Being Shushed: To Be Still

I love puddles.  

I see such stillness in them.  
Even the chaos of concentric rings colliding from randomly plopping drops has a sense of serenity about it.  
There is an unexplainable order to it.  
Soothing rhythm without meter.   

And when the shower passes, the puddles stay a little while 
. . . quietly mirroring the clean, rain-washed day.  
So beautiful.

I need this kind of serenity.  Especially in the middle of life’s storms.  

. . . things dropping out of brooding skies, colliding with other things, splashing all over the place, creating ripples that bump into more ripples . . . discomposing my plans . . . tussling my emotions . . . 

There is something elegant about a heart that reflects serenity in difficult places. 

Stillness isn’t very trendy.  Brashness is.  Speak your mind.  Be yourself boldly.  Make an impact.  Insist that people always know where you’re coming from.  Live out loud and live loudly.

From Mirriam-Webster’s dictionary, here are some descriptions of "brash:"

full of fresh, raw vitality;

uninhibitedly demonstrative or energetic;

lacking restraint and discernment;

done in haste without regard for consequences;

aggressively self-assertive;

piercingly sharp.

Passion is power for brash people.  Passion is their medium for expression and their means of persuasion.  And it is their validation of truth.

But I am discovering a rich life-treasure in things that are outside of the clamor.  Things that are not brash.  Things that must be drawn from a deep well of soul-quietness.  Things that mean very little when they are paraded about as trophies . . . but are profoundly meaningful when they stand as noble sentinels over a life well lived:

Perseverance.  

Hope.

Repentance.   

Integrity.  

Joy. 

Faith.

Goodness.

Wisdom.

These kinds of things come from brokenness instead of brashness.  They cannot be bought with passion.  They are courageous and astounding and heroic, but they must be slowly worked into the soil of our hearts in the quiet stillness where Truth changes things.  The working of them takes time.  Often causes pain.  But always brings Life.  The Life of God . . . from God . . . in us.

I know that God’s salvation is a gift; it cannot be earned.  And I know that the expression of His salvation in His children is as varied as the flowers in a field or the birds in the sky.  But I am also beginning to understand how shallow . . . and how very cheap . . . a brash faith can be. 

Holly stenciled a short Bible verse on Rachel’s “computer room” wall when she came to visit recently.   This verse has been resonating in my heart for several years, but seeing it written on my daughter-in-law’s wall was so beautiful.  

And quiet.  

And profound.

It is a kind of holy shushing.  
A solemn mandate to stop running and stop shouting and stop performing.  

So we can be quieted to hear.  
And see.  
And truly be changed 

. . .in the stillness of God’s Word 

. . . and in the Truth of who He really is.

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid

The Reid/Ohlheiser Wedding

As my son and his new bride celebrated their “first month anniversary” on August 3rd, I began to reflect on the tranquil beauty of their wedding. The guests sat in folding chairs that were arranged diagonally across our sand volleyball court (sans net, of course). Two friends played instrumental guitar music that my son had co-written. David and Rachel spoke simple, heartfelt vows on a patch of grass overlooking a Smoky Mountain panorama. Our home. Blue sky. White clouds. Summer sun. So very simple.

But there was something immense in the heart of God that presided over this unembellished intimacy. People came. And they brought their blessing to it. And I saw . . . even if only in my limited way . . . how very great God is.

If I tried to narrate for you all the different life-stories of the guests that parked their cars at our barn and walked down the gravel drive to this Ohlheiser/Reid wedding, I would need to write a book. Or maybe even a volume of books. Everyone came despite their personal illnesses or their personal tragedies or their personal biases or even their personally hectic schedules. Some had travelled long distances to be with us. All had journeyed through years of friendship or family love with us. They didn’t all know each other. But the God Who Knows came with each of them. There was rich fellowship. We were so very, very grateful.

It was a small wedding. Elegant in its simplicity. Profound in its quiet acknowledgment that the Lord is God. And He is good.

As I now browse through the photo album and let the memories distill themselves through the filter of God’s utter faithfulness, images of a fairy-tale wedding or a dashing-prince groom or a Barbie-princess bride don’t really find footing in my heart. Something else is settling there. Something intimate. Something immense.

There is such immensity in God’s intimacy. If we are not vigilant over Truth in our souls, we will miss it. We will miss the largeness of His Love. We will miss the precious variety in His people. We will miss valuable opportunities to offer hope and compassion to those who live outside of our community of believers.

The unfathomable depth of a private relationship with the Creator of the Universe . . . if we let Him pursue us honestly and simply . . . will bring life. Forgiveness. Redemption. Peace. Joy. And much, much more. This truth, for me, is at the heart of David's and Rachel's wedding.

