where waves grow sweet

So then, there remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God, for whoever has entered God’s rest has also rested from his works as God did from his. Hebrews 4:9-10

A restful destination

Today was my designated sabbath, a day of rest from the constant plans and activities I’ve been scheduling lately. The picture in my head was a day in bed with a bible and a somber spirit. Um, no.

Instead, today’s rest looked like a sunny morning that begged me to walk in its warmth, practically dragging me down to the Newport Pier. To take off my shoes and touch the cold water with my bare toes. To laugh aloud at the chubby-thighed toddler chasing the seagull with impressive speed. To rescue my ‘neighbor’s’ chips – well, some of them – from said seagull. To bump into a friend and her boys for a joyful reunion. To watch and think and pray and hear. To walk and walk some more, arriving home four hours later, thankful for the goodness of God with all that I am.

Today’s rest looked like an afternoon that beckoned me to the bliss of tending to what’s been left undone. To scrub things and wash things and fold things. To feel the pleasure of open space that allows for accomplishing life and its demands.

Today’s rest looked like enjoyment in small things. To take in glimpses of a football game that went surprisingly well for the Jets. To eat a salad full of every good thing. And a cookie… or two. To play worship songs on the piano and, yes, even to sing. To write a friend. To listen to music. To laugh with my son.

Today’s rest continues on, satisfying the dry and weary parts. It will end in bed with my bible, but a somber spirit will not be found.

My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. Psalm 62:1

My lunch break walking path

It appears that I’ve neglected to make adjustments in my schedule to compensate for the fact that I am now in a relationship and working full-time. These are both wonderful developments, but there is only so much time in a day. Or so I’m told. What has gotten squeezed out in this oversight is rest. So much so that even when I have time to sleep, I can’t. I am on overdrive, going to bed late and waking up at 4:30 in the morning, exhausted.

So today I hit a wall. Hard. Felt so tired I thought I’d either cry or collapse. But it went deeper than that. It was that I didn’t have rest inside. Not that there was unrest, but I haven’t taken the time so essential to my wellbeing to be quiet, read the word, get replenished. I’m dependent on that connection. We all are, really. Without it, there is bound to be a breakdown in life or function on some level.

I had planned yet another full weekend that left no time to let down, be, sleep, pray, listen, or any other good thing that requires open space. As the idea of intentionality came back into focus, I reluctantly cancelled Sunday’s plans and shifted some other things to make space for the kind of quietness that restores me. Not the brain-numbing-check-out-of-life kind, but a more focused, change-your-whole-outlook-as-you-eat-the-bread-of-life kind.

While I feel a slight loss at the thought of not indulging in friends and activity at every whim, I’m giddy with anticipation about the way the Lord is going to speak this weekend as I make room in my dusty stable of a heart to welcome the King.

Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, LORD, have never forsaken those who seek you. Psalm 9:10

My friendship with Sarah began at a warehouse in old town Fort Collins. It was where our church met. We were familiar with each other but were each intimidated (if that is the right word) by a certain aspect of the other, and had never really even talked. It did not look like a natural fit for a thriving friendship.

We, and a random collection of other broken Gen X folk, found ourselves in a church program called the River, which gave us safety and direction to dredge up all the dark, scary things in our hearts and get healing. It was intense, to say the least.

So there we were one Saturday, ready to lay our hearts on the table, when asked to partner up with someone for a trust walk. As the leftovers of the group, we hesitantly wandered toward each other. Trust was not exactly what I was feeling. But, after a few niceties, we got on with the serendipitous exercise. Sarah used her voice to flawlessly guide my blindfolded self around the funky sofas and tables scattered on the concrete floor. And I used my voice to guide Sarah down the hall, around the VW bus we used as a coffee station, and to the ‘sanctuary.’ God connected us that day.

A short while later Sarah asked if I wanted to get together each week to pray. I did. So she started coming to my beloved yellow apartment on the corner of Shields and Cunningham; the one with the dead, bare tree I’d dragged up the stairs to adorn my living room. We sat on my red hand-me-down sofa, and prayed. It was so good, lifting up our fears and struggles to the creator of our lives who saw beyond our hurts; a creator who laid for us a foundation more solid than the church’s concrete floor.

