Sugar & Snark

I have spent most of my life in the desert. My family moved to the Southwest when I was but a wee lass. Apart from two fairly short blips in states that are lush and green and experience something of a change in seasons, I have essentially been in the desert my entire life. This is particularly surprising considering how much I hate the desert. The desert is dry. The desert is hot. The desert is brown. Seasons in the desert do not exist. We have one season, year-round, where the temperatures vacillate between warm and “burst into flames”.

Sure, those of us that call the desert home have tried our best to bring something of an oasis to this arid land. We plant flowers (that sometimes survive for almost 3 whole weeks). We strategically place shade structures.  We dig pools. We create water features so that we can hear water. Did you catch that? So we can HEAR water. ‘Cause when you can’t see it or feel it, you have to hear it. We put air conditioners in everything possible. We do whatever we can to make the desert hospitable. But, without some such intercession, we could not survive here. There is simply not enough shade, not enough shelter, not enough food, and not enough water.

As I was out on my walk this morning my eyes were intent on the things of the desert that make it a challenging place to live. That is code for “what I hate the most about it”. First and foremost, was the fact that I was sweating at 7:45 in the morning. Sweating. In the morning. There was almost nothing of a breeze and the sun wasn’t shrouded by a single cloud. As I made my way through the neighborhood, my eyes fell on all manner of desert foliage. By foliage I mean stubby, pale green plants all of which possess hundreds of miniature daggers designed to puncture any and all vital organs should you be unfortunate enough to fall on or near one. Cactus. Everywhere.  What flowers have managed to bloom are slowly browning and crisping as the daily temperatures rise. The Palo Verde trees, which just two weeks ago were full of allergy inducing yellow flowers are quickly losing them. This is actually a positive AND a negative as my eyes, nose, and lungs are always grateful when all pollen producing plants shrivel and die. However, the Palo Verde tree, sans flowers, is just plain ugly. For my Español challenged friends, “Palo Verde” literally means green stick. No leaves. Just green sticks. Mmmm… pretty!  And the yellow powder of pollen that covered the ground is now turning brown as if the sidewalks are covered in dust. Yay! More dust. Because that’s something we’re short on around here.

I walked by washes that looked like immediate fire hazards and wondered what manner of creature might be lurking around the dry brush. Please Lord, no coyotes or bobcats. I will panic. They will eat me.  I dodged millions of bees. Yes, millions. I may have frantically run past several holes that I’m certain were the entrances to vast mazes of rattlesnake dwellings.

There is a slight chance I could be something of an alarmist. But these are the things I see when I wander through the desert. There is no shortage of potential danger out there. Yet just as I wiped the sweat from my forehead for the…oh I don’t know…467,000th time and asked myself again, “why do we live here?”, I rounded the corner. I looked up and saw the high school against a stunning backdrop of mountains and thought “This place is beautiful! I can’t believe we live here!” Suddenly my perspective changed. I was no longer looking down and looking around. I was looking up and the scenery was amazing!

It dawned on me at that exact moment that I spend most of my life looking down and trying to survive in the desert. I focus on the circumstances of life and I see drought. I see discomfort. I see danger. I try my hardest to come up with ways to make these circumstances more palatable all the while dreaming of living in a lush land where rain falls regularly and seasons change.  I focus on the details and try to figure out how can I make this place I’m in better.  How can I make these circumstances more comfortable? How can I pretend everything is fine when it’s clear this season isn’t changing? What do I need to do just to make it through this day?

I think it’s time to take a step back. Look up. Look around. It’s time to change the perspective.

Looking out at the vastness of the desert, one can see such beauty, such creativity, such uniqueness. But smack dab in the middle of it, it looks dry, it looks dangerous, and it looks hopeless.  Instead of walking through life looking at the pitfalls, the disappointments, and the heartache, I need to remember to keep my eyes up. To remember that the setting of my life is part of something much bigger, something beautiful. I know this because the One who created it still holds it in his hand and sustains it. Does that mean I can skip through life oblivious to the troubles that surround me? Sadly, no. What I can do is realize that every dry patch of barren land is a place for God to grow something beautiful. Every hurt is an opportunity for grace to abound. Every disappointment leaves space for thankfulness.  Every struggle stretches and strengthens my faith.

