Nightlight ~

There’s a light, there’s a light in the darkness
And the black of the night cannot harm us
We can trust not to fear, for our comfort is near
There’s a light, there’s a light, in the darkness

(Beth Nielsen Chapman)


There is a light, a light in the darkness.

I bought it at Ross a few weeks ago for $4.99. My first nightlight since I was toddling around in diapers. It’s crafted out of cut mocha-brown glass, and when darkness falls on my 830 square feet of living space, the mosaic pattern shimmers against the periwinkle color of my bedroom walls.

My need for a nightlight has come on slowly over the past few years. I’ve always been a girl who doesn’t mind the dark. Oregon is a good spot for me. I can be the tiniest bit grouchy when the temperature creeps up past 80 degrees. Give me some cloud cover, a little mist, a bit of sun playing hide-and- seek, and I’m just fine. I am comfortable under the steely-gray of a blustery sky. I savor a dark, chilly night with a blanket, a latte, and my puppy dog.

And yet, over the past few years I began to sense a change. The dark started to feel, well, really, really dark. I imagine there are a few reasons that account for this change: the “bad” news being “extra-extra-read-all-about-it-bad”, the false comforts I may have relied on showing themselves for the counterfeits they are, and the fact that I’m on the short list to receive my invitation to join AARP (hey, I’ll take a discount where I can get it, but really, AARP?! I’m there already?) It’s possible that some of the neurons firing around in my brain, the ones that have made me a lover of the cozy-dark are, how can I say this delicately? …changing.

I mentioned my unsettled night-time feelings to a friend, and she took me nightlight shopping. I plugged in my mosaic Ross-find late that night after everything in my house was tucked in. I loved how the reflection danced along the vase across the room, the mirror above my dresser, even the brushed nickel accents of the ceiling lamp. I settled in and went to sleep, easily, for the first time in several weeks. The shades, the shadows, the weight of the darkness didn’t bother me for the first time in many bedtimes. There was light.

A few months ago I went to see the ‘Narnia’ exhibit at OMSI. I was captivated enough by the maps and the movie props, the interactive displays and the life-size costumes. But Aslan, that good and wild lion, was nowhere to be found, his presence in the fantastical stories given hardly a mention. I expressed my disenchantment to my sister, who has read the C.S. Lewis books several times. I told her that all I really wanted was to walk into the exhibit hall and see Aslan; to hear his voice, to bury my head in his mane and to hear him say that all would be well soon enough. When I told her how I felt, she replied with a quote that may have come from Lewis himself: “Just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.”

I’ve heard preachers declare that the phrase found most often in the Bible is “don’t be afraid”. My own version of an in-depth Biblical word-study (Google) tells me that the word “afraid” does appear over and again in Scripture. It shows up like this: “He was afraid”. “She was afraid”. “They were afraid”. I can’t imagine God the Father, the Son or the Holy Spirit being fans of preaching to the choir, so “don’t be afraid” must have been words of comfort, encouragement and hope to fearful people.

“God is light; in Him there is no darkness at all.” (I John 1:5)

God is light. There is darkness. That’s the tension we live in. There are shades and shadows; there is a weight to the darkness that we all encounter. And yet, I believe that in the dark, those good and wild words, “don’t be afraid”, aren’t so much a marching order but an invitation: “I know you are afraid, come to Me.” “I’m afraid.” “I know.” “I’m afraid.” “I know.”

The nightlight doesn’t make the bad news any better. It doesn’t change the truth that I’ve let myself be misled from time to time about where my comfort lies. And it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not getting any younger. And yet, the shimmer of the nightlight reminds my heart that God is present, even in the dark.

I don’t see Him, but that doesn’t mean He isn’t there.

God is light. And in Him, there is no darkness. None at all.

There’s a light, there’s a light in the darkness
And the black of the night cannot harm us
We can trust not to fear, for our comfort is near
There’s a light, there’s a light, in the darkness

For the Love of St. Francis ~

by Kathy Douglass

I took my 3-year-old terrier-who-knows-what-else-mix mutt to the park last Sunday for the Blessing of the Animals. Maggie’s been mine for about eight months now, and because she’s been such a gift, such a blast, such a comfort and source of laughter to me, I figured, hey, sure, we’ll do the Blessing.