I ended up moving back to California and she moved a shorter distance to Longmont, but our friendship has continued to grow over the past decade. Having been introduced through a time of exposure and vulnerability, we have never had to pretend that we have it together. Our conversations are always unedited, real, and extremely honest. We share joys and struggles, encourage and challenge each other, and learn more of who we are in the eyes of God.

The way we first learned to trust each other was significant. After all, most of our friendship has been forged over the phone… trusting the voice on the other side for guidance around hazards and obstacles, and for a clear path to the sanctuary.

I love you Sarah Pomranka, think you are strong and beautiful, and am eternally grateful for your friendship.

A fleeting reunion at Denver International Airport

By the way, Sarah has an honest, intelligent blog you would really enjoy reading. http://spiritualwheaties.blogspot.com/

Yesterday, I said that these beautiful moments of connection and friendship I’ve been experiencing are true life. They are and I’m enjoying them immensely. But part of my appreciation comes from all the raw, grinding, grueling moments that God used to get me to this place, with an open heart and a new way of seeing.

It was in the hard, confusing, painful times when my own understanding just wouldn’t cut it – when I ran out of resources and ability and strength, when I couldn’t see through the darkness and required his vision – that I began to learn of the pure and perfect character of God. What a sweet taste it leaves when something cruel and hateful produces beauty and love. This is the way of the Lord.

I know so many people going through hard times right now, wrestling down their own perceptions and reaching for truth that will sustain them… often through tears, grief, anguish. I can’t walk out your journey and you can’t walk out mine, but we can sure encourage each other along the way. In light of that, I would like to share this excerpt my dad gave me. It’s from book from back in the day (no clue which day) called Secret of a Happy Life by Hannah Whitall Smith:

The Chariots of God

It has been well said that “earthly cares are a heavenly discipline;” but they are even something better than discipline – they are God’s chariots, sent to take the soul to its high places of triumph.

They do not look like chariots. They look instead like enemies, sufferings, trials, defeats, misunderstandings, disappointments, unkindesses. They look like Juggernaut cars of misery and wretchedness, which are only waiting to roll over us and crush us into the earth. But could we see them as they really are, we should recognize them as chariots of triumph in which we may ride to those very heights of victory for which our souls have been longing and praying. The Juggernaut car is the visible thing; the chariot of God is the invisible. The King of Syria came up against the man of God with horses and chariots that could be seen by none save the eye of faith. The servant of the Prophet could only see the outward and visible; and he cried, as so many have done since, “Alas my Master! How shall we do?” But the Prophet himself sat calmly within his house without fear, because his eyes were opened to see the invisible; and all he asked for his servant was, “Lord, I pray thee open his eyes that he may see.”

This is the prayer we need to pray for ourselves and for one another, “Lord, open our eyes that we may see;” for the world all around us, as well as around the Prophet, is full of God’s horses and chariots, waiting to carry us to places of glorious victory. And when our eyes are thus opened, we shall see in all the events of life, whether great or small, whether joyful or sad, a “chariot” for our souls.

Everything that comes to us becomes a chariot the moment we treat it as such; and on the other hand, even the smallest trials may be a Juggernaut car to crush us into misery or despair if we so consider them. It lies with each of us to choose which they shall be. It all depends, not upon what these events are, but upon how we take them. If we lie down under them and let them roll over us and crush us, they become Juggernaut cars, but if we climb up into them, as into a car of victory, and make them carry us triumphantly onward and upward, they become the chariots of God.

Whenever we mount into God’s chariots the same thing happens to us spiritually that happened to Elijah. We shall have a translation. Not into the heavens above us, as Elijah did, but into the heaven within us; and this, after all, is almost a grander translation than his. We shall be carried away from the low, earthly, groveling plane of life, where everything hurts and everything is unhappy, up into the “heavenly places in Christ Jesus,” where we can ride in triumph over all below.

