Call Your Mom

Call your mom.

It’s likely she’s home.

It’s an ordinary day.

But, those are the best days.  Not the fabricated holidays.

It doesn’t have to be long.  There doesn’t have to be a reason.

She’s been thinking of you.

She knows the pressure you’re under.  The busyness of your season. She’s likely quit calling because she doesn’t want to interrupt your flow, your work, your children, your husband, your wife, your life.  She’s not mad about it.  She loves it.  She had it, too.  She can’t believe those days of her own are already passed down to your days.  Her heart is full with how you seemingly do it better than she did.  Than she could.  She thinks of her own mishaps and missteps but wouldn’t change a one of them because that might in fact have changed you.

Call your mom.

She’s likely out and about.

She loves the free reign but sentimentally longs for just one moment of the season you’re in.  Just a moment, though.  She couldn’t imagine doing it again.  Her energy and stamina wonders how she ever did.  But, she’ll take one more lap to be sat on.  One more bed to be tucked in.  One more night to be wakened. One more hand to be held.  One more scrape to be bandaged.  One more story to be told.

Call your mom.

She may not answer.  But, no regrets.  She knew you would when you could.  She kept no tabs.  She only measured her full heart.  And oh, how she loved you.  Always did.  Nothing could have ever changed that, but her time ran out, too.

It’s likely she’s home.

Don’t cry.

She was incredibly humbled.

She was beyond blessed.

She was so proud to be the mother of you.

Proverbs 31

Green Tree

It’s green!

It’s green!

I could not be more ecstatic.

I really, really, really, thought it was dead.  I didn’t cry, of course.  It’s a tree.  But, my soul sure was downcast.   I so desperately wanted life for it.  Every tree I have ever personally planted with my two fatal thumbs have gone the way of soil back into God’s green earth.  My own personal regeneration contributions.

But, what do I know?  What am I to do?

“I don’t make tender grass spring up. I don’t tilt the water jars of heaven when the ground is dry and the soil hardened to clods. My breath doesn’t send the ice. I can’t spread light to the ends of the earth.”

I’m so glad that I stopped short of terminating this little tree of life when I thought there wasn’t any.  It was in such an undeveloped stage, though.  I had confirmed with others in this sorry plight and was resolving myself to its unfortunate fate. Dare I mention my own husband who is mildly inconvenienced by its mere maintenance.  I could always attempt to try again amid better conditions. I didn’t want to be void of wisdom though, so I tried to refrain from acting hastily.  I retained a wee bit of excitement to consider the full beauty and purpose it could play.   

With one quick double-take as I passed it with the lawnmower assessing whether to mow right over it, I literally had to stop the mower and bend over low to get up close and personal and my heart rejoiced.

There was evidence of life.

That was my hope.  That was my hope.

I was just so thrilled for the sign that there is still abundant life to burst forth and so much potential for full flourishing.

It’s like God saying,  “No need to mow what I intend to grow.”

You will be nurtured my little slight sprig.

Such a small life must be preserved by such great care.

Psalm 92:12

Job 38

Psalm 139

Cup

Easter is approaching.

For all my kids and grandkids, I am already contemplating the Easter dinner, Easter baskets, Easter bunny, and Easter hunt. The same traditions of my own youth.  

I get a little excited. 

Two past years have interrupted the family celebration. So, I’ve not yet incorporated the story of Jesus in this plan with the five grandkids whose ages are one to five.  Literally, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.  Yet, I know we are to tell the story and let the children tell their children to pass the story down from generation to generation.

So, if I’m hosting Easter, I want to tell the story. 

But, before the important story of the cross, there’s a part of the story that involves a cup the night before that I’m wrestling with and wanting to tell.

At the Last Supper,  there was bread broken to remember the body of Jesus, and there was also a cup of wine that was given to His disciples to drink from. “This is my blood,” He said.   This was to remember the new agreement, the new covenant, the establishment of the New Testament.  It’s what we are to remember at communion.

So, there’s a cup to remember. 

Then leaving the supper, yet before His crucifixion on the cross, Jesus was anguished and distressed. To His friends, the 12 disciples, He said,  “My soul is crushed with grief to the point of death.  Stay here and keep watch with me and pray.” 

There was another cup.  

He prayed it to be taken away. Yet, “If this cup cannot be taken away unless I drink it, your will be done.”

This was the cup of suffering.  

It’s the same cup, isn’t it?

I’ve never noticed this before.  

A cup is a vessel of containment, for sure, but it’s also a measurement within that containment.  Length x Width x Height.

Isn’t this the same amount of love He wants us to have the power to understand, “How high, how wide, how long, how deep, His love really is?

This measure was to the point of His death.  So much so, He asked for it to be taken from Him.

What’s more, He then asked His closest friends, 12 disciples, to stay awake and pray for Him while He was experiencing this grief to the point of death.

They fell asleep.

He woke them up.

They fell back asleep.

They did not.  They just COULD NOT fathom the cup either or they would have stayed awake, too.

I imagine it’s going to take stick pictures this year to understand the volume and how high, long, and deep the Love is that took Him to the cross.

In all the Easter traditions and the story of Jesus, I’m thinking about us drawing a new Easter tradition to remember.

A cup.

Matthew 26

Ephesians 3:18

Winter

Can we have a moment of silence?

Pretty sure that this is what the “Winter of Our Discontent” might look like.

With only 3 days until spring, I don’t think I’m being too premature here.  I’m fairly certain that this might be an indication that my little evergreen will likely not ever be a little green. 

Winter did what winters do and snow and freezing temperatures came out to play.  The protective sun moved farther away.  

I don’t know what kind of chance my seedling started with, but it hailed from such a forcible foliage that I thought Jack Frost might not nip at its unsuspecting nose. 

But, here we are.  Or sadly, here we aren’t.

I am not a fan of winter.  Hate might be too strong of a word, but not by much.  I know,  “The stormy wind comes from its chamber and the driving winds bring the cold.  God’s breath sends the ice.”

Yet, what brings me such delight is that winter is just for a season.  

“As long as the earth remains, there will be springtime and harvest, cold and heat, winter and summer, day and night,” says the Lord.

Discontent is only for a season.

So are we.

We’re just short-lived wildflowers.  Grass and flowers…and little evergreens…that wilt, wither and fall away, none of it meant to be here to stay.

The Word of the Lord is not that way.

It conceives new life.

In us.

It is my hope. 

It’s what I pray.

Job 37:9

Genesis 8:22

1 Peter 1:24