If we had been there, surrounding Jesus during his last hours, I know I would have been confused.
First there's this party; then there's a feast where Jesus washes 12 stinking sets of feet, beautifully referencing his ultimate service. Then there's a trudge to the garden in the middle of the night, the admonishment to stay awake, the arrest, the scatter.
More confusing and painful events will occur for these lowly followers.
My 5 year old asked me about Good Friday this morning. As I began to tell him the story and his soft little boy fingers stroked my face (and kind of got on my nerves), I realized not for the first time the complexity of the story. So much had to align; so many layers of meaning converge; so many people were involved in different ways with differing motives.
The thing I want to focus on, though, is that as they witnessed the foot washing, the praying, the arresting, the healing, the disciples DID NOT KNOW Sunday would be so amazing.
Again I try to put myself in their sandals. Their leader, their friend, their teacher again did not live up to human hype about rulers. Rulers don't serve, they thought. Kings don't ride donkeys, and they sure as heck don't get arrested on trumped up charged, especially without a fight.
But I think the most painful, confusing part for them would be hearing their King say, "It is finished," hang his head and descend into death. They did not know SUNDAY was coming.
Removed by centuries we easily gloss over Good Friday. We know Sunday is just a matter of days and hours. We know the war is over; we know the end of the story. We read the last chapter.
So as I move through a day where there's no school, no work, nothing big planned, I pray that I am called back to the followers' spot in history. To reflect on what they felt as they watched him die. I have always appreciated the disciples for their humanity. They are prideful, eager, sometimes a little slow, impetuous, ambitious. In short, they are people. They are not always painted in the best light, but isn't that most accurate? They did not know Sunday was coming.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
This Isn't What I Had In Mind
For Christians, this is kind of a big week. I don't mean getting new spring dresses and hair cuts for the kids (although I do have a good story about handmade dresses and my Grandma...). It's a big week because without it, Christmas would be irrelevant.
I woke this morning thinking about the disciples. If we were there then, it would be four days, just four little days, removed from this biggest hullabaloo...when Jesus rode into Jerusalem to a spontaneous riot of joy.
They knew he was who he claimed to be; many of them knew from the moment they met. What were their expectations? After Palm Sunday where hoards of people shouted "Hosanna," (save us) at him and symbolically recognized him as King, I'm thinking their expectations were not met, ultimately.
They were most likely floating along on a bubble of inclusion, inspiration, joy, excitement...good things. Then comes Thursday and during the feast, Jesus washes their feet.
Wait. Huh? How? Why? Why would this person claiming to be king take on the role of a servant? This alone is stark enough. Then he hints at his betrayal. This cannot be what they had in mind. I imagine looks of consternation flashing about the group. They've come a long way from Sunday...
Is what He offers, what He delivers ever what we have in mind? In my experience, no. But the alternative is always, always better than anything I could plan.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
In the Numbers
Okay, social networking is all the rage these days; bloggers are blogging about how they blog, tweeting about how they twitter, and writing and talking and blahblahblah about the benefits of our new apps.
Twitter has been fun and useful for me as a smalltime crafter. I am able to direct traffic to my sites efficiently, purposefully and usefully. Most of my followers until recently were either existing friends or interested in my work. I had developed chatty relationships with several of them and I got a lot of daily joy out of their tweets.
Then I got greedy. Searching through other's pages, I saw their huge amount of followers compared with my lowly low 100s. One of my favorite tweeters wrote that she had garnered hundreds of new followers overnight; I wanted that. I wanted oodles of peeps hanging on my every word. I wanted "followers" to want to experience my genius. I wanted it all.
The site she suggested seemed fairly easy; it was basically a service whereby every member agreed to follow at least 90% of the other members. So you just click through and follow, or you wait two seconds and your inbox will fill with "new follower" emails. And then, in theory, you follow them all back.
At first, my head swelled in proportion to my number of followers. Despite the stipulated reciprocation of the set up, I felt spurred on, encouraged to share every little detail. I knew they wanted me, not just my number....didn't they?
