It was written on a piece of wood.

A roofing shingle, to be exact. And I’ll be honest: I don’t remember all of what the letter said. But I’ll never forget his reason for writing—and the reason for the wood.

You see, he was at work. And he was thinking about me.

And so he grabbed what he had right there, in hand, and he put the words right onto it. The picture’s pressed into my mind: dad, sitting in his truck, scratching words onto wood. And then he keeps moving; back to work. Back to building again.

My dad’s a carpenter.

He’s always been one. Most all the words he’s spoken in his life, most all the energy and time’s he’s spent, have brought things into being—buildings and structures and homes you can see and feel and run into in the rain. And so right there, in the middle of work, he pauses to remind me: I’m thinking about you.

And his words were at it, building again. This time, the work in my heart.

The letter will always be precious to me; all the words that came that day. In fact now, all these years later, I’ve got more reasons to remember them.

They remind me of another Carpenter, and a letter He wrote on wood.

It’s just how you’d expect a builder to get a message across. The wood, always His tool. And while He’s still laboring, busy bringing things into being, He writes the Word, scratches it right on the wood.

So we’d know for certain: He’s at work. And He’s thinking about us.

The Letter written, He’s off again. Still busy; still moving.

Because there’s more to be done, more letters to pen. Always there, where He’s at work. Right on what He’s holding in His hand.

You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts (2 Corinthians 3:2-3).

I walked that dock for years; the familiar, sturdy boards beneath my feet. Under and around them, the waves faithfully carried the sun in an endless attempt to impart their gift on the shore.

But no walking today. I sit on the planks, feet dangling, toes turning the tide in circles. Mindless circles that I can’t even see; my heart’s slipped far below the surface, out of the reach of reason or feeling or thought.

Below the waves, all is quiet and dark, muddled and floating. An endless tide of sighing carries me from day to night, night to day.

But a friend comes, and sits beside me. Listening, praying, watching, waiting; faithfulness that carries the scent of heaven.

And the Spirit waits with us; endless God hovering over.

There, resting on the wood, as in the Psalms, deep calls to deep. Waves and breakers sweep over me.

But not just any: Your waves and breakers. Your waves…Yours.

And there, between His fire and His water, He does it again: He makes a Way.

Through simple words shared, He splits apart the waters, and the deep in my heart becomes dry. And we walk across—friend and Spirit and I. And His Words make the way: He saves; He alone.

The time for standing comes again. So I rise and find strength by pressing my needy feet against the rough boards. I walk the dock again, the sturdy wood beneath my feet, as if I walk on water.

And so I stand and watch with new eyes. I wait while under and around the waves faithfully carry the sun to shore. I watch another walking. Then she sits, feet dangling, toes turning mindless circles.

I befriend her; I wait on the well-worn wood as the waters work His wonders: I will watch Him work salvation again.

And I know the Spirit, endless, still hovers over the deep.

This post first appeared on (In)Courage.me on September 28, 2009. It was created with love in hopes that hearts will be connected to the heart of God. This is also the purpose of She Speaks, a conference that connects the hearts of women to the heart of our Father God. It is my desire to serve Him and His children, as He leads.

I start here, and I walk. And I go. Out and away and over there.

And I forget where I came from. I trail off, thin and empty—off to some end I can’t see.

By noon, I forget the morning. At night there’s no dawn at hand.

I walk next to myself endlessly, beside my yesterdays as though they never were.

I am faithless, and I live in lines.

But He works in circles.

Morning to morning and evenings, the same.

Rising to setting to rising again.

Minute to hour to day to year.

Faithful; He works in endless circles.

And so the new year starts again; the new day dawns once more.

And He begins again; circles round once more.

He meets us here, upon our lines—crosses over and through just to reach us.

He, enthroned above the circle of the earth, invites us into the circle.

Today we can find new life—we can leave the lines behind.

We can start here and walk and go and not forget—that He who carried us then holds us now and continues us through our tomorrows.

The faithless are now covered by Faithfulness, and morning is always at hand.  

Today we can go from strength to strength.

And live in the circle of Him.

This post appeared on (In)Courage.me on February 2, 2011.

At least six inches; at least. A snow storm, they say. On it’s way.

