Mountains As a kid, I made something called 123... it was three layers of Jello. The bottom layer was the most pure element, rich in color, texture and taste. The middle was less dense and only slightly resembled it’s original substance while the top, the farthest in proximity, took on a look and taste uniquely it’s own. The mountains we face, if we are adventurous enough to climb, resemble those same layers of jello. Each layer breaks into another ridge to climb causing a paradigm shift in perspective and judgment. Traversing a worn path, it is the steps off the trail that cause us to repel into uncharted territory. There “ain’t no mountain high enough, valley low enough or river wide enough” that faith does not weave into a safety net of His love.
Base camp I have long held onto the belief that I was not worthy of love. Earning my way to the top, I adjusted my compass toward approval while at the same time perfecting my intuition skills in order to dig deep into the mountain, anchoring my hook into the solid rock of my ability. My intuition, compassion and hard work ethic were formidable tools for the climb until I began to loose traction. In the midst of the climb, it became clear I needed to let go of some of the extra weight I carried – my perspective. Not easy, I was scared to death to re-evaluate the relationship with my biological father. Never comfortable in the same room followed by an explosive divorce when I was fifteen, I had distanced myself but this year was different. It was time to let go of judgement in order to fall into the crevices of hope and view the mountain with a different binocular. I didn’t just want to dream of climbing toward the horizon, I wanted to taste it – through rock, dirt and sky. Ephesians 3:17 so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord's holy people, to grasp how wide, and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge - that you may be filled to the measure all the fullness of God.
The Climb They were to arrive Thursday but Monday I received a text that the plans had changed. I went to work as usual but the little girl fear in me started to creep in. I changed my mind, I didn't want to host my father in my home for a few days; I was scared. Not entirely true, but the subtle thought of a "no show" crossed my mind and I would be a ten year old little girl with a pocket full of disappointments again. As I wrestled with my thoughts during a busy day at work, this song come on the radio un-expectantly. I hadn't heard it for years but in a tune, it reminded me of my father - a place in the backpack where good memories of him resided. This journey was not an exterior one but a jeep trail on the inside where the work of sifting though nuggets of gold down a stream of water, silt and sand lay. As the days ticked down on the stopwatch, my vulnerability was being tested in ways I had not anticipated. Humbled... I wrote one letter - published one blog post, chiseled through four work days until Friday arrived - no more communication. The last text I received was Monday and I still didn't know, for sure, if my dad was coming. Having taken the day off of work, I prepared as if he was. God doesn't call us to know the plan ahead of time; He only calls us to steps of obedience. "If you build it, he will come" is the pop-culure phrase from one of two movies I love, Field of Dreams. Equipped with bare feet for dancing, worship music for listening and a voice for singing, I went about my morning as if the grandest, highest and most loved guests were about to arrive. I pushed aside the fog of doubt and fear and headed to the grocery store in order to get a crockpot full of ingredients. I prayed for a quick respite from the heat while sitting in the car in my drive-way - just enough encouragement to remind me I was not alone. Red balloon - faith, hope, love; I floated upward with the helium of friendship. It was noon now and no word. Game time - it was time to get dressed and wait for the whistle to blow. Hebrews 13:2 Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it. The text came in; tip off. The prison can be our minds, trapped behind the bars of our experiences, we complete the stories based on our pasts but God extends his open hand with a whisper to complete the story, in un-expected ways, on the inside because in the process, we see Him. God is the guy of surprises because the mountains we climb are the ones no-one sees. The ones that cause our characters to change for the better - growing deeper and richer and whose roots bare more fruit. ... we also rejoice in our suffering, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love in our hearts by the holy spirit, whom he has given us. Romans 5:3 I'm not going to lie, it was awkward meeting my dad. This time, however, the story was slightly different: screen basketball: A screen is a blocking move by an offensive player, by standing beside or behind a defender, to free a teammate to shoot, receive a pass, or drive in to score. Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Interesting this journey started a year ago at a Jesus Culture conference with a room full of high school kids where the internal dialog about forgiveness and my father began. It was solidified in a van ride home where the DVD playing was a football movie about De la Salle High School (Concord, CA- Roman Catholic School for young men) because that is where my father went to school. I knew the journey in April of 2016 was one about a father ... but which one?
