Garden Tours by Lorraine Triggs

Even though I’ve never met her, I want Dana Smith as my next new best friend. My friend Dana wrote this in the New York Times on May 23, “Last Saturday, I was covered in dirt, my back ached, the scream of a trillion cicadas rang in my ears, and, despite my best efforts, a sunburn was developing on the back of my neck. I was in heaven.” She was writing about why gardening is so good for people.

I am right there with you, friend, save those trillion cicadas. My garden, any garden is heavenly. Dana pointed out what fellow gardeners know—gardening is good for your physical and mental well-being. Even a stroll through the Growing Place or Hacker’s or Heinz Greenhouse is good for my mental health.

There are other gardens that we need to linger in for the sake of our souls.

First is the original garden, the one God planted in Eden, in the east, where he put the man whom he had formed (see Gen. 2:8). I do wonder about our first parents’ gardening skills, or more accurately their listening skills, as the garden God designed became the backdrop for humanity’s fall into sin.

English poet John Milton described this fall in the opening lines of Paradise Lost: Book 1:

Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,

In this loss of Eden, however, is the promise of other gardens to come. We hear it in “the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day,” (Gen. 3:8) calling and seeking newly lost humanity. We see it in God’s words to the serpent about Eve’s offspring: “he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel. (Gen 3:15) and we see the promise in God’s covering of Adam and Eve.

That first promised garden to come is Gethsemane, and the promise unfolds at night against a backdrop of a supper, of bread and wine, of betrayal and denial, of sorrow even to death and sleep. Milton’s greater Man, Scripture’s Second Adam, does what the first Adam did not do in paradise, and in a broken, bleak garden, he says, “Yet not what I will, but what you will.” (Mark 14:36) And the blows begin to rain down on the serpent’s head.

Then comes a garden by a tomb, where one could be excused for looking for a serpent, who perhaps did deliver a fatal blow. But Mary Magdalene wasn’t looking for a serpent, she was looking for her dearly loved Savior who wasn’t in the tomb. And in that beautiful ironic way of Scripture, who should come to her, but a gardener, walking in the cool of the morning, calling Mary’s name, dispelling any lingering serpents and sending Mary on her way to the disciples.

The last garden is the garden we linger in now. The garden where we still pull weeds of jealousy, selfish ambition, boasting and false idols, but with wise garden advice, we can sow love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness and gentleness. Reaping a harvest of righteousness until the first Eden gives way and all creation is restored.

Before the Wonder by Wil Triggs

I’ve been looking at what people said to Jesus before his miracles, and then I put some of those alongside the cares of my own days and the news and happenings of the world. So here is a psalm for today.
  
Is it bunnies or squirrels eating up my veg?
Will Ukraine send missiles beyond borders edge?
“Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught a thing.”
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.
 
Is that noise in the car new or the old one’s last breath?
What do we make of Iran’s presidential death?
“If you are willing, you can make me clean.”
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.
 
How loud will these cicadas get?
What happened on that Singapore jet?
“Lord,” he said, “my servant lies at home paralyzed, suffering terribly.” 
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.

Will the booklet maker work today?
What sly-fox things will politicians say?
“What do you want with us, Son of God?” they shouted. “Have you come here to torture us before the appointed time?”
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.

Why does this herb tea taste like soap?
Amid the mudslide PNG loses hope.
“Lord, I do not deserve to have you come under my roof. But just say the word, and my servant will be healed. For I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. I tell this one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and that one, ‘Come,’ and he comes. I say to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.” 
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.
 
What’s with this cough? When will it be gone?
China holds military drills near Taiwan.
“Jesus, Master, have pity on us!”
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.
 
Palestinian flags fly with the White House near.
Summer Kick Off is almost here.
“Where could we get enough bread in this remote place to feed such a crowd?” 
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.
 
Will people come to book group this week?
North Korea Christians in secret still seek.
“Lord,” Martha said to Jesus, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.”
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.
 
Air raid. Cities bombed across Ukraine.
Thinking of today's events, what about the rain?
“Lord, have mercy on my son,” he said. “He has seizures and is suffering greatly. He often falls into the fire or into the water. I brought him to your disciples, but they could not heal him.” 
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.
 
I’d forgotten how much I like this Celtic song.
Human rights on trial in Hong Kong
“Lord,” they answered, “we want our sight.”
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.
 
