Invited to Enter His Passion

In His hour of temptation, Jesus asked the disciples to keep watch with Him. Why? For their sake. In His hour of temptation, He didn't want them to enter temptation. This takes my breath away. I don't know what kind of temptation the disciples could have entered that wouldn't have paled in comparison to the temptation He faced as He spoke to His Father, "Abba, Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from Me.." (Mark 14:36). What I do know is that I stand amazed that He didn't seem consider His trial in the Garden of Gethsemane to be more worthy of the disciples' prayers than the trials they would have while waiting for Him.

"How is that so, Lord?" He could have asked His disciples to watch and pray for Him, but He didn't.

"I said to them, 'My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even to death.' Then I asked them to watch." He responds to my question from His word, but it doesn't sound like an answer to me.

"I don't understand, Lord." I know His thoughts follow an order and have a point, but I'm not getting it. "What does asking them to watch You  in Your sorrow have to do with telling them to pray, lest they enter into temptation?"

"I said to them, 'The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.'" He responds, again from His word, and again, I don't understand.

He's quiet. I read the passage again and I begin to wonder what the disciples' prayers would have been like if they had followed His instruction. Intense.

They would have seen Him agonize.

They would have heard His voice speak in a tone they'd never heard before.

They would have witnessed great drops of sweat, soaking as blood through His garment.

Perhaps they would have seen, too, angels ministering to Him.

Berries on Thorny Branch

I wonder if Peter would have denied Jesus if he had done as Jesus asked and prayed that he himself wouldn't enter into temptation while watching Jesus agonize in His hour of temptation.

I wonder if the reason why Jesus asked His disciples to sit with Him and watch and, at the same time, to pray that they themselves wouldn't enter into temptation was because there is no greater way to enter into the passion of Christ than to be intimately a part of it. Short of going through what only Jesus could go through, the next closest thing may have been to do what He asked-to sit with Him and watch Him pray for Himself while praying not for Him, but for themselves.

"The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak," He answers my wondering with what sounds, to me, like grace laced with the sad reality of our fallen state. It was His response to His disciples when they fell asleep, and it was spoken from the lips of One whose flesh screamed to part company with the cup in order to save His mortal life.

Maybe there was an additional reason why Jesus He asked His disciples to watch and pray for themselves. Maybe when He asked them to pray for themselves, those prayers strengthened Him further to do what He came to do. Maybe whatever quick little prayer His disciples prayed for themselves, before drifting into sleep because of sorrow, were also prayers which girded up Jesus to complete what He came to us to do, knowing that the flesh is weak.

Surely the Father agonized as He listened to His Son groan prayers, alone. His Son was in the flesh, praying what the flesh prays, "Take this cup away from Me." His Son was in the Spirit praying what the Spirit prays, "Not my will, but Thine be done."

And so He agonized, every pore wide awake. He prepared for victory.

He found His disciples sleeping from sorrow. The contrast is stark and painful.

"I want to serve you, wide awake." I say it, and I mean it. "I want to pray for myself." He knows what I'm saying. He knows that I long to enter into His victory, and that I recognize the temptations which come to those who take up their cross and follow Him. I need to sit with Him and watch and pray because I have some flesh to die to and a cross to bear.

"Then rise," He responds to me as He spoke to His disciples.

Thing is, I'm all disciple. My eyes get heavy. I fight fatigue. I get drowsy and am in a fog more often than I'd like. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak and I wish it wasn't.

The Scripture is open before me. I think the pages are worn because my eyes have raked over them so many times. I place my index finger on the word temptation in the passage. Then on the words sorrow and sleep. The words are printed in ink fading with time on worn thin paper and I declare, "Though time may erase ink, the words You speak to me will never be erased, Lord."

Even more, "May my service-my service to You- not be rubbed out, though I may rub my heavy eyelids till my sight blurs."

Many things blur my sight. Sorrow can make me drowsy. Distractions blur. Confusion is exhausting. And sometimes I'm bleary-eyed in my soul because I'm all poured out and need refreshment.

Water Jug

"Rise," says the risen One. " Get out of the fog."

He's referring to an old memory from college days. The winding country Vermont road stretched out as if heavy asleep beneath the fog draped night, and the headlights were lidded blind by it. The road rose, and we'd be out of the thick for a moment. Then the road dipped into valleys where the fog wrapped and tucked in tight, and we'd be swallowed in soupy mire.

"Rise!"

I'm poured out. I've poured thousands of words into a book. I've tipped my heart like a pitcher and I didn't know how full it was. I tipped it and I didn't expect a waterfall. I didn't expect much more that a dribble across a few pages. One-hundred and sixty-ish pages later, I'm poured out, spiritually dehydrated, and I don't know why He's telling me to rise when I'm  wrung.

"How?" I plead the question.

"Rest," His answer seems at odds with His command to rise.

"Uh, which is it, Lord? Rise or rest?"

I hear His Spirit whisper answer just beneath the surface of my question, as I ask it. "Sit with Me, watch Me, and pray for yourself, lest you enter into temptation."

"Ah," I feel the answer settle over me not as a blanket of fog I'm too drained to climb out from underneath, but as a veil torn open by grace for easy entrance into the mercy of His passion and the glory of His resurrection.

