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The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 18 (5/9/2017)

Champs Last night was date night, which usually finds us beneath stars and story. But alas, we had some things we needed to do in town, so we headed to the mall. The food court may not be the most romantic dinner spot, but it was what it was and so we both chose our tasty spots and their lines. I worked my way through swiftly and scanned for a table. I was headed for one when I felt to go to a different section. Settling in, I saw that my person had me in his sights, as he always does (that guy!!) and would join me soon. It was then that I heard the crash of the chair, scrape of the table and scream of a young woman. Turning, I saw the disturbance had begun right next to the table I almost chose. That table in fact, was now moved across the floor. Two young men were locked in a less than friendly "hug". On any other day, they may have been sitting at the same table, putting away pizza and slurping soda. But this day, there was something between them, though no space now separated them. One shouted over and over, "You hurt my best friend and you don't even care." Most other occupants lost interest and looked away. But my heart squeezed tight in the vise of their pain. This was not part of my everyday. Or was it? As I watched and prayed, recognition came that I was witness to the wrestling world. The one that tosses and tumbles around me each and every day. Chests heaving, nostrils flaring, fists full of flesh, heads buried so deep into the grapple, vision departed, perspective spent. I wondered in the weight, if the one defending his friend had ever embraced him quite so fully, held him as tightly as he did this great enemy now. Head to chest, feeling a hammering heart, beating out the fear and pain of trying to be something so much more. Had they ever wrestled down the lie so the truth could rest? Plucked together the seed that grows between. Growing in darkness until light breaks through. Arrested the slithering falseness that says we are all contenders instead of champions. That we must fight for ourselves and fill our fists with what we find instead of opening our hands to what awaits us. That life is about winning instead of victory. And denies the desperation for open hands to be clasped and raised in praise and proclaim. The brawl was but the width of a few breaths. For just as I felt my person approaching, a man entered my view. His dark brown uniform nearly matched the color of his skin. Swiftly entering the story, he never raised his voice. He simply clapped. Three times. It was enough. They startled and stopped. It was then I noticed his name tag. I don't know why it pierced me so, except for the knowing that he was named. I couldn't read the tag but I imagine it said "humble" or "laid down" or "servant". Then came his voice, quiet and strong. A two word sermon tumbled out. "Everyone matters." Amen. He left the scene as the young men did. But the candor didn't. It seeped and seared. Not one head now averted, all on alert. Everyone matters. Those who stopped looking and those who can't stop. And those with hands to clap. Hands that carry peace, order, beauty. We the humble, laid down, servants here to tell a wrestly, wrangly world it matters. That they, the great they, whose sum is the world, matter. Chronicles: Let the Light reveal a wrestlers ring inside you. A place where you feel you must contend to win instead of being champion, with victory already assured. Tabletop: Create an atmosphere of rest for those coming. Leave a little note at each place reminding each one of the champion they are!

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The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 17 (5/1/2017)

Positive A decade plus three years ago, upon a table, body numb, inside out. A baby's faint cry, heads lightly touching before my person, her daddy carried babe to the NICU. Machines whirring, tugs and twitches on empty, the tense voice of a doctor. The what ifs and worst cases playing out. Even in the feeling void, I resisted the pulls and plucks to save, so they stayed me with slumber. Drifting and dense, statements fell, "This was too hard. More would not be best. We need your consent." Parched lips with the word they needed pouring out like ink upon paper. And it was done. Tied and tamed. No more. Four months ago, whispered wonder. "Would you be willing, to host a bit of heaven?" How easy to grant access to the impossible. Until you recognize it will cost all the faithfulness you have always wanted to give. And you must reckon with how much harder it all turns as you await the miracle that He will make of your yes. For the invitation was to more than pregnancy. It was to the unknown. To the mystery of manna. "What is it?" Manna means. Different taste upon varied lips. It tastes as what you believe. It satisfies as you carry. Contentment cradled, day by day. Mystery. The not knowing. The reality of how much you don't want Him to have to show you something so you will believe. So you dance with Light on the dark valley floor, as you just make out the outline of the mount you will sing at the top of your lungs from. One day. The question. The query. "Are you positive?" Positive. I dug to define. "Tub". A container. Filled with the best, gladness, prosperity and bounty. The question truly, "Will you know He's good no matter how this turns out? Will this have been His best if it diverges from what you thought? Will you let him prosper you through the unseen and unknown of it? Will let joy be the song you sing?" Yes, we're positive. Days upon days later, an appointment with wand and screen. And a wonderful woman who has seen much and keeps her eyes open. To mystery. I shower, prepare. Weeks have waited with us. My person returns from de-hungering our herd. And he says, "Did you cry the whole time you were in the shower or just half of it?" He knows. He always knows. "The whole time." He smiles. "What did your tears find?" he asks as he takes the towel from my hair. "Deyanus," I reply. So many enoughs. "Your favorite?" again with a smile. "If you had only asked," tears streaming once more. Now upon table, heart bare. Pressing, threshing upon feeling flesh. And then, tiny and tender, a shot from our story. One, still and stopped to show fluttering heart. Another, like firefly too quick to catch. Our own hearts, skipped beats, pounding. At the manifestation of mystery. Glory. It is what mystery grows into when we behold instead of holding on. It is what allows us to melt into the mystery, miracle and majesty. To become portion of such a glorious prize. It's what it feels like when the sight of sunset enters your soul. Healing as it pierces. Grief and joy mixture as you reconcile that you will not get that glimpse again, yet the next time the sun settles in Heaven's hand the gaze will be full, because it will be bigger, grander, greater. And you know, you will never stop pursuing what glory looks like. Because the revelation of met mystery is what sustains. It is the substance of that which is believed. And the most beautiful parts and paragraphs come from the lines and letters we couldn't see but that were etched upon memory forever and the simple sound of His saying. Chronicles: Let Pappa remind you of a time when He spoke a word and the mystery of it, the manna of it sustained you all the way to fulfillment. Tabletop: Watch the sunset together and have each person describe the glory of it.

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The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 16 (4/24/2017)