The intimacy of God can be so immense. If we let it.

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid

Rain

I love rain.

I love the shushing noise it makes when it ruffles spring’s soft iris petals.

I love the cooling calm it sprinkles generously across a steamy summer afternoon.

I love the dank, musty smell of soppy leaves after a chilly autumn downpour.

And I even love the cold, dusky aloneness of a long winter’s drench.

I need rain.

To quiet my heart.

To refresh my soul.

To remind me that every season of my life must have life-giving showers to soften the parched, dry places. So that things can be planted. And watered. And grow.

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
Nor are your ways My ways," declares the Lord.
“For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
So are My ways higher than your ways
And My thoughts than your thoughts.
For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,
And do not return there without watering the earth
And making it bear and sprout,
And furnishing seed to the sower and bread to the eater;
So will My Word be which goes forth from My mouth;
It will not return to Me empty,
Without accomplishing what I desire,
And without succeeding in the matter for which I sent it.”
Isaiah 55:8-11 (NASB)

God’s precious Word is my rain. Sometimes flooding. Sometimes gently showering. Always bringing Truth when It comes. And always leaving behind a renewed sense that it isn’t my understanding of His Ways that really matters.

I don’t need to understand at all.

I simply need to know.

Him.

I’ve been keeping a photo journal of the rain at Kirkhaven. Here’s a picture of my wet “walking boots” after I have traipsed through the soggy Kirkhaven meadow snapping pictures of rain-glazed grass.

I wanted to share some of my rain photos with you. I send them out into the blogosphere with a simple, heart-felt prayer. For those who are thirsty. For those who are dry. For those who know. And for those who think they can’t:

Father, send the rain.

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid

In the Mean Time

I have so many items on my list of “Things to Do.” But instead of "doing", I have been sitting on my shady front porch . . . with Abe . . . reading David McCullough’s fascinating biography of John Adams. My husband is gone to business meetings. My son is on a jobsite somewhere building a fence. The poodles are napping. And I am sitting outside in the humid southern summer with Abe.

I had first planned to run a few errands, but my son and my husband have our two cars. Dave’s truck is sitting in the cottage driveway, but I can’t find his keys. Guess running errands is out of the question. I don’t have any car keys.

Then I thought that I would do a little painting prep-work in the cottage. It wouldn’t hurt to get a little work done over there. But all the doors were locked . . . and both men have all the keys. Guess working at the cottage is out of the question. I don’t have any way of getting inside.

Then I decided that I should take a walk and do some outdoor photography. I toted my camera to a clump of thistles to see if I could capture a good picture of the bees buzzing from bloom to bloom. After the third picture, my camera battery shut down. I had forgotten to recharge it. Guess I won’t be taking pictures right now. I don’t have an extra battery.

I already cleaned the kitchen. Perhaps I could do laundry. The floors definitely need a good scrubbing. But instead, I have chosen to sit and read. And think.

The thing I have been thinking about is the phrase, “in the mean time.” I am doing that right now . . . not really able to do what I wanted or planned to do, but waiting for the time when everything will work out so I can move forward. For now . . . sitting on the front porch with Abe . . . reading and thinking and drinking iced tea . . . is how I have chosen to spend my “in the mean time.” In a sense, I am waiting. But in another sense, I am fully occupied. That is pretty much what “in the mean time” is. It is both waiting and occupying.

Then it dawned on me: life is FULL of interims. Waiting for summer. Waiting for the move to college. Waiting for your birthday. Waiting for a promotion at work. Waiting for the wedding. Waiting for grandchildren. Waiting and occupying is as much a part of life as “real activity” is. And the way we spend our “in the mean times” can be the defining framework that surrounds everything else we do. Are we anxious? Are we fearful? Are we frustrated? Are we bored? Is there a sense of fullness and peace in the mean time?

I think our “in the mean time” moments are the prologues and the epilogues of the chapters of our lives. They set us up . . . emotionally, mentally, physically, and spiritually . . . for the activities God brings to us. And then they give us an opportunity, at the end of it all, to find clarity and meaning to the working-out of His hand in our lives. Perhaps we shouldn’t be in such a hurry or full of such anxiety about what will happen next. Perhaps we should be completely content in the mean time. Perhaps there are treasures of blessings there.

I think I should tell David and Rachel that these last three-and-a-half weeks before their wedding are important “in the mean time” days. They should treasure them. They should allow God’s peace and love and wisdom and grace to soak into every nook and cranny of their “waiting for the big day” hours. These “in the mean time” days can be a beautiful, blessed prologue for their new chapter in life.

I think I should tell myself that, too.