"Sit with Me, and watch Me." It seems an odd way to enter into the passion of Christ. How can I, sitting and watching, enter into what might be the most physically and spiritually intense event in all of history? Maybe the answer to that is in the next command, "Pray."

There's a tension here. I feel it. It's the tension between rest and rise; between sit and watch, and pray. It's the tension between falling asleep and staying awake; between the weakness of the flesh and the willingness of the spirit. The tension is what I feel when I must rely on God's grace to do in me what my spirit is willing to do, but my flesh is too weak to do.

Well, it's possible that Jesus was disappointed that His disciples rested unto sleep and didn't enter into His passion, but into temptation. It's possible that when they entered the temptation which blanketed them and tucked them tightly into the valley places of heavy lids and sleepy mire, that His own strength against His temptation was affected. Who would have thought that when He asked His disciples to pray for themselves, that He would benefit from those prayers? I don't think the disciples realized that and, until now, I haven't either.

"Did angels come and minister to You in the hour of Your temptation because Your disciples didn't pray?" I wonder. It seems to me that He might have preferred His disciples to pray for themselves as He asked. He didn't ask for angels, but for His disciples.

"If they had prayed for themselves," He begins, "they would have prayed My prayer."

He had taught it to them.

Our Father, which art in heaven, 

hollowed be Thy name. 

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done 

on earth as it is in heaven.

And Jesus prayed, "Abba, Father, take this cup away from Me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what You will."

Give us this day our daily bread. 

Lead us not into temptation, 

but deliver us from evil.

And Jesus told His disciples, "Pray for yourselves, that you may not enter into temptation."

For Thine is the kingdom, the power, 

and the glory forever and ever. 

Amen.

And Jesus woke His disciples a last time and said, "The hour has come. Rise, let us be going. See, My betrayer is at hand."

They wiped the sleep from their eyes, then acted rashly against the multitude carrying swords and clubs who came against Jesus, because they were not prepared. Would a disciple have drawn his sword and drawn blood if he had stayed awake, watched Jesus, and prayed for himself? Probably not.

Feeding a Lamb

"You are my Lord." I worship Him with an awareness of the tension between sitting with Him restfully, and rising in my spirit to pray and enter into His passion. 

"You are my Lord of Your passion." I confirm His agony. "And You have invited me to enter into Your passion."

"You are my conquering Lord." I want to enter His passion in the prayerful way He asked of His disciples. I long to be prepared, that I wouldn't enter into His heaven as if through fire.

"Your love is the fire to put out all fire." Fire-fighters know this strategy. They know to put out a wild fire by building controlled fires. 

He tracks my thoughts and responds, "Love Me, love others, and exit this world with nothing more that a puff of smoke rising from everything, but love, extinguished."

"You are the fire-fighter of all fire-fighters! You burned with passion in the Garden, with pain on the cross, and with love so wild that it extinguished hell fire!" 

I'm rising out of the fog. I've been sitting with Him and now I'm rising.  

I've prayed for myself this morning and in so doing, have ministered to the risen Lord. 

I don't know how that works, really. 

It just does because He wants it to.

Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is is heaven.

Enter His passion. Pray His prayer. He is risen.

He offers the grace for it to be so.

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

A Day of Rest Supports the Rest of Life

I haven't fallen through the slats yet, though every year they turn more grey, more weathered, and weaker. Spring rains soak the slats and they soften. Summer sun dries them till they shrink and the corners of the slats look like kindling singed white in a fire pit.

Stones step across the weedy spring lawn from the patio to the bench. After a winter in socks and boots, the souls of my feet are tender on the stepping stones. Gingerly, I progress to the bench. I sweep the stepping stones with my feet, one step at a time, to clear away twigs and pecan shells left from fall when the squirrels diligently foraged the nuts. The backyard is covered in hulls, as if the squirrels had nut splitting and hull spitting contests from the highest branches last fall.

This bench, it leans against the base of the tree as if it would fall over without the support, but too stubborn to admit it. I saw it at a yard sale a decade ago, and the slats sagged even then. I have a soft spot for the poor and needy, and this bench was that.

I gave a few bucks to the woman in the bright sari. We carried this old bench to the van like two caretakers at a nursing home might ease an ornery gentleman into his bed when he insists he'd rather stay in the courtyard all night, but secretly enjoys the attention. To me, this bench is like that; bad-tempered in a crusty-till-cracked-open way.

I drove home with the bench in the back. It's retired beneath the ancient pecan tree. I know the two of them lean on one another too stubborn to admit they need each other, and too united against the crazy squirrels who are what they eat: hard-headed, half-cracked nuts.

Lord willing, I'll spend three more seasons on this bench. It's where I like to spend warm mornings. The fourth season, winter, is too cold for the likes of me, but isn't winter also a season of rest? It is in my backyard.

In the winter months, the lawn rests beneath decaying leaves, and sometimes a thin blanket of snow. The trees rest till their sap slumbers thick. The vegetables in the garden rest permanently, and I pull them up.

Winter, in the flow of seasons, is as a Sabbath day in the flow of days.

A day of rest supports the rest of life.

Baguette

The wooden bench slats grumble a cantankerous welcome.

I lean the back of my head against the rough bark, and the sun leans against my face.

