Twelve Gifts: Learning through Dreams

The other night I had a dream that I was shooing our two dogs outside because they were tracking leaves in the house. Then I turned around and there was McCloud—our neighbors’ cute Bichon Frise, eating out of our dogs’ bowls, and I shooed him outside too. I can’t feed all the pets in the neighborhood. Just as I closed the screen door I noticed a doe and a stag—the one from the hill behind our house, with a broken antler. I hurriedly shooed them out the door as well, shaking my head in disbelief. Where did all these animals come from? It’s like a zoo in here! Before I even had a chance to get the deer all the way out, I noticed there were sheep coming down the stairs. What the--? As I herded them out as well, I paused for a moment. There was a lamb. The fluffiest white lamb. Such a gentle creature. I picked it up and ran my fingers through its soft, wolly coat, nuzzling it close. And then I paused. It’s not like a zoo in here...it’s like a stable. And I almost didn’t make room for this precious Lamb. 

This dream was a gift, in the form of a wake up call.

Rather than throwing the Baby out with the bathwater, rushing through mundane chores with an air of frustration, I will stop and cherish every soul that crosses my threshold, nurture those in my neighborhood and other surroundings, and revel in their goodness and grace. Especially the broken ones. 

I will gladly place a manger out for all to eat here, whether it's a healthy snack or a holiday buffet. I will enjoy the cooking and cleaning and preparation involved in making my stable presentable. I will open my doors.

I will pause and take quiet moments to love and adore the Lamb of God, even amidst the chaos.

I will make room. 

Following the Leader

I have a favorite "bloggist" (as Miss Heidi puts it) named Jessica. The first time I ever read one of her posts, here, I dubbed her a kindred spirit. I was in awe of her insights...and her ability to express them. She has an artist’s soul. She runs deep. And her writing is often like poetry. Rich and spare at the same time.

Jessica’s profile used to describe her and her husband as “Christ-followers.” I loved that term. And I loved that she declared it so unabashedly. (Another friend I would readily label as a "Christ-follower" is Heather of the EO. That lady has a heart of pure gold, and an easy, everyday way of describing her faith and her journey.) Reading Jessica’s profile gave me pause. I wondered at my own inability to label myself a “Christ-follower”. (Which is basically just a friendlier, more everyday term for “disciple.”)

I use other labels for myself all the time. I know I’m a mom. That’s a given. It comes with the territory. It defines my job and my heart in a single syllable. I have no problem calling myself an artist. It’s not just what I do for a living, it’s Who I Am. I also might refer to myself as a pianist (or at least an accompanist). I wouldn't be caught dead calling myself anything but an alto in the choir (I identify so strongly with that label, I would never defect to the soprano section!) I’ve often been called a teacher, and even "professor" by my students. The very act of blogging shows I’m willing, on some level, to call myself a writer. Clearly I’m comfortable with a handful of labels. So why has it never occurred to me to call myself a Christ-follower?

I definitely love the Lord. I have absolute faith in his loving, saving power. And I try to follow along. But in all my following, I fall short. All the time. I never seem to think I’m quite good enough yet.

Still, I promised to take his name when I was baptized. And I keep on promising nearly every week when I take the sacrament -- the very sacrament He instituted over 2000 years ago. For a year and a half I even wore a missionary badge that said I represented Him. So what is my hang-up? Why don’t I think of and describe myself first and foremost as a Christ-follower?

Well, a while ago I was preparing a talk and was guided back to this favorite passage of scripture:

“Wherefore...pray unto the Father with all the energy of heart, that ye may be filled with this love, which he hath bestowed upon all who are true followers of his Son, Jesus Christ...” (Moroni 7:48)

So there’s some kind of amazing love that is characteristic of all genuine Christ-followers. If you read back one verse he tells you just what that love is:

“But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever;” (Moroni 7:47)

Okay, this makes perfect sense. Because Christ himself said, “By this shall all men know ye are my disciples: If ye have love one to another.” (John 13:35, italics added.)

So it’s not our callings, our titles, or our labels that define us as Christ-followers. It’s our LOVE.

Love? I can do. And need to do better.

Now, that love is a sticky thing.
Because, you see, it requires our obedience:
“If ye love me, keep my commandments.” (John 14:15)

And I think to myself, I can’t do that. I can try. But I know I’ll fail. —Don’t worry, I’m not planning on breaking any BIG ONES. I’m not planning on breaking any at all. But, like I said earlier, I fall short. All the time.

The cool thing here is that there’s an escape hatch...
and it’s Love.

“Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much:” (Luke 7:47)

At least I know where I need to focus my energy and my prayers. Because I do want to be filled-to-overflowing with love that is self-renewing, and as ever-giving as it is ever-lasting, as pure as it is powerful. Simple, sanctifying, saving. I want to be a Christ-follower. Even if that label only ever shows on the inside.

But I have a hunch that if my heart becomes reshaped, softened, pure...I’ll be more comfortable using that label. Not so much as a descriptor of me, but as a reflection of His love.

But I’m also beginning to wonder if I did start referring to myself as a Christ-follower, if it would propel me to greater heights, and greater love, simply by the power of suggestion. You know, change me from the outside in. I’m still not quite ready to write it up there on my profile. But I think I’m ready to engrave it on my heart.

On Life, Death, and Hydrangeas

Confession: I am a plant killer. It’s not malicious. Not even intentional. I just don’t have a green thumb. I’m forgetful. And inconsistent. So while my intentions are benign, that still doesn’t bode well for our plants.

My favorite flowers are blue hydrangeas. Outside our house in Pasadena, we planted pink ones, blue ones and white ones along the east wall. At first they bloomed in abundance, with dramatic clusters of flowers. They lifted my spirits. I was pretty good at watering them and taking care of them, but as the hot August sun burned down, and I neglected to shade them, sometimes forgetting to water, the leaves dried up around the edges, then the petals turned brown. By the end of October’s Santa Ana winds there was nothing left but dry sticks. I was sad. I’d screwed up. Again. I was so disappointed in my inability to keep something I loved alive. (To a lesser degree, not unlike the feeling of failure I felt when our last baby was born...stillborn.)

Over the course of the winter I almost forgot about my dead hydrangeas. But the next February something amazing happened. Buds. Little nubs of leaves growing up and down the branches. A hint at new life. Encouraged, I watered again. Pruned the weakened tops off the branches. Within weeks the branches were covered with bright green serrated leaves. Then came the flowers, my favorite blue blossoms. We lovingly nicknamed the hydrangeas our "Resurrection Plants." Somehow watching these dead, dry sticks come back to life had given us an increased faith in the literal resurrection. We saw it happen. It’s not just possible. It’s a reality.

And seeing my favorite flowers come back to life didn’t just bolster my faith in a physical resurrection. It also helped me understand forgiveness. Despite my own screw-ups, my neglect, my contribution to the demise of these plants, my hydrangeas came back. And continued to come back, year after year. I saw hope and healing. Grace and mercy. Unconditional love.

Every Easter (and at other times too) I like to think of my hydrangeas. I even found the perfect place to grow them here at our new house. They’ve become a beautiful symbol for me...these plants that die...and then come back to life. Even with my best efforts, they’ve suffered at my hand, forgiven me, and continue to resurrect every spring, reminding me of the sacrifice and the promise given to all mankind.