Lukewarm.

The pilot light on our water heater keeps going out.

Now, I am not what I would call “high maintenance.” I might be a little particular, but high maintenance? I don’t think so. And I don’t think Hubbs thinks I am either (which at this point I think he is probably the only one that matters as he is the only one who has to live with me).  I don’t think I expect much.

But I do expect hot water.

In America, that is.

When I have been in more remote places or countries of the world, the thought doesn’t even cross my mind to be upset that they don’t have hot water. It’s just not what life is like there.

But life has hot water in my house.

Well it did, until about three weeks ago.

Ok, that’s not entirely true.

Three weeks ago the pilot light went out, so Hubbs was a champ and went down and re-started it. But 15 minutes later it was out again. And so he lit it again. And again. And again. We called the property manager (we rent our house) and he said, “We don’t handle pilot lights. You will have to handle that.”

But we were handling it. We were re-handling it every 15 minutes. And that didn’t seem to be helping.

We left the next day for the weekend and figured it would have to be taken care of when we got back. So we came home (to just cold water), re-lit the pilot light and called the property manager again. He gave us a 1-800 number to try………which turns out to be a number where they tell you how to troubleshoot the pilot light issues.

It was not a 1-800 number for a plumber or an electrician.

So Hubbs, because he is awesome, did everything that could be done to a hot water heater that is not our own.

And now the pilot light stays on…………..for about an hour.

So now we have lukewarm water.

Hubbs and I are church shopping this summer. Which, for the Believer, is probably one of the worst church-related experiences that you have to go through. Finding a community to call “home,” to call yours, to see a group of people each week that you know are relatively on the same page as you. Not having it takes a toll on you.

Well it does on me.

But I didn’t realize it did until one day, back in 5 Month City, we were at a service somewhere and it was just very REVERENT. Now, the church that we went to weekly down there was fine, but we were really at it because we were only going to be there for 5 months. You know what I mean? Like, if we were going to have been there longer we wouldn’t have settled so quickly on one. But we just wanted to pick one right away and get plugged in since we only had little time.

But anyway, we were at a special service for something and it was incredibly reverent. Very “churchy,” if you will. Not like some of those new churches where you could walk in, look around, and go, “So, uh….what do you do here? What’s this building for?” because it doesn’t resemble anything like a church. No, it was definitely a place where you know, “Ah yes, you worship God here!”

And it was in that reverent moment that something inside of me clicked and I told Hubbs, “After tonight I feel like I have not been to a church service in…..um……a year and a half.”

Because a year and a half before that is when I met Hubbs. And when I started traveling every weekend to see him. And therefore lost my current church home.

So yes. We are church shopping here. And it has taken a toll.

And, it’s made me feel like I have lost something in my relationship with the Lord. Some closeness maybe. Some intensity. Some heat.

Honestly. I feel rather lukewarm.

Like the water coming from my tap.

And let me tell you a thing or two about lukewarm water. It’s awful. You put your hand in it and your body doesn’t register anything. Much like not being able to tell what sort of thing happens in a church building, I could just as easily say, “Is my hand in water?! Huh. I can’t tell….” Because there is no temperature difference than the air. 

It’s not hot.

It’s not cold.

It’s just there.

It doesn’t clean as well.

It doesn’t cool as well.

It is just there. Being water. And being little else.

It all makes perfect sense then, when John says in Revelation to the church at Laodicea, “So, because you are lukewarm---neither hot nor cold---I am about to spit you out of my mouth.”

Exactly. Lukewarm water is gross. Because it doesn’t accomplish anything that it is capable of doing.

But I can’t entirely blame not having a church.

I can blame me.

In addition to not having a church home, I have not prioritized devotions. I have not prayed on my face. I have not been in a Bible study. I have not sought out fellowship of other godly women.

The lukewarm-ness is my own issue.

And now that I know how useless lukewarm water is, I don’t want to be a representation of that in any way, shape, or form.

And how about you? Am I alone in this? Or have you maybe let things go? Let the heat die away?

I am praying for you, Wolfies. Praying that we all would be either hot or cold. None of this middle-of-the-road garbage.

Trivial.

I had some trivial post to send your way last week. But then I couldn't get my trivial pictures to post like I wanted them to.
It was a witty blog, with me having realizations that I somehow am not what I thought I was. And maybe someday I will post it.
Because I write about trivial things sometimes.

But then the unthinkable happened.
And looking back I am so glad I had not posted that blog.
It would have been, really, so-----trivial.
Worthless.