Some crazy woodpecker pommels the metal rain gutter. I recognize that hollow, metallic sound. Sometimes I peck like that. Sometimes I beat my head against the likes of an empty metal rain gutter when my spirit is hungry and thirsty, and I gain nothing but greater hunger and thirst for the exertion.

"Moses was promised water from a rock, not after beating his head against it as this woodpecker, but after a single strike with his rod." The Lord speaks to me over the woodpecker with a jack-hammer for a beak.

"Jesus!" I recognize the voice of His Spirit. "You are the rock!"

Surely, I can relate to this crazy woodpecker beating its head against an empty metal rain gutter, as if it thinks it it's not a wood pecker but a metal pecker. Sometimes I confuse my name-my purpose- like that and I end up with a colossal headache. That's just what happens when I beat my head against a wall-when I drill my will.

I find moments of clarity on this aged bench. Here I rest on ancient slats, and here I listen to the Ancient of Days, "Come to Me, and rest."

"You mean, just come to You and sit on Your lap as I sit on this bench?" I know this is what He means. He wants me to rest where I can hear His heart against my ear, not the hard echo of my drilling will.

"Come to Me, and I will give you rest," He says it again.

I lean my head against the song that His heart drums.

Only the woodpecker rattles harsh.

The other birds sing. The other birds live what their names mean. They are Song Birds, and they sing.

Squirrels cracked hard shells last fall, and the yard is littered like confetti after mardi gras, but at least they ate the nuts.

May I break bread on this bench and maybe even toss  bits of hard outer crust into the yard in jubilee, keeping joyous honor of communing with the Bread? I may. I will.

It looks messy, breaking bread. Crumbs fall as bits of confession. Yet, maybe the Bread of Life is beneath the crust, the skin, the outer rough.

May I  live as I am named; not as a woodpecker pecking metal, but as a Christian knocking on the door of Jesus' heart.

His heart is already open, so the knock is more like a gentle, "I'm here," tap.

"Come and rest," He invites.

"Ah, yes."

Tomorrow morning I'm going to bring a baguette with a hard crust.


written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

Connecting with God's Heart-A Backyard Devotion

I bought them in the garden section of the hardware store, the cement blocks. They're aged now; settled old and sunken into the earth where I laid them years ago.

Here on these blocks, I've aged, too. I've settled myself on these blocks and lain my heart flat-open vulnerable, as living sacrifice bleeding and still beating beneath the sharper-than-a-double-edged-sword living word of God.

I offer my heart on this altar where I lay it down. He's written His word on my heart, but not as ink on paper. No. He's written His word on my heart as He carved His commandments into stone tablets. Maybe that's why my heart beat and bleeds, "Keep Your word fresh in my heart, as if You carved it there this very morning." I don't want scar tissue hardening my heart where His word has been carved, so I offer my heart to Him everyday.

"I offer my heart as a living sacrifice;" I say on the blocks to the One who wields the double-edged sword with  holy skill and most profound lovingkindness.

It may seem insane to lay my heart open like this each morning, but it's not. It's reasonable. Insanity is to let the softest tissue of my heart-my soul-become hard and scarred.

I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, 

that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, 

holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.

Romans 12:1

The sky is gray this morning. I watch a hawk glide through the gray, and not once does she slap the air with her wings as if to demand more speed, height, power. 

I remember a quote from I don't know who-"In acceptance lieth peace."

Minutes pass and this hawk holds her wings out, steady, and leans into the currents of the wind. She circles and veers to the left, then to the right. She circles up higher and then spirals down; and never flaps.

Her silhouette serfs behind pecan branches and limbs, and momentarily disappears behind massive trunks.

I watch her till she disappears behind the roof top of a neighboring home.

"This, Lord, all of this!" I am at a loss for words. "It's holy!"

That's the only word that fits-holy.

holy-holy-holy-holy

Holy presses into me, as the weight of this type of altar on which I present myself presses into the earth. I present myself as a living sacrifice to the holy One, right here.

Silhouettes 

The sun parts the curtain of clouds and washes my feet in warm light. The sun warms the ground, fragrant.

A breeze rakes through the light, and lifts the fragrance as incense.

I feel as one who has entered into the holy of holies behind the curtain and wonder if this is how the Levite priests felt when they entered the inner room where the altar stood, and incense rose; fragrant worship.  Surely this is how they must have felt.

"Is this what it looks like, the holy process? I'm trying to ask God about the way of entry into a settled worship.

"Is it as rock solid as these cement blocks?" May my worship be solid; immovable. May the shape of my soul and the the words of my heart press into the heart and being of God as I worship wide open.

"Is it as effortless and non-demanding as the hawk which slapped her wings not once?" May my worship be this accepting; this trusting.

Trust. There's that word again.

This morning, I watched a hawk silently paint what trust looks like. Her feathers brushed damp on damp across grey light.

Trust is like that.

It's colors are calm and Payne's Grey simple, awash with God's mercies born new and damp every morning.

It's power is in quietness and confidence, and in the lean and surrender to ever shifting currents which can only be felt and heard, but not seen.

An Altar

"In quietness and confidence shall be your strength" (Isaiah 30:15). God draws His word across my heart. I remain on the blocks in backyard worship.

Anxiety mounts when I lean on my own understanding.

"Don't take off on a swift horse when your heart stampedes wild." He knows how this works with me. He knows the the entire company of me will flee at the threat of one anxious thought till I find myself as a pole frantically waving, and as one breathing hard at the top of some crazy mountain I don't know how to get down from.

