A Freeze-frame of Christ's Love

I have a memory of an experience that is "freeze-framed" in my brain, a moment in an experience that seered into my memory and ended up forever with me as a photograph would be.

I was standing in the foyer of the church with my children, waiting for other parents and children and youth to arrive when a young youth advisor burst through the doors, saw my children, embraced them up in a giant hug and told them how happy she was that they were there. That's the photograph I have in my mind nearly 20 years later - my children hugged up in the love of the church. And at that moment I realized how grateful I was that if my children suddenly for some reason did not have me and/or their father in their lives the church had them covered. It was then that I knew I wanted my children to have a church home and church family connected in Jesus Christ. I wanted them to have more than I alone could offer them, and that would come through the church and its people.

That doesn't mean I expected or wanted perfection in the church, or perfection in leaders or other children and youth. It was a mess a good deal of the time. But, so is real life, and learning how to manage and think for oneself is critical, to be in the mess and yet to be in a place to nurture and be nurtured, to teach and be taught the great message of the love of Christ for all. In the midst of that mess were messages of Affirmation, Grace and Forgiveness, Hope and Love. The very things I needed my children to need and have. 

So, Church, here's my expectation of you: Be the Church. Be the Hands and Feet of Christ. Be forgiving. Be welcoming. Be patient. Teach.

Sadly, the time came that my high school daughter lost her father. It did not go well for her. She suffered. And by that time the church that had embraced her for years had broken arms. The conflict within the church zapped all the energies it had. The church could not take care of itself, much less reach out to a grieving 17 year old.

Even in the messes, please church, remember to reach out in love.Take care of others and your own health will improve. Embrace all God's children who need you to be Christ in their world. 

Spirit of Light

There is a story told about me when I was 18 months old. I think my family was living in Seattle at the time, but now that my mom and dad have both passed on and over 50 years have passed, those sorts of details are sometimes hard to gather and validate.

The story, however, has been validated to me by three eyewitnesses who told the same story independent of the other over the course of my life. It seems that one night after my having been put to bed I showed up in the threshhold of the living room door. That in itself wasn't unusual. My parents put me to bed multiple times each night, bless them. I still don't like anyone telling me it's time to go to bed.

But this particular appearance in the doorway alarmed both my parents. My lips were tinged with blue. So were my fingernails. There was a mad dash to a hospital. I was admitted and put in an oxygen tent while doctors stood puzzled as to what was causing my drop in oxygen. I think I still remember that oxygen tent ... it was cold, and blurred my vision of my parents on the other side.

There was concern. A day and a half this went on. My parents had each other for support, but the  extended network of loving family was across the country in East Tennessee at a time when there were no phones in the households. News of this grave situation for their first born grandchild and niece could not be made know there.

In Tennessee, my grandparents and their son, the last remaining at home, had settled in the living room after the farming chores and supper were done. Darkness was falling, and the room was dimming with the evening. A photograph of me sat on an end table in the corner of the room. While eyes and spirits were relaxing toward rest, all three present in the room became aware of a strange orb of light that entered the room and mysteriously made its way to rest on my photo. The light lingered long enough to make the statement that Rhonda was bathed in light.

It wasn't until weeks later when I had long been safely back to normal that communications were made from west coast to the east, and the trauma and the Light came together for a story to last through generations. There is no satisfactory explanation for either of these events, but I hold on to both of them regularly. I am thankful for life. And I am thankful for the Light. The Light I know as the Spirit of God in Jesus Christ. Whenever I doubt God, whenever I doubt myself, I claim the Light that rested on me and which now resides within me.

As a benediction, I pray that some of that Light from me ... and from you ... will shine upon others in ways that make them grateful for life, and for Light. And may the mysteries of God be wondrous realities in this world.

An Easter Monday Chronicle

It's vistas that I seek on religious holidays. It's when the church is packed, and after being in the midst of the fellowship, that I have a need to seek out solitude to have my own quiet space and time with God.

I go to the mountaintops to feel the breath of God in the wind and see the creation of God spread before me in the vista. I think on the vastness of what I'm seeing and feeling, and in that vastness I am aware that the height, and breadth, and depth of God is far vaster, that I'm seeing just a miniscule portion of Creation, a Creation that goes on and on, farther than I can see or even imagine.