The Episcopal tradition offers me an invitation to remembrances and celebrations that are new to me, and this is one of my favorites - a chance to thank God for the life of St. Francis of Assisi, and while doing so, to thank God for His creation, for the life of His creatures.

Um, yea, “creature” about sums it up. As the good Reverend approached, my gentle, fun-loving, scratch-my-belly-would-you-please puppy dog stiffened, growled, snarled and bared her teeth at the hand that would bless her.

I was mortified. I wanted to yank at her leash and make a quick getaway. I sifted through the excuses that quickly flooded my thoughts, all beginning with “she’s never done that before, I can’t imagine what…” I wondered what happens to dogs who bite the clergy. Sigh.

It didn’t go at all like I had planned. I’d spent 45 minutes the evening before, brushing her coat so it would be soft and shiny. I got her to the park in time to run off some spunk, chase a few squirrels and sniff about the grass to find her spot.

I’d told her what we were doing, and while I understand she doesn’t know the meaning of my words, (I dorealize she’s a dog), I do believe she understands my tone and she knew that this tone meant we were off to do something fun together. She had to know.

Yea, not so much.

When my eyes are open and I can see beyond what I am “seeing”, I find that there a story pictures, snapshots, collages everywhere. Any given moment can present itself like the next page in a pop-up book, springing off the flattened surface with nuance and color and dimension, revealing a bit of truth we may not have otherwise noticed.

I can be a little cranky sometimes, out of sorts, anxious. I would like to receive a blessing, a prayer, a kindness, a bit of light in the dark, a pathway out of a dead-end, but I can’t see beyond the present circumstance to understand that what I long for is actually happening. I can be like Maggie, not trusting that the hand that’s reaching toward me is good and kind, and bearing what I hope to receive.

The gospel of Luke records that Jesus, aching for the people He loved, spoke these words: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem…how often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you would not.” (Luke 13:34)
　
Maggie would not. All the Reverend wanted to do was touch her gently on the head and offer a word of blessing. But Mags would not have it. She would not.

Sometimes we won’t either.

We stiffen, we growl, we snarl and bare our teeth at the One who would simply come near to lay a hand of gentleness on us, but… we… will… not.

She wasn‘t as animated as she usually is about the car ride home, she lay quietly on the passenger seat, and later that afternoon she rested her head on my lap, all “you still love me, don’t you?”, emanating from her big, brown eyes. I rubbed her ears and remembered the blessing the Reverend had offered Maggie, albeit from a safe distance, earlier in the day: “May the God of all creation bless and keep you, and fill those who love and care for you with joy and thanksgiving.” Amen. Yes Mags, I still love you.

We’ll try it again next year. The Reverend is willing, so am I. Hopefully Maggie will be too.

Receiving can be hard. “I will not” comes so easy. We all need another chance to give “I will” a try.

God bless St. Francis, who loved the Creator
God bless the kind Reverend, who loved my cranky dog
God bless Maggie, who got her blessing despite her behavior
God bless all of us, when we are growly, snarly, reluctant receivers of His goodness

I Had a Father ~

by Kathy Douglass

Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. For what man is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him? (Matthew 7)

I had a father who lived at my house

He was my hero, he was my friend

Turned on the lights when the dark left me scared

Laughed at my stories, cuddled and cared

And every good gift that a father could give

Was mine for the taking as long as he lived

I had a father who lived at my house

As I grew older, wiser, I knew

This body I’m in is the same that he wore

He suffered, he struggled, he failed and he tore

My father needed a father too

We found the Father we needed in You

When I need my father

You are the one who won’t be gone

When I need a shoulder

Your love is the shoulder that I rest my life upon

If I ask You for bread,

You don’t go throwing stones

You’ve given me a home

And I am not alone

You are my Father, You are my Savior, my Lord

You are the One who loves me so much more

I’ve lived most of my life without my father. He left us when I was a little girl, and died a few years after that. I saw him just a handful of times in-between.