Bless Many years ago, when our biggles were littles and there were but three, I read a book about giving blessings and set about to apply it. The idea was that we would line the kids up in a "train" and as each one knelt before us, we would speak a blessing over them. That was the idea. The result was a pile of wiggling, giggling fleshy frames. We tried several times before realizing that we would need to find a way to bless our bundles in the midst of moving moments everyday. Or when they were sleeping, lol. As this Passover season utterly ran me through, my heart returned to the beauty of bless, in the final earthly act of a man turned Savior. He led them, His disciples out, away from every doubt and distraction. He had risen from His grave and now needed to call them from theirs. To resurrect, He blessed. "Lifting up his hands, He blessed them. While He blessed them, He parted from them and was carried up into heaven." He wasn't dissuaded by the weakness they had each displayed, for He knew what they needed. Strength. A firmness and fortitude only He could give. For blessing conveys the proposal of a weakness, our weakness, being compensated for. Reimbursed and recouped. But sometimes, more than we want it to be true, we won't bow for the bless until we see how close we are to the curse. Two short days before Passover, Yeshua said to them: "Tonight, you will all lose faith in me, as the Tanakh says 'I will strike the shepherd dead, and the sheep of the flock will be scattered.' Matthew 26:31 (CJB) My. Heart. Can't. Stand. It. You will all lose faith. You won't believe me anymore. You will wage war against my will instead of walking in it. Clinging to curse instead of bending for bless. It wasn't long until they fulfilled His word. At the home of a leper who had not yet overcome the stench and stigma. A woman. What she carried was named, though she was not. Yet. An alabaster jar in her hands. A prophecy upon her heart. She split it and spilt it. All over Jesus. And the disciples scattered. Everything they had believed now a curse they wanted to be rid of. And they slung them all like daggers, towards His very heart. "How could you? Why don't you? You won't. You can't." Feeding on a daily dose of conclusions instead of feasting on daily bread. Jesus welcomed the unleash of extravagance to Him and for Simon. One man's time had come. Another's would pass. The shamed now shameless. And the disciples said, "Why this waste? This perfume could have been sold and given to the poor." But it wasn't perfume. It was praise. Praise can never be sold, but always offered. And the disciples cursed what they weren't capable of. They couldn't yet praise. Extravagance eluded them. "How could you give Simon what he needed and not us what we wanted" they cried. And one left, bound for betrayal. His answer filled the room, fragrant with spice. For this wasn't just for one. It was for all. It's always for all. It always will be. Soon, a shudder and shake will crack me wide and you will receive the extravagance of never covering yourselves. For if you try to find cloak and cape, you won't be able to pour out to others that which they need. They stood in the bouquet of bless. Jesus did what He will always do. He took hold of the loose thread of the sweater. They twisted and turned, away, until that which they had clothed themselves with lay in a formless heap at their feet. At His. Then he shaped every strand into a robe. For when they were ready. To wear Him. We are not such different disciples. How often do we curse that which we aren't capable of? Our incapability incapacitates when we cling to the curse instead of breaking for the blessing. Year ago, I was on a golf course which was a favorite place of mine. This particular day was the regional tournament my high school team had advanced to. I was designated the low medalist because of my score at our district meet. At district, I played the game of my life. Regionals, Not so much. If the hole had been the Grand Canyon, I couldn't have gotten the ball in it. Near the last few holes, I had pummeled the ball so many times (each one taking it farther from the hole) that I'm sure the shell was gone and the pulp inside was running through the grass. The last two holes were near the clubhouse. I know not how long this particular official had watched me. I also know not if he yelled out to me in order to stop his pain or mine. I just heard the shout when it came. "Just take a ten honey." Take a ten in golf terms was mercy. It meant to write a ten for that hole even if you had hit the ball twenty times. In other words, take a knee. Bend for bless. I'm pretty sure the number of curses I spoke at least equaled the number of times I hit the ball that day. Myself for being inadequate. I probably threw my coach in for believing in me enough to put me in the category he did. And I may have tossed my teammates in as they received medals and I just had the medallion made from my curses. He knows. He doesn't disqualify, He bends. Eleven beloveds cursed. One betrayed. One broke His heart, but eleven kept it beating. That helps me so much. To know I keep His heart beating. Jesus told the disciples they would be scattered, not shattered. And every word He said to them, culminated in a blessing. One that empowered them to be able to do what was not in their natural capabilities. And He does the same for us. All day, every day. "You can't do it? Bend for the bless." He aches when we don't. When we won't. For He longs to declare Pappa's favor over us. And to power the prosperity of the blessing. He melts when we let Him motivate us along the course of the blessing so we see the fullness of it. So we become the fullness and take it wherever we go. The disciples were scattered. Stems that once leaned hard right and left, now strong and stout. All that they believed about Him (and them) hung upon them like the feathery seeds of a dandelion. Spirit hovered blowing each seed across the earth. Each sinking into soil, thrusting roots and sprouting fruit. They weren't capable of that type of strew and spread. Without blessing they couldn't unroll and unfurl in such a way. And neither can we. Chronicles: Let Pappa reveal someone he has for you to bless. To speak truth and life to or for. Journal all He says, them let him guide you in how to release it to them. Tabletop: Prepare a time of blessing for those at your table this week. As part of your preparation, take a risk and bless with the Hebrew model as a guide. A Hebrew blessing has five portions. Touch. By touching as you bless, you are communicating that the person is received where they are, how they are. In America, though we are home of the brave, land of the free, touch seems cause us to feign frailty instead of finding our fierce. Its funny though. Studies have found that sports teams that swat, slap, pat and poke each other are more victorious than teams that don't. So, when we touch each other - we are actually encouraging each other to victory!! Spoken words. Speaking to a person why we believe in them and what we believe for them unleashes a portion of power! Word pictures. As each Hebrew letter has a pictograph that walks alongside it, so can our blessings. Read the blessings of the tribes sometime. Each tribe had its own path and received the blessing that would help them remain upon it no matter what plan the enemy had! Example - Joseph. It was said he was a fruitful vine, near a spring whose branches climbed over walls. Though much came against him, the declaration of his blessing was that he would always overcome. Imagine what is to come. As we bless, its so crucial to share that what is to come has saved a place for us. This speaks to all we can't see yet. I was thinking of Issac and his blessing up Jacob. He was so near blindness, he couldn't see even who he was blessing. Yet he connected to the Lord and spoke of the what was to come. He didn't need to see to do that, he needed to know the One who sees! Commit. We are pretty familiar with prophetic words. They are awesome for sure. Yet, as we bless each other, it truly matters that we are committed to seeing that blessing come to fulness. Thats part of community, of family. So as part of blessing, we yield ourselves to remind each other, encourage each other, participate with each other towards the blessing.

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The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 15 (4/17/2017)

With The past few mornings I have been awakened by thunder. That which passes from sound to sonic and booms through you, causing you to shimmy slightly from one place to another. Digging deeper into my warm, snuggly bed, beneath strong roof and between sound walls, I tried to imagine what it was like for those without shelter and shield of the crucifixion's elements. With battle swaying and swelling around them and thunder pitching and plunging them deeper into the story that had an early telling. One they had each read but didn't have the strength to see was being told, lived, not just before them, but with them. Nearly a week of nights ago now, I reached the culmination of my preparation for Passover. As the hour of His Gethsemane approached I was acutely aware of His alone. I was desperate then, to stay with Him all night. I just needed to be near on a night so far away. Slumber came and went even as desperately as I darted away. But between the nods and winks, I had the most incredible night with Him. I swept the sweat from His brow and caught His tears in my hands. I layed upon His feet wrapped myself around His shoulders. As best I could, I guarded Him with each beat of my grateful heart. In that Garden I saw He wasn't awaiting crucifixion, though the act of it was yet to come, but was in the process of being crucified. Yielding, grieving, dwelling in the deepest of valley, looking towards joy that would not fully be seen until He was raised up to a clearer view. And clinging not as much to His "yes" but the One He gave it freely to. Surrounding Him were those that He desired to be with Him. They were there but could not be with Him because they were suffering their own crucifixion. For this all looked different than what they had dreamed. Wasn't He the mighty warrior coming to war on their behalf, making their current life better? They couldn't yet see that He was there to save them forever, not just for a day, month or year. They felt betrayed, abandoned, rejected and misunderstood. They had followed Him for their version of the story, the way their finite hearts had determined it must be for it to be real or true. They questioned and accused, filling the atmosphere with it. And Jesus wept. He grieved. He chose. To let everyone of those accusations fall upon His skin, His flesh. That which would be torn apart because those accusations existed. It wasn't until He let all their missed marks, brokens and blemishes be torn away, that they began to see. He had so much more than temporal. He held eternity. All the poetic parables and confusing conversations began to make sense. They saw that He took all their versions upon Himself, so they would have room for the always intended. The more than could be dreamed version to be resurrected. They weren't cast away because different seemed dark. No, they were invited right into the real story and they said yes. They let him repaint, reconfigure, remodel and reintroduce them to what Heaven truly held. A few sleepless nights later, resurrection came. Isn't it something that when He was gone, they couldn't sleep, yet when He was there, awake eluded them? Even so, they began to live the true story, the one they were created for. That which has been told for generations. They didn't get what they felt they were guaranteed. Instead they were glorified to more than they knew was possible. It is here, in the perfectness of all He has provided, I recognize that which I would rather not see. There are many times I go to the garden with Him, in order to keep him there until my version blooms. I plant and prune though His promises are those which I didn't plant and will simply grow if I let them. If I stop excavating and extracting to make sure something is truly happening beneath the dirt and dark of what I cannot see. Yet. Sometimes I don't want to take up my cross and follow. When I don't know where He's going. I would rather wait in the dust of death than be lifted to life. And He goes to the cross again. When I won't yield, He gives. Everything. He chooses the cross again, my cross, so it becomes a real part of my story - not just a piece of the past. Many feel crucified right now. Hearts slain. In gardens of our design, unyielding to the gift of the cross. We just don't know if we can make it to the cross afterall. Yet the cross isn't a piece of wood in a field, it is within us. He placed it there through His death, so we would have life. Living often means placing our version upon that cross deep inside. For we are His daring disciples of this day. These moments matter because there is a monumental difference between living and resurrected life. Resurrection appreciates that "with" is an ongoing, never ending, perpetual pursuit. And when we struggle to carry the cross, He climbs upon it and is opened up anew, so visibility comes to that which we could not see. Different distracts us to think what is before us is wrong, but it really just hasn't had the chance to be resurrected yet, for we haven't put it on the cross. Yet He waits with us in our gardens. He stays awake and prays. He fills our atmosphere with love and truth, light and hope. And we remember that He is good. And that He came, so we would live. Full throttle, on the edge, tipping the scales lives. Chronicles: Our covenant this week is "Resurrected" so we are letting Him reveal to us those places in us, the things of our heart that we haven't let live because they looked different. And we've asked Him for resurrection. Do the same this week! Tabletop: Let Pappa reveal someone who needs a "resurrection" of being seen. For Shabbat take them a dish, a dessert or something pretty for their Shabbat table. Feel free to be anonymous if you would like. Just leave it for them in time for their Shabbat.