Claire is gone. We have no words to speak.
The pastors in Irpin, what are they doing this week?
“This is a remote place, and it’s already getting late. Send the crowds away, so they can go to the villages and buy themselves some food.” 
Before the wonder stands the question, the fear,
The Lovingkind is ever near.

Sun Exposure by Lorraine Triggs

Growing up, I had a love-hate relationship with the sun. The sun was my mother’s cure-all for headaches and head colds. Take your book outside and sit in the sunshine and read. You’ll feel better, and I did. However, I was the kid who wore a long sleeve shirt to the beach and was allergic to the sun, which produced a mild skin rash that I decoratively coated with Calamine lotion. Calamine lotion gave way to Coppertone, but unfortunately, my Coppertone tan did burn, and I went back to Calamine lotion and long sleeve shirts at the beach.

I am not the only one with this love-hate relationship. It seems as if all of Australia does, too. I read an article in Atlantic Monthly by Rowan Jacobsen, “Against Sunscreen Absolutism,” and he wrote that a 1980s ad campaign “advised Australians to ‘Slip, Slop, Slap’ if you had to go out in the sun, slip on a shirt, slop on some sunscreen, and slap on a hat. The only safe amount of sun was none at all.” In 2023, Australian public health groups issued new advice “that takes into account, for the first time, of the sun’s positive contributions.”

One long-known contribution is that “sun exposure triggers vitamin D production in the skin,” and as Jacobsen points out that low levels of vitamin D are associated with increased rates of stroke, heart attack, diabetes and other diseases.

So naturally, people turned to daily supplements of vitamin D—all the benefits but none of the risks of the sun. Turns out that “Sunlight in a pill has turned out to be a spectacular failure: Vitamin D supplements have shown no benefits,” wrote Jacobsen. The article details specifics how exposure to the sun actually helps prevent and alleviate many autoimmune diseases.

Jacobsen concludes that “It’s not every day that science discovers a free and readily accessible intervention that might improve the health of so many people.”

This non-scientific person hates to break it to the scientific community that it didn’t discover this free and readily accessible intervention. The Creator spoke it into existence, along with the moon and stars, who talk back and proclaim his glory through all the earth, to the end of the world. Talk about readily accessible.

Next is the word “intervention.” From Old Testament prophets to aged Zechariah in Luke 1—from before the foundation of the world—intervention had been planned and promised, “the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” (Luke 1:78-79)

It’s the intervention we sing at Christmas, and should be singing year-round:
Hail! the heav'n-born Prince of peace!
Hail! the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings
Risen with healing in his wings
Mild he lays his glory by
Born that man no more may die:
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth.

Those Australian researchers did overlook one hazard to prolonged exposure to the sun—one upside-down, counter-culture hazard that only exposure to the Son of Righteousness and his Word brings to reborn sons and daughters of earth, who now walk as children of light, in all that is good, right and true.

Exposure to this son is high risk. The rays from this eternal light can and will change us, mark us in ways that can never go back. What he does can and will mark us and change our lives forever. May it be so today in all we think and say and do.

Lookalikes by Wil Triggs

My first trip to the Soviet Union was a long time ago. We travelled only to Moscow and Leningrad (now Saint Petersburg). The Cold War was set on chill and, while on that trip, an international incident turned the dial to freeze.

Tourists were kept apart from ordinary people. We stayed in separate hotels, shopped in special stores reserved for outsiders. The agency, Intourist, was the group that spied on us, we joked. Maybe it wasn’t so much as keeping an eye on us as it was to make sure we were safe and had the most positive impression possible of the USSR’s great cities and liberating history. But when needed, muscles could be flexed. Our group was assigned our own guide, but it soon became clear that our tourist group was actually two smallish groups combined.

The group was made up of a group of Jews from the East Coast and a group of us Christians from the Midwest. Both our groups were there to visit “friends,” Jews or Christians in their synagogues or churches. We compared notes of what the Jews and the Christians we met said about living in a place where neither of the groups were welcomed or felt they belonged even though it was their country of birth. We posed with one another for photos.

I stood next to one of the men and our hair color was the same (brown), our beards the same length and we were the same height, our eyes, too, were the same color. “You look like you could be brothers,” another person commented.