It wouldn't have helped anyone's soul at that point.

See, we lost one of our dear ones. One of my very best friends had to say goodbye to a sister. Nobody saw it coming.
It stopped me in my tracks.
Made everything else, (blog posts especially)-----all very trivial.

I left immediately when I got the news. Immediately after I could see through swollen, bleary, teary eyes, that is.
It was a sorrow like I have never seen or felt before. One that comes from depths you didn't even know you had.
But it was a sorrow for us. The ones who are still here. The ones who still have what we call "today."
Our dear one is with Jesus now; so we do not sorrow for her. We sorrow for us. Which is both a pain and a glory. For "we do not grieve like the world grieves" (I Thess. 4:13), which is our sure and abiding hope, a true and present glory, all the while living in the land of grief's shadow (Psalm 23) and having to deal with the consequences of Adam's sin (Romans 5:12) in all it's indelible sorrow.
Our pain and our hope, it seems, are cut out of the same cloth.
Never so more clearly seen than in situations like this.

And, it's the kind of situation where you want to go and be eloquent. You want to speak words that are a balm, like oil on a wound. You want to offer something that heals, something that comforts. To know what Jesus would say in a time like this. Speak some kind of hope into the situation.
But instead you go and all that stumbles out is, "I don't know what to say......."

And it's the kind of situation where you want to go and be strong for them, so they know they don't have to be. You want to be a fortress for them for a while.
But then you get there and you don't feel strong at all and all you can do is climb onto the bed and weep right along with them. And you feel like the tables turned, and they are comforting you more than you are comforting them.


Grief.
Stricken.

And all your desires to go and somehow make it a little more bearable seem a little more trivial.
 


So, because while I am on this earth I am still very much "me,"  in a very "me" way I asked what I can do. Is there anything tangible I can do to help.....something.

"Yeah, you could make me a counter top for our kitchen island."

Even for this project girl that I am that was not what I was expecting.

But yes, yes you dear sweet mother. I would do anything for you. And I will most definitely build you a counter top.

I love this Sweet Mother. I always have. I have known her basically my whole life. She is one of those women who is GENTLE. I remember when I was a kid, when some of her young children were getting out of hand she would never yell. She would never fly off the handle. She would get down on her knees, down to their level, and she would whisper. In the midst of their tantrums or misbehavings or what-have-yous, she would whisper. And it was a miracle: They would always quiet down.
Gentleness.

So yes, Sweet Mother, anything at all you want.

And so we did. Hubbs and I and some of my best friends. We set to work immediately. Working as if we had been given an order by the king.

Sweet mother wanted it, and we would have done anything to give it to her.


In the midst of our measurements and power tools, every once in a while one of us would just break down. And they would stop the sanding. Stop the staining.
And we would pray. And we would cry. And we would pray for them.

Pray because, all of the sudden, what a week before had maybe been viewed by them as a trivial chore (building an island) was now, to us, not trivial in the least.

See, Wolfies, it's not the WHAT you are doing, but it's the WHO are you doing it for that brings purpose or meaning or urgency to something.

I think in life so often we want to do the big things. We want to fly in and save the day. Be that strong person, or that eloquent person. And maybe the Lord has granted that to some of you, to be those things.
But maybe some of you are like me.
Your words stumble out, and you wish you could heal but all that comes, you feel, are your shortcomings. You are so aware that only Jesus can heal and if there ever was a cracked vessel, it was you.
You see yourself and your efforts to save the world and be good and save yourself and help others and you see really how it's all so inadequate.
You are now so aware that you don't have power in you to do that.

Which is probably exactly where we all need to be.

I realized in the midst of all this that maybe I see all my shortcomings because I am looking to me. 
I see all that cracks because my eyes are on the vessel.

I know what I want to do in that situation---be the eloquent and strong one---but maybe that's not what HE wants me to do.

Maybe it's important for someone to go and say what I said: "I don't know what to say."
And maybe it's good for someone just to crawl into bed and cry right along with them.
Even if it all feels so much more trivial than you wanted it to.

Because maybe all our things that we do FOR the Lord and FOR the people he has put in our paths aren't so trivial after all. Be them as in-eloquent and un-strong as they were.
Maybe Sweetest Mother needed a project done more than she needed my words.
Maybe the Lord needed me to build something so both of us would find healing around it, both in the building and receiving processes.

If there is anything I know, I know this: The Lord's plans are not ours, and his ways are not our ways.

