Quote of the day - But we can't see him

It snowed a ton last night. It was beautiful enough that after church, the girls violated their tradition of wailing in protest when our answer to, "Where are we going now?" is "Home."

(It's a happy home, really. Mostly. It's just that, not unlike their Mommy, they really like to go and do. And go and do some more.)

But "home" was an acceptable answer today, because there was half a foot of snow to come home to, the first since Christmas Day. It took an hour to track down the snow suits, get the mittens on, find Ashlyn's left boot, take them both off and put socks on, and get out in the fluffy white stuff.

We made a snow man, sat and dined on snow from the porch table, buried a doll inside the snow man to hide it from a bloodthirsty King Herod, and then buried the twins themselves. They stayed buried up to the neck until Ashlyn assured us that Herod was no longer a threat. "Jesus killed him," she said.

"No, Jesus did not kill Herod," I told her.

"Why?" asked Melía.

"That's not how Jesus rolls. He doesn't do the killing thing. He does the loving thing."

"Oh," said Melía.

Maybe it was connected or maybe it wasn't, but some time later, Ashlyn observed this:

"Jesus can see us, but we can't see him. That's magic."

"That's right, Ashie," I said.

"That's not magic," Brielle said. She is quite the demythologizer these days.

But magic or no, Ashlyn was on to something significant, I think. I find fault with myself or with God for my failure to see what I think my eyes of faith should. Maybe it's enough just to be seen.

When you tell my dad, "It's good to see you," he's going to tell you, "It's good to be seen." And he's right.

What if I settled down comfortably into the knowledge that whatever I see or don't see, God sees me? What if that paradox moved from my pile of annoyances to my temple of cherished mysteries?

What if it is magic?

Quote of the day - Favorite space picture

Brielle's Kindergarten class is studying space. I picked her up after school. After a giant bear hug that lasted all the way from the pick-up bleachers to the car, the first thing she told me inside was this:

"I know what my favorite space picture is." She was giddy. I hadn't even begun to ask questions about the day. "It's called called 'Oh-Daven.' It's a group of stars."

"Orion?"

"Yeah, Oh-Ryan. And inside it there's a giant black hole. Astronauts can see it." She couldn't talk fast enough now. "And God and Jesus are going to come out of it!" Her grin was about the size of the great hunter's belt. "And that's why it's my favorite!"

Not a bad reason to choose a space picture.

---

Maranatha, come Lord--by whatever path You choose, whatever time You know is best. (But sooner is definitely better.) And however, whenever that is, come now and restore my childlike excitement about how perfect that day will be.

Conversation of the day - Trinity talk

Driving home from church yesterday, I made a comment about something Jesus could do.

From the back of the minivan, Brielle corrected me (believe it or don't): "God."

"That's right, Jesus and God."

"No--God," she insisted.

"Jesus is God," I said.

Ashlyn weighed in. "No he's not!"

I hitched up my theological pants, drew in a deep breath, and set out to explain the Trinity to 4- and 5-year-olds. "Jesus is God's Son, but he is also part of God."

"No, he's not. Jesus is not part of God. Even though they do the same work."

"Brielle, is your pointer finger your hand?"

"Yeah."

"And is your thumb your hand too?"

"Yeah."

"It's kind of like that. Your fingers are all different, but they are all part of your hand. And Jesus, God and the Holy Spirit are all God. And like you said, they help each other do the same work."

"Oh."

"Or maybe it's more like ice and water and steam. Ice is water that is frozen. And water is water that is just water. And steam is water that is evaporating. But they're all water--just in different states."

Sometimes I wonder how in the same sentence I can remember to limit my vocabulary enough to utter something like "water is water that is water," yet drop an odd homonym like "states" at the end. This is why I never taught Kindergarten.

Brielle giggled. "Not in different states!" She said "states" in that high-to-low pitch sequence that means, "You're being silly, Daddy!" (I hear that sequence often because my daughters think I am silly often--even more often than I attempt to be.)

I laughed back. "I don't mean a state like California or Texas or Alaska, but like water in a different way of being, a different circumstance, a different condition."

"Conditioner?!" she laughed. Now her twin sisters were laughing too. "Daddy, you said 'water in a different conditioner'!"

Mercifully, my Trinity lesson had ended, and on a silly note, a note of comical ambiguity. Maybe a pun is one more Godhead metaphor.

And maybe silliness is an underused path to God.

Quote of the day - Was it good?

For Christmas, the girls got The Story of Jesus for Children DVD. It is excellent, narrating the Christ story from a few children's viewpoints. Tonight it was on in the van on the way home from the gym.

We were going through the passion.