A few weeks after we got home, I attended a human rights rally for Christians and Jews for the ministry where I served. Because of the people we traveled with, I felt comfortable. I put out our newsletters that told stories of Christians in jails, prisons and hospitals in the Gulag.

People stopped at my display. I would talk to them about the prisoners in the newsletter and invite people to sign up to pray with us. Some people did.

Because one the “friends” I met with while in the Soviet Union had been arrested and was awaiting trial shortly after we left, I was especially worked up. The thought of a brother in Christ who had me into his home for dinner, fellowship and prayer now incarcerated—that was almost more than I could bear. I wasn’t sleeping too well some nights. I told people about him. I continued talking about Christians. I wanted people to join me in praying and taking whatever action to get him out.

“Why don’t you just admit it?” one of the listeners asked.

“What? Admit what?”

“That you’re Jewish.”

“What?”

“Anyone can see that you’re a Jew.”

“No. I’m not. Look at my literature. It’s all about Christians. I’m a Christian.”

“What are you ashamed of? The least you could do is acknowledge it.”

I could easily reply with a negative—I’m not Jewish—but I couldn’t easily give a counter explanation. English, Scottish, Welsh, Dutch, Choctaw, Cherokee, Irish. Maybe all the above. Neither of my parents were only one thing, and no one knew for sure. My mom used to jokingly say she was Heinz 57. This was not a condiment in our house. I didn’t know what that even meant for the longest time. But I was pretty sure I was one hundred percent Goy.

When Grace, my mother-in-law-to-be, first met me, we hugged and she said to Lorraine and me, “You look more like my son of David than Lorraine does my daughter of Sarah.” We smiled and I hugged her. “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” I said.

Grace was born and raised in an Orthodox Jewish family and came to faith in Christ after she and Lorraine’s Finnish dad were married.

So, she immediately felt at home with me. And I, of course, loved her because she was Lorraine’s mom, and she was so welcoming and accepting. It wasn’t really how I looked, but who I loved that made the difference. I loved her daughter, so I immediately had my second mom.

Lorraine recently heard people talking about what Jesus looks like, how no one knows, but people keep trying to paint him the way they look. Imagine if we actually did know. It’s so much folly. The Jesus height. The Jesus hair color. The Jesus diet. The Jesus workout. This is the way we humans would approach being like him—looking like him, trying to match his physicality or his taste in whatever.

Jesus knows his sheep. Like Grace, he sees ways that we look like him. He sees the resemblance before we do. We can’t see it. Maybe we shouldn’t. So often we look in the wrong places.

“Oh, I can’t get over how much you’re like your Dad.”

We have only to be guided by him now that we are his. We have only to accept by faith that we look like and can live like our Shepherd Father, the Son. It's not  our hair or eye color or height or weight or complexion of clothes. We are his from the inside out. I want to be his lookalike inside, not to try making him look like me.

By the power of the Spirit, we can be Jesus to the people around us. May we find ourselves saying things that are more Jesus than us, surprising ourselves, and doing the deeds of the holy one of God. It’s going to be a Jesus Saturday today.

And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.
2 Corinthians 3:18

Joyful Noises by Lorraine Triggs

Forest bathing has given way to sound bathing according to the Theosophical Society’s electronic billboard for those who pass by on Geneva Road. Personally, it has something to do with mosquitoes and mud that would make sound bathing a preferable choice over forest bathing for me.

And if I were to experience sound bathing, I’d prefer a California beach to the no-man’s land of unincorporated Wheaton, or is it Carol Stream? I know my husband, Wil, would prefer that. Even though he is a thoroughly established Midwestern by now, he will always miss the ocean and beaches he grew up with.

Let’s say that Wil and I are at one of his favorite beaches—Sunset Beach, ready to start our sound bathing session (costing anywhere from $35 for a group to $300 for an individual session). We’re to follow our instincts, stand if we feel like standing, lie down, whatever. This sound bath is to cleanse our souls and restore our balance—all from the immense power of sound and vibration that emanates from Tibetan singing bowls, crystal singing bowls, tuning forks, chimes and gongs. There’s even a digital option for those who want their sound bath "to go".

Oddly enough, creation is quiet during sound bathing. No waves crashing or seagulls crying or sandpipers piping—only sound vibrations from instruments that, frankly, after a while, would make me tense.