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The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 14 (4/10/2017)

Part Dawn darted in and out of drawn drapes, daring me into my day. Paths to tread, trails to blaze. Or maybe just a blog to write. But before feet could find floor, my heart needed to find what it was beating for. My hub thumped and throbbed as the humanity of me sought the tempo and time of Heaven through three queries I bring to the brightness of breaking day. How can I reveal the companionship of God, the nurturing of El Shaddai and the passion of Jesus today? In walking out this invitation I received a few months ago, I have found that if I manifest these things to my person, if I start there, it ends up everywhere. For what is given freely to one, multiplies for many. Ravenous I swung and swayed beneath Heaven's hearth for the mighty manna to come. It was then I realized my person had not yet risen to feed our flock of animals. And he wanted to snuggle. With a smile and a sigh, I awaited his arms. This actually takes a bit longer than it used to. With our move to Naveh, we purchased an insert for our bed that allows us to incline. It also required two mattresses and though it sounds nice that we each have our own, this has created what we have named "the Gap of Rohan". For though there is nothing between us in heart, there is a great divide between our mattresses that we must cross each time we would like to draw near to one another. We are learning to bridge the gap :). I entered embrace, manna fell and my spirit sang, "This is the best part". And recognition of this days royal role resounded. "Choose the best part." But of one thing there is need, and Mary the good part did choose, that shall not be taken away from her. Luke 10:42 I've read this scripture many times, but this morning, I let Him tell me the story. Weary from the road, came Wonder to their door, fellowship upon His heart. He sought not catering but communion. Aching for friend as alternative for foe. For a broken beloved with a kneeling heart to be the antidote for a beating band marching to battle instead of bending knees. He entered and one entered in. Mary. She let Him breathe and be. Her heart provided a place for His every word to hang upon. Not one fell to the ground. But she did. Right at His feet. Postured upon the truth of who He was. There was no requirement for her to be needless. Lack led the way. Necessity drew her nigh. And she chose the best part. Temporal her choice was not. Not a momentary selection but a permanent election. A setting apart. Choice wields its weight in such a way. Just as Jesus chose His disciples - without intent of ever letting go. And as Pappa who fits us for His favor, sets us apart as His own and attends to us each with His infinite oversight. Mary chose like that. Jesus before her, in a seat that hovered slightly above her, she gave Him lasting occupation, full capacity. For the best part. Delicate and dainty she declared that He would always be the fulfillment of the need. No, He didn't ask her to be needless. He asked to let Him be the only filling of that need. It was permeated forever for she now always knew where to look. A fragment of eternity was resurrected within her. For she found a form of forever and would never stop seeking it. Within evermore and eternal she happened and hoped upon the best part. Her portion. That which was assigned to her from the start. From the beginning to which she belonged. Within that tiny stretch of eternity, she saw the boundlessness of partaking. She didn't flee and she didn't greed for more. She simply let her branches stretch until adorned with what was hers. Allotted and allowed. She wasn't put off that inside boundless was much for many. The more for others didn't bring less or loss. The expansiveness didn't frighten her. It found her. Deep inside. For a little line in Luke says that what she chose "could never be taken away." Evermore meets nevermore. The best part last and lingers. The part which holds its breath until we nearly collide with it, gasps when we take hold of it and sighs with satisfaction when we loosen our grip in the glory of knowing it won't be cut off or carried away. Pesach (Passover) begins as this evening's sun sets. And I find myself trembling at the choices I've made that I missed the eternity in. Those that didn't have "best part" etched upon them. And I've asked, because I can, because He asks, for passover for those choices. That I might choose again. The best part, instead of my idea, plan or ideal. And I lay down my idol. And the cross within me resurrects to bear fruit beyond me. Chronicles: Ask for the revelation of choices that need passover. Choose in this now and let eternity be resurrected in you! Tabletop: Deyanu means "it would have been enough" or "it would have been sufficient". Share with each other at least five things the Lord has done for you, that if He had only done that, would have been so much more than enough.

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The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 13 (4/3/2017)

Grow We are in the middle of the beginning of our first garden. Well, there was the year of Toggle's carrot garden. The yield was the tiniest carrots you'v ever seen, but if they made it from outside to inside not within Toggle's tummy, we cut those little carrots up and put them in our dinner salad. So, after all these years and numerous homes, I'm so excited to have a full garden on its way. I grew up with gardens, and with the exception of two incidents, they were a favorite part of my childhood. Incident one I call Nosebreak Spring. I had been tasked with holding our German Shepherd, Arco, while my dad started the rototiller. Arco got away from me and the chase that followed caused my nose and my dad's fist to "connect" mid pull of the starter cord. Incident two was that of the "Great" Okra Harvest. The covenant of the okra that year must have been multiplication because okra took over the entire garden. There was so much, my dad sent us door to door through the neighborhood selling it for fifty cents a bag. There was still more than we could eat, even though we ate it every day. Every single day. With incidences noted, I'll move on. I loved our garden! The fragrance of the overturned earth. The feel of broken dirt that had come from deeper than I could see. The colors and shapes of the seeds that would be plunged inside tiny holes formed by my fingers. Bliss. Everyday I would check the rows and eventually learned the difference between sprout and weed so that I didn't accidentally uproot our coming harvest. Again. Weeks that felt like years later, my favorite day would come. As we always seemed to plant tall crops, the warm and wondrous day would come when I could sit within the garden and be completely hidden between the giant corn stalks and the infamous okra. Between the guard and gratuity of the garden, I felt like a tiny seed with a tantamount something inside. Designs and dreams were imprinted upon my heart between hoed rows and heavy harvest. Wrapped within my garden moments was a marvel. My eyes were ever drawn to where the ground opened to allow the passage of the stalk and stem and I was always amazed at how impossible it seemed that such a tiny place could house such big potential. My yield from those lazy days in the harvest's hammock was hope. For I was tiny too. And there was far more in me than it felt like there was room for. CS Lewis described it like this in The Great Divorce: My teacher gave me a curious smile. 'Look', he said. And with the word he went down on his hands and knees. I did the same (how it hurt my knees!) and presently saw that he had plucked a blade of grass. Using its thin end as a pointer, he made me see, after I had looked very closely, a crack in the soil so small I could not have identified it without this aid. 'I cannot be certain,' he said, 'that this is the crack ye came up through. But through a crack no bigger than that ye certainly came.' We grow in the largest ways from the smallest places. Enormous growth comes from a hemmed in hole. We see restriction as something to resist and rebel instead of the place to hold tight. To be held tight. And often as we tread across the soil of our yet to comes, we can see it as dirt to wash away instead of a sacred place where a hidden seed is growing. So very sacred because it is home for His secret. All of this so we can grow. All while we make every attempt to change. Yet growth is what changes us. You see, if the seed of me is an acorn, then the imprint within me is to become a majestic oak. Growing will invite me to the destiny of my design while every shaft of light implores, each sprinkle and stream invites and all prunes and prods ignite. If I instead try to change, my greatest attempts will lead to my deepest disappointments. Because to change would mean to become a pear or pomegranate and deny the design that He is desperate for me to reveal. Change doesn't bring maturity, maturity brings change. Maturity comes as we grow. It comes when we allow the light to divulge our hidden treasures, flood to disclose our frail and fear and weeding to display our ability to let go. Growth allows us to be different than we are now, but not different than He intends us to be. And even on the day that large comes from little, we will have choice and challenge. We can easily chop down the tree of we to build a stage. We might produce a platform instead of kneeling beneath stretching branches, hearts postured for praise. As I am learning to let Him grow me, these words have been a ready refrain: Down in the dirt buried deep, there is a promise, there is a seed. And with some sun and with some rain, a little shelter from the pain, with some patience and some time, you'll see it grow and grow. Chronicle: Let Him reveal to you and area where you are trying to change instead of grow. You might even let Him reveal ta other person in your life or situation that you have been requiring to change instead of growing. Tabletop: Get a seed packet for each of your guests/hosts. Then do an ICU for them related to that seed!