All that means is that I belong to a community too numerous to count, a community of names and faces and stories, a community of children who’ve lost their fathers. Death, abandonment, neglect, abuse, chasms of emotional distance that seem impossible to bridge, never-knowing-his-name… there are so many ways we “lose” our dads in a world hell-bent on loss.

“When I was a child, I talked liked a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became grown, I put childish ways behind me.” (I Corinthians 13:11) What we see, what we perceive, what we interpret as children can’t help but grow into something more as we grow into who we are. From childlike naiveté to weathered understanding, the view of my dad as “my hero, my friend” has taken on layers of meaning and perspective in the years since he went away. As I’ve had to confront and contend with my own brokenness, I’ve had to confront and contend with his.

Brennan Manning writes “blessed are those who know they are broken”. In knowing this truth about ourselves, about one another, a pathway toward wholeness opens up. I don’t think that God’s promise to bind our wounds (Hosea 6) means that healing isn’t going to hurt. Wounds ache, it can hurt to apply balm, to change a dressing, the journey toward rehabilitation is painful and long.

I don’t think God wanted to be my earthly father. I believe it was His heart, His hope, that my dad would do that. And yet, in that failure, in that loss, God has been intimately present, just like He was at the beginning, when I was fearfully and wonderfully made.

I miss my dad, I do. I’ve allowed myself at times to wonder about the impact of his decisions on my life, to consider what might have been had he stayed with us, to feel the starkness of the empty space where he was supposed to be. And yet, with time and God’s grace, I’ve been able to experience the things that a father can provide: a sense of being cherished, an awareness of protection and shepherding. These good things have not been withheld from me in my fatherlessness. I’ve not been left alone.

It’s not okay that I don’t have a dad, and yet… it is… okay.

When I need my father

You are the one who won’t be gone

When I need a shoulder

Your love is the shoulder that I rest my life upon

If I ask You for bread,

You don’t go throwing stones

You’ve given me a home

And I am not alone

You are my Father, You are my Savior, my Lord

You are the One who loves me so much more

All Dressed Up ~

by Kathy Douglass

I walk through a park every morning on my way to work. It gives me a few moments to breathe in some fresh air, smell the lilac blossoms or kick at the leaves, and watch the squirrels skitter up the tree trunks before I hang my coat on my cubicle wall. The park is just across the street from the courthouse, so people-watching is also available, no extra charge, all day long.

A few mornings ago, a scene in the park caught my attention: a young woman, dressed in a white wedding gown, with the veil pulled back over her head, sat alone on a wooden park bench, her eyes pooling with tears as she held a bouquet of red roses limply across her lap.

It’s not unusual to see a bride in the park; weddings take place at the courthouse every day, simple ceremonies, as well as more elaborate rites. It just seemed out of place to see a bride, alone and sad, at 8 o’clock in the morning. Her body language, her expression told me that there was a story unfolding. Her face was downcast, her shoulders were bowed. As I approached and then walked past her, she looked up and off into the distance once or twice as her fingers absently traced the rose petals in her lap.

I walked as far as the crossing signal, then turned and looked back. A few women, braver than I, approached her as she slumped on the bench. I wasn’t close enough to hear their exchange, but as they bent toward her, as they leaned in with expressions of kindness and concern on their faces, I imagined them asking, “are you alright dear?” “Do you need some help?” “Are you waiting for someone?” “Shall we wait with you?”

The young bride slowly shook her head in response, one of the strangers touched her gently on the shoulder, and they walked away.

I’ve wondered since that morning about that scene in the park. That young woman seemed to share her park bench with the pain of disappointment, the fear of humiliation, the ache of wondering and waiting, the anxiousness of uncertainty.

I wonder how often we feel just like her… all dressed up and nowhere to go. Ready to be the bride, but no bridegroom in sight. Weary of waiting. Bracing for disappointment. Turning the page in our own story to find a twist of character or plot or setting that we didn’t want or anticipate.