As humans we want to take eloquent roads, the strong roads.

But he took the humble road. The silent road before accusations. The road that was broken for us, so that we, we cracked vessels would some day be made whole again. He took the road that wept with his mourning friends, and the road that has taken him to build and prepare places in Heaven for those of us whom he has called unto his name.

His ways are not our ways. But his ways are higher, because they are taking us along the same road he walked.
And nothing about that is trivial.

Common Grace.

Up until that point I had never understood what everyone was talking about when they said, “Yeah, I was there at such and such a place and blah blah blah happened and I just FELT VERY SMALL.”

Never.

Never in my life have I ever felt like that.

From those same blah blah blah situations they would talk about I would usually come away feeling like I was on top of the world. Or very important to God. Or like I was making a difference.

And I suppose all of that was true then. Maybe I was in a really good spot in life.

I AM very important to God (you all are).

Maybe I was making a difference (Oh, Lord, I pray so).

But I have never felt small.

I have walked the streets of almost every major European city and felt like all eyes were on me. 

Not small.

I have stood beside oceans and seas, both calm and tumultuous, and heard God whisper in that obvious expanse. God, who created that, was talking to me. So, I didn’t feel very small.

I have been on stages of all sizes, but never felt small.

I have made sales that were thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars. No small potatoes.

But then one night when I was least expecting it….driving through the middle of nowhere, watching a sunset like most sunsets in this lovely State, seeing the fields and forests laid out before me, all amber colored in the long shadows, I felt very small.

It had been a tumultuous couple of weeks, making me wonder a million times what the world was possibly coming to and where in the world all of it was going to lead, and as I sat there in the moving car, watching creation in all of its resplendent glory arrayed before me, I was overwhelmed by the goodness of God.

Such grace. Fields and fields of corn and wheat just doing their thing. Unaffected by politics, no care and concern for the thoughts of the masses. They just grow.

A farmer puts a seed in the ground, and God makes it grow. 

Grace.

Or think about that sunset. Just shimmering away for me to awe at.

Grace.

Or so much bounty in my refrigerator.

Grace.

And the more I thought about how the world is going mad and God is still so good; so good to continue to send rain to grow the plants, so good to continue to produce incredible sunsets, so good to make the air smell all wonderful and summery, so good for Him to still be so big and so in charge. Big enough to handle everything. Big enough to see the world’s condition and deal with it.

Without forgetting to make one single sunset.

He is so big.

And I am so small.

And that night I knew it.

He is not affected by our comings and goings. We do not change his character and his statutes. 

He is eternal. We are temporal. He causes the plants to grow. We do not. Matthew 5:45 says, “He causes the sun to rise on the wicked and the good, and make the rain fall on the upright and the wrongdoers alike.”

Wherever you stand on this line of wicked or good, upright or a wrongdoer, he still extends to you so much common grace. Not because of anything you have done or will ever do. But just because HE IS GRACIOUS.

Because He still causes all of our plants to grow. No matter what shape the world is in right now.

I mean, for example.

When I was in 5 Month City I took some seeds and some dirt and some egg cartons.

 And I put the seeds in the dirt in the egg cartons. One week later, I had little plants.

Then we moved to the Homeland and I put my even bigger little plants in buckets.

And now I have big plants.

That give me yellow beans.

And will soon produce tomatoes.

Why? Because God is still so very good and so very gracious, even though I am still so very small.

See, in the Christian world, everything is different. Being small doesn’t mean insignificant, unimportant, or with no influencing power. Being small is a relative term; the Lord is simply so big. We have no other option but to be small.

And that’s good news. Because it doesn’t change who you are, and it doesn’t change who he is, it just gives you proper perspective.

So think on his bigness and his common grace to us all this morning. And bless the name of the Lord for being still so good to you.

Even though we are all still so very small.

Muted.

Hi Wolfies!!! I almost bought an excellent fur blanket yesterday, like the one in this picture, but refrained. Needless to say though it made me think of you, as I do often.

The original Wolf Queen picture.

So Hubbs and I are getting all settled in. Sure, I still need an area rug for over there, and a floor lamp for over here, but all things considered we are feeling pretty much at home.
That does not mean, of course, that I am not still going to the wrong drawer to look for a chopping knife (I am going where the chopping knives were in our last kitchen), or to the wrong closet to look for a towel ( I am going where the towels were in our last hallway), or the wrong side of the bed at night (not really); slowly but surely though, I am finding my way through my new dwelling.
We are attempting to adjust to the new schedule of him going to work all day and not spending it with me (not fun), I am trying to find a routine in a schedule that isn't routine (hopefully it gets better), and I have about eight big projects I want to tackle and time only for maybe one. Or half of one. Blah.