The picture of the bee and the thistle I have shared with you is from last year. I will take more photos later when my camera battery finishes charging. And, in the mean time, I will get a new glass of iced tea. Abe isn’t finished with his nap and I have a few more pages to read . . .

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid

Abe's Blog

I have become a “dog person.” I am quite surprised by this fact. When I was a young wife with four growing children, I just never quite pictured myself as a 50-year-old dog lover. But as my energy level wanes a bit and I have more time to indulge in quiet things like long walks and thick books, I am beginning to truly enjoy the loyal companionship and whimsical friendship of my dogs.

Typically, Kirkhaven is the realm of poodles. Very small, delicate poodles. They lounge on your lap. They nap in your arms. They snuggle at your shoulder as you sit on the couch reading a book or watching a movie. They enjoy a short traipse through the daisy meadow and gleefully chase turkeys if such serendipity arises. Poodles gaze deeply into your heart. They lick you gently on the nose. Their loyalty and intelligence is rooted in their ancient breeding as hunting dogs. Their mission at Kirkhaven is to joyfully greet every visitor and lavishly rest with all who enter our doors. They lie quietly as you stroke their soft, curly fur and totally convince you that THIS is the important moment of your day.

But a new age is dawning at Kirkhaven. Abe is coming to town. Things are truly about to change around here. If you haven’t met this endearing soul, it will be difficult for you to fully grasp the immense impact he is going to have on our tranquil home. Abe spent last summer with us when Dave came home for summer break. I totally know what we are getting into this time. I don’t think I will tell the poodles that Abe is coming.

Abe is a dog. Just like my poodles. Abe also has ancestral hunting blood running through his veins. Just like my poodles. Abe is well-meaning and genial. Just like my poodles. Mmmm . . . let me see . . . that’s about it. Yup. That’s all Abe has in common with the poodles. Everything else about this German Short-haired huntin’ dawg is utterly unpoodle-ish.

My son Dave, recently graduated from North Dakota State University, is bringing Abe home to us. Dave will be marrying his lovely bride, Rachel, in the back yard of our Tennessee hill-top home on July 3rd. Then Dave, Rach, and Abe will be settling into the “Kirkhaven Cottage” to begin their life-journey together. I will get to spend a lot of time with this energetic dog. I am quite looking forward to it. I think.

What Abe Looks Like:

Abe has a rich, shiny liver coat. The white patch on his chest makes him look a little like he is wearing a tuxedo. His eyes have that doleful expression that makes you want to kiss him right on the snout. Which you really shouldn’t do. He will kiss you back.

Abe’s Joy: Abe is 70 long-legged pounds of pure, bird-dog energy. He doesn’t traipse through daisy patches like poodles do. He bounds. His long, floppy ears haphazardly flap in the wind as he barrels across the rolling fields on our East Tennessee ridge-top. He dives into the woods if he smells something interesting. He streaks and zig-zags through the tall grass following every scent and alerting to every wildlife happenstance. He is so exuberant in his freedom that even your own heart begins to swell with joy as you watch his unbridled galloping . Then he usually makes a final sharp turn and plows through every flower bed on his way to the swimming pool. It is pretty much impossible to stop him, even if you think you have the advantage of a head-start. Neither wildly flinging arms, nor strongly yelled rebukes, nor any feeble attempts to block his way will prevent Abe from diving into the pool. I have tried them all. Especially on muddy days. It is a simple fact: Abe is deaf and unavailable to all forms of communication when he is rejoicing.

Abe’s Devotion:

Abe is devoted to his people. Especially to Dave. No one is a “stranger” to Abe, and he is generous and lavish in his affection. Actually he expresses himself in much the same way as poodles do . . . only more gangly. He, too, wants to spend time with you. And nap with you. And relax in the quietness of your friendship. It’s just that he is much heavier than a poodle . . . and has slightly less manners. And Abe snores.

Abe’s Melancholy:

Abe doesn’t like to be alone. That’s really his only serious personality flaw. He will eat through any fence. Scratch through any door. Dig deep holes. He will do whatever it takes to be reunited with his people. It is one of the saddest sounds in the world when Abe . . . all alone in his dog pen . . . starts his mournful howling. “Sounds like a dang hound dog,” is how Dave describes it.

I am looking forward to seeing ol’ Abe again. We will take walks together. We will play fetch in the west meadow. And we will sit on the loggia on really hot days while everyone else is at work. Someone else will have to scold him for ignoring commands and for digging holes and for howling. That won’t be my responsibility. Abe and I will simply enjoy each other. I don’t have any grandchildren. I suppose Abe is my grand-dog.

