Rhoda Schultz

I always wondered what the swinging incense ball-thingy was.  There I sat in my first Catholic funeral mass, fumbling with my coat and answering texts from my kids in an awkward up and down motion.  Beside me sat a classmate who knew all the words and motions – sweetly warning us when she lowered the kneeling-thingy.  The classmate on my other side, like me, sat in awe of the beautiful liturgy and song honoring the life of our friend.

He was 47 years old.

I strained to see the eyes of his mother as she strengthened herself in the hope of Christ to bear the loss of her son.  I searched the eyes of his young daughter and thought of her wedding day.  I read and re-read the text on the pamphlet.  St. Joseph’s Hospital.  The very same hospital of my birth.

We gathered to honor and celebrate the life of our friend.

I returned home to my very small but significant life.  I pulled my hair back and reloaded the dishwasher.  Filled Coco’s bowl with fresh water.  Peeled the potatoes for dinner.

I wondered about the legacy of my life and how I am living each and every day.

I pray the ordinary acts of love will count for much.  I pray I will have spent much more time giving and less time gathering.  I pray, somehow, I will have told others how deeply, completely, uniquely, and passionately loved by God they are.   I pray they will have grown tired of hearing that from me.

Maybe that swingy incense ball-thingy was to remind me that life is a vapor.  It moves with deceptive speed.  Live deeply.  For you are deeply loved.

‘Why not go out on a limb?  That’s where the fruit is.’

– Mark Twain

So there I was, dangerously perched on the edge.  All electrical systems were (apparently) failing in my trusty Camry on my daily middle school drop off in my red flannel pajamas.  First the radio, then the windows, and who knows what else.  As I reported the strange happenings to my husband, he said, ‘it sounds like the alternator belt must be loose from the weekend’s visit to the garage.’ 

‘Are your lights working?’ 

‘I don’t know’

‘Can you jump out and check?’ 

‘No, I have my pajamas on.’

Miraculously, I made it home only to be stuck.  One hour and fifteen minutes from the start of my workday.  The old girl refused to re-start and all available drivers were gone for the day.

All available drivers except my faithful papa.

There I sat in his white truck, catching up on life, wondering if he was going to attend Fernando so-and-so’s funeral, musing on the lack of snowfall, listening to Linda Ronstadt.

‘How do you get there?’, he asked.

‘I usually take Wads to I-70 to Federal to 32^nd’

His brow furled.  His big hands nervously shifted their grip on the steering wheel.  He growled a little.

Finally, he suggested a ridiculously long route in order to avoid the potential highway morning traffic.

Instead of assuring him we were well past the thick traffic hour, I smiled and enjoyed the ride.  Looking at his face, I marveled at how remarkably alike we were.  Beyond the round, oversized features.

We would rather go around than through.

He with traffic and me with people.

With the exception of a small handful of safe people and my family, I will take the ridiculously long route in order to avoid the mess of hard conversations.

I prefer ‘getting dirty’ with those I know will stand on the mud banks with 2 towels in hand, waiting to carefully mend one another’s bruises and gently wipe the muck off each other’s skin.

I rarely risk a truly vulnerable conversation with someone who might answer with cruelty, or worse, indifference.

I’m like the Robert Downey as Sherlock Holmes of unpleasant conversations.  I imagine each severe word, in slow-motion blow-by-blow, coupled with each harsh response, and before the conversation happens, I know exactly how it’s going to end.

So I avoid.

In doing so, I rarely need to apologize for a careless word, and mostly avoid direct wounds, but I miss out.  I miss opportunities of Restoration.  Opportunities of Rescue.  Of New Mercies.

I should grip the steering wheel and swallow hard.  Breathe deep.  Drive into the unknown mess.  Recklessly throw myself into the hope of the One who would rather go through than around.

I should.

The brownies are cooling and the creamy beef burritos are warming as I watch the snow gently fall outside.  I’m a fan of snow.  You could say I’m a super fan of all things snow-related.  Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! 

This Colorado native is hard-wired to understand how desperately we depend on snow for our water supply.  We live in a super dry state, and our water comes from rivers and streams fed by mountain snowmelt.

Translation:  snow = water.