But it will come.
And despite all the typical challenges that come with moving to a new city (finding the right stores, the right roads, the right knife drawer, etc) we really are so glad to be "home" and closer to all we know so well.
There have also been a couple really great little moments that stuck to my little soul lately.

Like a little Sunday afternoon tea and coffee service we had.

This little guy never ceases to thrill me.

The glory of summertime fruits.

Living rooms starting to look like home.

Feeling all Ina-Garten-ish and making her Roast Chicken.

No caption really needed for this one.

Hubbs and I went to Chicago this last weekend for a number of things, one of them being to see the excellent Chris Botti in concert. He is one of the world's best living trumpet players right now and since Hubbs is a trumpet player and I love all things jazz, it made perfect sense since we were in the city anyway.

I dislike cities, have I told you this? They make me feel claustrophobic, like I need to wash my hands, and very much like an imposter.
But Jesus is helping me with the last one.

Anywho, we were there and are so very glad we went as both of us agreed it was one of the best concerts we have ever been to. Which is saying something. We have been to a lot of concerts.

At one point he had this insanely good violinist join him and they played this song called Emmanuel.
A really moving tune, I leaned over to Hubbs half way through and said to him "Kind of interesting this song is called Emmanuel, isn't it?" (Watch it here--and I apologize for any nasty ad beforehand. They can be unacceptable.)
I don't believe Chris Botti is a Believer. He makes no mention of it, so I can assume. And I don't know if he wrote this song or not, I would assume not, but I still found it curious that, right there, in the middle of this grand musical display is a word that means "God with us." I think I wrote something entitled this at Christmas once and it is such a good thought. Wherever you are, in whatever circumstance you find yourself in, God is with you. "He is at your right hand" the Bible says (I wrote something about that, too. No surprise.).  Sitting right there, he was there, too. God with me. At my right hand. Listening to Chris Botti wail out "Emmanuel."

A neat reminder.

So trumpets have these things called Mutes, I guess (Hubbs told me). My favorite trumpet sound is when the bell has in it what is called a Harmon Mute. It's the classic jazz sound.
Listen to it here when he plays "Hallelujah."
And while I think it sounds so neat and chill and.......sultry, if I do say so myself, it absolutely IS muted. It doesn't have that glorious "brilliance" or "shine" as a trumpet can. It's not crisp, clear. It's blurry.
It's muted. So appropriately named.

And it made me think.

Romans 8 says that "All creation groans" because it was "subjected to frustration" at the Fall (verses 22 and 20), which would go to mean that THIS TRUMPET is just groaning. Not singing. Not jubilating. Not praising.
For as excellent as it sounds, and great at Chris Botti is, it is not what it could be. Isn't that mind blowing?

To make a connection.............it's muted.

It's a blurry picture.
There is something lost, something lacking.
All of it has been subjected to frustration.

Doesn't that make you homesick for what a SINGING trumpet will sound like? For how well a non-groaning instrument will sound?

And then it occurred to me. When Jesus comes back, he is coming with trumpets (I Thessalonians 4:16 and others)!! Not blurred trumpets, no way. Not groaning trumpets, not frustrated trumpets. But loud, brilliant, clear, tolling trumpets.
And what a jubilation that will be. Our ears will hear for the first time a sound that is not muted. The scales will have fallen.

But then it also occurred to me.

Our song will be the same as it was the other night. As it should be every day.

Just like how here on this earth "we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we will see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known" (I Corinthians 13:12), we sing our songs to the Lord in part. We only know the half of it.
Here I sing and I write about Hallelujah.
I sing and I talk about God Being With Us.

But I sing and I talk and I write and I know all muted. In part. Those things are entities that, I pray, glorifies God to the best of it's ability, but it is not brilliant yet. It does not shine as it will, it is not yet fully glorified as it will be.

But my song will be the same.
I will sing with no muting doubts. No fears that blur. No distortions that cast a shadow.

And then I will know it's truth in full.
I will see clearly it's Emmanuel.
I will sing unmuted it's Hallelujah.

I won't see them again.

So, I have been busy.

This whole gang came.

A designer in 5 Month City contacted me and wanted me to know if I could fill in while she was on maternity leave. And she makes stuff like this:

So yes. Yes I could fill in for her. Obviously. Look at those sweet poof things.