Within two days, I had over 200 followers, but I didn't cultivate them, find them, talk with them. They were data in an index, not faces and stories. And to be honest, I'm fairly sure most of them don't care what I write either. There are so many updates on my homepage that I can't navigate to the ones I really want to see and the ones I do see hold little interest to me.
I unsubscribed at the end of the second day, and went through my "following" list, deleting those who add no value to my experience...I want to pick my friends, not sign up for followers. I want to be engaged in a real and intentional way. Adding people willy nilly is not the way.
It's what I tell my children: its not the quantity of friends that counts, its the quality. I know it's trite but it's true.
Twitter has been fun and useful for me as a smalltime crafter. I am able to direct traffic to my sites efficiently, purposefully and usefully. Most of my followers until recently were either existing friends or interested in my work. I had developed chatty relationships with several of them and I got a lot of daily joy out of their tweets.
Then I got greedy. Searching through other's pages, I saw their huge amount of followers compared with my lowly low 100s. One of my favorite tweeters wrote that she had garnered hundreds of new followers overnight; I wanted that. I wanted oodles of peeps hanging on my every word. I wanted "followers" to want to experience my genius. I wanted it all.
The site she suggested seemed fairly easy; it was basically a service whereby every member agreed to follow at least 90% of the other members. So you just click through and follow, or you wait two seconds and your inbox will fill with "new follower" emails. And then, in theory, you follow them all back.
At first, my head swelled in proportion to my number of followers. Despite the stipulated reciprocation of the set up, I felt spurred on, encouraged to share every little detail. I knew they wanted me, not just my number....didn't they?
Within two days, I had over 200 followers, but I didn't cultivate them, find them, talk with them. They were data in an index, not faces and stories. And to be honest, I'm fairly sure most of them don't care what I write either. There are so many updates on my homepage that I can't navigate to the ones I really want to see and the ones I do see hold little interest to me.
I unsubscribed at the end of the second day, and went through my "following" list, deleting those who add no value to my experience...I want to pick my friends, not sign up for followers. I want to be engaged in a real and intentional way. Adding people willy nilly is not the way.
It's what I tell my children: its not the quantity of friends that counts, its the quality. I know it's trite but it's true.
Fabric Choices
I've had some interest in custom orders. I wanted a quick way to show what I have available right now. This will change over time as new fabrics catch my eye and I tire of old ones. My rule is that I buy what I like. If you want something else, just let me know.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Still There
Third slab leak in a six month span. Fight with the hubby about something so dumb. Worries about one kid's physical health and another one's heart.
The one constant is God. He's still here. He's still God. He is in the ebbs and flows and ups and downs. He is still there, even when I shake my fist at him in rage intended for someone else.
He is still there. Still here.
The one constant is God. He's still here. He's still God. He is in the ebbs and flows and ups and downs. He is still there, even when I shake my fist at him in rage intended for someone else.
He is still there. Still here.
Mama Can I Snuggle with You
Without getting into a whole debate about parenting "styles," I'm thinking about one of my all time favorite things: Snuggle Time.
My eldest is 11; she no long snuggles me. She will tolerate my hand in hers for a while. She is far too cool for lip kisses. She was not a huge snuggler when she was a baby. In fact, every time we tried to swaddle her like they tell you babies love, she would wriggle until her arms came free. Then she'd hold them out to the sides in her infant airplane game. All. The. Time.
Miss Middle Child is a hugger, but not a snuggler. She loves hugs. And she does love to snuggle her Aunt Michelle. She describes her as comfy. She will cling in a hug for far longer than you think a child can do anything. The taller she gets the easier, and stranger, it is. She comes to my chin now so it's easy to do while standing in the kitchen. How did this child come to have the same size feet as her mama?