I’m all too familiar with droughts.  Dry seasons.  Droughts of the soil and droughts of the soul.

Although I’m not currently in a soul drought, I know they come without warning.  They just do.

Isaiah 43 (MSG)

This is what God says, the God who builds a road right through the ocean, who carves a path through the pounding waves, the God who summons horses and chariots and armies – they lie down and they can’t get up; they’re snuffed out like so many candles: ‘Forget about what’s happened; don’t keep going over old history.  Be alert, be present.  I’m about to do something brand-new.  It’s bursting out!  Don’t you see it?  There it is!  I’m making a road through the desert, rivers in the badlands.  Wild animals will say ‘thank you!’ – the coyotes and the buzzards – because I provided water in the desert, rivers through the sun-baked earth, Drinking water for the people I chose, the people I made especially for myself.’

I have come to know the surprise of grace in parched places.

I have learned to never give up on God’s ability to rescue in utter hopelessness.

I don’t have the ability to dig wells deep enough to create water in dry land.

He does.

He actually provides roads in the desert.  Rivers in the badlands.  Water in the desert.  Snowpack in the dry mountains.

My green chili is simmering, my avocados sit in paper bags waiting ‘til the last moment, and my coco krispies/marshmallow spread waits on my kitchen counter to be cut into football-shaped goodies.

In a few hours, we will gather with our loved ones to feast and enjoy one of our favorite American pastimes.

The Superbowl.

Until my beloved Broncos return to the big game, I will continue to focus my energy on fun food and good times with my loves.    Truth be told, I love an excuse for gatherings and I happen to love a great game of football.

Almost as much as I love a great halftime show.

Without a doubt, Beyoncé will bring it today.  She has much to prove with her recent lip-sinc-gate.  Yes, we still have questions, Bey, but we believe in you.  Her performance will be great, but will it rank with the all-time legendary shows?  We’ll see.

There are hits, there are misses, and then there are these:

Paul McCartney.  When the fireworks shot perfectly with his ‘Live and let DIE’, I thought my chest was going to explode.  Ending with ‘Hey Jude’ struck a deep chord.  His melodies are etched in some kind of deep music memory chord.  I stood and clapped.  Appropriately.

Rolling Stones.  Speaking of a deep music memory chord, Mick evokes one of fear.  As a little girl, the sight of his rooster moves caused me to cower behind the couch and wait for safety.  I’ve come to (mostly) love the outrageous showmanship and abandon.  Well done, Mick.  Start.  Me.  Up.

Prince.  ‘Dearly Beloved/We are gathered here today/2 get through this thing called life.’   Truer words were never spoken.  I’m on my feet.  The rain.  The turquoise/tangerine ensemble.  The du rag.   ‘Let’s Go Crazy’, ‘Baby I’m a Star’, ‘Purple Rain’ IN the rain.  It’s safe to say, I’m still recovering.

U2.  In our post-9/11 state, he was a healing balm.

Springsteen.  The quintessential stadium rocker, as American as football itself.  From ‘Tenth Avenue Freezeout’ to ‘Glory Days’, it truly was, as Steven Van Zandt so perfectly shouted, ‘BOSS TIME’!

MJ.  His 1993 halftime show was legendary.  ‘Billy Jean’, ‘Black or White’, his white silky shirt blowing in the wind.   His words ring true even now:  there are people dying/if you care enough for the living/ make a better place for you and for me.  Thank you, Michael.

NARRATOR:  Just then, an angel appeared.

ANGEL:  (low monotone voice, reverb) Fear not.

The shepherds look up.

SHEPHERDS:  Ahhhhhh!!!!!!

ANGEL:  I said, Fear not!

SHEPHERDS:  Aahhhhhhhh!!!!!

ANGEL:  What part of ‘fear not’ are you not understanding?  Never mind.  Listen up.  Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people.

SHEPHERDS:  Aaaahhhhhhhh!!!!!

I can never read Luke 2:9-10 without this scene flooding my mind.  Precious little boys filled the stage, each holding former broom-handles-turned-shepherd’s sticks.  Around the base of each stick, I wired 2 or 3 paper maché ‘sheep’ covered with cotton balls.  They were perfect.

