{Cherish the Ordinary}

The birds chirped outside his window this morning, the chickadee starting off the day with his merry, chicka-dee-dee-dee! My son, of course, was asleep. He'd been out late, celebrating with friends. For last night was graduation night.

I'm sure he wasn't thinking about chickadees at the time (his obsession as a 7-year-old seems to have waned a tad), but he just might have been thinking about penguins. The Clark College Penguins, that is.

He and his closest friends lined up side by side in their caps, gowns, and honor cords, preparing to receive both their high school diplomas and their AA degrees, this first collegiate journey further deepening their bonds as they proudly realized the completion of hours spent studying, comparing art projects, rating professors, looking for the bouncy ball, congregating in the student center, and conquering finals.

It's been much more than a two -- or even a 12 -- year journey. Really it began 18 years ago. I remember the delight of coming home from Drew's baby shower, arms laden with beautiful gifts. Our church family had blessed us with dozens of darling outfits, and I couldn't wait to show Jamie the little overalls, the miniature baseball cap, the snuggly blankets, the cozy sleepers.

With pride, joy, and anticipation over the baby to come, I removed the clothing tags, sorted a load of laundry (in which everything was small and soft -- no adult clothing allowed in this load!), and pulled out the pink box filled with brand new, baby scented Dreft detergent.

That load of laundry was a joy to fold. The tiny shirts, the handsome little jeans, the wee socks that would probably never really stay on his feet, the receiving blankets that were oh-so-ready to receive.

This baby -- now a man -- does his own laundry these days, but last night was a flurry of activity as he looked at the care instructions on his graduation gown. "Um, Mom? Could you iron this for me? And maybe my shirt, too?" That long gown hung in my bedroom doorway, that handsome man-shirt, so much bigger than the little suit he wore once upon a time . . . and I said yes. I joyfully said, yes.

I glided that iron with mingled joy, awe, and something nameless that ached deep down, over the folds of that royal blue gown. Every pleat, every tuck. The steam rose and hissed, the heavy metal plate pressing and perfecting. It was such an ordinary task . . . but the significance of it caused me to linger and give myself fully to the work.

For 18 years I've completed similar ordinary tasks. Each day building one upon the other. Washing a load, folding a load, ironing for this occasion or that. The washing machine runs and swirls, the dryer turns and tumbles, and the days slip by, one by one. All ordinary in their own way, yet here they were, stacked up to this moment, preparing me -- preparing us -- to delight in both the ordinary and the extraordinary.

Last night the Clark commencement speaker, former POW Jessica Lynch, said something that made me grab my pencil and notebook: "Cherish what you are given." Even when that which you've been given is unexpected, not of your choosing, not the ideal, cherish it. Cherish the days of ordinary laundry when the socks don't pair up and the jeans reveal growing holes in the boyish knees and you end up wearing a dirty shirt after all.

Cherish the days of the extraordinary, when the laundry responsibilities are indicative of change and growth and a future that gleams hopeful and bright. When it's time to iron the shirt for the dance, the slacks for the recital, the gown for the graduation. Cherish what you are given.

Among the thousands, there were at least 50 of us clumped together in that stadium last night, cheering for "our row" of kids. We created a streaming din of celebration for the eight graduates who were our very own. The names were called, we craned our necks, and we really couldn't believe it. . . . David . . . Kendall . . . Drew . . . Jon . . . Cori . . . Aly . . . Alyssa . . . Averie. Our kids. The kids for whom we've washed and ironed, wept and cheered.

And we cherished what we'd been given.

 

{Next to Him}

We looked at each other last night, just a bit in awe. Our four children were creating their usual noises and messes, hammering away at the piano, shooting hoops, strumming the ukulele, dumping legos. Three had just performed in their year-end piano recital, and our oldest had just finished his very last, last day of school. He would graduate not only from high school, but also from the local community college.

Tucked in the midst of our everyday kid hubbub, we let our glances linger longer, our kiss hold just a bit more sweetly. For we knew it was no small thing: we were celebrating 20 years together.