Already a gentle whirlwind dons her glittering gown, dances past the window panes. And all she passes sparkles, twinkles with delight.

It’s coming. Yes, I shudder. Let’s get ready.

And so the little feet run—off to get ready.

She finds her sunglasses.

And she gets into her suit.

She pulls her rubbery flip-flops underneath her bared, small toes.

And she parades down the shag-carpet stairs, in all her summertime glory.

She is proud to wear the sun as winter does the snow.

Perching atop the couch, she peers through the panes; summer keeping watch on winter’s day.

It’s coming still.

She doesn’t budge; not for sweater, coat, or hat. Bare arms and legs and sunglasses set hard, coldly staring down the snow.

She is not moved. Not by drift or chill or frost. And not by spring, either.

The summer sun warms her heart; upon it she is set. And it’s the secret they both keep—winter and summer’s child.

Yes, it is coming.

* * *

My daughter just loves to don her summerwear—all winter long. She reminds me how childlike faith can confront the challenges of my everyday. While the snow piles outside our house, no sign of letting up, she parades around suited for the pool. You know, sometimes it feels like winter—I mean, in my heart. And in the hearts of those around me. The wind chills, the cold bites; skies seem empty, the sun far off. Green leaves and grass and the scent of flowers are all imagined; they never were or will be. But a child knows—summer comes; it always comes.  What about you? Is it winter out your window–out the windows of your soul? Do gray skies hide the summer sun? Remember, He can turn your winter into summer, though you have no spring…

Minutes pass, and hours; the pendulum sways them all away. We pass into the new day together.

Until a small voice cries; grows insistent. It rouses me from the silence of myself. I am no longer alone. And I remember now: I never was.

For a moment, the pendulum stops swinging. Gives me a chance to weigh which deadline cries the louder, then presses on.

I stand, decision made, and push the door wide open. Tiny eyes seek; little fingers point. Tears make it clear.

He is lost. Dark is for rest, but tonight he can’t find it alone. Mother sets it right, picks him up, holds him close.

And the deadline presses hard, hard against arms and heart. Flood the words, flood the thoughts, from the inside to the out. He finds a cradle in my arms, and in the cradle he finds what he was looking for.

Minutes pass; I ask for hours. The pendulum sways them all away.

We pass into the new day together.

Deadline met.

She cried for Jesus.

Because He died.

She cried like it happened that minute; and for her, it did. Until then, the reality remained in her ears only—truths she’d been told that had no real home. But while we flipped through the picture Bible, they moved to her mind, and finally found her heart.

With no concern for clocks or calendars, it happened that very moment—the one in which she realized it. Her face turned red, her eyes welled up. And the floor absorbed the shock of it all.

He died! He died!

I chuckled; how sweet. I laughed; how silly. Then it hurt.

That’s right, he did.

He had to, we tried. No use. So we quick hurried to the tomb. And she stopped crying when we got there.

As Mary might’ve looked, or Peter, so did she: wide-eyed, red-faced, wet-cheeked. But quiet and still and listening very carefully.

The tomb is empty; the linen is formless; the angels are questioning, why do you search?

He is alive! 

There He is on the road to Emmaus. There He is in their midst. There He is by the water with Peter; look He’s eating breakfast. And there He is ascending.

Now all is well. The tears are wiped away with her little palms. Now they can be dried. All is well and good and right, now.

May the truth always fall so fresh. May it quicken the tears, and be quicker to dry them.

I avoided eating around other kids, because I had a secret to protect: my mother was learning to make…homemade bread. Learning is the key word there.

I don’t know what kind it was. It varied from week to week. But it was thick. Much thicker than normal bread. Thick like a two-by-four, or a popcorn knit sweater. And it was crumbly. Like trying to pick up and chew a loaf of sand. 

Worst of all, it was cut all jagged. It didn’t look like bread. It might as well have been sliced with a circular saw. Actually, I think she used a dull artifact of some kind.

The more I think of it, I’m not sure that the texture or taste were the worst parts. I think I might have been able to deal if it had been properly packaged. Say, had it come in a Ziploc. Or in the less expensive, fold-over model baggie.