These “heavenly places” are interior, not exterior; and the road that leads to them is interior also. But the chariot that carries the soul over this road is generally some outward loss or trail or disappointment; some chastening that does not indeed see for the present to be joyous, but grievous; but that nevertheless afterward “yeildeth the peaceable fruits of righteousness to them that are exercise thereby.”

In the Canticles we are told of “chariots paved with love.” We cannot always see the love-lining to our own particular chariot. It often looks very unlovely. It may be a cross-grained relative or friend; it may be the result of human malice or cruelty or neglect; but every chariot sent by God must necessarily be paved with love, since God is love; and God’s love is the sweetest, softest, tenderest thing to rest one’s self upon that was ever found by any soul anywhere. It is His love, indeed, that sends the chariot.

Look upon your chastenings then, no matter how grievous they may be for the present, as God’s chariots sent to carry your souls into the “high places” of spiritual achievement and uplifting, and you will find that they are, after all, “paved with love.”

He has taken me to the banquet hall, and his banner over me is love. Song of Solomon 2:4

It is dark and still very early. I slept only a few hours, probably due to the caffeine in my system from yesterday’s very happy, quite wired day. After spending some time thinking, reading, and trying to get back to sleep, I finally decided it might be a nice, undistracted time to write.

There has been a distinct mellowing of the wacky emotions plaguing me at the beginning of last week, provoking all manner of bizarre behaviors and preventing me from being able to focus on work for two consecutive minutes. I sensed great relief in my heart – and that of my boss – as I made the transition to a general sense of wellbeing, optimism, and joy. This, I think, is what they call falling in love.

It is strange but remarkably pleasant to look in my heart and find someone there, almost like opening up my closet to find some beautiful thing I couldn’t have dreamed up or afforded. The natural response is to close and open the door a few times, just to make sure the unexpected gift is still there. Each time I open the door of my heart, my smile gets bigger as I find more of John. How he got in there is beyond me, but I’m so very glad.

A happy place to meet

Another good thing is that my heart is opening back up to the things I feel made for, like being with people and praying for them and loving them in my own way. Yesterday was just that sort of day. It began sweetly with green tea, conversation, and prayer with my mom before dashing off to the Gypsy Den for some coffee and honest conversation with a dear and perfectly eccentric friend, Debbie.

While walking Debbie out to her car, I heard “hey Kari!” in the familiar voices of Autumn and Ashley, two magnificent sisters who light up my world. A desire to get together with them had really hit me the day before, so I was thrilled about the chance meeting. They also recognized Debbie from my sister’s skype baby shower (which I still plan to write about), so it was a happy encounter all around. Autumn told me she had just had a desire to get together with me the day before. Go figure.

A chance meeting

Debbie had to dash, but it turned out that Autumn and Ashley were meeting up with a mutual friend, Karin, who is bigger than life and a sheer delight. I was invited to join them back at the Gypsy Den, where Karin was waiting at a table that just happened to have an extra chair for me. So I ordered up a chai latte, enjoyed the lively conversation on the patio, and laughed as Karin narrated the afternoon through the voice of my blog. (*I am indebted to Karin for the name of this post, although I’m not sure I got it right.)

I got home to find a still-groggy boy who had slept until 2:00. Despite the fact that he hadn’t cleaned his room or done his homework, we took showers and headed off to dinner at the home of my cousin, Janelle, her husband, and their five kids. They have been a surrogate family for me and Cole, and a lush part of our existence. John and his daughter, Madison, were meeting us there… two happy worlds colliding.

Friendship warms the heart

The kids got on well, all playing together as if their ages didn’t span a decade. There was good food, conversation, and laughter. I was flooded for a moment by a wave of contentment at that big table with these people I love and a slew of the greatest kids talking happily. The evening ended with sweet prayer for Janelle’s husband, also named John, who wasn’t feeling well… and so much more. I couldn’t help but feel grateful. This is true life, I thought. And I am living it.