Although 15 years have passed, the nativity play was so sweet and well-written, I remember each word to this day.

This scene played out so perfectly because the response of the little shepherds on that stage was recklessly honest.

We fear.

Jesus was born into a great darkness.  An atmosphere of fear.  Fear gripped Herod’s threatened and paranoid heart, and after the birth of the new King, he orders the massacre of all infants in the region.

We fear.

Fear preys on subtle doubts in our hearts.  Carefully nurturing them until they are full grown.  Fear tells us we will lose something we love.  Fear tells us God is not enough. Fear tells us we are not worthy.  Fear tells us we will not be provided for.

There’s a reason the angels said, ‘Fear not.’

We fear.

The only cure is love.  Love wrapped in the flesh of the newborn King.  Perfect love.  Who casts out all fear.

Love draws us into the surprise of God’s grace and mercy.  Love pulls us toward redemption.  Love opens our hearts to the wind of God after all hope is gone.

What if we lived a life formed by love instead of fear?

1 John 4:18 (MSG) God is love. When we take up permanent residence in a life of love, we live in God and God lives in us. This way, love has the run of the house, becomes at home and mature in us, so that we’re free of worry on Judgment Day—our standing in the world is identical with Christ’s. There is no room in love for fear. Well-formed love banishes fear. Since fear is crippling, a fearful life—is one not yet fully formed in love.

Like the little ragtag shepherds in my long ago Nativity play, I hold my throat at times and confess I’m ‘sore afraid’.  And then I let love take over.  Leaving no room for the most unwelcome guest.  Fear.

Give Thanks to the LORD for He is good.

Give thanks to the LORD for my parents and the concern and love they show for me every single day.  Thank you for their health.  Thank you for the sound of my mother’s voice as she says, ‘Mija!’ on the phone each day and for my dad’s texts in all caps. Thank you for the beautiful exchange as they age, and the cycle which now pulls me toward care and concern for them.

Give thanks to the LORD for the birth of my niece, Harper Rose.  Thank you for our Super Ultra Tiny package of love.  Firmly rooted in our hearts.

Give thanks to the LORD for the extraordinary hope and encouragement the Word brings.   I’m beyond grateful for the beauty of waking up every day as my Father’s daughter.  As it turns out, He is acquainted with all my ways, and still hems me in.  Lays His hand upon me.  Delights in me.  In my raw and sensitive moments, He offers His very presence.  I am in awe.

Give thanks to the LORD for my son, Craig jr. and his unique, beautiful and difficult season.  His humility and determination. His faith.  Thank you for his story and my participation inside it, which dug a deeper well  in my soul.  Thank you for showing me Your thick, adhesive grace and how it permeates the cracks and holds things together.

Give thanks to the LORD for my daughter Amanda and her husband Jeremy.  The ache I feel at the distance between us is mended each and every day as I witness their lives from afar.  They are thriving.  Growing.  Loving.  Living deeply and truly.   Moving to the rhythm of their design.

Give thanks to the LORD for my husband and children still at home.  We have cultivated a beautiful garden here. A funny mixture of home-cooked love and testosterone oozes from our walls.  Thank you for the noise and the ridiculous amounts of groceries it takes to get us through each day.  Thank you for the shoe basket in the entry way.  It serves to remind me to savor each day and take it one step at a time.

Give thanks to the LORD for lighthearted moments, and those who make me laugh ‘till hit hurts.   Thank you for making me acutely aware of the healing gift of smiles.  In a world of severity, I drink deeply the moments where gatherings of deep love and honesty spill over to make way for unguarded  joy.

Give thanks to the LORD for the prayers of my grandparents.  They cling to me.

Give thanks to the LORD for He is good.

Another winter day has come and gone away

In even Paris and Rome

And I wanna go home, let me go home

And I’m surrounded by, a million people I

Still feel all alone oh, let me go home

Oh, I miss you, you know

 Let me go home, I’ve had my run, Baby, I’m done

I gotta go home

Let me go home, It will all be all right, I’ll be home tonight

 I’m coming back home

So there I am, minding my own business, quietly listening to Michael Bublé’s Holiday station on Pandora as I file a stack of tearsheets at work, and this little gem starts buzzing in my earbuds.