Perhaps the poodles will learn to love Abe, too. In spite of his lack of manners.

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid

Events and the Now

I want to be a person who can live in the moment. As I stop to think about it, I am astounded that after 50 years of life experience, I am still grappling with exactly how to be fully present . . . and fully alive . . . in my immediate “Now.” I have been anxious about the future. I have been nostalgic about the past. I have allowed myself far too much liberty in becoming stressed with the present. But I really don’t think I have mastered . . . in 50 years of living . . . the art of living Now.

I think I have fallen into the trap of living my life as a collection of events.

First there have been the planned events. They were prepared for. They were executed to the best of my ability. Then they were recorded and catalogued . . . in pictures or writings or memories. And they were finally relegated to the recesses of experience where I could access them for future planned events. Neatly packaged.

Then there have been the unplanned events. Some of them wonderfully waltzed into my life with the joy and laughter of a happy surprise. Some of them body-slammed me with the gut-wrenching horror of an unexpected shock. Some of them I have immensely enjoyed. Some of them I have barely survived. They too, of course, were still events . . . life happenings. Just not so neatly packaged.

But I am beginning to wonder if this “life-event” mentality is shortchanging me. If l have been living from one event to another . . . then what has been happening to the in-between times? It certainly cannot be possible that God is silent in-between. It cannot be possible that nothing important transpires in-between. It could, however, be possible that I am missing something in-between.

So . . . maybe . . . instead of life being a collection of events . . . maybe life is a progression of moments. And maybe life’s real challenge isn’t to have successful events but to find real Life in every moment.

If this is true, then my salvation is not just a life-changing event. It is more. It is an astounding moment-to-moment continuing journey with the Creator of the universe. Every moment of every day. Even when the only event happening is a lovely sunset or a quiet starry night.

And motherhood is not just an emotionally-charged birth. It is more. It is a committed, enduring relationship of ups and downs with someone who is so like me yet very much NOT me. Every moment of every day. Even when I haven’t spoken with my child in days . . . or weeks . . . or years.

And my father’s death isn’t just a final medical tragedy. It is more. It is the temporary postponement of a joyous reunion in eternity when there will be no more pain or worry or cancer. Every moment of every day. Even if I miss his laugh and his warm, assuring encouragement today.

DeVern Fromke, in his book Unto Full Stature puts it this way:

It is just here we see the glaring weakness in many fundamental circles. Too many emphasize the past-tense crisis act and almost ignore the privilege of the continuous present participation. They rejoice in the finished work, but know or seemingly care little about the continuous operation of Life within them by the Holy Spirit. It is one thing to have received “Life in the Son,” but it is sure an equal privilege to enjoy the vital participation in Life every day by His Spirit.

Vital participation in Life every day. By His Spirit. I think that is what I need.

Live in the moment. With Him. By Him. Because of Him. Every moment of every day.

Hear Him.
Appreciate Him.
Agree with Him.
Work with Him.

Rejoice with Him.

Let Him console you.
Be loved by Him.
And love Him back.
Through every event.
And especially in-between.

It is true, I think, that events are markers in the progression of our lives. But I am thinking that the stuff life is really made of is its moments. And true artistry is living each one to its fullest. In Him.

I want to be a person who can really live in the moment.

John 1:4
In Him is Life.

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid

Hannah's Wedding

The sound of Hannah’s Wedding is what I remember most. Of course the flowers were beautiful. The ceremony was truly sweet. Hannah was absolutely gorgeous in her beaded, fairy-tale dress. And the reception at The Bower’s Barn could not have been more perfect.

But this afternoon, as I putz through another Kirkhaven Monday, it is the sound of Hannah’s Wedding that I remember most vividly. My heart still resonates with it. It’s a warm, rich, patchwork-quilt kind of clatter that says, “The saints of God have come. And blessing is raining.”
Hannah Grace contentedly hummed on her daddy’s lap . . .
Mom Ann chatted quietly with Wendy in the vestibule . . .
Roonie laughed . . .
Angel whispered as she hugged a friend . . .

I stood in the doorway of the sanctuary at Hannah's Wedding, with my eyes closed, and let my heart become drenched with the sound of God’s precious people. I listened to it . . . this symphony of fellowship. I listened because I had heard it before. I listened because I knew . . . when I heard it . . . that Father had sent His most treasured envoys to bear his rarest gifts. Gifts found only in His Son and in the fellowship of His people:

I knew there would be joy.
I knew there would be peace.

I knew there would be love.

The celebration would be lavish.

The blessing would be enduring.

And it truly was.

God's people had come to Hannah's Wedding.
And the sound was glorious.

Psalms 46:10-11
Lesa K. Reid