The Beauty Of Your Peace

Breakfast

In these last few months I have Stopped Doing Some Things. In an effort to get back to center, away from the extreme edges of what seems to be a tenuous grip on a balanced life, I have peeled some of The Things I Do away from The Person I Am.

So I am no longer defined by my work as a piano teacher.

I am no longer obsessively working every waking moment.

I am no longer existing on a scant five hours of sleep.

I am no longer trying to be somebody else, some amalgamation of a Highly Successful Ministry Leader Musician With A Family.

Stripped of some of these things, which seem so simple and easy tossed aside (but which, in fact, are not), what am I?

Well, we are all on that journey, I suppose. I have no definitive answer. Yet.

I am not so busy. I am calm. I am not so anxious. I have peace. I am not so frustrated. I am centered.

And there is this: I am seeing. I am making every effort to be present in the moments of life, and rather than a trite mantra designed to make me feel better about living a valuable, worthwhile life in the midst of chaos, I am seriously taking the time to do it. Not just say it.

This Sunday, we will close our worship service with these words:

Take from our souls the strain and stress
And let our ordered lives confess
The beauty of your peace


I discovered today that those lyrics are rooted in a poem called The Brewing of Soma by Quaker poet John Greenleaf Whittier. Funny; I felt deeply the power of the words as we rehearsed Finding out that this contemporary tune is wrapped in verse written over 120 years ago elongates the experience. I had no idea - but somehow, I knew.  There was power there far beyond the simple harmony and melody line.

Somehow, my soul knew.

I am seeing more, these days. Simple things. A long line of truth that I intuitively understand. Something that speaks internally.

This is working. I am blessed.

Hallelujah.

Simple things. Eggs.

Choices

Springtime in Virginia!

 My yard is convinced that it's spring. You can't really argue with the likes of this.

I once felt badly about clipping flowers and bringing them inside the house. But whoever planned the landscaping for this house made sure there would be an abundance of color. One tree is already bursting with flowers.

I chose three of the fullest blooms and cut them. 

Then I realized that there were literally hundreds of buds about to open in the next few days.

I chose to cut every single open bloom.

I love fresh flowers in the house.

 The brothers posing for a quick shot. The 12-year old is taller than the 16-year old. Not much you can do about that; it is what it is.

I love them both.

It was a great day to be outside. 

 

I was glad to see my son playing soccer. He had to choose a few years ago: drumline or soccer. 

He chose music. He has no regrets, but he misses soccer.

Recently, I had to choose. I gave up teaching piano lessons to be home more in the afternoons.

I have no regrets. I miss my students.

But I wouldn't take anything for the time I had at home with my boys after school today.

There's Just Not Enough Room

What worship sometimes looks like in my house.

We kicked off a new series at PCC today. Ritual will take us through the next five weeks - clear to Easter - as we examine various rituals of faith and the modern church. We got the idea from National Community Church and Mark Batterson, made it our own, and now here we are, poised to take a fresh look at the rituals of our faith.

It began today with a look at worship. Rather than just talk about it in a standard format, we crafted a service that looked and sounded quite different than our usual approach. The message meandered through the entire 60-minute service, illustrated by song, responsive reading, offering and silence.

I believe the message was one of the best teaching messages I've heard my pastor deliver. He taught about worship; how to worship, what it means and why it matters. The words he shared about offering as worship were potent. The risk he took as he led us into a long, uncomfortable silence - and the gentle way he invited us out of that discomfort - was profoundly moving.

Worship at home.

Most of all, I love the way he emphasized the direction of our worship, the realignment of our role as performers for God (rather than watching those on the platform as performers for the congregational audience). That hit me.

I know this. And yet every week, after church, I find myself anxiously awaiting the pronouncement of "It was good." I look to my husband, to my kids, to my friends, to my band mates, to my co-workers. Before I swore off Facebook for Lent, I logged on every Sunday afternoon to see what people were saying about church. About worship.