Pride only breeds quarrels, but wisdom is found in those who take advice. Proverbs 13:10

I got sleep. Good sleep. For the first time in a long while. All that comes to mind is, “mmmm.” My dear, beloved sleep, how I’ve missed you. So tonight, after a sweet dinner with a friend and a satisfying conversation with John, I decided to go on a jog (which proves how perky and good I felt… because I don’t jog).

It was 11:00 as I grabbed my phone and headed toward the door. I could read my dad’s discomfort with the idea but I can be, shall we say, headstrong, when I get something in my mind. So I told him I’d only be a short while, would stick to the well-lit and populated areas, and then bolted out the door before he could speak his peace.

I was about 1/2 a mile into my run when I realized that my well-lit, populated path seemed to be quite devoid of light and the sorts of people I was picturing. Yes, I agreed suddenly, I really shouldn’t be out alone at night. With all the precarious and downright dangerous situations I’ve gotten myself into, you’d think I’d know this by now. But instead of heeding this thought, I kept going for my intended couple of miles. Headstrong, I tell you.

I passed a couple questionable people along the way and was honestly not feeling so great about the whole thing when a car driving in the opposite direction pulled up alongside me, like someone who wanted to ask a question or get directions. Or kidnap me (did I mention I’ve been kidnapped before?). I pretended I didn’t see the car and kept going toward my house, which was now in sight. The car turned around and slowly headed in the same direction as me. Downright creepy, if you ask me. Especially when it pulled into my very driveway.

It was then that I recognized it as my dad’s car. He, like a good dad, was worried about me and had come to make sure I was okay. He explained that being a single woman out there alone in the night is an unnecessary risk. You’d think my heart would be soft and melty with that kind of kindness but I was annoyed. I don’t like to be told what to do, so I blew off the warning and left the room as soon as possible.

The only maturity I possibly displayed in this whole story is that I realized my error of pride, and went back out to the living room to say that I would avoid these nighttime runs in the future. I confessed readily that he was right. He smiled warmly and said, “I know I am.”

So then, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all men, and especially to those who are of the household of faith. Galatians 6:10

After a week in Colorado with sunny skies and mild temperatures, we woke up yesterday morning to fat snowflakes falling from a gray sky and wintery temperatures that plummeted by the hour. It was the best of Colorado (except, of course, for all the other best parts). When booking the flights a few months ago, my intent was to return home yesterday morning but I just wasn’t settled about it. Even though it didn’t make sense, I booked the flight for today and felt great peace. I am so glad I went with that sense. Not so much to avoid the travel complications that would have arisen from the storm, but to experience with my beyond-joyful 15-year old the year’s first big snowstorm in Fort Collins.

Cheap labor

While it was still early, Evelina and I braved the slick roads to drop Aksel off at daycare. There was a kid out front, alone, shoveling the walkway with a shovel twice as wide as his puffy blue coat. It looked charming and yet child-labor wrong. I pictured Aksel scrubbing toilets and sweeping floors after we left him in the homey environment. He came home with dyed blue hands, which he said was from homemade play doh, but I’m thinking it might have been from the Tidy Bowl.

We took to the slippery streets again, this time toward Evie’s salon on the opposite side of town. I sat with strips of foil on my head, watched the flurries collecting on bare branches out the window, and had a lively conversation with Sally, a fascinating woman in her 60’s who loves travel, her dead husband, and her kindle. We were soon foil-headed twins, embracing the skill and wit of my stylist sister-in-law, and enjoying the connection.

Laurie & I at Dempsey's

With my hair toned down from the sun’s ruthless bleach job, I left Evie to her remaining clients and met up with a favorite friend, Laurie, for breakfast in Old Town. Our conversations are always unedited, real, true. And always too short for my liking. We talked about life and what the love of God really looks like. We cried a little and laughed a lot. We prayed together, had the hostess take a photo of us, and hugged goodbye. Sometimes I dream we will get to live close to each other again, but I am so happy for these moments with her that make all the other moments of my life better.