"Yeah, I know." I do know. "I don't want to be as Isaiah 30:16 people, Lord."

They said no to the quiet, confident source for strength. They mounted swift horses and I don't imagine they took the time to saddle up. No. I think they must have ridden bareback panic. That's what it looks like to get carried away on my own strength. It's a far cry from the hawk I watched this morning.

The hawk was silent. She didn't screech, as hawks often do. She just leaned into the wind and moved to some whisper behind her, saying, "Lean to the right; now lean to the left."

I watched her soar as I hope to trust.


written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig







"May there be an imprintmy heart here when issues heavier than cement have pressed me

I Keep Running Into Me

I want to be aware of the path Jesus has worn to the front door of my soul, the place where my thoughts and emotions hang out. I'd like Him to feel at home in my soul-just put your feet up on the coffee table kind of at home, and don't worry if there are holes in your socks.

This is how He makes me feel at home. He's seen a lot worse than holes in my socks. He's seen holes in my life. He's pulled me out of holes as deep as wells that I've dug and then fallen into.

"Look up," He says.

"Which way is that?" Is there such a thing as spiritual vertigo?

I practice awareness of God's presence. I keep my eyes open for Him. I don't always see Him, but I do practice; and I'm finding that I see Him more often when I get out of the line of my own sight.

Funny thing, that. It may seem, by some, odd to walk by faith. What's odd, to me, isn't that I walk by faith because of hope, but that I'm prone to walk toward hope with no more than a smaller-than-a-mustard-seed faith. I've walked like this, and when I have, I've run into myself.

I want to run into God, not me.

May I walk with my eyes on God, and receive more than a smidgen of the faith He offers me with wide open hands.

There's this stereotype about women the likes of me. It's been circulating for I don't know how long, but I dare say it's true for me. I'm a confusing creature. God's ways are above my ways, but they're not confusing; at least, not to Him. 

Bump into Him while trekking toward hope, and get a sound set of directions, like, "Look up," or "Go straight without turning to the left or the right," and "Keep your eyes on the prize."

I'm not the prize. So why do I follow my own directions to reach where I think God would have me go? That's as confusing as two different sets of directions given by two separate masters. 

"Ah!" I remember what He says about serving two masters. It can't be done. Oh, I try to make it work. Most people do. It's just in us to want to be the "masters of our destinies" as the saying goes, yet it's also in Christ followers to want His directions, too. 

I'm a slow learner. I still want two sets of directions, and what I really want is for God to consider my set of directions and say, "Hey! That's exactly what I was going to say! Turn right at the chalk rock formation, then turn right at the limestone hill, right again at the sand dune, and another right at the Red-Sapped Dragon's Blood Tree!" Not.

Maybe I forget that I don't value the getting there as much as God seems to. I'm like the kid in the back seat asking, "Are we there yet?" every five minutes. 

Maybe the Israelites did that for forty years. Maybe they started out asking how much longer every five minutes for the first decade, then stretched the question out as years went by till they got there and then changed their question to something like, "Whoa there! How are we going to take the land You're giving us?"

Put that way, I scratch my head a little bewildered because I hear the absurdity of the question, yet I've asked the same thing myself.

"What's that about, Lord?" I think I already know. "Did they walk for forty years getting to the Jordan the long way 'round, just to run into themselves on the bank?"

He's silent. He lets me think.

I know what happened to that generation, and I don't want it to happen to me. I'd like to know which way is up. I'd like to walk toward a hope with my eyes on the One gives me faith.

The Quilt

Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

I've written another book. As usual, I didn't start out to write one. It just happened. I've called it The Quilt. It'll be at Amazon soon, and I'll have it on my website, too. As for me? I'm standing on a river bank hanging out with God. He's led me here, and He's giving me directions. I confess, I've been confused here. I have. Yet, the longer I hang here, the more I get out of the line of my own vision. I'm seeing what He's got in His line of sight. 

I've been forcefully set aside before. It's no fun. But some of my clearest moments have come from those times. I've seen that I'm not the prize! I've learned, the way of confinement, that I'm not the one my household revolves around! I marveled how the laundry got done when I was set aside. It seemed like a bona-fide miracle! 

Same thing when the meals were made, and the dishes were washed, and there was peace in the home surpassed the peace I organized when I gave the marching orders. 

Thing is, I was ordered to bed for a couple weeks. When I emerged one evening with the strength to lay on the couch, my children, so young at the time, where peacefully playing a board game. The washing machine hummed happily, and my husband was under no illusion that this peace was because of his outstanding homemaking skills. He knew why. He knew it was God's peace, achieved His way under His direction.

So, I keep this front of mind, now, waiting on the river bank after a good romp across the thousand, or so, generations I wrote about in The Quilt. 

"So," the Lord says as He stirs the embers on the fire He likes to cook fish on. He did it for His disciples when they thought they had to make up their own next steps. They'd been casting nets for fish all night; and pulled them up empty.

I wonder if the empty nets, the unrequited efforts, matched how their spirits felt? Maybe they wondered, as they drew up empty, what was all that about? Tell me again why we dropped our nets and follow Jesus? And then the unavoidable, What do we do now? 