The girls watched wide-eyed, tight-lipped. The twins had questions, which Brielle tried to hush so she could hear the movie. I gave her the Daddy version of "Suffer the little sisters and forbid them not--questions about this shocking story are a very good thing, Miss Brielle."

Melía asked this one:

"Daddy, was it good that Jesus died?"

How would you answer that one?

Nothing about the scene on the tiny LCD screen was appealing or good. The sounds surrounding us were horrifying.

Yet nightly we praise Brielle when she includes, "Thank you for dying on the cross" in her bedtime prayer. It's called "Good Friday," isn't it?

But could I honestly answer that the corrupt trial, torture and execution of a perfect man was "good"? It brought me back to the gore and grimness of holy communion this weekend. "What kind of a sick religion is Daddy teaching me?" my daughters must be asking.

How far should I go to help it make sense? How much mystery should I let ferment in their minds? How many of my answers should I lay on them, and how many should I help them work out on their own? How much of what I'd like to tell her is just more than she can handle right now?

How much do I myself actually know about this? Grappling with Melía's question, I'm thinking I often overestimate how much I know.

And realizing that is definitely good.

Quote of the day - Bread for real life

Yesterday at church we had communion. Our kids had eaten the bread and drunk the grape juice before, but it seemed like Ashlyn got it at a new level this time.

With Rachelle, Melía and Brielle in the mother's room, I had the rare privilege of one-to-one time with her during the whole service. It gave me time to explain things as we ate and drank. (Usually at that point I'm doing damage control on spillage and wishing the carpet were a darker, purpler shade.)

In the car that afternoon, out of the blue, Ashlyn reminded us:

"The grape juice is blood--for pretend. And for real life, the bread is bread. But for pretend, it's Jesus'...Jesus'...body."

What a strange religion she must think her parents are raising her in. One week we're celebrating a baby's birth, and the next we're eating His body and drinking His blood.

Hardly G-rated stuff--even for grown-ups.

Tons of Jesus' original listeners were so weirded out by this concept that they abandoned ship (John 6:53-68). Maybe I should be worried these gory symbols might scare off my little ones too. Being a cannibalistic apprentice of such a bizarre and demanding Teacher could be downright frightening.

Maybe that should disturb me.

But more than any of that, I hope such an early acquaintance with this ritual will not spoil the scandal of what God did for her. I hope the realism of His brokenness never ceases to jar her. I pray the depth of His descent, His passion to be closer to her than food is to her tummy--never seem normal.

I hope this sort of pretending disturbs her--for real life.

Quote of the Day - Jesus' gift

Today I was telling Ashlyn, "You are such a gift from Jesus to me, Ashlyn."

Ashlyn looked back with her wide eyes and said, "And Jesus was a gift to us when he was born."

I guess that's what it's all about...being God's gift to the world in ways that point to His gift of Jesus.

Here's to a year of life with that possibility in mind. Happy 2009!

Good Friday

I remember when Brielle first learned that Jesus died.

We were reading a book called The Legend of the Three Trees. In the story, one sapling dreams of growing up to be a treasure chest. Another young tree looks forward to being a great ship that will carry kings. The third just wants to stand tall, point to heaven and remind people of God's beauty and love.

Each tree's future ends up looking nothing like what it envisioned. The first becomes a mere trough from which animals feed. Then one day a baby in swaddling clothes is laid in it. The second becomes a humble fishing boat. And one stormy day a passenger wakes up from his nap and silences the wind and waves.

The third tree is chopped down in its prime, cut into planks, and set aside. But it gets worse. After years gathering dust and cobwebs, men make this tree into a cross. To this cross is nailed an innocent man.

Treasure chest. King's vessel. Symbol of divine love. Each tree did nothing it had dreamed and became everything it had hoped.

I'll never forget the weight on my chest the day 2-year-old Brielle looked at the Golgotha picture near the end of this book, and I saw the recognition in her eyes. She knew what Jesus looked like, because she'd seen the pictures: Good Shepherd, Teacher, Friend. But here, Jesus--the one who loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so--was being hurt. Jesus--healer of dead girls, feeder of thousands, teacher of peace, lover of children--had enemies. How could this be?

"Daddy, why are those men hurting Jesus?"

"I don't know, Brielle." The mystery of evil still confounds me.

"Lots of people liked Jesus, but some people didn't like him, and were not nice to him at all. These people didn't like him so much--" I falter, breathe in and sigh, discomfited at the gravity of what she is about to learn about the human race into which she has been born. "They didn't like Jesus so much that they nailed him to that cross, and they hung him up until he couldn't breathe anymore. And then, Jesus died. They killed him."

"Why, Daddy?"

"I don't know, Brielle. I don't know why people are so bad that they want to hurt such a good man as Jesus."

