Leah

 

First baby name:  Reuben because "the Lord has noticed my misery, and now my husband will love me."

Second baby name:  Simeon because "the Lord heard that I was unloved and has given me another son."

Third baby name:  Levi because "surely this time my husband will feel affection for me, since I have given him three sons."

Fourth baby name:  Judah because "now I will praise the Lord."

On the fourth time, the fourth round of hormones and sleepless nights and excruciating labor, the fourth son, Leah -- dejected, unloved Leah-- turned her sadness to the Lord.  She had been looking to her husband, her children, her fertility to satisfy the deep longing to be noticed.  To be wanted.  To be... loved.  

Just to belong, to have a place, to have significance.  Oh Leah... your aching heart. 

...and aching because, really, a heart can't be bolstered or even sustained in family.   Created-by-God, given-by-God, intended-by-God, bless-ed family.   An aching heart finds solstice only in Jesus.  An aching heart can endure because it knows down deep that He fills the longing.  

So praise the Lord, oh my heart.  Fill me. 

Genesis 29-32-25 

Lunch

 

Lunch.  I like lunch.

Ladies meet for lunch.  Littles giggle at lunchtime.  Lovers woo over lunch.

Lunch can be late, usually doesn't last long, and is rarely lavish.

Lunch is a time for both lament and laughter.  Ones linger in its list and land in its light.

He invited me to lunch sometimes.  Often on a holiday, like Memorial day, when we leisured together over burgers and lemonade.  We listened and learned more about each other.   Until it was time to leave, or at least until a lull.  Lunch let us lean in and lay in.  Lunch lended us like-minded life.  

I like lunch.  Still.  Especially lunch and its leftovers.  Leftover lettuces and delectables.  Leftover light-hearts.  Leftover lingerings and longings of Bill -- my lunchable.  

Day

"Have a great day,"  said the cashier offering a receipt.

Said the receptionist after the last question.

Said the neighbor over the fence.

Said the robot -- whenever and whatever for whomever. 

"You too."  What does your good day look like, I wonder.  Does it look like a 5 star rating?  An acclamation or promotion at work?  A hug from your teenager?  A tasty, quiet, paid-for meal?

Does a great day mean that you feel energetic?   That your problem is resolved?   That you were invited to the group?

Does a great day mean spirits are high?  Tasks are accomplished?   A  plan is on the calendar?

What does my good day look like, I wonder.  What day do those kind folks, with the standard good-by, want me to have?

They don't know it, but they want me to enjoy the blue-sky backdrop to my front-yard trees, my lovely, very simple home with its 2-picture walls, my lap-seeker cuddly dog, a call from our son, dark roast, ice cold, Psalm 3, a 4-miler, and restful, blissful sleep.

A great great day!

Sunday

Sunday means the whole world holding hands walking into church.  Means every arm wrapping each other while worshiping and praying.  Means being squished to the side as couples take up isles and doorways.  Means walking through a parking lot... alone.  

Means nobody notices.

Nobody notices.

Nobody notices what Sunday means.

Means breathing thick oxygen just to stay the tears, inside the car, before heading home.  

Means wondering if what Sunday means is worth it.

And then, Sunday means a phone call from a mean-it friend.  Sunday means a drop-over from a mean-it neighbor.

Sunday means the God of Sundays sees, cares, notices.  Means He sends, He messages, He loves.  

Means Sunday must be worth it.  

Pressure

 

"God must have something for you to do.  He must not be finished with you yet," said the dear friend to the widow.  With sincere compassionate eyes and a heart to back them up.  With a swing at this-may-or-may-not-be-good theology.  But with sure intent to comfort.    

"There must be a new calling on your life."

"Ok."  I'm waiting.  I'm looking.  I'm willing.  Am I missing it?  This new calling?   Will it descend from Heaven like Jesus coming on the clouds?  Will a preacher speak directly to me during his sermon?  Will I read it in a paragraph from a library book?   Is it to be a librarian?  A missionary?  A never-in-a-million-years somebody?

The pressure is on.  

Should I make plans?  Should I fill out applications?  Should I alert the prayer chain?   Should I fall to my knees in prayer myself?  Morning noon and night?

The pressure is on.  On top of sorrowing, on.   The pressure to find my new calling because God must not be done with me yet.  

And then, from nowhere (ok, somewhere, but an unexpected somewhere) God said to my heart, "All I want from you and for you, the something for you to do is... to love Me.  That is your call." 

Whewwwww!  I can do that.  I can love You, Lord Jesus.  With everything I am, I can love You. 

The pressure is off.  I can stop waiting and wondering and searching.  I am smack in the middle of His call.  Love God, Kath.  Just love Him.  The pressure is off. 

  

Growing

 

Some quiet tree branches ran into me. 

The kind that sport light green glowing tips.  The kind that stretch further than they used to.  The kind that must be noticed.  The kind that cannot not be spotted.  The lovely, tender, healthy, fragrant kind.

The tree branches have grown.

Have I grown?

Do I brighten the way?  Have I stretched beyond my used to's?  Am I noticeable?  Because I'm healthy?  And lovely?  And fragrant?  Is my heart tender?

Am I learning?  Listening?  Accepting?  Trying?  Am I thriving?

If I run into someone, I hope he sees my quiet branches have grown.   

Recovery

 

After experiencing a near accident, recover by stopping the spin, breathing deeply, exhaling slowly, rethinking carefully, processing completely.  It might take an afternoon or 6 months or more months, but recovery will recover.

After a muscle injury, recover by massaging correctly, applying wraps promptly, consulting a professional appropriately.  It might need a physical therapy session, but recovery will recover.

After a relationship breech, recover by asking God for wisdom, smashing pride, acting with humility, offering love.  It might take heal-the-wound time, it will at least send a willing message, hopefully recovery will recover. 

After a long run of many miles, recover by taking a leisure walk, stretching every which way, nutritioning and sleeping.  It might take a day or two, but recovery will recover.

After losing a husband, recover by talking about him, honoring his life, cherishing his memory, sharing and helping others.  It may take a long while, to eternity while, but recovery will recover. 

After recovering from recovery, plan to recover again.  And again.  Because life is recovery.   

Race

 

He would have been there.  Sooner than there.

He would have driven me there, walked me to the start line, held my things while porta pottying, gone back for my coat I decided not to bring, held my stretching leg, reminded me to start my tracker, kissed me blessings and joy, and promised to be there.

He would have camerad my finish, woo hooed my pace, medaled my neck, caught my relieved tears, and swung me off my tired legs.  He would have been there.  Sooner than there.

He would have listened to race talk:  the slip I nearly took, the gels I forgot, the racer along side me, the killer hill over the bridge.  He would have been there. 

Others were there.  A dear friend.  A blessing daughter.  ...He wasn't there.  For some reason I looked for him, on the rope, through the crowd, beside the snack table, at the finish line.  He wasn't there.

But he would have been there.  

 

Small

 

When does small feel small?

 When small is caught in a current of people exiting a stadium.

When small wears heels just to see the preacher from half way back.

When small step-stools to retrieve anything above the plates. 

When small crawls between the gallery's legs to watch the drive.

When small peeks through the fence instead of over it.

When small slides the seat all the way forward to reach the pedal.

When small looks like a bump, not a mound, under the covers. 

When small bikes around the neighborhood on a 16-incher. 

When small runs a path through the Redwoods whose tops cannot be seen.

This is when small feels small.

But he never made small feel small.  He snatched her hand. wrapped her shoulder, looked her straight in the eye, offered her the best view, bent his knees for the picture, and added tall to small.  Small didn't even notice.

He never made small feel small.