people get ready...

Pretty sure they may be grooming the big white stallion.

Kevin's leading a Bible study-
The Cub's are winning-
And they make Cool Whip in a spray.

A friend called me yesterday to say that someone shared with her their recent and ongoing struggle to transfer to the Crossing. A familiar local struggle, that of informing Catholic parents and extended family of a decision to change churches. (I'm not sure people raised in strong Catholic homes ever completely leave the Catholic faith; they do grow past it in increasing measure as their appetites for more intimate and personal spiritual growth and understanding are discovered and nurtured.) I do not underestimate this struggle knowing well the years spent enduring my own ostracism when a protestant mother fought to raise my sister and I in opposition to my father's Catholic faith. Nothing pretty or easy about it.

Two weeks ago after a Wednesday rehearsal, I asked Shawna what we should play for communion music over the coming weekend. She asked about the sermon topic which happened to be a number of parables; Lost sheep. Lost coin. Lost son. She suggested the song I had been thinking about and I laughed that she had read my mind.

I guess from what she told me over the phone that it was a decision laying heavily on the heart of this couple for some time- one that they had been burdened with and praying about a great deal over the last few months. Enough so that the woman sheepishly decided to unroll a "fleece" before the LORD in desperate need of a sign.

I could tell Shawna was impatient with me to make up my middle aged mind. I just couldn't decide between the two songs. I liked the one we landed on at rehearsal but we haven't really used it in a while and I really liked this other recent favorite too. I could also tell she didn't care. As the communion meditation began I handed her the chart for our original pick. She smiled.

She felt a little silly confessing her story to my friend and even in the re-telling I could sense the timid hope she must have clung to as she laid it down and waited. Through our opening song set. Through the invitation set. Waiting. Wanting.

We began to play.

She began to weep.

Her husband didn't know what was going on, completely unaware that she had asked God for a sign that morning on the way to service, or that the service was drawing to a close without an answer.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found, t'was blind but now I see."

I can't even tell you what other song was in the running that day. I can only tell you that Shawna and I both chose the song independent of the other's decision. I can only tell you that we don't use it often for services. I can only tell you that as I heard her testimony I immediately remembered my waffling over the two songs and remembered being drawn to the hymn repeatedly. Almost stubbornly.

My prayer of late has been for God to get bigger in my eyes. More holy. More mighty. More unknown, if that makes sense. But in moments like these I realize that sometimes He's small enough, tender enough, known enough to hear the silent cry of a desperate daughter and play her favorite song.

overheard in baby talk from the other room...

"Hello, little precious."

"Are you my little precious?"

"Are you my precious little girl?"

"You are my precious little girl, yes you are."

"Time for bed little precious."

So we took a walk with Mylie yesterday evening. Lovely evening. Lovely walk. And then...

She pooped.

She doesn't usually do that while walking so I was unprepared to be neighbor friendly. We weren't that far from home (subdivision style) so I suggested Kevin go grab a baggie while I stayed there as a "deposit for her deposit", just in case neighbor be watching.

Oh. no. he didn't.

They may be small but they be poop. And they be in his hand. And they still be in his hand when we rounded 15th to find another neighbor's little yorkie-poo running toward us. And when said neighbor catches up to us, stands and swaps puppy chat with us. If he had extended his hand to Kevin to shake I would have peed. my. pants. Kevin headed home to sanitize his hand and Mylie and I finished the neighborhood.

Now that's some kind of funny. Some kind of funny.

I've probably blogged it before, but I've been recalling a day spent with my dad several years ago. It was a fall day so I'm sure the seasonal changes are setting the stage for my minds eye but it was one of those frozen in time days I would pick if ever given the chance for a replay. 

I was over my head in irreconcilable differences at church, had just resigned my cherished ministry and was experiencing the loss and grief of all that involved at the time. It was a Tuesday. A day usually spent preparing for the weekend services but a day I wisely, if not divinely elected to accept my dad's invitation to have lunch. In Ursa. 

Dad loved his little roadside cafes. And he loved the chicken in Ursa. I don't remember our conversation really, even thinking there wasn't that much of it, I just remember the call and the awareness that I needed to say yes.

After lunch he asked if I wanted to take a trip to the old camp on the levee. (or rather the remains of what used to be the old camp on the the levee...) He drove us through the familiar route we traveled so often growing up and at the pace he always traveled it: relaxed with no where to be. I kept the rocks he handed me from the bank we crossed to the river and listened as he remembered his own mental pages. He was so tall and so quiet. I miss his white t-shirts and lumbering gait. His large tanned hands and goofy sense of humor. I miss walking behind him and feeling that safe. I miss that day.

We walked along the strip of flood ravaged camps and rubble and I listened to his stories of what used to be. Stories of taking my mom fishing and their hours spent together. This trip might well have been for his soul as much as mine..

We drove back to Quincy via the scenic route and pace and he asked if I was in a hurry to be back. Another divine decision, I said no. We headed to West Quincy to get some gas and then he decided to drive to Canton and LaGrange. A beautiful fall drive to be sure. I remember having the windows open and our mouths closed. I remember him pointing every once in a while to a road that led somewhere but mostly we just drove. He pulled into the Canton Ferry dock and we loaded up. I hadn't been on a ferry for years. Not since the last time he decided to use one. I can feel the sunshine of that afternoon excursion across the Mississippi. He talked to some of the men on board, managed to laugh at me for being a bit skittish of the whole process and we both had the greatest time. We docked in Meyer and I remember him saying as he decided which route to take that he had never been "this way" before. We were in the middle of what appeared to be nowhere. Long country roads, sprawling farm land and endless sunshine. And that breeze. I will always remember that breeze. I will always remember that it seemed to bring more than a taste of autumn into the car, it brought healing to my broken heart.

I don't know if I ever told dad how much that day meant to me. I know that four years later it's still a vivid memory when I recall that stretch of the road in my life and when I recall favorite times spent with him. I don't know if he called that day as a response to what I was going through or if he just wanted to buy me lunch. I know if I had said no and missed it...well, I'm just grateful I didn't.

Sometimes we have to push pause on this life in progress and listen to our souls. We have to make time for what really matters and what really lasts. Of all the many things staking claim to my life that day the one I chose is the one I will remember as long as I live. Knowing now what I didn't know then, it's the one thing I needed most.

Here's to choosing well...