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Shooting Stars and the ‘Just Because’ Wonders of Jesus

October 24, 2019 by michelle 6 Comments

Fall is slow in finding its way to the desert. It shows up one morning on a thermometer that reads in the 60’s, leaves by mid-morning when the sun scorches car interiors and skin, then returns with a bedtime breeze. No colors and no leaves, but after surviving months of three-digit temps, I’ll take it.

When I saw autumn on the thermometer a few Saturdays ago, I carried my coffee outside and watched the sky brighten. The open sky has an effect on me. I see stars, or the sun, or the horizon for miles, and prayer is my Pavlovian response. I have a theory about this response, that it’s biologically wired through the vagus nerve, a long and complex nerve that connects the brain to the body. The vagus nerve begins in the roof of the mouth, flows down the length of the torso, stretches little fingers along the vital organs, and ends in the gut. Relax the tongue from the roof of the mouth and you’ve relaxed the sensory nerve associated with performance jitters and common anxiety. My mouth naturally opens when I look up, relaxing the vagus nerve, and the signal between brain and heart – my gut instinct – is prayer. God’s creative design is the coolest.

I talk to God all day long, but truth be told, I don’t always listen for what He has to say. I typically go from activity to activity with my prayers, drifting into different lanes of thought or remembering something I’m supposed to do, abandoning prayer altogether. Sometimes I pray a list of things while I’m driving, ending when I arrive, never once getting quiet with the Lord. The vagus nerve was named for the Latin word ‘wandering’. Appropriate description of my prayer life.

While watching the sun rise that Saturday morning, I jumped into praying a few days’ worth of stuff. God said, ‘Whoa, Michelle. One at a time.’ I knew it was His idea because one at a time is a God practice. My ideas run fast and tangled, and seventeen at a time is my ineffective approach. I liked His idea better.

I prayed one request, pausing to ask God what He thought of the matter, allowing Him to cool my confusion, hurt, or need. I’d forgotten how reflective prayer feels like rest and I shifted easily into the slower pace. It was so peaceful, I committed the next two weeks to morning prayer, first thing – no phone, no Bible, no exercise, just me and Jesus. And coffee. Sorry, I’m basic.

Two weeks under the stars of early morning required some adjustments, but not many. I hadn’t laid under the stars as if there was nothing else to do for years and I awoke ready for prayer and the quiet rustle of palm trees. The moon filled and then emptied, carrying me a week past my two week challenge. My challenge has become a practice. It’s too good to quit.

I’d prayed for one thing at the beginning of the prayer challenge – to see a shooting star. I’ve seen at least six so far. It wasn’t a prayer with utility or importance, just a prayer to witness the wonder and smile. I can’t explain why God would grant my request with such extravagance, other than to reflect His generous nature. He’s reminding me that as much as I need prayer time with Him, He delights in time with me. He wants my prayers, and I’m glad, because I have a lot of them.

The first recorded miracle of Jesus happened at a wedding celebration. The wine ran out – an embarrassment, yes, but certainly not the end of the world – and Mary told her son about it in such a way, He understood she was asking for a miracle. Mary had never seen Jesus perform a miracle, but she’d experienced the miracle of having Him drop into her womb in the most perplexing fashion. She’d witnessed the miracle of watching her son grow in distinction, beyond human limits, yet fully attune to the cry of humanity. She believed the God who had sent her a son had indeed sent His own Son, and as He grew, her faith grew with Him, moving from head to heart to lifestyle.

Jesus answered his mother’s request with, ‘It’s not my time.’ He could have left it at that. But Mary’s response to the wedding workers, ‘Do whatever He tells you,’ communicates wild faith. She believed Jesus was capable of every impossibility and she boldly and humbly trusted He would act – not because He had to, but because He loved her, because He cared, because He’s the giver of all good things. Just because.

Jesus looked at his mom, felt her faith, and knew – His time had come early. He turns water into wine that night. I like to imagine Jesus smiling to Himself, thinking, ‘She’s going to be so tickled about this.’ I don’t doubt He delighted in watching Mary taste the goodness and look His way, completely overwhelmed by the miracle, completely thankful she’d been there to ask, and by doing so, experience the wonder.

Stars streak the sky all the time; I only notice them when I’m watching. So I’m making space in my life to sit under the sky and look up. Prayers are answered all the time, but how often do I notice? I’m making space in my heart for bigger faith, the kind that asks for simple joy as well as the kind that releases those deep-down gut prayers. And when I’m too tired to talk or make sense of my own thoughts, I don’t say anything. I just watch for His wonder.

 

Every once in awhile, one of my kind readers asks, ‘Is it ok that I shared your post?’ For heaven’s sake, YES!! Yes you can! Any time, my friends. And thank you!

Holding onto Hope When It’s Hard to Trust

September 21, 2018 by michelle 2 Comments

A Guest Post with (In)courage! 

I’m at the stove sautéing dinner. There is no recipe, just meat and veggies and a cabinet full of spices, and I’m watching the skillet become art. My phone streams music and my hands keep time by chopping. I smell and taste, engaging all five senses. This is living.

