Time To Let Go

'Time to Let Go', a sculpture in Traverse City, MI

One spring evening about twenty years ago I was running around a tree in our back garden. I was tired. My back was sore. With one hand I simultaneously pushed and held upright my youngest son's bike. He was riding it. Without stabilizers. For the first time.

I thought he would never get it. The bike wobbled precariously as he careered around the lawn, trying to keep his balance. The thought of giving up and trying again tomorrow was more than appealing, at least to me. But he clung to the handle bars, determined, his little legs whizzing around on the pedals. It was time. I let go.

And joy of joys...he was riding alone! We laughed as he continued to wobble, but despite several falls, my son no longer needed my hand. And the stabilizers were forever discarded.

Twenty years later, I am still letting go. In all sorts of ways, and of all sorts of things.

But I don't let go of joy. I don't let go of hope. I don't let go of the One who helps me keep my balance as I career through life, whizzing around worries, and pitfalls, and Lent.

How could I discard the best and strongest stabilizer I know, the One who is holding me, and all the children in my life, as we wobble home? I couldn't.

The Difference Between Me and Jesus

I recently discovered a marvelous little app that allows me to manage and track my followers on Twitter. 'Unfollowers' sends a message via my inbox every day to alert me when anyone decides to stop following me.

I check their name to see who they are. I briefly peruse their profile. It hurts, just a little. I wonder, just for a moment, why they would choose to unfollow me. But then, to make me feel better, I do what I'm sure most Tweeters do...I simply hit the red 'unfollow' button next to their name, and do what they did to me. Why worry? Why follow someone who doesn't follow back? Far better, methinks, to focus on the 603 faithful followers I do have, than on the one I lost today.

And then there's Jesus...who needs no app to alert him to new unfollowers; who instantly knows their name; who knows exactly why someone would walk away from his truth; who hurts, not a little, but a whole lot when this happens; and who would never, ever choose to 'unfollow' them; but rather- insanely, unbelievably, unselfishly, crazily, sets out over any and all terrain to bring that one lost follower back to him.

Like that persistent shepherd who falls and stumbles as he searches against all odds for that one lost sheep, Jesus steps out over the treacherous terrain of atheism, skepticism, unbelief, and downright ridicule with the sole aim of lifting his child high on his shoulders, and carrying her all the way home, rejoicing.

Now that's what I call a Savior.

And that's the difference between Jesus and me.

And that is why I teach.

The Gift

Last Sunday morning I had the privilege of standing side by side with my husband to offer bread and wine to our church family. I watched as they made their way toward the altar. A solemn, slow, reverent procession. Some looked at me and smiled, but most bowed their heads, respecting the mystery of the moment.

And then the children came. There was no stopping them. They almost ran down the aisle, eager to receive. I laughed as one little girl grabbed her bread and plunged it deep into the cup of juice, her chubby little fingers disappearing under purple. The cup overflowed. But she held on tight to the bread. It emerged, dripping and sodden, and she devoured it like candy.

And then there were the brothers. They came trotting down the aisle, smiling, holding hands with their dad. They reached with outstretched hands as I bent down with the plate of bread. And they grinned and looked me straight in the eye. I smiled, intrigued by a glimpse of red and silver, sparkling on the younger brother's shirt. What was that? This little guy was proudly wearing two shiny bows...the kind we might use to denote a precious gift.

And I wonder how different my experience of communion would be if I were to approach it like a child-

With outstretched hands; eager to receive; expecting my cup to overflow; ready not just to be a taker, but a giver.

To offer myself, at the altar, as a gift. 

The Lady Who Lived in Strawberry Cottage

She lived in Strawberry Cottage. And although that name sounds like it belongs on the pages of a Beatrix Potter book, Strawberry Cottage is a real place. And this is a true story.

Strawberry Cottage is a beautiful, old home, nestled among fields in the little village of UpHolland, in Northern England. I love UpHolland. I grew up there. At the back of Strawberry Cottage, I remember walking through the woods that she and her husband had bought, so that the tiny bluebells would be preserved. She never stepped on them. Because she was Linda.

Once a month, she would invite all of us Sunday school teachers to Strawberry Cottage. We would gather in her modest living room to plan our monthly lessons. And although she was the Sunday School Superintendent, she never frowned if we had not read through the material ahead of time. She would just smile; and laugh; and pour tea. She would offer us homemade treats; and understand that we had been too busy; and pray with us; and encourage us. Because she was Linda.

And when she first met my four rambunctious sons, who were usually bouncing off the Sunday school walls, and who generally put others off teaching for life, she just loved them. Because she was Linda.

Linda taught me more about how to appreciate and retain volunteers; how to teach; how to love children; and how to live a humble, gentle, grace filled life than any book, or seminar, or training event ever could. Not through words, but simply by who she was. Because she was Linda.

It is twelve years today since Linda smiled. Outside Strawberry Cottage hangs a sign that says 'For Sale.' But her legacy lives on. And if I can leave even half the legacy that she did, I will be happy.