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The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 12 (3/27/2017)

More Beneath the freshly lit sky story, upon a distant shore and within the hem of the Caribbean and Atlantic we sat, lingering in the lovely of it all. We were surrounded by silent and still. In the midst of that place, we held hands, we healed, we hoped and we hallelujahed. As we made our way back to our hideaway, I returned to an earlier moment in the day when I sat where shore meets floor and I realized that over the past few months, I've sobbed a sea, my drips and drops filling a Heaven spot. Wave upon wave came washing the weary and worn. In and out like breaths of the deep, taking the less of me to the more of Him. An extravagant exchange between earth and Heaven. For I long to not only see beauty but be united with it. To bathe in it until I become that which glows and pulls hard on the heart that is easily seduced by that which glitters. To be the shine and shimmer upon the path less traveled so those who are wandering widely might kneel at the narrow and find. That they are found. Now matter how fast and far they have run and ruined. As we cross the threshold of our island sanctuary, I set about removing dune and dust of the seashore from my feet and ankles. But it clings and cleaves. As close as He does. It will not leave me without a scrape and smooth. Rubbing relentlessly until I'm soft and surrendered. To the joy set before me. For the days when beauty oozes from every crevice and pulses from every pore of us. Until there is no piece or place not irradiated with Him. Candescent and radiant. Aglow and afire. The last speck falls into my palm and I discover my collection of more. How precious are your thoughts to me! Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand, when I awake, I am still with you. Psalm 139:18 I am still with Him and that is the most of the more. My path is straight, my rough is smooth. I don't have to find my way, He is my way. My stretch and span. My door and gate. My bearing and orientation. As we settle in for sunset, we read a story that has become precious to us. And I find my many mores. For I have far more: Ups than downs Hugs than ughs Woohoo than whoa Cans than nots We than me Bubbles than bath Pause than fast forward and Treasure than pockets Chronicles: Journal your mores. Then journal about a most - the way you have awakened to find you are still with Him. Tabletop: Place something upon your table that speaks beauty - puts words to it. Place slips of paper at each spot and invite those gathered to write the words that come to them to express the beauty hat united them to Pappa in a new way.

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The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 11 (3/20/2017)

Saved A few sunsets ago, I was sitting in a little chair, within a big tent, upon a giant land. Words and wonder, frequencies and fellowships winding around and weaving through, every fiber and fragile of me. Music and melody, every strand and strain making me new. Remaking and reminding. A change came quickly, not in the song's cadence or crescendo, but with the arrival in the chair next to me. When one who was once settled inside me, sat next to me, hand slidden into mine, head resting upon my shoulder. She's growing by the minute and doesn't fit into my nooks like she used to, but she nudges until she does. I wrapped an arm around her to accommodate her frame, to let her nestle into the nest I am for her. Puzzle pieces of different sizes that fit no matter what, no matter where. Pieced and pierced together we sat and I remembered. A little chair, within a big cathedral, upon a giant mountain. A life ago. Forty two life filled years ago. Nothing elaborate filled that place, but it was full of fancy. Campfires, cowboys, guitars and glory. And Jesus. For several weeks, as I am prepared for Passover, I have been recounting and recalling the joy of my salvation. The still and shake of being saved. In a similar seat, in a completely different place, I remembered more. Imagination ignited and took me past time and into infinite. To the place where you can see something exactly as it was, for the first time ever. He came. To save me. Not a grown man with a royal robe sat next to me that day, but a little boy, just my age. Perched on the chair next to me, He sat like a child with a big surprise that He was dying to have discovered. So instead of sitting quietly, He sighed with the wind, breathed with the breeze. Until I knew He was there. Once found, He bounced in His seat, near bursting with the untamed desire to reveal to me who He was. My first glance caught hold of His big, toothless grin. Muck like mine. So I would know He was flesh and bone, breath and marrow. Like me. Because if He could be sitting there like me, I could believe I would be like Him. His jeans had holes in the knees, peeking from them, scabby scrapes. My invitation to take risks with Him. To slide into valleys and climb mountains. His feet were bare, droplets still clinging to them, from a run in the grass. When creation called Him, His answer was to become one with it by exploring its treasuries, opening the doors and windows of it, so all could enter. That covenant call became mine too. His fingernails were caked with dirt, disclosing His desire to display every hidden thing. In me. A summons to me to faithfully find in the dirt of a dark world, the riches only light can unearth. His hair was tousled and tossed, imploring me to exist wildly, off of my chair, out on a branch. Swinging and swaying, messy and marveled from wonderous worship of only One. A little boy named Wonder sat by me that day. He saved me. Set me apart. Put me in a place where only He could touch me. Ever. Unless. I went back to that seat and let it become a straight jacket. A memorial to the place I met Him instead of the catalyst that sent me with Him. That sends me still. For that is the joy of my salvation. That He invited me to be with Him in every place and for all time. And I can be, unless I won't be. That day, I found Him to be the most irresistible, beautiful thing I had ever seen. My vision and view may not be so holy, but it has held me, all these minutes of all these days of all these years. As I grow, He does. He continues to sit next to me and reveal who He is as He stretches and shapes me to be that too. A few sundowns ago, He sat next to me and touched places that needed healing. Last night, He sat with my head in His lap as He stroked my hair because I was tired. This morning, He sat with scars bared and invited me to touch the tight and taut of them and minister to Him as I never had before. A few days ago, He sat beside me in a not so little girl. The one He sends when there is something He desperately wants me to believe. Months and years ago, He sent her into my room with a water bottle in the middle of the night. She said, "Momma, you need a drink." My heart was in drought then from all the faucets and filters of choices not mine. And He said, "Water comes by faith." So a few nights ago, there was something bold and bursting He wanted me to believe. Something daring and dangerous. And I do. Because... I'm saved. Chronicles: Journal about when you met Him. What form did He take? How did He meet you right where you were? Let imagination return you and remind you. Tabletop: At your table, be scribes for each other. Tell the story of when you were saved, sharing the joy of it as you speak and another writes.