The light tinkling of an alarm cuts my music short and for once it’s not a reminder of an appointment or a necessary task I’d likely forget, it’s only a little nudge to witness beauty if I have the time. I turn toward the windows. The small stripe of visible sky promises a colorful display, convincing me in seconds to leave my duties. I cover the pan and turn down the heat, grab my keys and move toward the door, but I see feet peeking from the side of the couch. I stop.

“Let’s go see the sunset.”

My daughter’s been lounging in the same position since she got home from school. She barely looks up from her phone. “I’m good.”

But she knows – and I know – she’s not good.

Finish reading this post by clicking here.

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The Steady Climb and the Sweetness

June 6, 2018 by michelle 5 Comments

This post is featured on Ruminate Magazine.

Cruising into Manitou, the Incline comes into view. Once an old railroad, the narrow path is etched with more than 2700 railroad ties – an intimidating and seemingly endless stairway to heaven. It’s less than a mile to the top, but the distance isn’t the threat, it’s the steep and severe grades of incline.  We were three brave souls on our drive, but now, peering toward the sky, we begin doubting our readiness.

The August sun is menacing, but other adventurers march ahead and we take flight with them, making bets as to how long before we stand like kings at the top. We agree to one rule: we are here together, but we journey alone. I make a personal rule: no breaks, just constant motion. Slow and steady, or even slower and steady – but always steady.

Eight minutes in and I’m sweating as if the sun’s only target. Accustomed to running in the fire wind of a Phoenix July, I remind my screaming muscles they’ve felt worse. I keep climbing. Before long, it’s my lungs complaining, heaving in and out as if they’re being crushed, and in truth, they are. I want to breathe deeply, but the thin air burns my nose and insides, making me want to empty my lungs completely, but when I try, I choke. The elevation is a menacing resistance. I’ve no music on this trek and I’m forced to step in time with my own wheezing, and my lungs and legs find harmony in the rhythm…

To continue reading, click here to go to Ruminate Magazine.

 

 

Ukulele strings and the youthful joys of procrastination

May 9, 2018 by michelle 2 Comments

It’s Sunday morning and I’m in my closet, deciding if I’m changing my outfit or not. My husband and I are in casual conversation about the different people we were when newly married compared to who we are 17 years later. I used to drink sugary mochas with my carb-filled bagel and didn’t think twice. He used to view work as a specific place with specific hours, and now his weeks look like an endless string of tasks. And both of us seem to be wondering the same thing: How do we get back to that ‘Life is delicious, I can’t not do this fantastic thing, Whoa, what just happened to the time’ kind of life?

Our younger two barge in, holding ukuleles.

“Hey mom, look what we’re bringing back! We’ve been practicing.”

My kids know they’ve got an old school mom who loves watching them do awesome things – and yes, that includes playing ukulele. Not long ago, these two took ukulele lessons and the house was filled with singing and strumming, but the lessons ended and practicing dwindled, and the island sounds disappeared. Occasionally, I’d suggest they pick up their picks again, but I dropped it knowing music – true to its name – is a muse, and one day, it’d draw my children back.

This is that ‘one day’.

This also happens to be the day my son must finish reading the remaining 100 pages of his book, because the 24 hour countdown for the book report he was assigned last month is running out…and he’s playing ukulele.

This is the morning after a student election poster-making extravaganza, when my daughter promised to clean up the bottles of paint and layer of glitter strewn over my dining room floor…and she’s searching ukulele chords on YouTube.

I shake my head at my husband who’s smirking much like I am, because what else can we do? A procrastinating minstrel is smiling at us. They know they have deadlines, and we all know the clock is ticking, and it seems there will be rushing in the final minutes, but somehow, the important things will get done. My husband and I aren’t angry – proof we’re not the same people we were years ago. And yet simply by enjoying a ‘right now’ moment, without thinking any further than this minute we’re living, we’re assured that somewhere in these older bodies, we’re still the same people we were once.

I tell my kids I love hearing them make music and they nod, and I remind them there are only so many hours in a day and they pluck their way out the door, humming as they go.

By bedtime, the report is printed and the dining room looks less like a construction zone. I finish a few important things and push off the rest. They’ll get done. The sibling duet is camped on the landing, playing their newest favorite for the 67th time, and I sit on the step next to them, not wishing to be anywhere else. ‘One last time’ turns into 12 more times, but eventually, they lay down their strings, promising to practice again in the morning.

It’s late and my husband’s in bed, but he smiles when I come in the room. Our morning conversation was never resumed, because in some strange way, music answered our question. There will always be plans and busyness, and the clock will continue counting the minutes until something, but those are precious minutes. We’ll just keep practicing the balance of important things for as many years as God allows, giving time an occasional glance, and giving more attention to the songs being played in between.

 

Jesus modeled a full life, not a busy life. Want to model that kind of balanced life? My guest blog on TheBetterMom.com may help!

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Michelle

Hi, I'm Michelle. Some of the best things I've ever done are the things I never planned - teen mom, women's mentor & advocate, becoming the writer of One More Truth. Yep, these pursuits found me, and fortunately, they fit. Much of life is unplanned, but we have choices for how we respond. Want fresh approaches for seeing differently, finding a way through & living integrated? You're in the right place. I'm glad you're here.

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