After my sweetly sobering time with Laurie, I hopped back into Michael’s little burgundy Tercel, stepped on the clutch, and got giddy to drive around in the snow. It’s not like I’m good at it. I can’t count how many times I’ve slidden through intersections, barely missing cars or stop signs, but it is fun and makes me feel one with the weather.

I drove up Mulberry and turned onto Smith, the happy tree-lined street where Cole and I lived before moving to California. I hopped out into the powdery snow and smiled. In the midst of writing a note for our old neighbors the McGranes, who were probably cross country somewhere in their VW bus, I turned to see two cars collide in the middle of Mulberry. “Bummer,” I thought, as I finished my note and let my heart wander a while.

Smith Street

Looking at that lovely street, covered with snow, I was reminded of the spring we had a blizzard. Three feet of heavy, wet snow fell over the course of a few days, and the whole town shut down. We all acted like excited little kids getting a day off school. There were people on skis and sleds in the middle of the street, with happy faces and bright scarves. It felt like one of those idyllic Wysocki paintings, except without the horses. My friend, Katie, and I pulled Cole on a sled to the elementary school, where we made impassioned attempts to snowboard down the small hill.

When we learned that the big hill by Bryan’s house had enough snow to cover the prickly plants, a group of us removed the large branch that had fallen on my car, used some sweat and shovels to make a path for my tires, and set out on an adventurous drive to Loveland. What ensued was one of the most magical and memorable days in the history of spring. Friends and neighbors laughing, speeding, tumbling, standing, sitting, freezing together in the best of contexts.

Barb, Katie, and I jumped on a plastic toboggan and zoomed down the slope. Somewhere along the way, Katie disappeared from the front and we came to a sudden halt. When we discovered the issue – mainly Katie’s body beneath our large sled – we were laughing so hard, we couldn’t seem to remove ourselves from her poor body. It was joy. Sheer joy.

Our house on Smith Street

I relived so much standing there on Smith Street yesterday. Praying in my house with Katie while an unexpected hailstorm pelted the roof. Cole, Marty, and Polly playing in their treehouse, jumping on the giant trampoline where I was sure I broke my leg, using slingshots to hit targets and small animals. The path by the river where I would walk in winter wearing my big wool sweater. The small group from church that met at my house for life and coffee on Tuesday nights. Cole’s birthday party with eight hyped up boys and a piñata that wouldn’t burst. Coveted conversations with Bill, the African American neighbor who towered over me and brought me barbecue.

The reverie lingered as I slid into the car and put it in gear. I didn’t want to leave really. Not that I want to live there again or undo my choice to move, but I felt steeped in an appreciation of how much “there” is a part of me “here.” Well, not here, on this very delayed flight back to Orange County. But here in my heart, in who I am, in how I love. And it helps me imagine how many of the moments I’m having now are adding texture, strength, and the sweetest of memories to who I will be.

A beautiful day to go sledding

And My people will be satisfied with My goodness, declares the LORD. Jeremiah 31:14

The tiredness of the past month collapsed on me today like a mighty avalanche. During lunch, while trying to keep my twitching eyes open, I read a winter survival tip that recommended on such an occasion (as being struck by an avalanche) to make continuous swimming motions. Life application would suggest that I keep moving lest I succumb to the weight of fatigue. Or, maybe, I should just get more sleep.

Yesterday was divine. We gathered up a collection of snow gear from our suitcase and Michael’s winter bin, sleds of different shapes and sizes from the garage, and some snacks for the road. The car was warmed up, we had coffee in hand, and were heading out the door when Aksel decided he needed to use the bathroom. The rest of us sat there bundled up, waiting awkwardly, in a paused moment of enthusiasm. After an extended period of small talk, Aksel emerged, we headed out to the Matrix, and our big adventure resumed.

The car ride was filled with lots of joy and a bit of nervous anticipation. It has been warmer than usual and there was a nagging thought that there just might not be enough snow to go sledding…which could deflate the fun of a sledding trip in a hurry. As we wound up the mountain road, we shouted excited reports of snow patches on the roadside or rooftops. It wasn’t enough to instill full confidence, but a definite encouragement as we measured our possible success.