On a recent early morning dog walk, my husband unintentionally had a sound bath of sorts. His ear buds weren't charged so he couldn't bathe himself in David Suchet reading the daily Bible reading plan over the phone app. Instead, Wil’s sound bath involved actual sounds such as chirping birds, the hum of traffic on County Farm Rd and the distant clack, clack, clack of a freight train—the actual sounds of the rhythms of everyday life.

Creation is anything but silent in Scriptures. Read Psalm 148. Sun, moon, shining stars? Praising the Lord. Sea creatures and all deeps? Praising the Lord. Fire and hail, snow and mist, stormy wind? Fulfilling his word and praising the Lord. Mountains, hills, fruit trees? Praising the Lord. If the psalmist lived in the Prairie State, cicadas? Praising the Lord.

Ours is a noisy faith, a joyful noisy community of faith. It’s the joyful noise of serving 30 or so kindergarteners who talk to each other all at the same time, or the joyful noise of middle school students as they get ready to go on retreat. It’s the noise of laughter and tears, the noise of prayers for ourselves and each other. It’s the beautiful yearning in our voices as we sing:

O Lord have mercy on us.
Have mercy on us, O Son of David.
O Lord have mercy on us.
O let our eyes be opened, O Son of David.
Have mercy on us, O Lord.
 
Above all this joyful noise is the one voice that spoke in the beginning, that was in the beginning with God, that calls us by name and invites us to walk in green pastures. It’s this voice we know, we follow and we love, because he cleanses our sins and restores our souls.

Sunday Supper by Wil Triggs

My mom has been in heaven for a number of years now, but one television show that created buzz among her and her sisters was “Bluebloods” and its lead actor Tom Selleck. They remembered Selleck from another favorite show of theirs, “Magnum PI.” He had aged, as had they, and to them he looked better than ever. He plays Frank Reagan, the police commissioner in New York City. His father and several brothers are also police, his sister a lawyer. At least that was the cast when I used to watch it once in a while about ten or twelve years ago.
 
It was announced earlier this year that, after 14 seasons, Bluebloods would be coming to an end. By now, the Reagan children in the opening seasons would be adults. It’s a testament to my viewing habits that I didn’t even realize it was still on the air.
 
One of my aunts used to dress up and put on makeup to watch the show, like she was going out on a date. She always took seriously her relationship to attractive men in the media. I remember as a boy I liked to play her stereo. It was a big piece of wooden furniture with upholstered speakers on each end and a concealed turntable record player in the middle, all of it in mid-century modern walnut, a heavy piece of furniture for a living room.
 
She would often play Frank Sinatra records. I remember her once telling me that, as a young girl, she used to swoon when she would hear his voice. She never was loud about it, but she told me she could understand how those younger girls screamed when the Beatles first came to America. That’s how she felt about Frank. Swoon. My uncle didn’t seem to mind. It seemed like he always knew she was his one and only love.
 
For her, Tom Selleck was the television version of Frank Sinatra. And nothing was going to come between her and her Friday-night time with Tom.
 
I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about my mom and my aunts. They were good women. My mom and aunts lived long lives. They all married young, raised children, waved goodbye to them when they moved all over the country. Some of their kids died, some divorced, some kept giving them more grandchildren and then great-grandchildren. My dad and all my uncles died ahead of their wives. So, all the women moved to the same town out in the desert valley near one another. Each had their own place, but they did most everything together.
 
They couldn’t have Sunday dinner with their kids, but on Friday nights they could watch Tom/Frank enjoying that dinner with three generations of his family. This made for an element of tender viewing, feeding the longing each of them had for a full table. They could remember how it used to be. And when just one of us came to town, you could be sure we would see them all.  They could imagine their kids still alive and geographically close enough to show up. And just the thought of it, even on a different level, encouraged them.
 
When something important happens, it seems so often that food is involved. And the benefits of family meals spill out to society at large.
 
In 2020, the Harvard Graduate School of Education interviewed Anne Fishel, director of the Family Dinner Project,  who said, “There have been more than 20 years of dozens of studies that document that family dinners are great for the body, the physical health, the brains and academic performance, and the spirit or the mental health, and in terms nutrition, cardiovascular health is better in teens, there's lower fat and sugar and salt in home cooked meals even if you don't try that hard, there's more fruit, and fiber, and vegetables, and protein in home cooked meals, and lower calories. Kids who grow up having family dinners, when they're on their own tend to eat more healthily and to have lower rates of obesity. …Then the mental health benefits are just incredible. Regular family dinners are associated with lower rates of depression, and anxiety, and substance abuse, and eating disorders, and tobacco use, and early teenage pregnancy, and higher rates of resilience and higher self-esteem.”
 