"Oh." We are quiet.

"But Brielle, do you know what?"

"What?"

"Jesus loves people so much, that even when those bad people were not being nice to him, he was still nice to them. He even prayed, 'God, please forgive them. They don't know what they are doing.'"

"Yeah."

"And Jesus even loves us when we aren't being nice. And he forgives us too." Forgiveness is still over both of our heads, but both Daddy and daughter knew enough to sense that it is a nice thing done to people who aren't being nice. "But he can teach us to be nice."

The conversation moved on, but that moment changed so much. I was suddenly embarrassed by our species, heart-broken to have shared with Brielle the truth about humankind. I felt like an adoptive parent breaking the news to a child that her birth parents were a hooker and a crack dealer, worried she might feel guilty by association. I felt as if an innocence had been lost.

Jesus, for Brielle, was no longer just a nice guy. He was a nice guy that we killed, a God murdered by His children. He was not only the Good Shepherd. He was the sacrificial Lamb. Did she have to know? Did the perverse truth have to come so soon? Did the joyful story of baby Jesus' life have to take such a horrific twist?

Like Peter faced with the prospect of Christ's death, I want to pull Jesus aside and say, "Never, Lord! This will never happen to you!" Faced with the prophecy of our own denial, I say with Peter, "Even if all fall away on account of you, I never will."

But it did happen to him. And more than deny him, I helped slay him.

Forgive me, Lord, for I do not know what I am doing. Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner raising angels who are destined to fall. Let your tree point us to the loving beauty of heaven. May we find grace amidst the guilt and shame of the Friday we call "good."

I love everybody who loves my kids

Thinking back through the holidays, I'm realizing I pretty much only like to be with people who like to be with my children.

I really hope that friends I had in the BC (Before Children) years did not have such a narrow focus, because before I had a child, I did not like anyone's children. I was not even that hot on the childhood version of myself and my brothers. While others idealized the innocence of childhood, I remembered being cruel, narcissistic, insensitive and judgmental. (Really, I was even worse in these areas then than now!)

So if you don't like being with my children, or anyone's children, and are just reading this to enhance whatever method of birth control you're currently employing, please, feel ye not bad. You've got sympathy here, my brother/sister. From there, only by the grace of God (and the instincts of parenthood) have come I.

It's just that, reviewing December, the common thread of all the people I really loved hanging out with was a genuine affection for my little girls. I never imagined myself choosing friends based on who my kids clicked with, and while that does happen, it's not what I'm talking about. I simply like all people--big or small, young or old, rich or poor, red, brown, yellow, black or white--who realize that Brielle, Melía and Ashlyn are priceless princess gifts from God, and who treat them as such. People like this are the Chosen Ones who get it, who've seen the Light, who stand in right relationship to the Truth that my girls RULE!

Can I get a witness?

No, but there really is a sort of religious fanaticism to this litmus test. Dig my daughters and you pass--well done thou good and faithful servant; here's your harp. Everyone else, weeping and gnashing of teeth for you; here's your accordion.

At first this seemed analogous to God's insistence that we love His Son, the whole "No man comes to the Father but by me" thing, which some Christians love to quote to prove that we are the only ones God really likes. (A strikingly effective way to endear people to the faith, don't you think?) And from that angle I didn't really like God or myself very much. Being so infatuated with one's begotten (even if it is the Only Begotten) that you doom all non-fans of the begotten to second-rate friendship or eternal alienation just didn't seem to be what Jesus would do.

But maybe that is the wrong angle. Maybe God's fatherly fixation is more on people loving His children--all umpteen billion of them who've ever lived. Loving Jesus is great, because it betters our odds of finding love for the Father. But surely God is more self-secure than I am and has less of a compulsive need than I do for folks to love his child.

Perhaps God and I are more alike in this way: We both have invested a lot of blood, sweat and tears in each one of our kids, and anyone who treats them as less valuable than we see them to be just doesn't fit in. We're both kind of nutty about our children; through the screaming and snot and poop, we see this beautiful perfection, this image of God, which may be more fantasy than reality. But we're passionate about that fantasy, and remember, we're nuts enough to believe that it might be real. And the more we get into our kids--the more that we give of ourselves to enrich them and show them love--the more fanatical we become about other people seeing them as we do.

Or, maybe it's just that I feel more comfortable around people who don't mind a half-full potty being brought out into the living room. I don't know.

But I do know this. My girls RULE. (Can I get an "Amen"?)

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Questions I'm asking myself:

- How can I transfer my generous Dad's eye view of my kids to some of God's snotty, poopy, screaming adult children of whom I take a more dim view?

- Why are some people able to have so much love for children without having had their own, while others, like me, don't find that love until they are parents themselves?