Just because it’s ugly, doesn’t mean it’s useless. And just because it’s dry, doesn’t mean it’s dead.

It may not look beautiful from where I am standing, but as part of the glorious landscape, it’s breathtaking.  Psalm 63:1 says, “You, God, are my God, earnestly I seek you; I thirst for you, my whole being longs for you, in a dry and parched land where there is no water.”  He is all we need to endure. Let’s stop focusing on what’s painful and walk in his peace. Let’s take him at his word and trust him for the impossible. Let us continually seek Him amidst our circumstances and stop trying to find ways to survive in the desert. I guarantee that one day, we’ll look back upon the parched, empty scenery and be amazed at what has grown.

I sat staring blankly at my computer screen this morning desperately wanting to start typing but nothing happened. Nothing. I could almost hear the tumbleweed blowing across my desolate mind. Nothing but the sound of wind. I began to grow increasingly frustrated. Writers are supposed to write. And I had nothing to say. Immediately, my empty mind was flooded with thoughts of impending failure. How can I call myself a writer if I never write anything down. Months, years from now I could still have nothing to say. I will write nothing. No one will read it. I will fail.

And then the internal monologue began….

Write something…

Anything…

Just push the keys…

Any words will do…

OH. MY. GOSH…

This is the longest anyone has stared at a computer screen and done nothing…

For the love of all things that are holy…

Type letters. Any letters…

(insert 30 minutes of silence here)

I literally have no words.

I am a lover of seasons. Which is particularly ironic considering the fact that I have spent the vast majority of my life living in a place with two seasons. Hot and hotter. But no matter. In my mind there are four distinct seasons throughout the year and I do everything in my power to create an atmosphere inside my home that imitates what I wish was happening outside of my home.

And then there are times like this. August. What is the point of this month? My apologies to those celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, or any other such momentous occasions in August. But this month stinks. There is back to school, which I am eternally grateful for, but let’s look at it from this perspective…

Where I live, August is hot. Not just hot, but an it’s been hot for four months and the heat isn’t going away any time soon kind of hot. June and July are hot. Hotter, actually. But June and July bring days by the pool and backyard barbecues. There are vacations to look forward to and holidays to plan. But, August? August is day to day drudgery in the sweltering heat. August is work and school schedules, no vacations, no holidays to distract. Just life. Life in the heat. And I’m over it. Like ready to poke out my own eyes over it. Which is why, it should come as no surprise that I spent more than a normal amount of time at the craft store yesterday perusing aisles of holiday goods and stocking up on all things Halloween and Thanksgiving. I am looking beyond August.

But something dawned on me this morning, I spend a lot of time looking forward because today seems dull. Been there. Done that. And I’m looking for something to shake things up a bit. I realized that I’m like so many people I’ve seen and know.  The people in the world who seem to crave drama. They are always involved in some sort of emotional or relational crisis. They have always been something of an enigma to me and I’m often puzzled over why they feel the need to create such calamity in their own lives. Sometimes they try and drag me in. Sometimes, I’m trapped in it whether I want to be or not.  And I have to stop and wonder if, like me, it’s because they don’t know what to do with the here and now.

Do we spend our lives just waiting for the next season? There will be highs and lows, for sure, but in our anticipation of them, are we bored with the in between? What do we do when the roller coaster of our life levels out and the thrill is temporarily gone?

More often than not, I find myself growing complacent. I get stuck in a rut. My time with God becomes a little less consistent and I fill the extra space in my head with meaningless dribble. I get caught up in my own thoughts. Or, more dangerously, I discount the time as insignificant and let it blow past.

But today, as I finished reading I Corinthians, Paul said something that struck me. He spent most of this letter to the church at Corinth addressing issues that they had raised with him. The church was trying to navigate the waters of Christianity in a sea of corruption and immorality and often times, failing miserably. Paul addressed division and disorder in the church. He has also tackled such issues as sexual immorality and idolatry and gave the believers direction regarding worship, freedom, and spiritual gifts. The church at Corinth was dealing with some drama. They needed wisdom and so they went to Paul with their questions. He gave them all of the specific instruction he needed to, informed them that others would be coming and going, and left the Corinthians with these final instructions.