He knows my wondering thoughts. He knows I'm wondering, What's this writing books thing all about? He hears me wonder aloud, "Why is there so little return?," and "What do I do now?"

It's not that I have nothing to do, now that The Quilt is written. The question that has me going in circles is, "What would You, Lord, have me do now?" 

Prayer Stone

I'm sitting on my prayer stone in my backyard, asking these questions-again. 

I'm going in circles, but I'm thinking that circles are necessary. I wish they weren't, but on this side of eternity there will be circular thinking and paths wide enough to do spirals on; and God knows this. He doesn't clap His hand over His mouth and say, "Oh dear! The path is too wide! My people are walking in circles; thinking in circles!" No. I suspect it's all part of the way He leads His people. 

It could be that He values the jagged dizzy journey to the destination as the best way to get there. Time efficient? No. Confusion free? No.

"But wait!" I stop my thoughts. "I thought that God isn't the author of confusion; and if He's not, then I'm way off track, listening to enemy voices, when I get confused."

I've heard that reasoning so many times, but it's never made sense to me. Not really. 

I may be wrong, but it seems to me that while God isn't the author of confusion, He wrote a book that's all about the straight and narrow way. Yeah, the Bible. He wrote it because He knew that this spinning world goes in circles and His people living on it will think in circles till dizzy enough to call out, "Stop this merry-go-round, I want off!" 

That's a turning point. 

That's a desperation known only by desperation.

Isn't it necessary to get a bit turned around in order to want to get straightened out? Aren't the difficulties the very obstacles that promote diligent search for the cleared way? Isn't the wide road filled with more diversions, distractions, temptations than a narrow road; yet isn't the narrow way found while asking God for directions? 

I close my eyes and listen.

The Lord strums wide-open song across my heart strings. He did this yesterday morning, too. He strums now, as He did then, as a guitarist strums his instrument. I pray, again, that I might not press a finger on a fret; that I might not tie one string of my heart to a fret. 

I long to hear the fret-free song He strums.

I have frets. Worries. And when I press the strings of my heart to a fretful worry, it's to the tune of anxiety, fear, confusion, and the like. Really, to the tune of oppression, (o-press-ion). 

But this backyard morning I close my eyes and hear the songs sung by the birds that God watches. He watches them and says to me, "You are of more value than many sparrows" (Matthew 10:31).

"Look at the birds," He says. 

I open my eyes. "Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth more than they?" (Matthew 6:26)

He's asking me. It's not necessary a rhetorical question. It's a question for me to answer; to comprehend a little bit more how He values me even as I dart about dizzy as a sparrow and exclaiming loud and rough as a raven's caw.

Bird and Ambulance

I sit still and close my eyes again.

"Even the youths shall faint and be weary," He begins.

I join Him, and we finish together as united in prayer, "And the young men shall utterly fall, bu those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint" (Isaiah 40:30-31).

"Well, Lord," I tilt my head up, eyes open to the wide sky way, "I'm not young, and I've never had the strength of a young man, but I do wait on You and all the more as every year goes by."

How the wind must thrum a-rush through the quills of an eagle's wings. Feathers, spread open to the wind, and quills lined up as the strings on a harpsichord from shortest to longest to shortest, they must  release music into the sky that must inspire God to dance to till the train of His robe whips the universe into orbit.

The siren from an ambulance screams in the distance. "Oh, Lord!" The sound startles me from the heights where God dances in circles, to the pavement where people are thrown into circles; and red and blue lights rotate, dizzy, and hospital doors revolve and heart strings press, tight to the frets.

Birds sing. An ambulance shrills tension. I whisper, "Lord, hold me in Your lap as a guitarist cradles his instrument."

Is it right to pray so when an ambulance is racing down some street and I can hear it?

"Hold them, too, Lord." I pray. "Strum across their heart strings, and mine, as You strum the wind across the feathers of eagles with Your fingers."

The siren fades.

"Touch their hearts, and mine, like that; and may I press the strings of Your heart, rather than press the frets of mine?'

Sometimes I get too caught up in me, my life, my stuff to be caught up in Him, His life, His stuff. I'd like to be aware of His presence more.

written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

Still In Kindergarten

Do mom's ever graduate?

How come I'm still in Kindergarten, learning everything I ever needed to know, when my youngest is a high school senior? Something's a tad quacked about the math here.

Why haven't I learned everything I ever needed to know, yet?

When will I graduate already!? 

Will I ever figure out how to build a puzzle?

Or learn the ABC'S so I can read minds?

Or what about coloring? Pasting? Stacking blocks?

I seem to be missing some pieces to this puzzle of a girl who God assembled about eighteen years ago; and I think one or the other of us learned a different alphabet. Why don't we both think in the same language?

And why is her room a definite scribble to me, but a passable work of art to her?

How come, I ask, when I organize her stuff she doesn't know where anything is? We must have gone to two different kindergartens and somehow she graduated and I didn't.

Just once I'd like to sing The Eensy Weensy Spider song without relating to the poor critter. Will I ever get to the top of the water spout?

Oh, I keep trying. I tried today.

Building Blocks

Today I re-organized her room with a creativity foreign enough to me that I thought I must be thinking in her language. In her language, there isn't a word for dresser. Or maybe there is, but in my language, her dresser is my floor. Problem is that her floor has dog hair on it and her clothes do too.