And if they said it was "good", I was content. I believed it was good. And I felt as though I'd done what I'd set out to do, what I'd been called to do.

But Brian's teaching today, and the fact that I'm off Facebook, and the gentle conviction of God - all these things combined today to help me be content. Period. We sang, we prayed, we listened, we gave. We worshiped God, together.

And there it was. I need to be there more often, more consistently, focused on the response of God rather than the people around me.

Not necessarily worship...

There was still some feedback about today's service that brought me joy. My friend called this evening to say that his wife and daughter couldn't stop talking about their experience this morning. A friend shared that hearing The Doxology in a fresh way made her cry.

But best of all was this, from my daughter:

"What's with the camera guys taking up all the seats in the front row? I had to sit in the second row! And when we got to 'Revelation Song', I just had to get up and move right in front of the camera. There's just not enough room, and I have to be free to worship! I have to move! Today, I had to MOVE!"

Now, we are not a Pentecostal church; this girl just needs room to move. She lifts her hands and she experiences the fullness of God in corporate worship. She is close enough for me to see from the platform, and her reaction - her demonstration of the reality of the activity that is happening in her heart and her head, as she responds to God - is encouraging to me. But not just because she's responding to what we are doing on the platform. I witness her responding to God.

That is a beautiful thing. It's a privilege to behold. And from the platform, when I look out upon a sea of us responding to God, I am overwhelmed with the glory of what we do. When I see you responding to God, I am in awe.

I'm soaking in that tonight, and praying that God was honored in all we did this morning.

If you were there - I hope you experienced God in a meaningful way!

You can watch the service here.

Worship in a small thing of beauty; the inlay on a banjo hanging at Powhatan Music & Sound.

Friday Shopping And Fun Links

I bought a piano today.

At a hardware store.

There's a first time for everything.

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In other news, here's a few things I thought were really awesome:

I haven't watched a lot of football in the past decade, but I know Peyton Manning is a class act. And I know that Rick Reilly is one of the best writers on the planet. I grew up devouring every word of Sports Illustrated, every week. Great writing. Worth your time. Read this.

Another beautiful post by Addie Zierman from How To Talk Evangelical. 
"...Depression doesn’t just make you sad, it makes you empty. You reach for the things you need, but you can’t absorb them." Read the entire post here.

Anything called "Jesus, Don't Let Me Die Before I've Had Sex" sounds...interesting, to say the least. "The title is taken from one of the interviewees and the subject matter seems to be handled with compassion and nuance in a time where most discussions of sex and morality are incredibly polarized and lack both candor and humanity." I have a lot to say about this, but I'll save it for later. In the meantime, you might like to take a look.


Incredible art and design work from Jim LePage. Holy cow. This series is compelling and fascinating and inspiring and more.

Lastly, just heard a commercial for Charmin Toilet Paper. Their slogan is We all go. Why not enjoy the go? Really? That's just....awkward.

Here's another picture of the piano, and some clarification: 
a) It's not for me, it's for the church
b) It's not completely paid for. Yet. If you want to help get it to PCC, I can hook you up.

Olive Kitteridge

A quick book report.

Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. A Pulitzer Prize winner.

It's like Freedom by Jonathan Franzen in some ways; it looks at life, at a family, over the course of time. The town matters - a small New England community, the town functions almost like a character in the book. It's a backdrop, with a specific feel to it that makes it an integral part of the story line.

It's like Freedom, but in a more manageable chunk of life, and with a different, more hopeful perspective. It meanders less; it brings home something solid and definite about life, and family, and small towns.

Olive herself is a fascinating character; the book ends with an intense focus on her and her alone, but the way Strout brings us to that point is brilliant. She offers so many perspectives, so many external details from the experiences of other characters (rather than the observations of the author) that by the time the story begins to center on Olive herself, the reader has an understanding and appreciation of her life that is richly layered, beautifully textured and powerfully true. It comes not from statements like, "And this is what Olive said, and this is how Henry reacted, and now you know this about Olive", although this is exactly what happens; we come to know the truth through life, as it is lived and related to us through a series of glimpses into a community.