“Be on guard. Stand firm in the faith. Be courageous. Be strong. And do everything with love.” -1 Corinthians 16:13-14 NLT

That’s it. He spent page after page giving them directions, dealing with their issues. But the bottom line was simple. Regardless of what may or may not be going on around you, just do this.

What do we do in the in between? When there’s no mountain to scale and no valley to be stuck in? In between the seasons, the highs and lows of life, instead of trying to create them, instead of trying to avoid them, instead of looking out for the next big thing…

“Be on guard. Stand firm in the faith. Be courageous. Be strong. And do everything with love.”

Dear Moms of Back to Schoolers,
You’ve met today with a mix of emotions. You’re loose summer schedule of pool time, late nights, and movies in the middle of the day has been replaced by school bells, packing lunches, mounds of homework, and living out of your car. Here we go, back to school.

On the other hand, you won’t have to hear the words “I’m bored” every waking moment of the day, you can put your referee stripes back in the drawer for nine months, and there’s a chance your house will actually look like it’s inhabited by humans for at least a few hours each day. It’s Back to School!

But, regardless of whether you are dreading or anticipating the start of a new school year, you are most likely a ball of emotions today. As your kids head out the door with excitement, your heart aches with the realization that they are a year older and time isn’t slowing down. Hug your babies, whether they are 5 or 15. Cry today. It’s okay. It’s time to go back to school.

To those of you whose kids aren’t looking forward to going back to school. Perhaps they are headed to a new school and are feeling nervous and uneasy. Maybe they know the problems from last year will be waiting for them when they set foot on campus this year. Pray with your kids. Remind them that they aren’t going alone. Encourage them. Hug them tightly. Send them off with the reminder that we “can do ALL things through Christ, who gives us strength”- Philippians 4:13. Cling to that promise today, Mom. Because sometimes there’s nothing harder than taking your kids back to school.

There’s nothing like the sound of a blood curdling scream at 2 a.m. to rouse you out of bed and prepare you to start your day. This happened on two separate occasions last night. Yes. Twice. In one night. The first shout of horror came from my daughter who, when questioned, stared at me with a blank expression indicating she was in fact half asleep at the moment. Too asleep to answer. Not  asleep enough to let go of my neck. So there I stayed for about 15 minutes, heart pounding after a sprint down the hall, in the headlock of a snoring six-year-old.

I finally returned to bed and stared at the ceiling until all symptoms of cardiac arrest ceased. I then dozed off for what seemed like about 8.5 seconds before my name rang through the house yet again. This time from the general direction of the 5 year-old’s room. He, however, was wide awake, sitting straight up in bed, awaiting my arrival. Which, admittedly, took longer than it should have because, in my delirium, I headed the wrong way down the hall. Forgive me son. At 3:45 a.m. you all sound the same.

I was greeted with another panic stricken face and immediately placed in a half-Nelson. When asked what had frightened him, my son said, and I quote, “There’s a cricket out there.”

Now, my son’s room is at the front of the house and outside the window there are, indeed, any number of crickets. It’s Summer. We live in the desert. ‘Nuff said. I decided to forgo sharing this tidbit of info with him for fear that he would immediately cut all oxygen flow to my brain. (Motherhood is really all about survival sometimes, isn’t it folks?) Truth be told, he wasn’t at all concerned about the thousands of crickets outside the house, but the ONE that had apparently penetrated the fortress and was chirping loudly outside his bedroom.

I immediately grabbed the fly swatter and began looking for the illusive cricket. Somehow sensing his imminent demise, the cricket launched a most brilliant counteroffensive and completely stopped chirping. The silence was enough to convince my son that the cricket had moved on and he was able to fall asleep. I was not so lucky. I spent the next two hours tossing and turning and listening to the chirp of that hateful cricket. I finally managed to fall asleep, just as I saw the sun beginning to creep through the curtains. An hour later, the alarm went off.