Exposure You bake long enough in the sun, you will get exposed to the elements. I had had a transformational weekend - a great weekend. That was Sunday - Youth group was Wednesday - Easter would be the following Sunday, I was exhausted.. My Monday work day started as usual (100 miles an hour in the slow lane), Tuesday landed me in bed with the beginnings of a cold, back to work on Wednesday but lovingly, my pace slowed. Timing is everything; I randomly scheduled my facial weeks before. I know, I know ... "First World problems" except that the dialog we have for the first 1/2 hour is the best therapy session. I have the great blessing of hearing about new beginnings from a single mom where faith and love has changed her story. We have at least three years of history together where I have seen first hand the Mt Everest she climbed, the bumps and bruises along the way and now the vista at the top - where the horizon breaks through with morning song. The next hour where I am alone to my thoughts and soft gushy romance songs are minutes and seconds that carry me away to a forest. A place of cathedral steeples and a small white row boat with flowers and the song of birds and sunlight through tall trees with the faint scent of roses and jasmine; a breeze through open windows. The touch of her hands on my face is the best Sunday Sabbath a girl could ask for. Her loving hands wash the sweat and lines of a busy life from my face - where the forced slowing of my day is not seen but felt. From the squelching heat of the afternoon sun to a gentle setting of light at dusk, the terrain on my skin changes through music, thought and touch. We live in a society, where you take a number for your deli sandwich order and then stand in line waiting for your name to be called or miss-spelled on a "Chai tea" paper cup to go. The time I schedule is special because we know each other's names. We have prayed and cried together. By chance, I was drawn into her story before the storms came so when I stood in the boat with her, white capped waves almost knocking her down through wind and rain, the hugs were much more authentic. Relaxed from my time at church, I climbed into my jeep for the short ride home. Leather gloves for holding the rope - the climb up mountain terrain, feet are carefully positioned for traction, you hold on tighter - pull. Deep breathes in, a quiet exhale: strength and endurance - pulling yourself upward. I am not a fan of looking foolish. Finally relaxed: alone with dinner on my lap, television on, the minutes of youth group ticked on. Fully prepared to miss ministry that evening, I struggled with the thought of sharing my changed transformation from the past weekend with a bunch of high school kids (my friends) to enjoying the deep exhale of rest. Not a stitch of make-up and casually dressed, I got the prompting in my heart that said, "Go". I responded. I am not afraid to look foolish - as long as it doesn't hurt someone else. I left for youth group - no make-up, no time and prepared to sit in the dark around the camp fire offering up praise and worship through song and prayer two days before "Good Friday". I walked in - no camp fire but 40+ people in the light of the living room already singing softly to worship music from a single guitar. I slipped to the ground, hoping to be invisible. I kept my gaze downward; I didn't want to look ugly on the outside - old with no make-up but on the inside, God was performing something new; I hoped and prayed He was with me. Flashback: Wednesday night youth group (sixteen + years before). I had been preparing a short sermon about time and our agendas and whether we are willing to set aside our plans when God calls us to action. I received a phone call from my dad who was in town, un-expectentally and would be there for dinner. I didn't have time to finish preparing or writing the message. Instead, I spent time with him and his sons (two young boys at the time). We played a game of basketball and then I left to meet a small group of girls to talk about faith. This was his second visit since I moved here at nineteen. Worship ended. Something different - we were asked to share how God was working in our lives. I was embarrassed to be seen but also excited for what God was doing in my life. I was embarrassed to share the vulnerability of my teen years and the thoughts of my dad. I was embarrassed that I was taking valuable time - that of kids and the youth leader... you know, the person who speaks and you don't know where the dialog will take them and if they will talk waaay too long. I was one of the last to speak. Raw and in the light of faith, I spoke up - vulnerable and transparent and as brief as I could but still sharing the story. With the damn broken, the atmosphere in the room changed. Two girls shared the intimate contents of their hearts; one young man accepted Christ as his Lord and savior. We closed the evening with prophetic prayers over two or three young people in the room. We boast only in the sacrifice made on a cross.