That sounds a little too good to be true.
 
But if half that stuff is true about family meals, what about eating with Jesus? His first miracle was at a wedding feast. He ate with tax collectors, probably the least popular people around. There's the dinner at the home of Mary and Martha. When thousands were hungry, he didn't declare a group fast; he miraculously fed them. After the long hike on the road to Emmaus, they recognized him when he broke the bread.

What about heavenly family meals? What about the Lord’s Table? I’m not suggesting something magical or mystical. Quite the opposite. It’s as simple as bread and wine. Coming together with our church family around the table of Christ helps us to “remember the Lord’s death until he comes.” Remembering his death, celebrating the new life that comes only from that death, children gathering together for a meal before the father tells us some significant truths.
 
We aren’t alone.

We are intricately bound to one another, and so we eat and drink together.

We remember together. How can this be? Only in the remembrance, the memory, can we love as we ought. The memory is not grim, but joyful and victorious.

We proclaim the gospel--his death and resurrection--until he comes. Proclaim to the unlovely, the lonely, the clueless, to the people who know they don't know, to the people who think they know but don't. Proclaim to the Kindergarteners with our goldfish snacks. Proclaim to the Keenagers with meals made by loving hands. Proclaim with small-group dinner, morning coffees, lunchtime sandwiches shared. Proclaim with the Bread of Life at Cream of Wheaton. Proclaim with bbq at Summer Kickoff.

We look ahead to another meal, a different feast, when all will be changed and sadness turns to joy, death turns to life and dark to light. This feast spilling out in a new light across the whole world, this one world and the new one to come, and accomplishing anything, everything, beyond what we could ask or imagine. Think how great that's going to taste.

Free Trash Day by Lorraine Triggs

The Village of Winfield celebrated one of my favorite holidays this past week—Spring Clean-up Week, or in the vernacular of the village residents, free trash day. Ours was Thursday, and if our trash followed the regular bundling rules and SBC Waste Solution's request to not put out more than four-cubic yards of material, we could take anything we wanted to the curb.

We put out our garbage on Wednesday afternoon, and right on schedule, the metal-collecting trucks came through the neighborhood. Our broken pole lamp was snatched up minutes after we put it on the curb. There is money to be made in trash, I suppose. And by Thursday afternoon, all of it was gone.

Wouldn’t it be great if life came with a week of free trash collection? On Monday, I would drag complaining to the curb, then on Tuesday, out with gossip. Wednesday, I would unload selfishness. Thursday, I would hurry to take impatience to the garbage, and on Friday I would congratulate myself on getting pride to the curb. Then, magically, everything would disappear, never to be bothered by it again.

Or not, as I realize my decision to throw out pride maxed out the four-cubic yards limit. Who knew that it would take up that much space in my garbage pile. Then I spotted the solution—the empty recycle bin, and in goes pride for another use.

Even though I know it’s just trash, it’s hard to resist another look at my stash to make sure there isn’t anything else I could recycle. Gossip to be reused in small groups or at lunch with a friend. I poke at selfishness—it still is my time, my treasure and my talents, my life, my way. And before I know it, the recycle bin is full and the curb is empty.

The only hitch on Spring Clean-up Day is that no one sees the flowering trees or early spring flowers in the neighborhood. All we notice is the trash on the curbs. Same for my life when I take control of it—the trash becomes obvious, no matter how hard I try to dump it only to end up recycling it, only to dump it again.

God knows this dump-recycle-dump pattern of his followers, and our need for grace, our need to “set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth” (Colossians 3:2)—or on the curb.

The greatest gospel truth is not how much trash we can drag to the curb on self-designated trash collection days, but how wide, how long, how high and how deep is Jesus’ love for us. Gospel grace keeps us from recycling the detritus of our lives and helps us put on tenderhearted mercy, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience and love (see Colossians 3:12-14, NLT).

And it is by God's grace that when free trash collection week rolls around next year, I won't have as much to drag to the curb or to recycle, and people will see the beautiful Savior and his free, lavish grace.