It can be difficult in those moments to do anything but look off into the distance and absently trace what feels like a limp hold on our hopes.

When we come to these moments, we have to face a truth that is never far off: the way things unfold sometimes is simply not what we had in mind, not how we thought it would look, not what we had hoped for.

Joel 2:21-27

The word of the Lord that came to Joel:

O children of Zion, be glad and rejoice in the LORD your God;

For he has given the early rain for your vindication,

He has poured down for you abundant rain,

The early and the later rain, as before.

The threshing floors shall be full of grain; the vats shall overflow with wine and oil.

I will repay you for the years that the swarming locust has eaten,

The hopper, the destroyer, and the cutter, my great army, which I sent against you.

You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied, and praise the name of the LORD your God,

Who has dealt wondrously with you. And my people shall never again be put to shame. You shall know that I am in the midst of Israel, and that I, the LORD, am your God and there is no other. And my people shall never again be put to shame.

When I read the prophets, so much of what I read is beyond my understanding. I believe that context matters, and while I am interested in the interpretations of people who are wiser than I am, I just have to keep searching the Scriptures for the same thing I’ve always searched for: a glimpse of God's heart. Just as sheep begin to recognize the voice of their Shepherd, I believe that the Beloved begin to recognize the heart of their Lover.

When I read this passage from Joel, the glimpse I get of God’s heart is that it understands that we have, at times, felt jilted, disappointed, ashamed. I glimpse a heart that feels the losses we have felt, cares about the moments, the days, the years that seem, on the surface, to have been wasted. I glimpse a heart that knows the pangs we have endured, the hunger, the thirst, the want.

And I glimpse a heart that is set to make things right one day, a heart that will bring plenty where there was want, overflow where there was scarcity, and gladness where there was despair.

I don't know why that young bride was in tears on that park bench. I only know that there was something about the scene that resonated with familiarity. We wait and we wonder. We hope and we hang on. We brace ourselves for a twist in our own story.

God is greater than the reasons we sit alone with tears pooling in our eyes. “He is the Lord our God, who deals wondrously with us”, as He spoke to Joel. He will make us glad, He will. He will come to us now, He will come for us then, just as He promised He would.

We’ll be dressed in white, as a Bride adorned for her Bridegroom, and we will have somewhere to go.

When He cometh, when He cometh to make up His jewels,

All His jewels, precious jewels, His loved and His own.

Like the stars of the morning, His brightness adorning,

They shall shine in their beauty, bright gems for His crown

He will gather, He will gather the gems for His kingdom,

All the pure ones, all the bright ones, His loved and His own.

Like the stars of the morning, His brightness adorning,

They shall shine in their beauty, bright gems for His crown. (William O. Cushing)

You Shall Be ~

by Kathy Douglass

I hired a hedge man a week ago. My little yellow house with the purple door is bordered on the south side by a laurel hedge. It seemed like a great idea when I bought the house. I liked the privacy and shade it offered, I liked the sense of security that comes with a hedge. What I didn’t realize at the time is that this hedge has a nickname: Goliath. It’s giant, it’s brawny, it’s mouthy, and it’ll cut me right in two if I don’t take the first swing. A friend recommended a gardener, and by Friday evening I’d made an appointment for Sunday afternoon. My first thought was that I’d better spend a few hours on Saturday trimming the hedge before...the...hedge…man...came…to…trim…the…hedge. I didn’t want him to see how scraggly and overgrown I’d let it become.

A few weeks ago, I gave myself a bit of a pedicure. Pampering? Taking good care of myself? Going all girly? No. Prepping for the Maundy Thursday foot-washing. If anyone is going to see my feet, they are going to be clean and shiny, blister-free and soft as a baby’s bottom. You know, ready…to…be…washed.

I am seeing the dentist in a few days. You know where this is going. Let’s just say that my little box of minty floss and me are spending lots of quiet evenings together.