But something dawned on me in the middle of my sleeplessness. That cricket, though annoying and extremely inconsiderate, posed no actual threat to my son. In his moment of hysteria, I couldn’t explain that to him. The only option was to seek out and destroy the enemy. Had he been more composed, I could have reasoned with him. But the truth was, he was tired, he was frightened, and he saw this cricket as a very substantial threat.  I, on the other hand, knew it was just a matter of time. When the sun came up I would be able to unearth the cricket and eliminate the problem. My son was never in danger.

Unfortunately, I often behave the same way. I have my own crickets. They are not as loud, but much more terrifying. My crickets are circumstances. They generally creep up in the middle of the night, when I’m at my weakest. They grip me with a fear that asks, “What are you going to do now? How will you pay that bill? What happens if?” In that moment, when the fear grips me, I will cry and scream and call out for my Father. Many times, he’ll take care of the “cricket” right away. But, more often than not, he simply says “Wait, I’ll take care of it in the morning”. Morning often feels a long way off. But He has never let me down. Perhaps He knows, while the fear is real, the threat is not. Perhaps He knows the thing I am seeing as fatal to our health, our family, our finances, is just an annoyance. Nothing more than a loud, chirping cricket that can do nothing more than keep me up at night. Perhaps, if I stop focusing on the circumstance and trust Him, I will find rest.

Lord, help me to remember the things that threaten my security, the noises I hear at night, are completely defeatable by you. Help me to focus on your goodness, your strength, and your provision to silence the “chirping” of the Evil One when I feel afraid.

Mas・ter・piece    noun \ˈmas-tər-ˌpēs\ 1 :  a work done with extraordinary skill; especially :  a supreme intellectual or artistic achievement 2 :  a person’s greatest piece of work, as in an art. 3 :  anything done with masterly skill: a masterpiece of improvisation. 4 :  a consummate example of skill or excellence of any kind: The chef’s cake was a masterpiece.   I have never considered myself a connoisseur of art, although I have always admired it. My right brain has always marveled at anyone who can take a blank canvas, some random globs of paint and create a beautiful portrait or landscape. But because I lack the skill, my artistic preference has always been for those works that I find aesthetically pleasing, not that demonstrate the artist’s proficiency.  Let’s face it, one can’t appreciate skill unless one has a remote understanding of it. And when it comes to artistic endeavors, skill is something I am sorely lacking. Take sculpture for example. I was never really an enthusiast. All those half naked figures, with their blank eyes, carved in white. To me, color represented life and sculpture was lifeless. Until, one summer, I ventured to Italy and my eyes met this.

Instantly, I was blown away by the detail. The compressions in the skin where his hands held her, the muscles and veins visible in his legs. This was amazing! This was beyond anything I could possibly comprehend, let alone attempt. This artist was a master. I immediately imagined a room full of stone, dust flying as the artist painstakingly chiseled each and every detail of this particular sculpture. The tiresome hours, the aching hands. How much delicate work, how much determination, how much time does it take to turn the vision into the reality? Mind.Blown. This sculpture wasn’t created by an artist. This sculpture was created by a master. A masterpiece is determined, not just by the finished product, but by the skill of the one who creates it. If we view our lives as a work in progress, we cannot discount the skill of the One who is making us. The Author and Perfecter of our faith. Up close, life looks messy. The details of each day and season can seem monotonous. The highs and lows can leave us feeling like we are trapped under a pile of rocks, caught in a whirl of dust, just waiting for it to settle. Each struggle, every pain, just seems to add to the swirling mess we already feel we’re in. But when added by the Master, in the right time and space, it’s just another layer…a perfect detail, a splash of color. To the One who paints the portrait of our life, it’s a skillfully added stroke. A step closer to the finished product. When all we can see is mess, He sees the Masterpiece. We may or may not get a glimpse of the final outcome. If we carefully look back over our lives, we can see the portions that have been carefully crafted and contributed to where we are now. We see His hand. It’s this same hand that held the brush yesterday, holds it today, and will hold it tomorrow. Only when the Artist is finished, will he place his brush down, step back, and see that it is good. “For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.” -Ephesians 2:10 (NLT)