And so it was that Easter Sunday, after worship with the saints in a packed church with a packed parking lot that I headed for the vista. I sought out Mt. Cutler which overlooks Colorado Springs. I'd been told it was just the place for me this day.

But turns out it was just the place for many on this day. People, cars, runners, dogs, strollers crowded every available parking spot and then some. It was a beautiful Sunday ... who could blame them? But, my hopes for vista dissolved and I came down the mountain unfulfilled, until I turned my thoughts to Easter Monday.

And, yes, just like the crowded church with its crowded parking lot on Sunday, Monday at the Mt. Cutler trail head found that where there had been many, now there were few - make that just one. On Easter Monday, the crowed parking lots were empty save for me and my borrowed Jeep. The trail, a solitary walk for me all the way to the top. My heart's desire fulfilled the day after I'd longed for it, and a fitting reminder that our hope is no more nor no less on Easter than on any other day of life in Christ.

And, so I proceeded up the trail, not too long after day break, a brisk cool day with North Cheyenne Mountain all to myself. What a gift.

 

As I walk, the prayers roll forth, and my mind wanders to things of the heart and spirit. I am aware of the sound of each breath and am thankful for free breath. I feel my heart beating within and am thankful for a steady heartbeat. With each footfall I am aware of gratitude that I can walk this trail. As the elevation rises and the dry air parches my throat I am thankful for the refreshment of water. As I see and hear the sights and sounds around me I am thankful for eyes that see and ears that hear. No small thing, these things are.

Slowly but decisively I continue upward, anticipating my goal of the vista at the top, fueled by the promise of rising up, and of ascending to a new place physically and spiritually. The whole of this adventure a worship experience.

Along the trail, the roots of this tree say to me, "When you feel the earth is falling away from beneath your feet, or the way is unsteady, or the winds are wiping the way from view, hold on to your Source. Go deep with your Roots even if they're battered and exposed to harshness. Go deep with Life even if you're on your tip toes in muck. Live it."

I revel in the solitude. I've gotten just what I've hoped for. And, then I come to a darkening in the woods. The rising sun has not reached this place. The rush of cool air coming from the recess is startling. I gasp a bit. Fear creeps in. I'm entering in to the shadows all by myself. There could be bears, or ... my mind races. Perhaps out of consideration of those who love me I should turn around. Forgo this solitary journey to the top for my vista. I pray. I consider. I keep walking.

Fear begins to dissipate. I make it through that shadowy cove and enter back into the sunlight. A glint of granite catches my eye. Something lovely. Think on those things. Pink granite. The trail is lined with boulders of pink granite. I think of Heaven's gold and pearls. It's all right here on earth, spread before us if we'll just see it.

Near the top the view begins to open up. It's breathtaking. I'm nearly caught up in the wind. But, then, the trail seems to disappear over the edge into nothing. I may not make it any further. My worst fear. Right before me. The edge of a cliff.

 

A rock blocks the path with about only 18 inches between it and the edge of the mountain. It's either over or around. Is this the Stumbling Block? I may go down on my knees. Do I give up now? Do I turn around? In my mind's wandering I presume that if I fall off the edge everyone will assume this is where it happened and at least know where to come looking for me. 

But, no. Proceed. With caution. Proceed. Just look at the Rock. Just look at the Rock. Don't look away from the path. Hold tight to the ROCK. The Rock that is stronger than I. Stay the Course.

My fear overcome, I begin moving upward and onward again, and the view further unfolds before me. Seven Falls. The reward of a glimpse of paradise.

 

Just a few more steps and I'm to the top of Mt. Cutler. My vista accomplished. Fears and anxieties banished. Colorado Springs and the Shrine of the Sun before me. I sing the Doxology ... Praise God from whom all blessings flow! Praise Him all creatures here below! Praise Him above ye Heavenly hosts! Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! Amen.

Regretably, it seems at the moment, it is not fitting to remain on the mountaintop, though the exhilaration and thrill are enticing. That is not where we are to remain. It is time to descend, to retrace my steps back down the mountain and enter in to that which I have beheld from above.

And it is just beyond the Stumbling Block (that I have once again navigated with prayer and focus on the Rock) that I first encounter another person on the journey up. He's a young man making this favored hike for the first time in two months after foot surgery. About half way down the mountain, I meet a second person, a woman who passes with no greeting or acknowledgment. She is within herself just as I was on my journey up.