[cessorjournals-blog]

The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 10 (3/13/2017)

Scars A few evenings ago, a little man was sleeping over with Marmie and Pappi. As I was snuggling him to sleep, He was asking questions of different varieties. One of his varieties was about the "marks" I had on different spots of my body. My scars. And, well, it got me thinking about them. My first scar came from running when I should have been walking. My increased speed landed my chin on a chair. My second came when I couldn't stop my bike and I ran off a ledge, scraping my leg on the way down. I should probably add that the kneeling man I ran into and took off the ledge with me most likely has a scar as well. And then there is the scar on my thumb that got slammed into a heavy metal door by some boys that didn't want me to follow them. A footnote - all of these scarrings happened at the same apartment complex in Pennsylvania. I just think PA should be recognized for its scar anointing, that's all. My legs could be pulled out of a line up by their dings and dents. There was the toilet lid incident, in which the top of a toilet was knocked off (by me reaching for a basketball) and shattering on the back of my leg. This was when the word stitches entered my life and didn't leave for a while. For some years later, I was driving a go cart with my friend and couldn't maneuver the steering wheel in time and was graciously saved from great harm by a barbed wire fence. One hundred plus stitches in two different locales. As I entered into adulthood, I sustained a few more scars. One from a stab wound. Okay, it was self inflicted when I tried to open a can of chili with a knife because my roommate and I spent all our monies on clothes instead of a can opener. And then, there is the scar across my tummy made to bring Reepi into my arms. That's my favorite. I touch the rough terrain of it everyday and thank Pappa for the one that's here and the one in heaven. But the scars I have most of are the ones you can't see, though they aren't the marks of healed wounds. They are instead the beautied blemishes of paths followed, risks taken, cliffs dived and mountains climbed. Their jagged little edges came when I loved wildly and my heart was shattered, when I was learning to walk in the dark of not knowing what it looked like just yet and bumped into a few things. These seered spots came when I said yes when it was so very hard and no when it meant not leaving the path set before me. They have appeared when I have sobbed and soared, whispered and roared, been broken and bold, when I have listened and learned. When I have been found praying it and not saying it and in those moments when I want desperately to be silent but spoke. These aren't healed abrasions or scabbed scrapes. They are the fingerprints of being found, just like the One I follow. Within the deep and wide of them, I recognize He's been there too and is utterly willing to go again, do again, with me. These are the disfigurements that cause me to look more and more like Him. Glorious gullies that remind me that I've gone where He's gone, been where He's been, said what He's said and felt what He's felt. I have scars yet to come - because I haven't yet been brave enough to go as far and wide as He has. Yet. But there is space still on the canvas of me, for more of the sealed letters of a story in the telling, a life in the living. Chronicles: Write about one of your scars, one that no one sees. A beautied blemish you are glad marks and makes, reveals a place on the map of your life where you went with Him. Tabletop: Our table is my favorite piece of furniture. It is blemishful from the life we have lived around it, beyond it. At Shabbat this week, tell the story of your table's scars. All the ways its identified as your table, because it looks, well, like you!

[cessorjournals-blog]

The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 9 (3/6/2017)

Without Come all who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you without money; buy and eat. Yes, come buy wine and milk without money and without price. Isaiah 55:1 Come you who are without. An invitation that comes with a gulp, increased pulse and sweaty palms. Come without. Can we do that, really? In days and digits where going to a party without a gift or a potluck without a dish seems seems despicable somehow. Isn't it just easier to try to pull something out of our magic hat, push pieces together until what heavies our hands resembles whole? For we must have it together, hold it together, keep it hanging by a thread mustn't we? Or we could just come. Without. In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was without, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. Genesis 1:1-2 'Tohuw va bohuw' is the phrase of Genesis 1:2. It precedes "let there be light". It means, "formless and empty, vacant and empty, shapeless, absent of life. Not yet united as one." Before Pappa became potter was this magnanimous moment. Before His choice to give it all away, all of Himself to us. Before we were entrusted. Our Poet Potter, hovering over us, Himself hanging in the balance of the choices yet to be. The world was without and it was His delight to be right in the messy middle of the yet to come. He isn't put off by empty, absent and not yet, for He is fond of finding and fashioning. He is His most bold when there is barren. In sterile spaces He strung stars, positioned planets, sang the sun and molded the moon. In desolate deserts He tethered trees, forged flowers, breathed birds. He is vast in vacant. He asks us to come. To draw near with no other source for our filling. For He can't linger where idols loiter. Where chaos and clutter crowd. He's much too substantial to be slimmed down to fit our boxes, lines and lists. He's doesn't shrink, He stretches. He doesn't manifest to fit, but to full. Come. Without. Any other source. And held in His hands you will find wine and milk. Banquet and bounty. Fellowship and fortune. For after He hovers, He dwells. He finds great pleasure in being within the need. He is not a temporary fix. He is a filler. He is not fickle. He is faithful. When we come with hearts postured to stoop, He finds a threshold of welcome. And He has the courage to cross. He is the courage for every crossing. He pierces planting places in the unable, unlikely and untamed. There He cultivates, creates and consumes. He completes as we companion. Unifies as we unite. He marries as we merge. Chronicles: Journal about a piece of clay Pappa gave you that you may have tried to mold into your image instead of allowing it to reveal His. Share how you may have baked it in your will, hardening so it could not be changed by Him. Made "permanent" so he had to prove it instead of potter it. Tabletop: At your table, share with each other and idea, dream, creativity that is not yet formed. Pray for each other to be brave enough to let it be barren until each come to be filled for its coming.

[cessorjournals-blog]

Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 8 (1/27/2017)

Well For the past days, we have had an ill trio of teens. Coughing, sniffling and moans and groans to meet their aches and pains. A melody of misery. Within resides refrain. "I want to be well. Will I ever be well? I don't remember what it was like to be well." Well. A little word that opens a wide gate. In Hebrew, 'well' is "a pit, the coming to light and the appearing of possible." If I was to navigate that from one landmark to another, it would be "a pit that when light pours in, all appears possible." And that is how wells spring. It certainly was for the woman at the well. The coming of light found her with a clay jar in hand. Unnamed, but not unarmed. Jesus came unfettered by rules, uninhibited by regulations. He found her and she met him with the long arm of the law. Running from it even as she desperately sought to protect herself with it. "You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan woman. How can you ask me for a drink?" His response was to touch her. Not with hand, but heart. She saw Him with nothing. No way to reach into the recesses. Law pounds like a tool. But love joins. Bone and marrow, spirit and soul. Exactly what she needed, no even close to what she wanted. He is led by love. We are nudged by need. And in the exchange we discover that our greatest need is love. Our need is where the light comes in. Our holy holes with edges still rough and lines curved towards our rights and reasons. Dusty and desperate for a drink. For a satiating sip of possible. For if every blade of grass bears His mark, we can certainly trust Him to recognize our dents and dings. He saw those of the shady Samaritan. Places of purpose drawn in pencil, covenant corners with crevices yet to color. A work of art, a meticulous masterpiece, under construction. He comes with things impossible to know, so we might drink deep of that which makes all things possible. Jesus. He always shows up to urge us for the everyday to the everlasting. The woman at the well wanted what He was offering, but just so she could shun her daily scoop and scrape water. Eager to have a physical want erased, she nearly ran right past having her greatest need met and married. We can do the same. Loitering for our lust instead of lingering for love. 'Well' has another amazing meaning. "Willing". When this word leaves the lips of our Savior, it forms and fashions into a question. "Are you willing? To be well? To be a well?" "Will you let me come with light so you can fulfill ever possibility? Spring up oh wells!! Numbers 21:17 Chronicles: Journal a time that Jesus came with light and asked you to be willing to be well. To be filled and found in the pierce and pulse of possibility. Tabletop: Jesus encouraged the woman to try something new, to be new. Ask each of those at your table the following. When we the last time you tried something new? How did you become "new" in the journey?