My mom tells a funny story: when she was a young girl in the 50s (sorry ma), she and her brother had an every-Wednesday-after-school routine. They’d clean up the house, vacuum, polish the stair-rail, straighten the magazines and newspapers, spritz the mirrors, hang up all the clothes, wash, dry and put every dish in its proper cupboard, and sweep up every speck of dust. Why? Because Dorothy Simon, the cleaning lady, was coming by on Thursday to do…just…that. My nana did not want dear Mrs. Simon to think they were a “messy family.”

C’mon, admit it. You do it too. Do your best to “present” yourself.

We can be such a mess sometimes. What a relief to say it out loud. I’m a mess sometimes. You’re a mess sometimes. We’re a mess sometimes. This is not news. It just takes a few “let me clean this up” episodes for us to recognize it. And those episodes are available, well, “on demand”. We demand to be seen in a certain light. A light that’s lovely, a light that masks our most obvious flaws, a light that says, “ooh, would you take a look at her, at him.”

The truth is, we are known and loved and accepted as we are -- as… we… are. There is a Redeemer, and He’s had his heart set on us since before the foundations of the world were laid (Ephesians 1:4). A heart set to love and transform, heal and redeem. His heart is set, but ours still wavers now and then. We’re not always so sure we’re what He had in mind… so we trim and primp and mop up so we can be presentable, loveable, worth it.

Through the prophet Isaiah, God lays out His kind invitation: “Come, let us reason together”, says the Lord. “Though your sins are as scarlet, they shall be white as snow, though they be as crimson, they shall be like wool”. How, exactly does that happen? I don’t know. All I know is that there is an invitation with our names on it. And this is no black-tie affair we’ve been invited to. “You shall be white as snow”. Seems to me that God understands His invitation is to the messy. And that helps me breathe a bit, and loosen my grip on the “do-it-myselfing”. We respond to His invitation. He transforms us as we respond.

Transformation comes in time, it does. We’re all at one point or another in the “becoming” process. Transformation takes some growing into. So does accepting the truth about how we are seen by the One who invited us to be transformed.

The hedge will need to be trimmed again next spring. There will be more blisters between now and the next foot-washing. And I have to go back to the dentist. This “becoming” isn’t over, not quite yet.

We show up mouthy, blistered and un-flossed… and find ourselves welcome and embraced.

White as snow, white as snow

Though my sins were as scarlet,

Lord I know, Lord I know,

I am clean and forgiven

Through the power of your blood,

Through the wonder of your love

Through faith in You, I know that I can be, white as snow (lyric by Leon Olguin)

Two Holy Saturday Poems

Two poems for this special day in the church year.

Vigil ~

by Kathy Douglass

A poem for the night

before the Morning

Have I come too late to the cross?
Such regret
They’ve taken You

They’ve carried You,
They’ve cradled You so tenderly
Across this savage hillside to a tomb

And there, with myrrh and aloes sweet
They bathed your head, your hands, your feet
Balm for fatal wounds suffered as ransom,
Your life for mine

They’ve shrouded You, enveloped You
Buried You behind a stone
I am undone
I am alone

Have I come too late to the cross?
Such regret
That all that I had meant to say
Might now remain unsaid
I was silent
You are dead

I fall upon my knees and press my face against this stone
And cry out to the night
That I was loved, that I was known
That I was lifted from my shame, my guilt
To stand beside You,
Lover of my soul
You called me friend, You called me bride
That I had found my shelter in the strength of your embrace
That I had tasted mercy
That I had tasted grace
And though You said You’d die for me
I died, with your last breath
There is no life for me if not for You,
I am bereft

I beat my fists against this tomb that tears your life from me
And whisper what I pray that You can hear

That I believe

---

Holy Saturday: A Sonnet ~

by Ian Doescher

In silence and in desolation I—

Abandoned by my friends and now alone—

Can find no words to speak, no tears to cry,

But thoughts within me cut me to the bone.

The Sabbath day is here, and yet, no rest

Will calm the inner chamber of my soul.

The morning sun is in its splendor dressed,

And yet its light does nothing to console.