Yesterday morning, as I sipped my tea over Nehemiah, my eyes landed on the repeating phrase,

Next to him, the repairs were made . . .

The Israelites were stationed around the wall of Jerusalem, each one working to repair sections that had been broken and burned during their time in exile. Their names are listed, each man (and some daughters, too!), side by side, shoulder to shoulder.

The poignancy of that phrase touched me as I thought of the last twenty years I've spent with the man I love: Next to him.

I've written about those years. The early years when I was a blushing 11-year-old, stealing sly glances toward a tall boy in the youth group.

I've also written about the difficult years. The years of growing children and growing older . . . . 

And about the early months of our marriage when we were down with mono . . . .

And I realized we couldn't have done any of this without holding onto that very phrase: Next to him. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, we've faced brokenness and burns in this wall that is the Lawson family -- even seasons that felt slightly akin to exile and bondage. Yet by the grace of God "the repairs were made" and we've been able to meet each season next to Him, next to our Master builder.

Last night we grinned wryly over the eternal busyness of this month and as we tried to determine when we'd celebrate our anniversary Jamie said, "Why did we get married in June???" I reminded him that we were in college, so it really made the most sense at the time. I also reminded him of my more sentimental reason, straight out of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers: "Oh, they say when you marry in June, you will always be a bride!"

After 20 years, I can tell you that there's another way to "always be a bride," and it doesn't matter when your anniversary lands. Ladies, stand next to him. Stand next to your husband, stand next to your Savior. Men, stand next to her. Stand next to your bride, stand next to your Savior. Face that wall together, making the repairs as they come. Don't let breaches and burns turn into bitterness and bondage. Rather, face them as the Israelites did and proclaim, "Let us start rebuilding."

As we drifted off to sleep last night, me next to him, Jamie said, "You know, we really could be only a third of the way through our marriage." My mind looked ahead to our eighty-year-old selves and I knew that our age would never matter. I'd always want to be right there, right next to him.    

{A Temple to Build}

I don't expect you to call me Mother Bear anymore. Actually, I haven't expected it for about thirteen years now. But you did say it was okay if I slipped and called you Little Bear every once in a while. (I'll try to avoid it in public.) Old habits die hard for a Mother Bear.

The days of Little Bear and dump trucks, Thomas the Tank Engine and ornithological obsession seem to belong to a distant past. But as I scroll through the pictures, I can see the becoming that God was working in you through the years.

Where you once lined up matchbox cars and trains, where you once pored over recycling brochures and animal encyclopedias, where you once organized your friends and family according to their Thomas the Tank Engine names (you were Rusty, I was James), I now see a new creativity, a new appreciation for order and design, a reaching for faithfulness and goodness.

I see it in your love for music, your ability to recall sports statistics, your positive work ethic, your sensitivity toward others, and in your drive to further your education. I see it in your devotion to friends and family, and most of all I see it in the way the Lord is continuing to call you to Himself.

This morning I was reading I Chronicles 28, and I kept thinking about you. King David had prepared everything that was needed for the building of the temple of the Lord. However, he would not be the one to actually build it. That honor was given to his son, Solomon.

On the cusp of this mission, King David gives a charge to his son:

Serve [the Lord] with wholehearted devotion and with a willing mind . . . . 

If you seek Him, He will be found by you . . . . Consider now, for the Lord has chosen you to build a temple as a sanctuary. Be strong and courageous and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you . . . . 

Drew, this is my prayer and the prayer of your father, too. We've seen this "wholehearted devotion" and "willing mind" throughout the years, in so many various (and often humorous) scenarios. You once memorized over 100 countries and could point them out on a map. At age two. This shows a willing mind. You often called THE ENTIRE family to the front window to watch the garbage . . . and recycling . . . and yard debris trucks circle through our cul-de-sac. Every week. This shows a wholehearted devotion.

