immerse in God, emerge refreshed
Star-wise, the Magi traversed foreign sands, often against the wind.
The star beckoned.
Uncharted terrain, bandits and unwritten tribal codes, regional airborne viruses—everywhere, monumental risk.
By night, they braved prowling beasts; by day, in town after town, the narrowed eyes of strangers.
Perhaps second thoughts eroded their confidence.
Is this the best plan?
Did I choose the right gift?
How will I make it through these days? [Read more…]
One windless night, just beyond my bedroom window, Fowler Lake froze, luminous as mercury glass.
Ever the social caboose of my class, pre-teen me hunkered in bed. Crushing thoughts made it hard to breathe. No grace for being me.
I woke to 99 acres of gleaming ice: no pocks or blisters. Nary a wrinkle. Picture the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. Now picture 12 of them, frozen, side by side, shaved smooth by an epic Zamboni.
I pulled on my figure skates, freestyled across the ultimate playground. Greenish-black depths glinted with bubbles seemingly lit from below.
Translucence draws us. The pristine awes us. Who doesn’t want to coast and glide and skim, grab each hem of these shirttail verbs related to wheel and rise and soar?
Who can skate around the whole lake?
How far (and how fast) is enough? [Read more…]
Hope you’re ready for these teeth,” I say.
My smiling hygienist lowers the dental lounger. “Tell me about your grandson,” she says.
“Just started kindergarten,” I say. “But after that shooting in Rockford?—his school went into lockdown. Can you imagine? He’s barely 6!”
Her face pales. “Oh, how awful for you.” She lets me talk—all but holds my hand, so intently does she listen.
Then: “I have a kindergartner too,” she says, “and a toddler. My oldest goes to Freeman Middle School.”
I stare. Freeman, Freeman … oh no, isn’t that—
“We chose that school district especially, to keep our kids safe.”
Oh Lord, what freaked me out from a distance is her ongoing reality. Her town.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
She gathers her tools, then turns back to me. “It’s been hard. Really hard.”
And I see stories flitting across her face.
Homesick: who hasn’t felt it?
Once, Autumn meant friction. Snits and pouts. Epic school-shopping wars: my taste vs Mom’s.
“Teal is your color, Laurie. It brings out your eyes.”
Teal: as in, our front door, sofa pillows, and afghan. Napkins. Glassware. Every single kitchen appliance.
Back then, Autumn also meant trips to The City: milkshakes poured from stainless steel cups; orange fruit jelly slices, mid-afternoon; a new hairstyle for school.
Autumn meant sleek binders and cellophaned No. 2 pencils. Glossy, spiral-bound possibility.
And yes, a teal jumper or sweater plus knee socks came home with us in department store bags. Autumn meant surrender.
Autumn meant having Mom to myself.
“Shalom” is the one word I cannot speak when faced with stinkbugs.
Sleep in a room infested with kamikaze wing-buzz and reek? Fat chance.
Shalom suggests lions laying down with lambs.
I will NOT lay down anywhere with stinkbugs.
Hence, The Bug Bomb.
And the death toll: 1 bedroom, 23 stinkos plus dozens of flies.
Then, post-carnage, the guilt.
Aren’t we meant to live at peace with creation as well as people?
Peace is only one accurate translation for shalom.
The word also means harmony, both spiritual and physical.
Wholeness. Fullness. Prosperity.
Inner completeness, soundness, tranquility.
Welfare: “to be safe in mind, body, or estate.”
An inward sense of rest despite outward circumstances.
Doug Hershey describes shalom as reciprocity, “. . . a type of wholeness that encourages you to give back—to generously repay something in some way.”
Probably excluding bug bombs.
Rabbi David Zaslow writes, “In the Hebraic way of thinking, wholeness is the joining together of opposites.”
Seems like-mindedness is optional.
Shalom also means “hello” and “farewell.”
“When I come from somewhere,” Rabbi Zaslow explains, “I am going somewhere else…“ [which produces a peace with wholeness as its source]. “[A]ll my opposing energies are somehow linked and part of a single whole.”
Which may include one’s personal nemesis.
Or take divergent political views wherein dissenters attempt to wall off the opposition. Who will restrain the roar between left- and right-wingers?
“It takes two wings for an eagle to fly,” Rabbi Zaslow observes. “It takes the integration of two opposing positions for there to be real shalom.”
How do we approach integration?
We might consider the word dialogue, meaning “across reason” or “speech that goes back and forth.”
What if those who disagree with us—even stridently—uniquely offer each of us the potential gift of deeper personal wholeness?
A touch of shalom.
Speech that goes back and forth might mean:
Can we listen deeply first, then challenge one another with civility?
What we speak embodies the power of life or death (Prov. 18:21).
My friend Mark, an artist, writer, and self-described “grumpy Jewish Christian,” tells me some rabbis teach that the Messiah will come when a certain unknown (yet fixed) number of good deeds are completed, each deed containing an element of shalom.
Could we add our small efforts to that growing number? Not to earn merit, or points, but rather enhance someone else’s tranquility, wholeness, safety, and rest.
Empowered by grace, good deeds are honest. Practical. Sustainable.
Years ago Bill and I recorded a song in unison. Blending our voices required deep listening to one another, surrendering our assumptions, and making ongoing, minute adjustments.
Can you discern each voice? Click here to hear “Shalom,” beautifully arranged and produced by our brilliant friend Chris Lobdell.
How might you live a life of shalom this week? I’d love more ideas . . .