So I remembered this word: folding chairs. I have some, and they've been folded for years leaning against the closet wall. I think I'm the only one in the house who remembers them. It's because I'm the only one in the house who cleans closets.

So, this word-folding chairs, (fohld-eeng chae-er-z); I looked it up. Merriam-Webster's dictionary defines it as: "folding chair-a chair that can be collapsed flat for easy storage and transport." I interpret the definition to mean, "a chair that can be easily transported upstairs and unfolded for easy storage.

"Perfect!" I say. "This is a missing piece to the puzzle! This is a word we'll both understand! This is the word to replace dresser!"

Yeah, I emptied her dresser drawers. The clothes she wears weren't in it anyway. They were on the floor.

I dragged her dresser out of her room, and stored it in her sister's old room. Then I transported four folding chairs upstairs and arranged them against the wall just beneath the window where her clothes are organized, (I don't know how she pronounces that word), on the floor.

I picked up her clothes and artistically draped them over the chairs. This is easy storage. There's a folding chair for jeans, two for shirts, and one for sweaters and hoodies.

Then I vak-yoom-d.

Oh, I could hardly wait for her to come home from school!

I heard the van pull into the driveway. She came inside with a Starbucks coffee, we hugged, and the reason she was late getting home was because she's stayed after school to do homework in the library.

"That's great!" I cheered as I bounced excited inside me for her to go upstairs.

She grabbed a peanut butter cookie with chocolate in the center from the plate of cookies her sister had baked and left here after last night's Super Bowl gathering.

I tired to act nonchalant.

She didn't see me craning my neck to watch her go upstairs. She didn't see me holding my breath with a smile glued to my face while waiting for her to grin a thank you from the top of the stairs.

"Oh, wow!" I heard from her room.

Then, "Ohh." Just a flat Ohh.

Folding Chair

Once I read this job description. I looked it up.

• Must be able to work 135+ hours a week
• Willingness to forgo any breaks
• Ph.D in psychology or real-life experience
• Crisis management skills
• Ability to manage a minimum of 10-15 projects at once
• Ability to communicate as all levels
• Degree in Cross-Cultural Communications
• Excellent inter-personal skills
• Demonstrate knowledge and experience in culinary arts
• Unlimited patience
• Understanding of social media, mobile devices, current affairs
• P.A. Degree, or equivalent nursing experience
• Certified Counselor, or equivalent 
• Home Economics Degree, or demonstrate knowledge in money management

Thing is, I accepted the job before I read the description.

Well, here I sit. I haven't head a thing since that flat Ohh. Real-life experience in psychology is about to come in handy. I've got three other kiddos I practiced on.

I have a degree in Cross-Cultural Communications. I earned it in four years of college; back when I thought I'd graduated from kindergarten.

I'm reading the job description.

Excellent inter-personal skills. Really, does anyone get excellent at that?

Experience in culinary art. Yeah, I've learned Alaska trout, Mid-west casseroles and dishes, Colorado mountain mash, German goulash, Baby food, Comfort food, Slap-it-together-fast food, Teen food, Adult food, and I've got about twenty-years experience in Tex-Mex food. I'm not above dishing up Bribery food. I never was much for guilt-free cooking, anyway.

I'm an opportunist, and I figure I can combine the culinary arts with communication skills, demonstrate an understanding of mobile devices and practice money management right about now.

"So," I text upstairs, "how 'bout I pick up your favorite Chipotle meal for dinner tonight? It's on me!" I add a smiley face for good measure.

Ten seconds later I get her response, "Aww yes!" She adds a smiley face with hearts.

I'll wait till we're eating to teach her the word folding chairs.


written by Carolyn-Elizabeth

Ice Crystals and Fireflies

The car used to be free of crumbs. That was back when the car was a four-seater car and not an eight-seater van; when we had one child. The rule was, "No food in the car."

Then we had two children. "Can we have some crackers?" The firstborn could talk by then. "Cracker?" His younger brother knew that word.

"No-o-o," I'd coo. "No crackers," I was teetering on the fence and they knew it when I began to explain, "They're crumbly, see, and they'll stick to your cheeks all soggy ick." Pause. "I'll pack some carrot sticks."

It's a slippery slope from there.

Then we had three children. Baby sister sat on my lap at the breakfast table while the boys ate toast.

They chewed their toast into the shapes of pistols and opened fire across the table till they collapsed against the backs of their booster seats, limp and laughing, mouths full of half-chewed toast.

No toy guns allowed? I had no idea. I had boys. They got plastic pistols for Christmas that year.

I loved seeing pink booties and baby-doll dresses in the laundry. Yeah, sometimes I'd shake out cracker crumbs before dropping the dresses in the washing machine because, well, I was packing crackers.

And sippy cups of juice.

And, uh, M&Ms just sometimes.Whoever said the chocolate doesn't melt in your hands never had kids. The candy-coating melts first all sticky red, blue, green, and yellow. Then the chocolate melts.

I started packing wet-wipes.

Somewhere in there we sold the car and bought the van. And we had a fourth child.

More pink in the laundry room. More stain-lifter, too.

The fourth child doesn't know what a van looks like without a few wrappers, Ziploc bags, water bottles and, yeah, crumbs.