It's still there, it's just matured quite a bit. (Trust me.)

And now you have a temple to work on: "The Lord has chosen you to build a temple." You're on the cusp of a new mission: the mission of adulthood. We -- along with many, many friends and family -- have given you tools and plans and guidelines over the years . . . and now it's time. It's time for you to step over the threshold with those tools in your pocket and to "be strong and courageous and do the work" the Lord has placed before you.

I know you will do well, Drew. You already have, and we are so proud of you. There will be bumps in the road. I know that you know that. For this I say with King David, "Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God" (yes, I too can attest to His faithfulness) "is with you. He will not fail you."

He will not fail you, Drew. Which means that -- in His hands and with your open hands -- your temple will be strong and mighty, a fortress that will declare His glory and majesty.

Your mission is a grand one, my son. Such a grand one! And I'm excited to see where the Lord will take you. I'm thankful for 18 years of delighting in your being, of marveling at who you are and how your mind and heart work. I'm thankful for your sense of humor, your generous heart, your respectful bearing, your responsible actions, your faithful friends, and your thoughtful nature.

Most of all, I'm thankful that God entrusted Dad and me with you. Apparently, you don't mind so much either. Last night, as you headed to bed and flashed that characteristic grin our way, you closed the first book of your life and eagerly cracked open the next, calling back, "Thanks for a great childhood!"

Yes, Drew. Thank you. Thank you, so very much.

{Waiting for Death}

My heart reacted to each notification. Each "ping" had me anxiously checking messages, wondering if the time had come, wondering if my uncle had been called to his eternal home. My parents were on the other end in Nevada, sending us updates. Hours passed. Days passed. The "pings" continued.

We passed the time here at home, trying to go about our normal routines. Music soothed our spirits. Aidan suggested that we listen to Crowder's Neon Steeple, and it quickly became an integral part of the prayer-worship-supplication that filled the atmosphere of home.

I was especially moved by the Crowder-Gaither rendition of "Because He Lives" and sent the Amazon link to my dad. Perhaps they could listen to it at some point.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow,
Because He lives, all fear is gone,
Because I know He holds the future
And life is worth the living
Just because He lives!

A few minutes later, my dad wrote that they had just listened to it all together. It was one of my aunt's favorite songs. "Give Uncle Harry a kiss from his Jules," I texted. Auntie Cher kissed him for me, and we continued to wait.

And then on a Tuesday night, my mind elsewhere, I quickly checked my messages before helping the kids get ready for bed. My heart stopped. Tears filled my eyes as I read and then re-read that my uncle's struggle was over. It was finished. And I had missed it. I had missed the final message. Really only a handful of minutes had passed, but in a way my delayed grief felt like a betrayal. I thought back over the last half hour. What had I been doing? What had distracted me from the waiting?

I recalled my prosaic activities. They were not worshipful, they were not prayerful, they were not driven by imminent loss. I was doing the laundry and making some bread.

But as my eyes brimmed and my throat constricted, the Lord whispered to my spirit: water and bread. I was washing, I was baking bread. I was living. While waiting for death, I was living.

And then I thought of Jesus' ministry. The Living Water and the Bread of Life. He, too, was waiting for death. His own. But with each intentional, passion-driven step He took toward that cross, He was living. He looked into the eyes of those He loved, He met their needs, He embraced them, He wept, He walked alongside them, He washed them, He broke bread with them, and He lived.

I thought of my uncle. He, too, had lived. It gave my Uncle Harold great joy to share with others. Often he'd call me out of the blue to recommend a book, share a Bible verse, or ask about Jamie's work. When we'd visit in person he delighted in giving us experiences, whether it was a swim at Tahoe, a drive in his Jeep, or an intense round of croquet.

It was hard to imagine that now the song "Because He Lives" had been fully realized for him. The stanza that always seems to dwell somewhere in the distant, unimaginable future, had happened.

And then one day, I'll cross the river,
I'll fight life's final war with pain;
And then, as death gives way to victory
I'll see the lights of glory and I'll know He lives!