We drove past quaint cabins that lined the river, offering a cozy place to stay, and odd little shops that offered jerky of the local wildlife. We watched flags flopping around and trees making generous movements, and decided it might be windy. We were not mistaken. But in the warm car, with our happy little crew on our way up the mountain, it didn’t matter too much.

Aksel learned that we’d gone sledding the last winter we were here – without him. He handled it well, considering, and seemed to feel only slightly betrayed. The conversation continued as we passed through the charming town of Estes Park tucked safely in the tall mountains. People waited to cross the street, looking cold and uncomfortable. Michael playfully mocked them for their fashion choices. We stopped to run into some strangely warm bathrooms.

The town ended and we continued on to Rocky Mountain National Park, where there was a deer just off the road waiting to greet us. Michael re-upped his annual pass, was given a map and newspaper (the one that gave me that brilliant survival tip), and asked the old, crusty ranger if there was snow on the sledding hill. His dry, slightly annoyed response of “Yep. Three feet.” made us think that all of humanity had already asked him that question that day. We, perhaps with the rest of humanity, were relieved to hear the answer.

We wound through the peaceful landscape until we arrived at our perfect, snow-covered destination. The temperature dropped significantly as we opened the doors of the cozy car. It was cold, for sure, but not nearly as cold as the last time we were there, without Aksel. And this time there weren’t dark clouds hovering or snow flinging itself from the sky. It was sunny and gorgeous. We ran to the back of the car, grabbed our gear, wrapped ourselves up as best as we could, and headed straight past the warming hut to the hill.

The mountainside was scattered with families and the occasional ranger overseeing the festivities. There was constant movement and color against the white of the snow. Two girls in bright purple and pink spun wildly down the slope on an innertube, flipping over onto the embankment. A small boy in a blue jacket clung to the sides of his orange sled as his dad gave him a push. A teenage boy in gray threw his body onto a saucer and face-planted into the snow as a group of friends looked on and laughed.

We became more color and life on the hill as we made our way to the top and zipped back down to the bottom. We took turns and traded up sleds. And then we did it again. We compared reports of the best sled and the best run. There was nothing too steep or grand but it was sweet and delightful. The wind got rascally, whipping our faces with the top layer of snow to remind us that we were indeed in the mountains. But it wasn’t too persistent and it was a small price to pay.

I sat on the fence at the top, taking in the beauty, watching the light on the surface of the snow, admiring the small, determined evergreen growing under the safety of larger trees. It didn’t last long as I was stirred from my reflection by a big snowball Aksel tossed my way. I grabbed him to ride with me down my favorite run on my favorite sled. It was heavenly.

At a certain point, the crowd grew and we’d had our fun. So we got back into the faithful little car and drove to town, where we braved a brisk walk to the coffee shop (becoming the cold and uncomfortable people with questionable fashion choices) and warmed up on beverages. Our enthusiasm was appropriately drained and a relaxed contentment rose up in its place. The trip back down the mountain was mellow. Our faces got prickly as they thawed, music played, words were few, and the rest of the day seemed to melt away like the snow on the roadside as we headed home, spent and satisfied.

A friend loves at all times… Proverbs 17:17

My old Ft. Collins church, the Tool Room

God has brought me so far from isolation and I can trace much of it back to here… Fort Collins, Colorado… where I learned about friendship. This small community of people, working out our faith in the midst of all that life could bring on, was a sweet introduction to what relationship looks like. Not the romanticized version, like a cigarette ad, where everyone is smiling while dancing with a gaggle of attractive people. But the real, sometimes gritty version where there is fun and laughter, alongside struggles and pain. Where people can be ugly and messy, or victorious and joyful, and still be loved. Not that we did it perfectly. But I got a glimpse of the sort of relationship God wants with us, and gained a foundation for the amazing friendships I would develop as I moved on.

I’ve been thinking about all the people I’ve been blessed to do life with – not just here but back home in California and across the world. All I can say is that I feel like the luckiest girl on the planet. So thank you. For being who you are. And for making my life so unbelievably wonderful. You are truly the best.