That is the immense pleasure of this book: it is true, not by argument or description, but by our own understanding of the life of Olive Kitteridge. Having seen her from every angle, from the ugly and spiteful to the broken and lost, the reader is granted permission to know this woman from a very intimate, personal place. It is impossible to read the book and continue to stand outside the characters; almost imperatively, I identified with Olive. It happened late in the book. Along the way, there are moments of extreme distaste for the woman. However, like grace, an acceptance of her humanity and a growing compassion for her snuck up on me.

I found reading this book to be an extremely spiritual experience.

It helps that I am currently reading Stephen King's On Writing; I am prompted to be mindful of the details, of the ways in which a story grows and blossoms, anointing it's characters with authenticity and offering the readers a true experience. I can't think of a better book to read in this light. Elizabeth Stout is a brilliant writer.

And this is a rare moment; as I finished the book, one of my first thoughts was, "I cannot wait to see this movie." Meryl Streep, please, as Olive.

Broken And Fragile And Waiting

I am sitting in a Barnes & Noble in Cleveland, Ohio. Snow is lightly - very lightly - falling. The world outside is busy; it is a Monday morning, a workday.

I sit with my headphones tucked into my ear, the gentle songs of Beethoven drifting into my head. Piano sonatas; grace floats by.

The B&N soundtrack sneaks its way between the plastic earbuds and the flesh of my ears, and I hear snippets of "Ooh Baby, Baby". I'm back in 1980; Linda Ronstadt and Terri Hodges and me and the piano, feeling the power of major seventh chords and two-part harmony. Singing in the high school talent show, playing the piano.

I feel sort of suspended in time, here. Disconnected. The world is working around me, and I dangle here in motherhood, "with" my second oldest daughter. Supervising from afar. Just here, as mothers are wont to be; out of sight, but close enough for rescue if needed. She is across the street, spending the morning in a working interview with the family-business team that has offered her a summer internship. I am parked at the bookstore, on call. She doesn't know I am here, across the street, but I am. More for me than for her, I suppose. I am here.

These moments are very real. I am present in them. But it all feels somewhat ethereal. I am waiting for something. There is much to be done, but I am waiting.

My brother posted this morning, a beautiful essay that boldly states, "Yes, we are broken and fragile."

I am that, today. Feeling fragile, dangling in between the mother I have always been, the mother I am yet to be. Tentatively testing the waters, gauging the temperatures, trying to comprehend exactly what is expected of me in these days. Waiting for something I cannot describe. Ready to look up and say, "Ah - there you are!" 

I trust I will recognize it when I see it.

Roots

Thirteen years in Western Pennsylvania.

Five years in Grand Prairie, Texas.

Four years in Lubbock.

Three years in the Dominican Republic.

Three years in Small Texas Town #1.

Two years in Small Texas Town #2.

Three years in Small Texas Town #3.

Three years in Fort Worth.

Four years in Northeast Ohio.

Eight years in Virginia.

Eight years in the same town, the same community, the same church, the same schools....


I think it means something, this first taste of roots and permanence since my childhood. I think there's something to the way life feels different, the new way old friendships feel, the fresh wonder of being in it for the long haul. Learning about the ebb and flow of watching the days and years go by in the lives of others, of seeing children grow and leave home and graduate and get married and have children, and to be here for it all, to see it up close. To see life, lived, and be part of it, a wider web, a deeper connection.

Life in community.

I've never really done this before. I have a few long-time friends, but not many. Facebook reconnections are often little more than amusing bits of trivia and distraction. It doesn't feel like I really know anybody from this scattered history.

Bits and pieces of me, scattered here and there. But I'm done. I'm here, I'm staying put, I'm rooted.

It's different.

It's good.