For yesterday they crucified my Lord:

The candle snuffed, the promise turned to dust.

The teacher, healer, leader we adored

With nails was giv’n to death’s voracious lust.

When all around me sings a song of sorrow,

How can I look with hope upon tomorrow?

Making Allowances

by Kathy Douglass

It’s an old joke: patient says to the doctor, “Doc, it hurts when I do that.” Doc says to the patient, “well, don’t do that.”

“Don’t do that” makes a lot of sense sometimes. Why would we do what we know might hurt?

Vulnerability, exposure, a keen awareness of need, these aren’t the things we are naturally inclined to give ourselves over to.

This Lenten season, these are the very things I am choosing. In seeking to reflect on Christ’s sufferings and hold a mirror up to my own heart as we experience these days before Holy Week, I considered that my best practice would be to make some allowances… allow for vulnerability, allow for exposure, allow for need.

It’s not that these things aren’t present in my life, in all our lives. They are ever present in a broken and waiting world. But it takes some intentionality to see weakness and frailty with their noses pressed against the glass, and to open the door and say, “ok, you can come in.”

We get awfully skilled at keeping our guard up.

I stood outside Buckingham Palace a few years ago, peering through the iron gates with my touristy binoculars for the lightest twitch, the tiniest breath, the slightest budge from the Palace Guard. My hands and eyes got tired after awhile, and eventually, I walked away. I’ve suspected at times that some fuzzy-hatted soldiers keep watch outside my heart, not twitching, not breathing, not budging. And why would they? They are simply following my orders, to guard my heart, to keep me safe, secure, and out of harm’s way.

As Rev. Jennifer reminded us a few Sundays ago, the Bible tells us not to be afraid so many times because God knows it can be scary out there, He knows that sometimes we do feel afraid.

So, trusting His “knowing”, I am trying to live these Lenten weeks with my guard down, with my sentries dismissed. I am making some allowances:

I am allowing for vulnerability… this came in a difficult conversation with one of my sisters, a talk we both needed, but one that left us both feeling a bit bruised for a few days. Telling the truth, hearing the truth, instead of relying on our mousiest “oh, it’s fine”, or our squeakiest “no worries.” Letting it be okay that everything was not okay.

I am allowing for exposure… I was with a group of people recently, some strangers, some friends, when my large self tangled with a small bench and both of us went crashing to the floor. I wanted to find the nearest door to run through, or at least the nearest rock to crawl under, but instead, I had to allow for a strong hand to help me up, kind eyes to look into mine and scatter the shame that had begun to call me names, I had to allow for gentle voices to assure me that everything was alright.

I am allowing for my need… this came as I rejoined a group of women who can speak truth and hope into a place of weakness for me; a group I had decided I could do without, preferring instead to claw after change and growth without the benefit of community.

These instances could have taken place on any day, in any season. Being ready to welcome them instead of stiff-arm them behind a wall mortared with pride and fear is the difference.

The prophet Jeremiah tells us that God’s mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). I imagine there’s design behind that truth: we are people in need of mercy every day.

What I am experiencing this season is the same truth I experience anytime I let my guard down: Jesus is with me. His sufferings, his own willingness to allow for vulnerability and exposure and need, make Him my true Advocate. As we taste a tiny bit of suffering, we experience that His suffering prepares Him to be with us to repair and comfort, shield, rescue and console. He comes to us at our most exposed, vulnerable and needy, and offers His mercy.

Making allowances can feel a little scary. As the apostle John writes to a group of believers, the love of Christ is a perfect love, a love so perfect it casts out the fear that keeps us from letting our guard down. (I John 4:18)

Perfect Love casts out the fear in me and sends the darkness to hide
Perfect Love tells me that I have found my refuge at His side
Perfect Love will never leave me, He has promised to abide
And be my Strong and Perfect Love

Making allowances… for vulnerability, for exposure, for need. It’s an open invitation to the true Keeper of our hearts.

