Little Boy Blues

We just returned from our 2nd Annual trip to Apple Hill, the best place on the planet. What made the trip even more special was the fact that Lindsay drove up from L.A. just to meet us! We spent Saturday browsing through Northern California apple orchards and wineries, indulging in every form of apple goodness.

Lindsay was 2 or 3 when we first took her to Apple Hill and let her and Jonah run wild in the orchards and pick out their own pumpkins. After that, it became a family tradition, and we made the trek from Sacramento to Apple Hill many times each fall. Even though we've moved around quite a bit since leaving the Sacramento area, we try to get back to "the Hill" every chance we get.

There's another stop we try to make whenever we are down that way. We drop by the Mt. Vernon cemetary and visit Jonah's grave. Sometimes bearing offerings (pinwheels, flowers, even pumpkins), we gather around his small plot and share our favorite stories.

Jonah isn't there, of course, and his headstone is a comforting reminder of that fact. Greg and I were still in the hospital recovering from our injuries when Jonah's funeral and burial arrangements were made by our pastor and friend, Mike Cook. I believe Mike was inspired by the Holy Spirit when he ordered the inscription for the headstone: Jonah Thomas Strannigan, Born Dec. 6, 1979--made perfect August 30, 1984. (Jonah had been autistic).

For reasons I've never understood, Mike added an engraving of Little Boy Blue to the headstone. The child is blissfully sleeping on an inviting bed of hay, oblivious to the world and its woes. His little brass horn is clutched tightly in his hand while the sheep and cows stand guard around him.

Terribly sweet, really.

But that's because I know the nursery rhyme . . .

Take a three-year-old child, however, who has just been through a terrible car accident and is dealing with the reality that she will never again play with (or be tormented by) her older brother. Bring her to the graveside, show her the shiny new headstone and explain to her that Jonah's body is buried underneath the grassy patch. But emphasize--with all the cheer a broken heart can muster--that Jonah isn't actually there, under the ground. He's really up romping about with Jesus and the Angels in heaven.

Lindsay gazed wordlessly at the headstone as we spoke, appearing to take it all in. We didn't know until years later what she was really thinking . . .

Sometime during her fifth year, Lindsay began to resist visits to Jonah's grave. One day, I pressed her for a reason and she replied:

"Mom, I don't want to see Jonah dead on the ground anymore."

Never having heard the nursery rhyme, Lindsay assumed that Little Boy Blue was Jonah. We'd told her that Jonah's body was in the ground, so she figured it was his lifeless form crumpled on the hay! Stunned by her misinterpretation, I quickly explained the real story behind the engraving. Lindsay was visibly relieved and agreed to go with me to the grave, but it broke my heart to think that trauma had been heaped upon trauma during our previous visits.

Who knew the child had harbored such horrific ideas in her heart? Thank God she finally expressed her dread, so the lie could be exposed and the truth could set her free . . .

As I reflected on that incident on the long drive back to Oregon yesterday, I realized that I, too, have unwittingly misinterpreted the images of Jesus I've seen projected by the church, society and even my own faulty grasp of the Word.

But more about that in another blog on another day . . .

in your dreams . . .

An interesting dream I had a few years back:

In my dream, I was traveling with a small group of people and we happened upon a very ancient building. It resembled a castle, constructed from huge, hand-cut stones, without windows. The dark, wooden doors were massive, yet surprisingly easy to open. As we entered the building, we were dazzled by the soft, white light that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. It took a few moments for our eyes to adjust, but then we began to take in all that was happening around us.

The spacious room itself was purest white--from the floors to the walls to the ceiling. No one gave us any instructions, but we instinctively removed our shoes--this was surely holy ground! The room's interior appeared to be covered by the softest kid leather. The entire surface was spotless--but I noticed tiny holes, pinpricks, really, perforating the leather.

My little band huddle together, just gazing about in wonder. There were small clusters of people through the room, all barefoot and clothed in white. They appeared to be lost in worship or praying with each other. There were no pews or chairs, but I noticed an altar that ran along the front of the auditorium, complete with kneeling benches. Several people knelt at the altar, some softly weeping, others passionately interceding for whatever burdens the Lord had put on their hearts. (Interestingly, the one person in the dream I recognized was at the altar--my editor from the newspaper I worked for at the time. He's a bit of a skeptic, and I could see him taking it all in, with a slight smile on his face).