[cessorjournals-blog]

The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 7 (2/20/2017)

Hymns I love hymns. Let me restate that. I loooooove hymns. I grew up in a church where we grabbed our hymnal each Sunday, turned to the appropriate page and joined the throng. Our pianist, Ms. Lackey was 90 years old, though I don't know that we ever truly knew her age. She was just always 90. Her beautiful hands, worn and weathered, occasionally missed a note, but no one minded. She played with such passion, pounding those keys in pursuit of praise. Brother Earl led us from the front each week. He wasn't a director as much as a conductor, animated by motions you would find in a great symphonic hall. We were his orchestra and we gave it all we had. Occasionally, as praise releases from our worship in a little tent upon a big land, Nightingale slips a hymn right in. Like balm for a broken place you didn't know was there it comes. Soothing and satisfying. A few years ago, someone gifted me with a hymnal. I'm drawn to it at times, inexplicably when there is something in me I can't quite explain. The binding firm and fastening and the pages inside full of squirms and squiggles I don't know how to decipher, but I am moved by how they look upon the page, beckoning and beautiful, reminding me that there are always mysteries yet to be revealed. A few days ago, I read this quote: Celebration is so often a confrontation. We challenge our doubts, fears and disappointments with joyful truth. Can't even describe the many ways I love that or how it got me to the hymn "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing." I do know I love the words woven within it. Hearts tuned, tongues flaming, wanderers rescued, melodious sonnets sung over and unchanging love. They just push and pierce my poet! There is a line that is a bit curious, which I just always felt was fancy so gave it all the gusto it warranted. Here I raise my Ebenezer, here by thy great help I've come. As I grew, I moved from the gusto to the glean, inviting ebenezer to be one of the words I discovered the design and desire of. Though the word was placed within the praise of Robert Robinson in 1758, it was scribed by Samuel long before. In 1 Samuel 7, Samuel and the Israelites were under siege by the Phillistines. Gripped by fear, the Israelites asked Samuel to pray for them in hopes they would be prepared for the impending battle. Samuel gave an offering to the Lord and asked for His protection. The prayer availed much and the Phillistines not only lost the battle but retreated back to their own territory. I Samuel 7:12 records an amazing thing that happened after the victory. Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen, and called the name Ebenezer, saying "Thus far the Lord has helped us." In Hebrew the word is 'eben ha ezer' which means "stone of help". It is a stone set to signify the help God brought to the one who raised it. Samuel placed the stone like a jewel within its setting so the Israelites would remember the great help God had granted them. The Israelites story is littered with forgetfulness afterall. Perhaps this monument would help them remember every miracle and encounter, bounteous banks along their road, mountains of goodness overcoming the ditches of despair they dug for themselves. Perhaps it will help us to walk our own road with delight in the One from whence our help comes instead of the debris of doubt and doom. Possibly we can raise our own stone in celebration of victory and confront every lie, allowing them to be jolted out of place by the joy of truth. For the Lord has helped us. He helps us still. Every. Single. Time. Chronicles: Journal an ebenzer encounter. A place where the truth of who He is utterly devastated the lie of who He isn't! Tabletop: Share your greatest victory the one placed upon the altar of your heart. Testify to a radical rescue and relentless redemption. Build a remembrance together with those at your table.

[cessorjournals-blog]

The Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 6 (2/13/2017)

Enter Last week, I took a little roadtrip. It wasn't planned, but it was purposed. A few days before "hitting the road" I learned that one of my closest friends from junior high and high school had passed away. It was a shock. I had to read and reread the message numerous times to even grasp the idea. There was no illness preceding, just a here and then gone. We felt immediately that I was to go to the funeral, which meant a return to my home state, though not my hometown. And a roadtrip, by myself. A rarity for sure, as I rarely even run to the store without a companion of teenage nature. The drive was lovely, full of Pappa, sound and silence. Memories flowed freely and found me grateful for where I have been and who I have known. As miles and moments waxed and waned, I thought of my friend Kevin and who he was to me. Recollections and remembrances led my heart to overflow my eyes again and again. Within the cache, funny and fierce. There was the time that Kevin actually told our English teacher that my puppy, Lambchop, peed on his senior paper. This was of course the reason he couldn't turn it in on time. Our teacher actually believed him. Karen, his twin sister and my best friend and I had stayed up all night getting our final edits and annotations done. He got an extra week to get his done. And then, there was the moonlit night on a gravel driveway in a little town in Texas. The night when I received my first ICU. An "I see you" from one dear to my heart who saw far more than I could at the time. A cub turned lion before me as he went past his yearnings to my years. For it took many 365 day collections for me to see what he saw. What HE saw. Still sees. As I came into the church, the one who I knew the longest was sitting with a seat saved, though she didn't know I would be the occupant. It was like wrapping up in a warm blanket on a winter day. Later we walked timidly through the lobby, treasure hunters of sorts as we searched faces for ones we knew and met other eyes that were seeking too. We found each other fragile from our fallen friend, yet each of us with an open door that each other could enter. We came into each other's lives anew. With eyes to see and hearts to hear. There wasn't much shared about where we had been for the moments were so manifest with where we are now. How we arrived didn't matter as much as the truth that we had gotten there, here, at all. We didn't take many trips down memory lane, choosing instead to run the road of now. Each sign and marker revealed that the hopes we had for each other were present among us now. We had become what we had seen for each other then, even as we are still becoming what was written well before we became part of each other's lives. At my hotel that evening, I journaled an ICU for each friend whose life I had the honor of entering that day. And I prayed for each one. Sleep frolicked around the fringes and as I let it enter, I thought of a scripture. And he said to him, "Why are you asking me about what is good? There is only One who is good; but if you wish to enter into life, keep the commandments." Matthew 19:17 This translation may read a bit different, especially since we most often see the rich young ruler as contemplating eternal life. Young, righteous and wealthy, he came with a question, a quest. He wanted to know how his "have it all" life on earth could continue. In Heaven as it is on earth was the search of the rich young ruler. But Jesus. He just has a way of giving far more than is sought. And finding us, who we really are, in the process. We knock. He enters. A wild heart stands before Jesus, hungry. The bread within the hands of Heaven is broken open and multiplied. For Jesus didn't tell the boy how to enter eternity. He told him what he needed to do to enter life itself. The boy on the cusp of manhood wanted to know what was needed that he would still "have" in Heaven. Jesus crumpled the list of nouns on a list and invited him to a verb. 'Eiserchomai', to come into, to enter. Jesus took him from a future tension to present tense. The young man trusted Jesus with his expression of desire. And He was faithful as He revealed to the the young man the difference between what he wished would happen and that which was already accomplished. Jesus invites youth to grow up as He offers life that has already come. Already is. When we are on the precipice of maturity, we often want to know that our future is secure. Jesus wants us to see what already exists for us. He longs for us to live the life already provided instead of pensioned. How do we enter? Keep the commandments. Follow the path set before us. Live what He has already said to us. Treat it as a treasure, not one stuffed within a drawer or box, that we fear losing. Not something to be hidden away until... Instead, a destiny display. We the case, His word the jewel within. Hemmed in and secure, while completely visible. A transparent casing over a glistening glory. Chronicles: Let the Lord reveal to you something you have been "hiding away" so you could protect it from being lost. Let Him show you a word He has spoken to you that you aren't living because you have held it as something you wish could happen instead of carrying it to the place where it already is. Tabletop: Write an ICU word for each one that you will have at your table this Shabbat, those that will enter your home. And if you will share Shabbat with someone at their invitation, write an ICU word to give them as you enter.

[cessorjournals-blog]

Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 5 (2/6/2017)