At first I think to myself, ‘this isn’t very Christmassy’, and the next thing I know, I’m pulling out a tissue.  Dabbing my eyes.  Sniffling.  You get the picture.

Not pretty. 

What is it about Home that keeps songwriters busy?  Why the unexpected heart response by listeners?

Perhaps we are all a little homesick.

Not simply because we are just passing through this habitation, but while we are here, we long for the comfort, safety and sanctuary of Home.

We long for a safe place for our vulnerable moments.

We find it at Home.

We long for a place where we undoubtedly belong.

We find it at Home.

We long to eat at tables of celebration and remembrance as beloved sons and daughters.

We find those tables at Home.

These are just a few reasons I pulled out my tissue and dabbed underneath my bifocals.  This is why songwriters choose her as a topic.  Like us, they long for Home.

Today at work, I came across the Gratitude Board.   A small pin board with neat little cards filled with handwritten notes of Gratitude.  Simple words of thanks for co-workers.  Precious moments.  Acts of kindness.

I let the words pour over me, even though I didn’t fully know the history or context of each note.  As an ‘outsider’, I found a secret connection with the notes.  They resonated with my inner-language.  My very own heartspeak.

I’m a big fan of Gratitude.  In fact, I have come to believe Gratitude is the secret gateway to Contentment.  Contentment is the attribute I most admire.

A content person is liberated from the pressure of ever-changing external circumstances.  The rest of us are limping from the pressure.  Or crushed underneath it.

From the chains of prison, Paul wrote:

I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty.  I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well-fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. 

I believe the secret of Contentment goes beyond merely the ability to be ‘satisfied’ with what you have.

Contentment is a precious secret, a mystery, unlocked by Gratitude.

It is not found in the absence of wants and needs, but through the activity of Gratitude.

In a newer, bigger and better world that breeds discontent, I am grateful for the ancient, smaller and best pathway of Gratitude.

I can’t wait to add a small note to the sacred pin board I found today.

Tomorrow morning I am flying to the land where the orange and palm trees sway.  Although my true destination is my daughter, Amanda, I am pretty darn excited to see Florida.

I’ve never been to Florida.

While your jaw is on the floor, let me add a few more domestic destinations I have yet to discover:

Yellowstone.  I’ll pass on the wild grizzly bears and wolves, but would love for these old eyes to see Old Faithful. 

The Redwood Forest.  Er.  Forest moon of Endor.  Big trees.  Ewoks.

A stroll through the French Quarter.  Jazz floating in the night air.  Enough said. 

Alaskan Cruise.  Who am I kidding?  I’ve never been on a cruise in my life.  Am I the only one who took to heart the life lessons depicted in Titanic and Poseidon?  Icebergs and rogue waves, people.

Graceland.  Thankyouverymuch.

A beach house.  Any beach will do.  Watching the buttery sun drop into the glistening horizon.  Sitting on the porch with a cup of tea in my hands. 

I like this list.  Florida is on it.  Tomorrow I’ll cross it off.

In the days following the disappearance of 10-year old Jessica Ridgeway, a few miles from my home, I have been unable to shake this desperate feeling.  This heartsickness.  This angst.

I can’t bear the thought of her distress, her fear…and worse.

It’s the same heartsickness I felt in the wake of this summer’s cruel theater shooting in Aurora.

I wonder about the culture of violence I see in my city, splashed in headlines and Amber Alerts, and the smaller undercurrents I see everywhere.

I wonder about the seeds of violence.  Seeds that begin in our minds, and after they are quite at ease, they make their way through our hearts, and after they break through the heart walls, they pour out in our speech.

Ripples of violent, reckless words are everywhere.  We are quite at ease with them.  They are dressed up and justified.  They sound ‘civil’, even.

They pierce. They wound.  They slay.  They violate.

I wonder if these seeds could be cut down at the germination level.

If we could only come to understand how deeply and desperately we are loved by God, we could change the ripples of violence.

Let it begin with me.

In the midst of my heartsickness over Jessica’s disappearance, I will continue to call upon Heaven for her safe return.  But I will do more.

I will sow seeds of a different kind.