What could I do, but live? Death gives way to life, to the bread and water, the washing and renewing. Because He lives, we can face tomorrow. We can wash the laundry, we can bake the bread, we can put the children to bed. We can even wait for death as Jesus did: walking, loving, washing, living, eating, laughing, crying and embracing.

Today is my aunt's birthday. A celebration of life, even in the shadow of death. My mom -- her sister -- is with her now, and I can just imagine the mingled tears and smiles, the stories and reminiscing, the Italian eccentricities we proudly embrace, and maybe even some laughter, too. There's joy in spite of the sorrow. And there's purpose in the waiting. All because He lives.

* * * * * * *

One of my favorite childhood memories is watching the Nevada lightning storms at my aunt and uncle's house. I was given the opportunity to write for my Uncle Harry's memorial service, and this poem was born as I waited for death and rejoiced in his life.

A Marvelous Light

You held out your hand with that gleam in your eye, 

Saying, “Come, little Jules, your Auntie and I

Want to show you the sky

Breaking open tonight.”

We walked to the window, each one in awe, 

Witnessing splendor we seldom saw:

Flashes and peals,

Unleashed, wild, and raw.

Standing in wonder, sky-fire in our eyes,

Such glorious power caught us each by surprise,

Though harnessed, we knew,

By the King of all Light

Who holds out His hands with the Light in His eye,

Saying, “Come, My child, your Father and I

Want to show you the radiant

Love from on high.”

We rest in this love as we gaze on His face,

And He carries our burdens -- amazing grace! --

Even holding the tears

We have shed in this place.

For He held out His hand with that Light in His eye,

Saying, “Come, precious jewel, my Father and I

Want to welcome you home

Where no more shall you sigh.”

You walked through the window, healed and in awe,

Grace broke wide open; you finally saw

Flashes and peals,

Unleashed, wild, and raw.

So we hold out our hands -- though tears dim our eyes --

Saying, “Thank you, dear Jesus: our praises shall rise! ”

And the skies will break open

With marvelous Light.

Devotions On the Eve of a New Year

My morning devotions are rather simple and routine. I read a passage (usually just one chapter), slowly working my way through the Bible. After I read, I copy down a single verse that jumps out at me and then turn to my journal. There, I write my way through a prayer-conversation about that passage.

I'm always touched by the way certain words leap to the forefront at just the right time, as though God knows just what I need. Because, of course, He does. Furthermore, His Word is "living and active," which means it will always hold a rich cupful of truth for me to linger over and receive.

Today's reading was no different, although the words, interestingly, came from the less-than-stellar King Ahab:

One who puts on his armor should not boast like one who takes it off.

1 Kings 20:11

A fitting proverb, poised as we are to enter a New Year. 2015 has come to a close. We take off the armor of 2015, boasting only in what the Lord has done. But we cannot enter 2016 on the strength of 2015's victories. We cannot boast of what's to come, "This will be the most victorious year ever!"

Rather, we must put on our armor anew, moving forward in the strength of His promises.

As Spurgeon wrote, "Under the most happy circumstances you cannot give light for another hour unless fresh oil of grace is given you." Neither can we remain faithful and strong in our armor for another hour (let alone another year) without the power of the Holy Spirit working in and through us.

"Great is Thy Faithfulness" quietly streamed nearby as I read from 1 Kings this morning. I can surely attest to and boast in my Lord's faithful love and care throughout 2015.

This coming year holds new adventures, some expected (my oldest son's graduation among them!), but most of them unknown. And so we prepare ourselves as warriors who are sure of victory . . . but also as warriors who know that opposition and attack are a part of this earthly work.

(I'm reminded of a powerful poem a dear friend once wrote: The Epic.)

We faithfully put on our armor with confidence until that final, triumphant day when we will lay our swords and shields at our Savior's feet for the last time, reveling in our worthy King's glorious victory. That, my friends, will be the best "New Year" ever.