Hunted Brothers. Twins. One a hunter, the other a gatherer. One warrior, the other wonderer. Both hunted. One by vengeance, the other by forgiveness. One needed to come, the other to stay. Both apprehended. I've been captivated by the story of Jacob and Esau of late. I'm compelled towards the lines and letters of it, not as much because of what it says, but what it doesn't. Those meanings and messages beneath words and between periods. As a momma of twins, one upon earth, the other within Heaven, I understand well the ache that exists. The one that fills the void of what is missing for now, until then. Our Reepi lives with this ache, though there was a moment that lessened it largely. A split second of significance. In the midst of a birthday, a masterpiece filled her hands and held her heart. A portrait of the other part of her. An orchestration by a maestro named Nez. The sketch sits within a frame upon a shelf in Reepi's room. And all feels different now. Somehow. It isn't that she received something she was missing, but that she gained something she was lacking. Goodness. She needed the goodness of knowing that Pappa would show someone her brother. That it mattered to Him as much as it mattered to her. No longer was her need disguised. No longer was His goodness bound. Fist to fist, face to face, Esau and Jacob stood. Years spent bordering each other's lives with what they wanted, fell tattered to the ground, as their great need gave way. To see each other, without bowl or bow between them. And to discover that the Lord had been good to them both. Maybe each of are only hunted till we allow ourselves to be apprehended. By goodness. The latter portion of Mark 9 tells the story of a father crying out for his son. There is something he needs to see, but his view is vacant. His story begins after Jesus and some of his disciples were upon the Mount of Transfiguration. Jesus comes upon him after His disciples have tried to help his son. After a relentless reminder to His disciples about who they are, Jesus talks with the father about his son. A young boy, afflicted since birth by a spirt that arrests his speech. But if you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.” ‘If you can’?” said Jesus. “Everything is possible for one who believes.” Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” Mark 9:22-24 It hurts my heart so much to read Jesus words, "if you can?", mostly because of the times He has needed to say them to me. The times my want tried to overtake His need to be good to me. To be goodness to me. His words are followed by a strange statement. A gordian knot woven by the words of the father. "I believe. Help me with my unbelief." This scripture in Hebrew is "Adoni hoshiah lahasar emoona kamoni." 'Lahasar' means "to lack or to be needy." The unwrapped utterance of the father finds this inside, "Hineni maamin" which means "Here I am believing." I love that! There is a flow that follows. Here I am believing, ready to act, yet I am unable to because of lack. He simply proclaims he is ready. For God to be good. Prior to his proclamation he says "if you can" because he knows who God is but not how God is. A part of him in Heaven and a piece on earth. A portion that remembers everything and a place that has forgotten many things. A man caught in the crux between "what I already know and what I already believe." We get caught there too. The same place Esau and Jacob lived until they learned to dwell. For His goodness brings unknown things from a far frontier and pushes belief from a passive to an active land. A terrain where we trust and remain when nothing makes sense. A haven where we hope, as it does, and we go. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralyzed man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.” Mark 2:5 Jesus saw their faith. What a vast vision that must be! What does something so wonderful look like? In the story of the paralytic it looked like compassion for one in need. Like the willingness to take love as far as it could go. Like a group of men getting out of the boat and walking upon the water of their trust turned hope. Like a man once withered upon the ground, standing strong. Luke 18:8 asks if Christ will find faith upon the earth. Faith delved for definition in His deep heart means goodness. Will He find us in the catastrophe of believing, the ruin of ready or the havoc of hope? Can He uncover us in the calamity of goodness? Can He move us from apprehension to apprehended, detaining us in the spot between faith and fear? Would we let Him linger with us in the living tension of 'emunah' the word used for faith in Luke 18? Could He stay with us in the space between what we have believed and what we are meant to. A place of truth that eclipses, rather than eludes. For faith is not a thought of the heart. It is a fierce force that keeps us from acting in opposition to Pappa's heart. 'Emunah', active faith which means it has been transformed to faithfulness. Now what we believe along with how we believe it. Our goodness to Him. The way we pursue Him, hunt Him down and don't let Him go until He is bountied by our good. The lost can find, can be found in a collision of faithfulness. Goodness so great that the collateral damage is beautiful. For He never expected us to go alone, but come along. Chronicles: Let the Lord reveal to you the place of your great need. The space where you are "here believing" yet need to remember how good He is alongside who He is. Tabletop: This week, you are invited to host a treasure hunt! You will need: * A New International Version Bible *A bag for collecting You will need read the scriptures and then hide an object listed in each one. Your clues for those hunting will be the scriptures! For the hunt: 1. Look up the Bible verse clues. 2. Pick out the object named in each verse. (If several objects are named, choose one to find.) 3. Find the objects and place them in the bag. 4. Have fun! Scripture clues: Psalm 139:18 Luke 15:9 1 Samuel 17:18 Matthew 5:13 Psalm 119:103 Job 13:25 Psalm 144:1 Acts 13:25 Exodus 32:32 James 1:10 Proverbs 1:14 Mark 14:4 Mark 6:39 Psalm 91:4

[cessorjournals-blog]

Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 4 (1/30/2017)

Simple Upon moving into Naveh, and our little neighborhood upon the hill, we had quite a happening. Or maybe it was an unhappening. No. Internet. It isn't actually that it is nonexistent. It is just quite slow and the data usage, quite limited. There is no downloading from Itunes or streaming with Netflix. We did make a bold attempt to overcome in our first few months and saved all the data in hopes we could exchange it for a holiday movie. I think the movie may still be downloading. We'll watch it next year. So, we portion the megas and gigas for the girl's online classes, emails, some Instagram and Snapchats (I don't know what that is really, but the girls do) and video recording here and there and the upload of this blog. With three teenage girls still within, you can surely imagine the trauma of all they are doing without. I'm not gonna sugar coat this. When we hit Whole Foods and Target, the phones come out and those store's data usage skyrockets. I now grocery shop looking over my shoulder for the internet authority coming to confiscate our phones, ready to tell the girls to "flee, flee for their lives." Yet in our day to day, our every days, their has been nothing lost. Only something incredible has been found. Each other. And life has become, simple. Many would define simple as easy or plain, but it is a wide word with a deep meaning. Simple means "to be unentangled, uncomplicated, to be sincere, true, uncontained and uncontaminated." It speaks of "being a place without subdivisions, so we can be entire, in our entirety. Being only." It invites us to "be open, or unfolded." To be whole. It stuns and stings when we find that though we live in a world more "connected" than ever, it has only provided convenience, not closeness. And when connecting replaces drawing near, distraction grows like a wild weed and we find ourselves disconnected from each other and ourselves. Hours sneak past and when we look up, we find we have lost the beauty of authenticity. When we have so much at our fingertips, we often miss the lovely of holding something in our hands. Book and branch, candle and creation, flour and flower, soil and seed. Heart and hand of another. Our simpleness has led us to a search. For the art of intimacy. I haven't told the girls we are looking for something, I just, simply, want them to discover it. As they do, I am gathered into a cradle of contentment. Each deep, meaningful conversation rocks me, finding sanctuary in the company of each other, soothes my soul. Real fulfillment is right in front of us. All of us. When faces replace screens and stories swap sound bites. Without teaching or telling, my remaining ducklings are remembering. Simple things. The delight of the domestic. That there is a difference between cleaning and preparing and it is so much more than checking a task off a list. The slowing down instead of the rushing through. Making home cooked meals together amasses memories. And that boredom can actually lead to imagination. We aren't quite a scene from Pride and Prejudice or Little Women just yet, all gathered around the fire, stitching and storytelling. But we are threading a story together. Piece by piece. We don't have an attic where the girls go and act out scenes from plays, but we do have a loft where they go and giggle, lots and lots. And I'm remembering, what it was like to be younger. Before the world tapped upon my shoulder and tempted me to waste my time instead of spend it. Writing, exploring, singing, dancing. Just being within all of creation. Things I am returning to the joy of once more, as I recall what it was like to do something I loved before anyone said I had to. Along this pretty little path, I'm prompted more and more to reveal the image of the One I was formed from, within. And so, I take myself on a date now and again, simply allowing my spirit, soul and body to catch up with each other. A cup of tea, a long walk across Arubbah, moments perched upon a swing or snuggled in a chair with a book that has actual pages to turn. True face time, peering into the eyes and hearts of those I love. A question comes quaking sometimes. Is it working? When a wonky world comes knocking, trying to out sound the beat of my heart. To out run it and cut it off at the pass. Can things that have been for so long, truly become what they were always meant to be? It is when the planet pursues with rabid breath, trying to swallow and swindle, I utter the three words with a loop and line following. The answer doesn't come brash and brazen, but sweet and surrendered. It came that way yesterday, as our home was full of all our ducklings and grandies. Where the only sounds came from lungs and laughter. Yes, it is. Love is working. It's running rampant and relentless. And I believe. Sometimes I just need to see the change in my own little world, so I can apply it to the big broken one. Yesterday I saw it. Love wild and wonderful. Simple. Love weaving through without entanglement. Love uncontained, yet wrapping us up. I saw it, I heard it, I felt it, I encountered it. Love unfolded as two little boys and one big one colored outside the lines on the patio. And as a table full of my all grown up and almost theres colored in a giant Finding Dori coloring book. Drawing what wasn't already there. Telling stories and jokes. Finding each other again. How simple love is. How powerful we make it. Chronicles: Can you remember who you were before the world told you who to be? Danielle LaPorte What did you love doing when you were younger? Before the world said how you should spend your time? Writing books, exploring, singing, drawing, coloring, dancing? What did you love to do before someone said you had to? Tabletop: Invite those coming to your table this Shabbat to bring a book they are reading and share an excerpt, or a quote that touched them, a picture or painting that pierced them, a story that needs telling. And if you are invited to someone's table this week, take something to share that reminds you who they are.