Complications

by Kathy Douglass

I was sitting in my living room with my little piano student a few weeks back. We were in the middle of our lesson, reviewing the quarter note and the half note, calling out the names of the white keys and brushing up on our fingering. I scribbled a few notes in her assignment book while she twirled on the antique piano stool a friend had picked up for me at a yard sale.

We were just about to turn the page and begin our next piece when she looked up at me with her big blue eyes and asked, “Kathy, what are the black keys for?” We hadn’t gotten to the black keys yet. I’m a new teacher, she’s a new student, so we’re taking this nice and slow. I thought for a moment, and not wanting to confuse her or jump ahead too far, offered the simplest answer I could muster in my gentlest, beginning-piano-teacher voice. She slowly looked down at the keyboard, and then looked back up at me as her eyes widened and said… “whoa, this is gonna get complicated.”

Oh sweetie, you have no idea.

I’m new at this teaching thing, but I think we all understand intuitively that the response can be as important as the question. When my little gal said “whoa…”, it mattered to me, in that moment, how I respond. I didn’t want to look back at those big-blue eyes and say “oh, no, it’s not complicated at all.” I’ve been playing the piano since I was 6 years old, and I know different. I wanted to tell her the truth. There are some complications. There are key signatures and dotted-quarter notes, rests and dynamics, chords and flats, sharps and accidentals, half-steps, clefs and tempos, fermatas and, last time I checked, about 88 keys.

A few lessons into this, I knew it was way too early to mention too much of that, but I also wanted to honor her question. She’s eager, she’s curious, she’s giving herself a chance to become a pianist. So I simply said, “you’re right, kiddo. There are some things that will be complicated, but we’re just going to take this one lesson at a time, I will help you, and then, someday, you will be able to put together all you’ve learned and play whatever you like.” I said that with confidence, because once I was a little girl just learning how to play the piano, too. I worked, with lots of guidance and help, through some of the “complications”, and now, I can play. I told her the truth. She smiled, seemed satisfied, and twirled around one last time.

Her “whoa” really struck me. We’ve all heard children land squarely on the truth – “out of the mouths of babes”. And I’ve thought, since that evening, that if I can sit at my piano next to a spunky little girl and offer her assurance about what she doesn’t yet understand, what she hasn’t yet experienced, I can surely sit next to my Father and allow Him to teach and encourage and assure me. Lean in and listen for Him to tell me the truth. After all, He knows what He is doing with my “becoming”.

We come to God over and again with our questions, and sometimes we respond with what sounds like a “whoa”… “this is too hard, this hurts too much, where are we going, it’s too late, are you there?”

The Psalmist writes that “God desires truth in our innermost beings…” (Psalm 51:6). As His children, we were designed to desire the truth as well. Even if it’s complicated. Jesus wasn’t big on sugar-coating. He warned of sorrows and aches, brokenness, loss… complications. And yet… He also spoke the truths his Father wanted us to hear, so that we could believe, so that we could trust and follow – the truths of his Father’s presence, his Father’s intent and desire. He offered us a look into the heart of God; a heart as revealed through the prophet Jeremiah: “For I know the plans I have for you”, declares the Lord. “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to bring you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

I chose the curriculum my little student and I are using because it’s interactive and fun, it’s full of color and whimsy. I also chose it because every lesson includes a student-teacher duet. Even if we’ve just taken the tiniest musical step forward, we get to hear, at the end of our lesson, how it sounds. It’s a favorite moment. I put my hands right next to hers on the keyboard, I guide and encourage and help her. We end our duets with a cheery “wahoo!” or a high-five or a great big “we did it!” She brings what she is learning; I bring what I know, and it is music.

Anne Lamott, a favorite writer of mine, said once: “how is it that you can play one note, and then another, and then your heart just breaks wide open?” I keep that in mind as I teach. My little student will experience that one day. I know she will. Despite the complications.

We’re not alone in our questions; we’re not alone in our quests. God is with us, His strong and tender hands covering our own, guiding, encouraging, drawing out of us what He first sang into our souls before the foundations of the world were laid. Songs of joy, songs of peace, songs of hope, songs of life.