I Can't Do it Even as I write... I just can't do it. I can't make it up the mountain, alone. (words written during four days) Leather gloves for holding the rope - the climb up mountain terrain, feet are carefully positioned for traction, you hold on tighter - pull. Deep breathes in, a quiet exhale: strength and endurance - pulling yourself upward. An old lady, a baby and a girl This month is about a father's love. A father's love. Ray Kinsella did the ridiculous - he built a baseball field for the once truly great baseball players - shoeless joe and others. A young man who dreamed of playing in the big league, Dr. Archibald "Moonlight" Graham traveled through time for a second chance. A glitch - a small girl choking on a hot-dog. As he stepped off the plate to save her, his opportunity to play the game disappeared. We, the audience, are drawn into the story because we see a bit of ourselves. But the game with my father is about basketball, not baseball. Imagine the truly great basketball players coming together breaking the record for the most wins in a season: Wilt Chamberlin with the 76'ers and again with the Lakers and then Steve Kerr with Chicago Bulls and again twenty years later with his team, the Golden State Warriors. Doing the seemingly impossible. I carefully prepared for my father's arrival with several tangible acts of faith: I taped the "slam dunk contest". I purchased a vintage record that I knew he liked and I purchased an outdoor basketball. In my backpack was a satchel full of faith - hoping for the best in a long overdue conversation between a father and son - a daughter, in this case. There was a slight variance on the court; it was a screen play. Two guys (my brothers) that not only "get me" but love me which is so ironic since they were only drafted to the team this year. Tip-off, the whistle blew. I walked down a long peer to an upstairs ocean view bar/grill. He, my father, put his arms around my shoulders - a quick forced play that made me uncomfortable; i squirm my way out. I am a miner not looking for fools gold but flakes of the real stuff. I had to be patient. The conversation was cordial and light. We moved a couple of times in search for sun; my father always liked warmth. With two visible teammates on the court, there were four of us and a crack in the cement; laughter began to break the ice. Trust is really difficult for me. I am cautious about being vulnerable because I have found that when I do, I am left alone to my own sense of survival. All or nothing is the knot at the end of my rope. Along with an impossible sense of pride; I got that from my dad.
What began as an awkward stumble down a wharf that day ended three days later (Sabbath Sunday) through hills as green as emerald. Because of a recent sprinkling of rain, the surrounding area was breath-taking. It was a long day but my back was covered through a game of basketball. The "slam-dunk" contest was a hit. The start of the college NCAA championship was an even greater air pressure ball gauge to filling faith but it was a game on an outdoor basketball court that changed the temperature. No nets left, just some old rusty rims with metal made of precious gold and silver where hope had been the shot. Do not store up for yourselves treasure on earth, where moths and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven where moths and rust do not destroy and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Matthew 6:19 Only weeks later as the dust settled on my trail was I able to formulate a word picture to describe the subtle transformation that took place that weekend. It is from the movie, Shawshank Redemption. Trust is difficult in prison. Andy and Red had begun a friendship when a crack in the solid cement sidewalk broke. With a faith willing to conquer fear, Andy asked the prison guard for a couple of beers for his friends in exchange for legal expertise in securing the guard's financial position. A bold move on the court that day!
Feels more like a man were the words that echoed in my mind as I re-watched the movie. The thing that changed MY circumstance was love. Two brothers that love me but ALSO love my dad. I could see my father's frail shoulders stand taller as he made shot after shot, literally, as a true athlete does. Pride was not a negative but a necessary crock-pot ingredient to making memorable shots; this was one of them. It was time for me to change my perspective; something for the record books. Faith that travels through the generations. Do you not think the prayers whispered or written down, lost in a scramble of life isn't valid? With God, all things are possible. With a carefully torn packet that says "we trust", the pages in a book are about love. Then you will know what it means to give of yourself that others may survive and rediscover life. Our faith calls us to take a jeep ride - on the inside out - to places that cause us to change and grow; the gifts are too numerous to count.
Leather gloves for holding the rope - the climb up mountain terrain, feet are carefully positioned for traction, you hold on tighter - pull. Deep breathes in, a quiet exhale: strength and endurance - pulling yourself upward. "If I asked my dad to a game of basketball, he would come". Isn't that how the story ends? An old lady, a baby and a girl God's ways are not our own. He works on the inside. An un-expected post play: I didn't see it coming. My dad is all about college hoops; it never was about professional basketball.