And my little man. Oh, my little man is the best snuggler. He is a heat seeking set of limbs and soft breath. Our daughters never slept in our bed. Ever. Little man comes to my bed at least three times a week in the middle of the night. Most of the time I'm far too tired to do anything but grunt assent and roll over to make room. I know my husband does not like this but I find myself incapable of sending my son back to his room.
I think it's because he's my last baby. And he's no baby. He'll be starting Kindergarten in the fall. Someone still needs his mama, even if he's sleeping the entire time. But when he crawls under our covers, bringing maybe a favorite toy or a blanket, he slides easily into a space and his body gravitates toward the other warm figures lying next to him.
It's like a drug, his slow deep breathing of sleep. He sleeps like he's got nothing on his mind at all (why wouldn't he?). There is no creasing between the eyes, no tense shoulders, no twisting and turning. He completely gives himself up to the rest. He teaches me how to breathe so I too can fall into a restorative slumber. His fingers curled in mine tell me to relax my muscles and let go of the thoughts of the day.
His waking, too, is magical. He wakes ready to take on another playground adventure; I wake to a stream of worries and cares: wishing I'd started the coffee the night before, will I get the kids out the door on time, did I finish the laundry, will she find her shoes, did I forget to pay that bill, and how am I going to make it to every item on the unholy list of things to do.
He sighs a huge sigh, as if inhaling his dreams to carry with him through the day. He rolls over. He smiles at me. He pops out of bed and starts being him.
It won't last much longer. Soon he'll be too big for snuggles and too big to squeeze into our little bed. I can deal with that, but I will try to soak up his lessons and his dreams while I am still welcome to them.
My eldest is 11; she no long snuggles me. She will tolerate my hand in hers for a while. She is far too cool for lip kisses. She was not a huge snuggler when she was a baby. In fact, every time we tried to swaddle her like they tell you babies love, she would wriggle until her arms came free. Then she'd hold them out to the sides in her infant airplane game. All. The. Time.
Miss Middle Child is a hugger, but not a snuggler. She loves hugs. And she does love to snuggle her Aunt Michelle. She describes her as comfy. She will cling in a hug for far longer than you think a child can do anything. The taller she gets the easier, and stranger, it is. She comes to my chin now so it's easy to do while standing in the kitchen. How did this child come to have the same size feet as her mama?
And my little man. Oh, my little man is the best snuggler. He is a heat seeking set of limbs and soft breath. Our daughters never slept in our bed. Ever. Little man comes to my bed at least three times a week in the middle of the night. Most of the time I'm far too tired to do anything but grunt assent and roll over to make room. I know my husband does not like this but I find myself incapable of sending my son back to his room.
I think it's because he's my last baby. And he's no baby. He'll be starting Kindergarten in the fall. Someone still needs his mama, even if he's sleeping the entire time. But when he crawls under our covers, bringing maybe a favorite toy or a blanket, he slides easily into a space and his body gravitates toward the other warm figures lying next to him.
It's like a drug, his slow deep breathing of sleep. He sleeps like he's got nothing on his mind at all (why wouldn't he?). There is no creasing between the eyes, no tense shoulders, no twisting and turning. He completely gives himself up to the rest. He teaches me how to breathe so I too can fall into a restorative slumber. His fingers curled in mine tell me to relax my muscles and let go of the thoughts of the day.
His waking, too, is magical. He wakes ready to take on another playground adventure; I wake to a stream of worries and cares: wishing I'd started the coffee the night before, will I get the kids out the door on time, did I finish the laundry, will she find her shoes, did I forget to pay that bill, and how am I going to make it to every item on the unholy list of things to do.
He sighs a huge sigh, as if inhaling his dreams to carry with him through the day. He rolls over. He smiles at me. He pops out of bed and starts being him.
It won't last much longer. Soon he'll be too big for snuggles and too big to squeeze into our little bed. I can deal with that, but I will try to soak up his lessons and his dreams while I am still welcome to them.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Free Fabric Giveway
Hey, if you want to win four fat quarters of Heather Bailey's Freshcut line, visit this blog and enter....just saying.
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