[cessorjournals-blog]

Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 3 (1/23/2017)

Tomorrow Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 3 (1/23/2017) Tomorrow As I write, our eldest, Axel Pearl is at the turning of 25, her silver jubilee. Memories have been toppling the table of our hearts this morning as we celebrate her entrance into our arms then and all she means to us now. As we are big celebrators (it is after all part of our covenant) our festivities often start early and go long. For us, that meant getting to have two little boys with us for the weekend while mom and dad had a little birthday hideaway. We had such fun, start to finish. In the midst of crayons and creativity, drives and dreams, snacks and snuggles, we recognized a very important word to Knightley. Tomorrow. He says it a lot. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We will go to Target tomorrow (he is Axel’s child afterall). We’ll go to the party tomorrow. We will see the horses tomorrow.” You get the idea. Though he says this word often, he also says it very specifically. It comes before its time to rest. Nap and night find him with it. Tomorrow. Once he knows that tomorrow is full of a promise, his talk returns to what we just did. The game we played, the book we read, the jaunts and journeys we went on. And then, he sleeps. Rest is part of his covenant, and so his little life reminds me that rest prepares us for that which is yet to come. Tomorrow. The Hebrew word for tomorrow is ‘machar’ which means, “in time to come”. Since Knightley is three, he doesn’t have a full concept of space and time and he uses another word sometimes. After. Which is so like tomorrow, for ‘achar’ (after in hebrew) means, “the following part”. I tiptoe away as Knight whispers and waits for sleep to come. And as he falls into dreams and delight, I fall to my knees with whispers of my own. “Pappa, please keep me. Please find me. With a childlike heart.” Because a reveal is wringing. Grasping and gripping, extracting and expressing a truth. It wasn’t the itinerary Knightley was verifying, but the intimacy he was voracious for. “We were together, wrapped up in moments and minutes. I’m so satisfied, I can rest. Deeply, fully. Will you still be with me when I awaken? No matter what we do, will we do it together? Tomorrow.” A soul shabbat. A rest stop from the have to’s and should's. A preparation for the following part. The time yet to come. Where the joy set before seals the contentment of what has been. And prepares us for all that lies ahead. What we can’t see, or define, but rest in great expectancy of. It keeps us from entitlement because we are so very and utterly grateful that He will be there, no matter what. It keeps us from the drive thru, getting what we can as quickly as we can. It leads us to the table, full of platters and plates. Prepared. Sacred not scattered. Lingering and longing, not lost and lusting. From bowed knees, I stood, heart still bent and broken open before him. I needed in that moment, desperately to do something with Him. It didn’t matter what. Honestly, it didn’t matter to Pappa either, what it was. It mattered only that He was invited into what it was, all of it. That He could consume it with me, like bread upon table, wine within glass. Communion is more than the tangible components that remind. It is the portion that pursues. That arrests us no matter where we are or what we are doing. No handcuffs or cells. Just braid and beauty. And so I wrote a poem, with Him. About Him. For us. Contentment now filling every crevice and crater within me, I laid upon my bed, cradled in gratefulness. Swaddled in satisfied. He was with me in that today. He will be with me tomorrow. No matter what it holds, He holds me. Chronicles: Take some time with Pappa and your journal. Upon the pages, write something He did with you that you are grateful for. Something you realized you could not have done without Him. Then, let Him reveal something to you that you have been keeping from Him, trying to get for yourself instead of share with Him. Something, that you now realize, you desperately want to do with Him. An act of communion. Tabletop: We know the joy that comes in preparing for guests. There is also great fun in having people prepare with you. So, invite your guests into the preparation with you. Even inviting them to bring certain elements like plates or platters or something for your table top. Be creative. Then as part of dinner, have communion. This can be bread and wine, of course. It can also be all of you sharing testimonies and then sharing what each one meant to each of you. How the taste if it drew you nearer to him and each other. Simply experience each other in a way you haven’t before.

[cessorjournals-blog]

Shabbat Chronicles: Volume 2 (1/16/2017)

Limbo Last weekend, our sweet little Ryder turned 2. His great passion right now is jumping, rolling and finding creative ways to be topsy turvy. He's not nearly as concerned about injuring himself as we are for him. So having his party in a padded room, a.k.a. a gymnastics studio, was perfect. The kiddos bounced, bounded and burst throughout the room until it was time for the concluding activity, which was an inflatable trampoline. After a few rounds of Follow the Leader, springy cords were unveiled, which could only mean one thing, Limbo. In my day, which is not quite the olden days, but older than these days, Limbo was a party necessity. You just didn't have a party without it. There weren't a lot of options in the older days. So, I was slightly excited to see it have a little revival. So, there is Limbo and then there is Limbo on a trampoline. I guess everything gets an upgrade at some point! The kids made the most of it, letting the bounce in their step bring creativity and expression along side. Flips and flops ensued. And the springy cord moved lower and lower. It was then that Scarlett came through again, posed in a perfect back bend. A walking back bend! Knightley took note of this feat as well and on his next turn tried the same. His version was more of a front bend, which resulted in him coming through booty first and in perfect form. At the end, he faced us, looking for his 10, which was a thumbs up from those watching. And in those moments, I learned an incredible lesson about waiting. For the world defines limbo as "an uncertain period of awaiting a decision or resolution; an intermediate state or condition; a place or state of restraint or confinement and a place or state of neglect or oblivion." And we have let it define us. Waiting can be a purgatory or a preparation. A place where beauty is bound or broken open. And those kids got it. Those kids. Cascading, charging covenants, most of which I had a part of welcoming to the world. I welcomed them and now they welcome me to all the things I couldn't see without them. Not clearly. Not fully. As I watched them each take their turns, I realized how beautiful small moves in big turns are. I saw them each choose, not to make each turn better, but to take a greater risk while making the move. They didn't see the tighter fit as something that inhibited them, but allowed them to try something they hadn't before. There were no mess ups, only tries that resulted in joy and giggles. They each found the beauty spot of trying, and our claps, laughs, and of course, whoots were all they needed to see the way beauty loved them back. Over the weekend, we had a visitor, ice. In our part of the world, ice is considered a bad word. At least when it has the potential to dress the roads. The day before the expected arrival, I was walking across Arubbah. Nearing the tent, allowed me to see the almost fifty work trucks coming in preparation for a storm. Coming with the idea to allow a people to move a little better in conditions that weren't what they might desire or might even be afraid of. The storm was not quite what "expected". Trees caught transparent crystals and led them in a flickering dance. Branches not broken, but laced in light. Glazed with allure. We didn't stay in because we had to, but because we were surrounded by such magic and mystery. A storm turned stellar before us. We never have to stay in the wait. We aren't forced to let it hem us in. But if we do, if instead of seeing waiting as an obstacle to get around, we may find a beauty to behold. And we will look. We will see. How beauty, Beauty, loves us back. And maybe, we could find a way to be that beauty to each other. To encourage each other when our small move is part of a great big turn. To celebrate when a smaller space implored us to take a risk instead of be paralyzed. To be encouraged when we don't all come under the limbo line in exactly the same way, because we got to see something we hadn't before. That we can truly experience each other, and come out of each encounter different than we went in. Prepared. Arranged and arrayed for something great. And glorious. Chronicles: Let Pappa reveal to you anyway you see waiting as a purgatory instead of a preparation. Journal with Him as you hear, see and heal! Tabletop: Play Limbo. Just kidding!! This weeks Shabbat journey is about preparation. Preparation is much more fun with a theme. So, choose a them for your Shabbat this week. Mexican, Italian, Greek, Asian. You get the idea. Invite those on your heart early so they can be part of the preparation too. Maybe you could all listen to music from that culture throughout the week or learn words in that language. Maybe you could invite each guest to bring a dish from the theme to compliment and complete what you will be making. As you prepare for those coming to your table, find one word to describe that person in the language of your theme.