Little Big Moments by Wil Triggs

O God, from my youth you have taught me,
    and I still proclaim your wondrous deeds.
So even to old age and gray hairs,
    O God, do not forsake me,
until I proclaim your might to another generation,
    your power to all those to come.
Your righteousness, O God,
    reaches the high heavens.
You who have done great things,
    O God, who is like you?
You who have made me see many troubles and calamities
    will revive me again;
from the depths of the earth
    you will bring me up again.
Psalm 71:17-20
 
Wondrous deeds don’t have to be big, but they always surprise. Little big moments are easily forgotten in the crush of life, but these are the moments we live for.
 
****
 When she was 86 years old, a woman sent a notecard to College Church. The notecard read:
 
“One of your church members gave me a ride to the train station last week. It was a cold and snowy day and with my cane I was not managing the snow-covered sidewalk too well.
 
“She would not accept any money, so I told her I’d put it in the donation at church.
 
“This is to say thank you, God bless.”

 ****
The weather was so bad that there was no visible sun or stars for many days. The people abandoned all hope of being saved. The unrelenting tempest did not end.
 
It was then that the angel of the Lord appeared to Paul and told him that everyone on the boat with him would not die. It was true. Though the ship itself went to bits in the storm, everyone swam to the beach, where townspeople were ready with food and blankets and help.
 
(from Acts 27)

 ****
Though the actual site of St. Paul’s shipwreck in Malta is unknown, St. Paul’s Island in St. Paul’s Bay marks the event with a statue dedicated, of course, to St. Paul.  The Church of St. Paul’s Shipwreck is one of the oldest Roman Catholic parish churches in Malta and is dedicated to St. Paul’s brief time on the island. Situated in the capital city of Valletta, the church traces its origins to the 1570s. It was designed by Maltese architect Girolamo Cassar and completed in 1582. Today the church building is listed on the National Inventory of the Cultural Property of the Maltese Islands. (From Atlas Obscura)
 
Some of those people gathered at the beach to rescue Paul and his shipmates, did they find in the days after that they were the ones who turned out to be rescued? This church, not a building but a people listed in another book that none of us can see.

****
Jesus went to the house of grieving. He had everyone leave the house. The mother and father went into the empty house with Jesus. They went to the silent room, where their 12-year-old daughter was, dead.
 
Jesus took the girl’s hand. He held her hand in his. Surely the father and mother had to be stricken with a sadness mixed with desperation, hope, unbelief, belief.
 
“Little girl, I say to you, arise” he said.
 
Instantly life from death came. Up she stood and walked to her just-grieving, now amazed parents.
 
“Give her something to eat,” Jesus said. And he charged them to tell no one, that no one should know this.
 
(from Mark 5)

 ****
Not listed in a register of any kind, a lot of us remember how a summer storm raged and bent our church steeple like it was a Play-Doh church in a Kindergartener’s mischievous hand, the wind rolled up the roof like an area rug, trees and branches broken and bent. How it made the front page of newspapers and ended the nightly news. Remember how the people came the next day to clear away all the debris, the hidden story in the story, people helping people being the church. Send away the others and see the little girl come to life.
 
****
It was Thursday Communion service, and church was about to start. The newly lit sanctuary was casting the right feeling for the moment, not too dim but not bright as a doctor’s office. The sanctuary was filling up.
 
One of our former Bible school kids, she would be in second grade now was walking in, holding her dad’s hand. They were headed toward one of the first rows when she happened to look over to where we were sitting. The look of recognition flashed into her face instantly. She smiled at us and waved. We waved back. In the crowd of contemplative faces she had found two old friends and we had found one young friend.
 
There. That’s a part of communion we often don’t think about, but there it is. That smile of joy. The happiness of relationship. The gift one family shares with another when they allow a child to know the joy of hanging out with us in Kids’ Harbor, and then the joy of remembering learning about Jesus together.
 ****
Even as we contemplate changes for the better to our buildings and properties, let’s not forget the renovation of our hearts. To know and live the unknowable, the forgettable unforgettable. The gesture, the smile, the bread, truth, life. This is church. We get to live it today. We make the little big moments.
 
All for Jesus! All for Jesus!
All my days and all my hours;
All for Jesus! All for Jesus!
All my days and all my hours.