Well let's be honest. I had a small pantry in the back of the van and stopped short only of can openers and a Bunsen burner.

The fourth child is a high-school senior now. She drives to school when she has time to. Mostly, though, I carry my mug of morning coffee and her glass of water to the van; and she juggles her backpack, a bowl of cereal or a plate of eggs and toast, her mug of morning coffee, and a hairbrush to the van.

Crumbs? So beyond that!

I don't know when I began packing pink lip gloss, mascara, perfume, and scented hand lotion in the console of the van. And hair pins. Oh, breath mints, too.

Her sister and brothers are married and living near-by. Seems to all of us that she has a rare case of early on-set seniorites which affected her three years ago when her sister graduated.

Maybe I'm feeling a touch of seniorites, too. Maybe this explains why I'm perfectly happy to drop everything on a dime to drive ten hours to Taos to ski with my high-school senior and this happy big German husband of mine who's watched me grow up with our kids and who is himself cured of that pesky habit called planning.

The three of us arrived a mere fifty-eight hours after the decision was made at the family dinner table.

School? Hmm. I recall that we did talk about the days of unexcused absences our girl would have, on top of the tardies accrued from last semester. I think it went something like this-

Me- "Can you skip school?"

Ms. Seniorites- "Yeah."

Me- "Let's do it!"

The happy German was already on the phone making reservations.

Food in the van? I'll just say that in the time it takes to top off the gas tank, Ms. Seniorites and I sprinted into the gas station convenience store and came out with ice-cream drumsticks.

Ice cream cones

It's early morning, by vacation standards. I'm sitting on the kitchen counter to peer outside the window over the sink. The cabin is small, and this is the only window where I can draw back the green curtain just a bit without disturbing the sleepers.

The sun kisses the clouds awake, as a mother would kiss the sleep-flushed cheeks of her young children and as children might gaze sleepily into their mother's bright eyes, so the clouds seem to gaze.

"You are to me as the sun must be to the clouds." I gaze sleepily into the eyes of my Father.

The sky is what stillness is. And what depth is. The color blue wouldn't have recognized itself in the color of the sky, if it were possible for blue to see. So blue. Nearly purple. So profound. Seems to me the sun glows because she's held in the embrace of sky deep enough to find her joy in.

"You are to me as the sky must be to the sun. I find myself in Your depths." I worship.

The clouds are still this morning. They will rest still until a breath of wind from the heavens stirs them. Then they will stir. Swirl. Find their rhythm. They will move as the wind blows, where it blows, as fast or slow as it blows and they will be shaped that way.

 The sun lifts the shadows off the snow; and the snow, blanketed by itself, blinks awake all glint and sparkle.

"You are to me as the sun must be to the snow." The light of His eyes makes me just sparkle alive. His light just does that!

"Live in My sight," He reminds and urges me.

"Your eyes are so deep," I'm transfixed.

"Live deep in My sight." His words are to me as wind is to the clouds this morning. His words stir me.

Eyes

I long to live deep alive in His sight.

I long to bring His joy, His care, His very living, breathing holy Self to others.

I long to sparkle His light all wide awake and beautiful to those who sleep in the shadows.

I watch the shadows lift from the snow, and the tiny crystals begin to shimmer a dance before the shadows slip away, and I'm reminded of the fireflies that dance at dusk in the summer.

"See that, Lord?" I know He does. He's the One pointing it out to me. Sometimes He does that just because He delights when I exclaim, "Did You see that?!"

The dance is as effortless as play. It just happens because that's what snow crystal and fireflies do as shadows lift and fall at twilight and dusk.

"Did You give us snow crystals and fireflies to show us how to sparkle with joy deep and alive with no more effort than it takes to do what we are made to do? I ask the One who once said, "Let there be light," and commands, "Let your light so shine."

"Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven" (Matthew 5:16).

What is this light of mine which may shine so, if not both the reflection of His light on me and the radiance of His light in me?

"Your light is to me as the sun is on snow crystals and as bioluminescence is in fireflies." It's just not burdensome to shine like that. It's really not!

Sometimes it's not simple to do good works. Sometimes it's difficult; but isn't that okay? God didn't say it wouldn't be difficult at times.

"Difficult isn't the same thing as burdensome;" I hear His reasoning from His word. It's written on this page I've just turned to.

"You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to  all who are in the house." This is what He says right before "Let your light so shine."

I read it and hear it as, "It's no more burdensome than lifting a lampshade." That's it.

If I find myself lifting weights and working up a spiritual sweat as I try to kindle a flame or create bioluminescence somewhere inside my being in order to shine, then I'm probably striving to make my own light. That's burdensome.

May I remember that I already have everything I need to live a-glow; to  shine the light of God in all I do.

He shines His light on me! "Just stand here and let Me shine all over you," He says.

He put His light in me! "This is yours to have everywhere you go," He says. "Play with it!"

"Play?" Why is that word so hard to pronounce? "With holy light?"

Funny. I can picture God playing with His light. He does it all the time. I'm watching it from this kitchen window. I'm watching His sun, the same sun He made when He said, "Let there be light." He skids sunlight over the crystals of snow because the sun is in His hand to play with like that.

I can picture children playing with light. Some magnify it and burn piles of leaves on the sidewalk with it. Hmm. Yep. I won't say whose children I've seen doing that.