Beyond the altar, I saw a worship team. But they weren't facing the "congregation," leading the people in a typical worship service. They were simply worshiping Jesus, lifting up their hearts, their voices, their skills in whole-hearted devotion to Him. Their eyes were focused on the "things above".

Throughout the building, little flocks of worshipers joined in the singing. But they weren't watching the worship team. Their eyes were focused completely on Him.

The music itself proved the most amazing aspect of my dream. The strains of praise and worship seemed to emanate from the building itself--The pinpricks I had noticed earlier were actually part of some kind of incredible (supernatural?) surround-sound system. The voices of the worship team were magnified and amplified throughout the room--I could have sworn I heard a heavenly choir in the background.

My little group joined in, timidly at first, but growing in confidence as His spirit gave us the words and melodies to the new, but oddly familiar, songs.

I awoke, still basking in the glory of it all. I felt like I'd witnessed the Bride of Christ, in all her spotless glory.

But was it a picture of what will be in Heaven . . . or how He desires it to be right here and now?

15 minutes of fame

So, Greg and I were filmed for a honest-to-goodness TV commercial last weekend. It was a "man on the street" kind of a deal, where the cameraman asked pointed questions.
And we gave insightful, unrehearsed answers.
Yeah, right!
The commercial will advertise "Lasting Relationships"--a grant-based program that trains and assigns marriage mentors to people who have little access to relational helps. Greg and I went through the training a few months ago and were pretty jazzed about the program.
So when we got a call last week asking if we'd mind being filmed for the promo, we were glad to help out.

"Just come as you are," instructed Mauricio, the cameraman.

So I spent the next two days debating whether or not I should get my hair done. I even called Lindsay, the fashionista of the family, and asked her what she thought about Toni and Guy--the new hair salon at the mall.
"Um, mom, I'm not sure that's the best place for you to get your hair cut." Subtlety isn't Lindsay's strong suit.
"Why?" I asked. "Angela across the street got her hair cut there and it looks really cute."
"But Angela's my age, Mom. Toni and Guy caters to hipsters . . . not that you aren't hip for an older person . . ."

Comforting myself with the thought that I would have staggered out of Toni and Guy's salon looking like a deranged cockatoo, I settled for trimming my own bangs. But that made me notice that my eyebrows had gone quite gray, looking washed out and timid next to my freshly cut fringe.

So I plucked and I pencilled, then exfoliated and toned. I'll spare you the details, but I spent more time trying to look "natural" for the stupid commercial than I've every spent getting gussied up for some fancy event.

And the shoot itself lasted less than 15 minutes!

Mauricio met us at the prearranged gas station at 10:00 Sunday morning.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Tim Robbins?" he asked Greg.
He then positioned the camera so close to my face I was sure he could count my nose hairs (dang, I forgot about those!).
He told us to relax and just answer his questions.

"So, what have you done for your relationship today?" Mauricio asked in his exotic latino accent.
Greg and I just stood there, starely blankly into the lens. The question we'd rehearsed all morning was: "What have you done for your relationship lately?" We were all primed to talk about the flowers Greg sent me and the romantic picnic we'd enjoyed several days ago.
But it was ten in the morning, for crying out loud! I'd only been awake for an hour. But Greg pushed bravely on and saved the day:
"Well, I get up every morning, make a pot of coffee and take my wife a steaming cup while she's still in bed."

"Hey man, that's cool!" I could tell Mauricio was impressed.

"And what about you," he asked, turning the all-seeing-eye of the camera upon me. "What have you done for your relationship today?"

"Not much," I admitted sheepishly, for all the world to witness. "Although I did say thank-you for the coffee. And, um, the day's not over yet!"

Mauricio turned off the camera and we were finished.

He never even gave us a second shot at fame . . .

radioactive

my youngest daughter, Candyce, has returned from Africa. She traveled to Uganda and other countries with a YWAM buddy to scout out future outreach possibilities.

As with any trip abroad--and especially in developing countries--the journey was fraught with difficulties. Candyce often had to hike five miles one way to find an InterNet cafe' so she could email her mother. She had to step over black snakes (I'm pretty sure it was a black mamba, which chases people and bites them and then they swell up and die) on her way to evening meetings. She suffered greatly from some African malady, which caused her to curl up in a fetal position next to a filthy squatty potty for the better part of hot, humid night. (The locals all told her she had malaria, but that doesn't seem to be the case, praise be to Jesus!)