With a twelve month conversation in the balance, basketball was a code word for forgiveness. This year, an outdoor game on the court was a motion to play ball, where everyone came to the court as equals and it was played out in the game. The father-daughter game was followed up by the NCAA championship tournament where Oregon (my ducks) were an 8 seed - picked off - but Villanova advanced to the finals as I hoped. As the hours ticked down to minutes, it was in the seconds that the game was won. All the hopes and dreams on the shoulders of young men who had dreamed of this game all their lives: men on the court but boys in their hearts. It was a pressure cooker of adrenaline, testosterone and team work. No Carolina had a slight edge to win but Villanova brought their A game. A tie score with seconds left. A near buzzer finish, No Carolina made a three point impossible shot to tie. Half the crowd went wild with the taste of victory while 1/2 the crowed moaned with the possibility of defeat - except that HOPE stood in the balance. - A glitch in the plan- With the assist, Villanova answered with a true buzzer beater three point shot breaking the thirty-one year drought to win! Villanova 77, No Carolina 74. One basket made the difference. I was cheering and yelling with excitement. The locker room talk at work and with family was exciting. I was jubilant the next day but God was more concerned about the condition of my heart on the inside. -Faith- God commanded Abraham to offer Isaac as a sacrifice. In a quick lay-up to the basket, God asked me if I was willing to give up those things important to me. Raw and in the light of faith, I answered. Will you let go of everything that is important to you? everything? The jeep trail ride was going in deep where the roots lay. He was looking for flakes of the real stuff, not fools gold down a stream of fresh water. Eyes were swollen - 30 year tears, 50 year tears. The pocketful of disappointments bubbling to the surface in the backpack I left on the court. I knew the ending to the story; I always have. I always have. There is the rub. I have always been the God of my own life, anticipating the emotional response of other people, anticipating the storms that certainly would come my way and then making quick re-active shots at half court to avoid the screen: not worthy of love. A strong Oak for wisdom, intellectually I knew the tears that fell were necessary rain drops in dry cracked terrain in the trunk of a tree but a heart wrenching babies' cry to let go of everything ... but that isn't the story. I thought the story I told this month was about my father but it was more about a gift. - a girl- Flashback: Fourth grade. I was late for school. It was raining. My plan to sneak in un-noticed was blocked early at the net when an already full classroom was seated cross-legged on the floor. Responding to the teachers request to find my place, I kept my gaze downward hoping to be invisible. My thoughts were interrupted by words spoken loud enough for an entire class to hear - "I would rather die than be seated next to her". Tears or laughter, no one spoke up. I ran that day... not physically but emotionally and spiritually. The mountains we climb are on the inside where nobody sees. There was a root (where bitterness and anger grew). It was a place where I never stopped running. -tired- The teacher DID NOTHING; said nothing. -alone- What the hell? The teacher said nothing? Who does that these days? The truth is, they don't; not if they care. People speak up and watch out for each other but I was born just a tad too soon, or so I thought. As I pleaded with God, why? In four days time, willing to give up everything, I heard the quiet, still sound in my imagination that said, in the process of being a little girl, you gathered a strong bouquet of reverence; something often missing in today's culture. Convinced I was born just a tad too soon, God reminded me that I was born an athlete. What I lacked in skill, I made up in heart and although girl's competitive sports were not quite on the scene, I WAS on one competitive school team BEFORE my parent's divorce. - just a glitch in the plan offering hope - God is re-writing my story. I didn't know it. In my imagination, I heard the echo of two short words, Jesus Wept. That was the little girl faith who fearfully prayed for her family reciting words and hoping to be worthy of love. Un-expectantly, God had a shot from way downtown himself. A glitch in my plan as I heard two short audible words: PLEASE STAY -please stay- New words. Words that said I am not alone. Words that were an invitation to come in from the rain. Words that came in the form of a towel to wipe the sweat from my brow on a basketball court. Words that meant hope. I Didn't cry or smile; I simply got up. The problem: Perfection meant I didn't need God. As a tangible act of faith, I am NOT publishing an April post, forever blemishing my perfect TimbreNotes record because faith is not just difficult, it is impossible ... which is why I need God - and faith, and hope, and love, but the greatest of these is love. The funny thing is is I have always loved rain. With whispered promises seeping into my soul, yellow rain boots for stomping and a red umbrella for cover, I splash in puddles waiting to grow into the answers. On a perfectly Sabbath Sunday before Easter, a father, a son and a daughter all stand a little taller as they get in the jeep ride toward the mountains they face; they are headed toward emerald green pastures of four-leaf clovers and pots of gold and rainbows with seven colors. I became an old lady, a baby ... AND a girl but not alone. Had I not made the effort to see dad, I wouldn't have received the gift. Yes, it was about a father but he had a shot too, maybe not from downtown but through traffic dribbling through for an un-expected lay-up we didn't see coming... And, the root that held a backpack of doubt, in the process, turned into a root of hope. Dad is right, it is played out on the court where anything can happen. I pound my chest twice and point to heaven, tighten my laces and get out on the court. -an athlete- The whistle blows: tip off. Amen!!! ps: Un-expectantly, a new Third Day song came on the radio, "you ride upon the clouds, you lead me to the truth". Seek it out ... (Jeremiah 29:13: You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart), You Are So Good To Me by Third Day. You could argue that my website is all about me - maybe -but you, too, have mountains to climb. 123 Jello or 1-2-3 point shots, it's up to you. Where is your hope?
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November 2017
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