Near the trail head on the end of my journey, I meet a woman with two happy dogs racing ahead of her, and with a newborn baby strapped to her chest. We chat. It's such a happy day for them all, she says. Tell me about your baby, I say. The baby, born three months premature is now five months old, but he should be only two months old. She starts to unbundle the still little one, but I say don't disturb him, please. Let him rest. So, I never see his face, just the tiny outline of head, arms and legs splayed on her chest. But look at you both now, I say ... out and hiking a mountain. Yes, she says, but I'm not his birth mother. I am his foster mother.

And, I think to myself, we must come down from the mountain top to enter in with the people of God's world. To be foster mothers and fathers, to care about God's creation and not simply view it from the mountaintop. That mountaintop experience and praise matter. But so does entering into the world as the hands and feet of Christ, the love of God poured out.

Loosening the Faith - Epiphany in Lent

In some ways it might breed up panic, a fear, to hear the words "I'm loosening the faith." When those words flitted through my head this morning, they scared me. Was I facing a dark time? Was I headed into a wilderness experience? Was this time of Lent, of giving up, going to be a time of giving up faith in Christ itself?

No. Definitely no. I am loosening the faith, not losing the faith.

I've long tried so hard. Prayed hard. Worked hard. Thought hard. Tried even harder. And even so, the status of life is not (on some levels, not at all) quite what I think the rewards for all that hard work at trying should yield.

And so comes Epiphany in Lent. As I loosen my faith, I understand differently now. I don't have to try so hard. You don't have to try so hard. Just live. Just breathe. And Trust. Just Trust.

Gateway to Glory

My husband and I always light what we call a Christ candle as we begin our days together, and this morning the candle caught my eye in a new way. There on the couch, hot coffee in hand, I gazed at the flame. Flame has been present since the beginning of time. It was discovered, not invented. It is not a development of human innovation.

And, so it is with God. Present from before the beginning. Invisible to us, more than a human mind can conceive, yet present in the flames of the burning bush. Visible only in the wind. And it makes more sense to me now. In the lyrics of In the Bleak Midwinter is a key to this understanding: "our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor the earth sustain." Remembering those words and singing them in my mind, I think, "of course!" We not only are not meant to, but we could never see God fully in this physical world. It must be only when the constraints of the physical are released that we are free to see the fullness of God. Because the Earth cannot hold Him.

Even Jesus Christ was to be tempered with the physical limits of humanity in order for God to enter into communion on earth with us. And, even so with Jesus Christ as written in scripture, "If all written down, all the books of the world could not contain the record of all His works."

That which is fully God is Flame. Is beyond our conception.

And, so it is that the labor of death, that struggle to throw off the physical is the Gateway to Glory. It is only then that the Spirit is free to embrace God in the fullness of the Heavens. Those ever expansive, never ending Heavens. God's home in Glory. And there we will be with Him forever.

Hope that Never Dies

"Your current plans are going to succeed." "Your financial investments will yield results far beyond your hopes." "You will achieve your dream of success." We know the giddy feeling we get when we open up a fortune cookie and read a message that encourages us and affirms our hopes. Such words give sheer delight. The burdens and discouragement we may be feeling before the message is revealed are banished ... gone ... at least for a while, and we go forth empowered and sure. But, the messages fade.

Those kind of messages, but ones that do indeed last, are available for us all the time and are more than fortune in the sense of predictions of good luck. They are messages anchored in the Truth that is Eternal, the Love that is Everlasting, and the Hope that Never Dies. These messages are found in the Bible, and I turn to them everyday. I turn to them not for shallow messages of all will be well, but deep messages that All Will Be Well.

In the same way, when God desired to show even more clearly to the heirs of the promise the unchangeable character of his purpose, he guaranteed it by an oath, so that through two unchangeable things, in which it is impossible that God would prove false, we who have taken refuge might be strongly encouraged to seize the hope set before us. We have this hope, a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters the inner shrine behind the curtain, where Jesus, a forerunner on our behalf, has entered, having become a high priest forever according to the order of Melchizedek.  Hebrews 6:17-20 (NRSV)