I have had a number of calls about weddings this. So collections like this have been taking place more and more frequently:

The zoo also had a baby:

You know that line from Dispicable Me when the little girls wins that stuffed animal at the carnival and says "It's so fluffy I could die!!!!"

Well that was me.

Except it was a baby elephant.

And in stead of saying "fluffy" I inserted "already wrinkly."

But the excitement was the same.

Seriously, it was the cutest baby I have ever seen and I pretty much lost my mind.

He even was taking his little trunk, filling it up with water, and spraying himself.

Slay me.

And then two days later, this happened:

Hubbs and I loaded almost all of our earthly possessions into a UHaul and left 5 Month City.

What a strange feeling it is to put your stuff in a box. It makes me wonder what really life is made up of.

Despite the fact that 5 Month City was not very nice to us, and it was not a place we felt particularly drawn to, as we were going through the packing process we both had our moments of sadness.

This was our first house together. This was our first city we lived in together. This was a place where we were together literally 24/7 and didn't get sick of each other. Be what the city itself may, we had created some semblance of a life there.

Yes, we wanted to leave, yes we are so happy to be back, yes the grocery stores here are nothing short of miraculous and I ordered meat at the butcher yesterday for probably twenty minutes, we still had to do our share of saying goodbye to 5 Month City. We even both might have had a few melancholy moments.

Leaving some place makes you take stock and sum up all the experiences you now call yours.

And I couldn't stop thinking about this one experience specifically.

It was a typical Monday. I had gone grocery shopping, I had gone to WalMart, I had had numerous typical unnerving experiences at both places.

Much like Jo in Little Women when she is asked to go visit friends with her sister, ("Come, Jo, it's time."

"For what?"

"You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls with me today?"

"I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a single one upsets me for a week.")

I feel that way about shopping. Especially in 5 Month City. I had already gone to TWO stores, not one, (and a single store upsets me all week), and was "ready to get home" as one might casually say.

Zipping down The Pothole Road, I really was almost to my road, when out of the corner of my eye I see two women at a bus-stop, one of them flat on her back and the other standing over her.

And it wasn't like she was taking a nap. That was obvious.

Feeling certain they were in trouble I whipped my car around, delaying my longed-for return home.

"Are you alright?!?!" I said immediately as I pulled up.

"I don't know! I think she is having a panic attack!"

There she lay on the ground, almost convulsing, uncontrollably sobbing, hyperventilating, and overall out of it.

What is a girl to do?! I called someone I know who has dealt with this issue in the past and she walked me through how I could help.

Breathing exercising, supporting their weight, reassuring them, telling them it's ok to feel how they are feeling, etc.

I sat there with them for about twenty minutes and we got the woman calmed down enough to sit up and be able to tell us how she was feeling.

They told me that they were a "couple" and their names were Beth and Madalyn, and we made small talk and self-help talk as best we could in a situation like this.

Seeing as they were at a bus stop they didn't have a car, so when Madalyn mentioned she wanted to go to the hospital, I knew I was the one to do it.

I called Hubbs and had his come down, pick us up, and take us.

They were so thankful, we told them about ourselves, what we were doing in 5 Month City, what we had done the day before for Easter.

They were not religious, so they had gone to one of those all you can eat Buffet places.

We helped her into a wheelchair at the ER and sent them in.

And then we drove home.

From that point on every time I drove by that bus stop I looked to see if they were there.

They weren't.

For weeks after I couldn't stop thinking about them. How different their lives were from mine. What their stories might be that had led them to that lifestyle. What background things brought on the attack. Why did no one else stop. Thanking the Lord that I listened to him and went back.

And then we started packing up our houses. And it really hit me: I will never see them again.

God placed me there for that time, to come into their life during that need.

To be a breathing coach.

To let them know they weren't alone.

To give them a ride to the hospital.

To tell them we were praying for them. And we are.

We left 5 Month City early in the morning and as I drove past I looked at that empty bus stop. Remembering the day I wanted to get home and God wanted me to stay. To be a tangible force in their life for good.

I won't ever see them again. I won't ever know how their story ends. I won't ever know how their story started.

But God does.

Jesus saw them born. He will see them die. He saw them in their panic and sent me.

He knows. He loves. He cares. For two women so far away from him. For two women with deep seeded need and pain.

And so I trust. I trust that he has seen them their whole life. And he will continue to. Whether I continue to drive by that bus stop in 5 Month City anymore or not.

Because I am not.