Kyrie

I have a favorite Kyrie.  (Marty Haugen's "Now the Feast and Celebration")  The melody is delicious.  My four year old sings it at home.

"In peace, in peace, let us pray to the Lord . . ."

For me, peace is not quiet stillness, but a deep contentment -- which I guess can feel like a quiet stillness in the soul . . . a joyful, spinning, content, quiet stillness.  Maybe like an Irish Jig danced with a coy smile.

"For the reign of God and for peace throughout the world, for the unity of all, let us pray to the Lord . . ."

Picture it:  God as our King.  And all of us holding hands, dancing that Irish Jig around him in a circle.  We can't stop dancing because our hearts won't stop bursting and our feet won't stop rejoicing.

"For your people here who have come to give you praise, for the strength to live your word, let us pray to the Lord . . ."

What a beautiful image to Live God's Word -- not only our hearts living God's word, but our hands and feet . . . our eyes and mouths . . . our to-do lists and crappy days and sore muscles and endless sea of toys that never seem to stay in the toy basket . . .

"Help, save and defend us, O God . . ."

Teach us to dance.

Amen.

Greeting

It's been nearly a year since I've visited this site with words.

Greetings.

Today my four-and-a-half year old danced on a white couch in green underwear, ate the frosting off a cupcake, begged for music classes, and set off for preschool.

My nearly-two-year-old calmly drove a tractor through a placemat field and into a race car garage on the kitchen table. He eagerly copied his brother in dance, in dress, and in words.

My tiny baby girl kicks and rolls around . . . waiting for her big debut in a few weeks -- not having any idea how many lives she will suddenly change.

My husband reads The Happy Bee and I'm Your Bus over and over again. It's hard to resist an almost-two-year-old saying, "happy bee, happy bee, happy bee".

I am pulling out my blog -- to see what's what and to maybe begin a renewed interest in writing on it again.

We'll see what happens in a couple weeks when my world is rocked by a new family addition. The blog may go into hiding again.

But for today: Sunday school and Bible study and thank you notes and an outside walk and maybe even time to work on my new one's room.

And so I say, "Peace be with you."

And may you answer, "And also with you."

Gathering Song

Today I come . . .

thinking about a roomful of high school kids who sort-of want to study the book of Revelation, but at the same time really want to text their friends;

smiling because my newly-turned-one-year-old gives himself rounds of applause and laughs so hard he can hardly catch his breath;

kicking myself for not getting his flu shot in time;

noticing the preschool classes are only 1/2 full because so many people are sick or avoiding sickness;

dreading going through all my emails and attending to all those who need my attention;

surrounded by piles that seem to loose importance once they're moved into this back room;

missing some things . . . bored of other things . . . thinking of far away friends . . . needing to sit down and pay bills;

I come . . . with a full plate and empty hands.

And this is our gathering song. Our thoughts and dreams harvested, bundled and set aside for a moment.

Our full plate removed so our empty hands can be lifted. Lifted in praise . . . in supplication . . . in a moment of receiving.

Perhaps the harvest will change during our time together. Perhaps my thoughts will change or shift or a new perspective will dawn.

Time to sing.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness can be hard to accept when you know the things you confessed may not change right away . . . if ever.

If they won't be changed, is that true confession?

Or do we still confess because the act of confession is an act of trust. An act of surrender. An act of freedom.

And through our questions . . . our doubts . . . our shrug of the shoulders . . . there is Jesus

arms outstretched . .

gentle, knowing smile . . .

words of forgiveness . . .

and a bath of newness.

Forgiveness . . . running free.

Confession

Confessing is a humbling act. One I'm not too excited to proceed with in an online blog.

But it's also an act of trust, surrender, and freedom.

So here goes.

I'm a very guarded person and keep my true thoughts and feelings locked tight. I can't really figure out why. It just is. A lot of times I feel like a ship passing through the night. I like to pull my binoculars out and watch the passing boats. I'll even bump up next to a ship and ask lots of questions. But my hull is pretty thick.

The exception to this rule is my transparent vulnerability on paper or through keystroke. It's when I'm alone with my thoughts with time to ponder, re-write, and choose the perfect words, I am most myself. I will let others take a peek inside. I can be honest and bare.

The other exception is Ryan. He's got his hands full of my real-ness and does not lack any vulnerability on my part. In response I receive many eye rolls -- I'm pretty dramatic -- and lots of tender smiles. And that's just what I need.

I don't like other people to see me cry.

It's hard to admit defeat.

I have quite a high opinion of myself. So I need a dose of realism now and then.

I am opinion-less on many "hot topic issues" of the day. I guess you could say I'm lukewarm in that regard. Or I just like to sit on fences. But really, I can see many points of view -- usually the sides of a debate have wonderful, logical, convincing arguments. I can nod my head in many directions. I can also shake my head in many directions too. I'm not a fan of extremists.

I smile and nod or say, "interesting" when I don't know how to respond to something.

I'm not quick on my feet, conversation wise. I need time to think and mull and ponder. (another reason I appreciate the art of writing . . )

I'm not a very good friend. Friendship takes a lot of work, and most of the time I'm too lazy. I appreciate easy friendships, but I know I should do more.

I don't put my family first. My heart hurts for the underdog . . . and I'll set aside my family to care for someone who needs it more. (But I hope that I'll teach my children to love and serve their neighbor in the process . . . life isn't all about us.)

I believe in work before play. But I wish it was the other way around.

Even in my confessions, I notice I try to justify my actions. This is probably because I'm a perfectionist. But a lazy perfectionist who is ok with leaving something less than perfect . . . (see? I did it again.)

And so, since I'm a sinful person, my confession is far from perfect or complete.

And I finish with a slightly odd "weirdness" sensation in my belly creeping up into my chest.

Which will probably never go away . . . until the forgiveness part is complete.

Isn't that just life?

Or, I guess I should say, isn't that just forgiveness?

Processional

There I am.  The one who is smiling -- and looking around -- assessing the room.  I'm an observer.  I like to soak up the details and take my time processing the unfolding story.

My son is the barefoot one who is running wildly down the aisle.  His gusto proceeds him as he bursts into a room.  Sometimes a moment catches him off guard and I find him clinging to my leg.  Most of the time, however, I can't find him at all -- his adventures carry him off to distant hallways and secret rooms.

Ryan is over there -- nodding and smiling while someone is talking, but he's only half listening and will answer "yes" to questions he hasn't quite heard.  Children hang from him like a well-dressed Christmas tree.  He flings them in the air while juggling a couple more -- happily a Pied Piper with no other agenda than to be in that moment.

My baby boy is the small one -- laughing and singing while testing out his balance on his feet.  He squirms, squiggles, squeals . . . and generally thinks life is one hilarious party.  Mama's arms are always best, and he'll treat you to a brilliant smile when safe in said arms.

Here we come . . . Blazer dashing out in front; Dash tucked in my arms; Ryan carrying three bags slung over various shoulders;

and I am smiling.

Prelude

I want a blog that nobody reads.  Is that allowed?  

Yet throwing words and thoughts into the great intraweb abyss seems appealing in some kiltered, off-centered way.

Love me, love my thoughts . . . and wander through this one-sided dialogue that yearns for connection -- conversation -- but never meets its mate.

I suppose that’s where you, the reader, comes in.  But if this is a blog that nobody reads, the whole deal’s off.

Welcome.