But Mom wrapped these wiches in whatever she had handy. Brown paper grocery bags cut into little squares. Paper plates tied together with kite string. Wood and chicken wire. Occasionally she wrangled waxed paper around the sandy stuff. And on days like those I almost believed we might find a roll of toilet paper or a box of tissues hiding in the house.

Never happened.

But the longer it takes me to get back to this spot on the lane, the more I cherish the memory I find there.

The embarrassment I cringed over as a child is the courage I hope to emulate today. I love the fact that Mom was learning to make homemade bread—and that she shared it, all sandy, with everyone. I love how she wrapped—and still wraps—her gifts, in whatever she has next to her at the moment.

I love that she’s an artist who hates microwaves and computers, and adores birds. I love her fascination with Sherlock Holmes and picking herbs, and how she paints masterpieces right on the walls. I especially love that she built a tee-pee in the backyard. 

Where can you capture that sense of spirit? Where can you find that brand of freedom?

Mine came tied up with kite string. And as I patiently sift through the sand, I’m finding all the pearls.

It became most apparent to me as I watched my son’s approach to getting down stairs. Without fail, he’d go as far as he could on his own, bring all ten toes to the edge of the step, and stare down at the five-inch drop with wide-eyes. Then he’d shoot his hand up and wait.

The moment he felt my fingers wrapping—and don’t you know I hustled to get them there—he’d hurl his body forward and fly off the step. Never mind that he didn’t know how to bend his knees or step toe-to-heel, he shot that leg out straight as an ironing board and landed it squarely on the pavement below. He’d been carried the whole way down, his entire body held up in the palm of my hand.

His approach to walking with his hands has brought me a long way too. Sure, I’ve learned to bend my knees and meet the ground toes first, but there are still so many steps before me that I can’t take by myself. And somehow, I tend to lose sight of how to handle these in the loving care of a watching Parent.

Instead of worrying or whining, I’ll pause at the edge and take a good look at where we’re going. Then I’ll shoot my hand up and wait. And when I feel those fingers—and don’t you know they’ll be right there when I need them—I won’t hesitate. I’ll lean forward and fly, knowing I’m safe in His hand.

“For I am the LORD, your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. –Isaiah 41:13

There they were: my fuzzy, fleecey, navy and periwinkle, pin-striped pajamas. Submerged. Drenched. Drowned.

I looked down at him.

He looked up at me.

We exchanged serious, straight-faced thoughts.

And then I delivered my soggy pjs from the potty. And while I did, there was only one thing I could think: Thank you, Lord, that he doesn’t know how to flush.

In moments like these, finding any blessing to count is critical. But truth be told, he’s not the first of my kids to do it. His older sister once offered me a refreshing drink drawn from the pristine porcelain waters. Thank God I put all the pieces together before taking a swig.

Seems that all my kids, at one point or another, found the toilet to be an oasis overflowing with entertainment and delight. While I’ve not been able to understand this ghastly preoccupation before, it suddenly dawned on me: the toilet’s at eye-level. So the real question is, why wouldn’t a child be attracted to a ginormous bowl of water that’s just his height?

Well, just because you’re attracted to something—and you can reach it—doesn’t mean it’s good for you. That’s why Mom and Dad watch vigilantly over potty waters to quickly divert little fingers from dipping and dabbling in…sewage. Kids don’t know any better until they’re taught: toilets are not really something you want to touch, let alone play in.

Strangely, our water-side lessons have been teaching me something too—about pursuing my own ”eye-level pleasures.” This Scripture verse came to mind:

Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things (Colossians 3:1-2).

The ”eye-level pleasures” I encounter also seem so…delightful. From my “height” on the earth, as a child of God’s, these pleasures seem so desirable and reachable. Maybe it’s… food or clothes or goals or accomplishments I’m focused on–things that aren’t bad, so long as they keep their proper places and purposes. When I become consumed with eye-level pleasures—the things of this world—I risk forfeiting the riches of the ”things above.”

That’s a risk I’m not willing to take. So I’m looking to set my mind on things far above what this world has to offer. I’m on my way up—to growing up in Christ Jesus. And as I do, I’m confident I’ll find what I’m looking for—true satisfaction—in Him.

I, for one, am very thankful for toilets. I just don’t want to be caught playing in them.