I watch fireworks on the fourth of July, and waves all transparent gold-green wrestle near shore, and lightening roughhouse, and colors of light play wildly day and night all rainbow and aurora borrealis, and I've seen light dagger through icicles and explode in full prism, and light halo softly around a full moon and maybe this-all this-is what He means when He says, "Play with it."

Craft Supplies

Isn't light, His?

Maybe the way to experience light, and to learn how to live in light and by light, and to shine light and to be lit up by light, to touch it and feel it. to move in it and be moved by it, to watch it and to interact with it is to play with it.

Isn't this the way children learn about all kinds of things? Including light?

Might a mother give her children paper plates, crayons, scissors, popsicle sticks and tell them how to make pinwheels? Might her children run around with their pinwheels held high and watch the colors blur happy? Might could be!

And what about making shadow stories in a darkened room behind a sheet lit up with a light bulb?

Or what about punching holes in index cards, lining them up, shining a flashlight into them and learning that light travels in a straight line?

What about holding a firefly in cupped hands and watching light move around?

"Ah!" I'm getting it.

"Yeah," His smile lights up His face. And mine. "I am the light of the world! My path is straight. I move joyful blur.  I am all color. I mix light on the palette of air as you mix paint on your plastic palette. I am light in you, on you, and you radiate My light without even knowing it."

"Kind of like ice crystals and fireflies!" I exclaim, all child.

"Kind of like ice crystals and fireflies," He nods.



written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig

Connecting with God's Heart-A Devotion

The Lord says, "What good is it for a man to gain his life, but loose his soul?'

He says. "It's harder for a rich man to go through the eye of a needle than a for poor man; harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven."

He says, "Seek My kingdom first, and I'll take care of clothing, feeding, housing you."

He says, "Let a young man enjoy the bride of his youth."

He says, "Speak to one another in psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs."

He says, "Watch your enemies turn against themselves, and destroy themselves in utter confusion as you sing of the glory of My beauty and holiness, saying, 'Praise the Lord, for His mercy endures forever.'"

He says, "Arm yourselves with the helmet of salvation, the girding of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shoes of the gospel of peace, the shield of faith."

I say, "Amen!"

I say, "I'm grateful, my Beloved Bridegroom, that my married children wed young, in the prime of their youthful strength.

I say, "Thank You for inviting me into increasingly regular fellowship which deepens at every gathering."

I say, "Sing to one another!"

I say, "Sing to the Lord of hosts!"

I say, "I love true fellowship more than a good eight hours of sleep!"

I say, "Marvelous to be freed by the truth of what our Father says about how He promises to care for His children."

I say, "Marvelous that  our armor isn't money or popularity or beauty or anything that can be bought."

I say, "Oh, Lamb of God, does it hurt when You hear people exclaiming with an air of victory that salvation is a free gift? It wasn't free for You to give it. It's a costly, priceless gift."

I say, "Praise God, for His mercies endure forever!"

He says, "Love Me."

He says, "Love others."

He says, "Do what I've given you to do, in the Spirit I've given you to do it in, and the fruit of your labor will be rooted in love.

He says, "If the fruit of your labor isn't rooted in love, there is no profit in it."

He says, "You are as a tree planted by the rivers of water, bringing forth fruit in its season."

I say, "I delight in Your Word and will meditate on it day and night."

I say, "Lord, prosper my branches till they are heavy with the weight of much fruit."

He says, "If  you have much fruit, but have not love, it profits nothing."

He says, "And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

I say, "I have every substantial reason to live for all hopes and for final hope, because You give faith.

He says, "Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."

I say, "May I build a good testimony by it!"

I say, "Love is the Living Water in whom I am planted. You nourish me as a river of water nourishes a tree.

He says, "When you bear much fruit, you will be humbled. Are you willing to be humbled?"

I say, "Humble me till my branches bow low and heavy with the weight of the fruit of Your glory; the fruit born from the waters of Your love."

I say, "May Your love be found in the core of the fruit; heart-center."

I say, "Gifts? Talents to invest for the sake of Your glory and my fulfillment? Yeah, I desire that. But, however fervent my desire, may my pursuit of Your love be more fervent."

He says, "May the desire you have for fruit be the desire which drives your pursuit of My love."

I say, "That's my prayer. Thank You! You just gave me my prayer!"

He says, "Outside of My grace, it's impossible."

I say, "Plant me deeply, root me down, may my death be Your renown.
             Plant me by the riverside, grant me resurrected life.
             May I bear Your fruitful seed which You gave upon that tree;
             May I grow and prosper great, bowing low 'neath glory's weight!

             "Blest is the man whose delight is in in Your word day and night.
             He does not sit, nor does he stay where unrepentant men may play.
             He shall stand in the light, a tree that grows at riverside;
             Jesus, may that man be me!"

He says, "Drink deeply from the rivers of water and you will bring forth the fruit of My seed.

I say, "Ah, yes! Love pours out from the throne of grace. It must the the River of Life.

I say, "Did that river spring forth from Your mortal side as proof that You had died?

I say, "When You were laid in the grave, did the surge of love's resurrecting power dislodge the sealed and guarded boulder at the mouth of the tomb?

I say, "Your love is River of Life to me.

We say in agreement together, ""And so, now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

We say, "Amen! It is so!


written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig