copyright by our show photographer

Grace Camp (Part Two)

 {Part One posted here}

I open my Bible, eager for something that can be used to express what I feel right now.

The 63rd psalm.

God, You are my God...

I soak it up. I am a lion, hungry, starved for meat, for substance. I find what I am looking for and more.

God, You are so good.

Finally opening the devotional that has blessed me so much, I read. I write. I pause, reflecting on what I know to be true. I challenge myself, and then I pray.

God, Thank you so much for allowing me to have this time full of You today...

I glance at my phone to check the time. 6:53. I gather my things, blowing off sand and smoothening the pages. As I rise to begin the walk back, the rooster crows. A muted baaa rises from the sheep pen and I speeden my steps towards “home”.

Mama is up. She greets me as I place my things on the table and receive a frying pan full of stuff. good stuff.

She is off for the showers, off for a bit of hot water before the heaters run cold. I plug in the fry pan and pick up two eggs. They remind me of the plans I have made for myself, the plans that I scribbled into the margins of my lifebook,the one in God's hands. Smooth and white and firm, the eggs are still under my hands. I have control.

God has control.

I tap the eggs against the pan, urging them to let me coax out the good. They groan. I tap harder and have to hit them one last time before they give in. They crack. I open them, dropping the insides into the bowl and throwing away the shell.

Lord, you may crack me. I know that sometimes I protest, but I'm giving you back the pen. It hurts when you throw away the shell, the shell of my “perfect life...”

Trust Me, Daughter. I will give you joy.

I grab more eggs, emptying each in turn. 14 eggs. I beat them mercilessly before pouring in milk, cold and sweet. Like grace.

See, daughter? Even when life gets tough, I give grace.

I grind salt and pepper into my eggy mixture, the mixture that is giving me lessons in Him. I cut a pat of butter, and it turns to liquid gold under the heat of the pan. I hear the door open and a little arm clothed in brown flowered pajamas pushes it open enough to stick her face out. Dimples deep enough to hold the Pacific beam up at me and a small voice proclaims delightedly, "Hi Deedee!" the thought comes before I can stop it.

There goes my peace and quiet! I won't be alone for the rest of the day!

Then the Voice comes again.

Remember child, I give grace and strength. All you need to do is ask.

I swoop the girl up in my arms and she laughs. I give her a good morning hug before setting her down next to me and brushing back the sleeptangled hair.

“Me too, Deedee? Me eggs?”

I let her grind a bit more salt into the gloopy bowlful, and then I mix one more time before pouring them into the sizzling pan.

I stir, scraping the pan clean.

Ellie talks on and on, gleeful at her time alone with big sister.

The eggs are done.

I turn off the heat, cover them to keep them warm.

I lay out plates and Ellie puts a muffin on each one. A muffin loses a chocolate chip to a hungry two year old, but I pretend to be too busy pouring water to notice.

I see Mom on her way back and hear another voice by the door, “me too! Me help too!” and suddenly the campsite is full of noise and children.

I dish eggs. and grace.

“I want cheese!”

“Please pass the salt. I SAID, please pass the salt!”

A cup overturns, spilling its contents onto the table, the bowl of eggs and the bench.

Remember, daughter...

I remember, Lord. Joy and grace.

So I grab another bowl. And I serve up more eggs, with an extra helping of grace.

Grace Camp (Part One)

{This part one of a fictional story I wrote back in August. Fictional meaning it never happened, but I wrote it about my family and I. Part Two will be posted in the next week or two.}

It is silent. The morning light is just beginning to filter in around the closed shades. My phone jingles softly with the alarm that resembles the "Happy Day" song on Sesame Street. I start, quick to silence the sound that could potentially wake the family. I listen. Good. All remains still.

Pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt, I grab a small pile of things I had left out the night before.

Bible. Check.
Devotional. Check.
Notebook. Check.
Pen. Check.

I slip past the curtain that separates the bunk room from the rest of the camper. Slip past Ellie, twirling her hair as she sleeps. Slip past Hannah, who shifts slightly and my heartbeat races until she finds her paci and rolls over again.

Unnoticed.

I hold back a sigh of relief and write a note.

6:15. Going to the beach for bible study. Be back by 7. Lindsey

I slide open the lock. Hold the door open while I slide out trying not to bang it.

Closed.

Again, I listen. I can’t hear a sound. I smile.

Success.

Gravel crunches under my feet as I walk. I wave at the lady a few tents down, another lady who needs her time with Jesus before the busyness of the coming day. I stop in the bathrooms, splashing the cold water over my face and pulling back my hair. Already, someone is in the shower and I hear the water falling, raining down on a dirty body, raining down on a soul that needs cleansed.

Wash me today, Lord. Rain on me.

I continue on.

Past the quiet tents and campers. Past the animals beginning to stir in their pens. I reach it.

The beach.

I smile.

Joy is invading my soul.

I look around.

I am alone. Just me and Jesus.

I make my way to the cross, standing there on the sand, proclaiming to all that this, this is a place of rest. I sink down into the coolness of the ground. the breeze plays with my hair and I close my eyes. And breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe in the fresh lake air, the pine trees around the trail.

Breathe in the scent of coffee drifting from another early riser’s pot.

I breathe again. Peace.

Lord, fill me. I am ready. I am Yours.