One of her toughest hurdles came in the form of a denied visa. Not hers, but her traveling companion's, and it forced Candyce to make a difficult decision. Should she stay behind with her friend, or continue the trip as planned?

After much prayer (and a quick phone call to her mother, who advised her NOT to go), Candyce felt the Lord's nudging to go it alone. He reminded her, ever so gently, that He'd asked her if she would go to Africa by herself for Him just a few months earlier.

"Sure, Lord!" she'd replied, thinking He would never in His infinite wisdom ask her to do such a crazy thing.

But now He was holding her to her promise . . .

I can't--for security's sake--tell you where my 21-year-old child ventured or what amazing things she did. I'm pretty sure she's not told me all the gory details. But whatever transpired in that hostile country, she's returned safely home. But during her journey, Candyce picked up something far more serious than the Traveler's Revenge.

She's radioactive!

I'm not kidding--she glows! There's a fire in her spirit that radiates from deep within and infects everyone she meets. She's downright contagious!

Seriously, I'd stay away from that girl unless you are serious about giving your life away for Jesus . . .

Shack Attack

I just finished reading The Shack, by William Young.

The book impacted me so deeply that I'm struggling to find the right words to describe it.

I don't know how to endorse a book that just unravelled a great deal of my religious thinking. I can't figure out how to summarize a story that made me cry, laugh, worship . . . and hungry for Jesus again. How do I review a novel that hurt, but brought healing . . . raised uncomfortable question, but offered hope?

I can't, but you can read what others have said about The Shack at: www.theshackbook.com.

shorn

I feel right when one or two
bricks are just out of place
I know that there are a few
Leaks in the faucet of flowing grace
I’m the snake in the field
at the children’s feeble feet
You’re the father with a gun wielding
A scowl on the front porch seat
I’m a whisper into the ear
of someone who shouldn’t know
and bear traps rusty from years
spent two inches beneath the snow
I’m the pastor whose face
travels further than his words
whose church is full of yeast,
whose steeple soars higher than the birds
I’m the factory whose pollution
hides the glory of the sun
The creek that dried up
before it had even begun to run
A lonely eyeball with no lid
to put to rest its lingering eye
and masquerader who never did
take off his party time disguise

My heart tells the worst lies to its own ears
ventricles have pumped it in and out for years
and sometimes it’s half true, so says the mirror
sometimes it all true, but grace pours down in tears

It’s one thousand times easier
to think of what I am,
Than to think of what you are
You’re simply love,
and maybe a really bright light, too
But I’m blood money,
briar brush, a bashed-in-guitar,
darkness, a leaky roof,
and a pre-harvest field fire
I write songs in a heart beat
of protest or of praise
Like Martha, cutting vegetables and meat
Around the kitchen I race
But I avoid sitting at your feet,
because I’m unworthy of your face
so I’ll never ever take a seat
near your shining, blowing grace

my heart tells the worst lies to its own ears
ventricles have pumped it in and out for years

But in an instant you shout back,
Like the mother of a boy beat in the park
that takes his quivering hand
and leads him home after dark
In one sweet, smooth move
you scoop me up into your skirted lap
saying, “I’m so sorry honey, you’re black and blued
you shouldn’t have to endure any of that”

You’re the betrayed husband
who takes back his cheating wife
And the son who forgives the man
who put his father under the knife
And you’re the finger and the hammer
and the white and the black keys
That gives purpose to us stretched thinner
and pulled-far-too-tight strings
You’re the cat tail that keeps
me atop the high fence at night
And the feathers of an eagles wings
that keep me up in flight

My heart tells the worst lies to its own ears
ventricles have pumped it in and out for years
and sometimes it’s half true, so says the mirror
sometimes it all true, but grace pours down in tears

oh, Lamb of God
you saw me when it was cold
so you sheared off your blessed wool,
and knit me a winter coat
while you stood there in nakedness
and sit-by-your-self shame
you knew I was I was never meant for this
still, you opened your door and offered your name

You watched me walking one mid-winter’s eve
Along a cold suburban street
And smiled as you heard my shouting voice repeat:
“God, I’m in your family. I’m your son”
and fell motionless, and silent, backwards into your love

Krispin Mayfield, 2007