Small Graces Easter

It is Easter Sunday.

I was raised in a theatrical Christian faith. Prosperity gospel is founded on large miracles. Big Faith motivates everything. If you don’t have Big Faith, then God can’t work. God seemed to be this Giant Wizard sitting on a throne waiting for me to obey just the right command. Then and ONLY then could he bless me. For years, I strained against this yolk of Christianity. Wondering what was wrong with me. 

Jesus said, “My yolk is easy and my burden is light.”

I felt heavy and constantly failing. 

Then Easter would come. I would be reminded of the BIG miracles all over again. Around and around this faith Merry-go-round I rode.

Much has changed for me over the last 20 odd years.  My disillusionment with the Big Miracles revealed Small Graces.  

God reveals himself to me in fingerprints.

So when it comes to Easter. The biggest holiday of our religious year, it isn’t the rolling stone that excites me anymore. I don’t need the fainting Roman Soldiers or the Magic Jesus appearing in the room. 

The Jesus I’ve come to know and see in my life is the one who:

Came to Mary when she was alone and distraught in the garden. She sat next to the tomb wondering where He was. Agonizing over what she would do next. Jesus met her first. Alone. Before anyone else. In a small intimate, loving moment he says her name. Once Mary is comforted, I imagine Jesus smiles at her lovingly then disappears. In joy she rushes to the upper room to tell the Disciples in hiding that Jesus is alive.

The Jesus who walked along the Road to Emmaus talking with Cleophas and another Disciple. They were very discouraged and confused. Jesus joins them on the path, asks what’s troubling them then explains it all.  By the time they get to their destination the two men understand who Jesus is. All doubts and fears cleared away. In this small moment of walking and talking, Jesus revealed who he was, comforted them. I imagine Jesus just smiles at them lovingly and disappears. They in joy return to Jerusalem to tell the others.

The Jesus who sits patiently on the shore. Peter, wrapped inself-loathing, figured it was all over. Jesus was gone. No more changing theworld. Confused with his What’s Next, he returned to his original job. Fishing.  Peter, sitting on the boat, frustrated after a dark morning of no fish. 

Peter heard a familiar call from shore, “Throw the nets on the other side.:

Suddenly the nets were full of fish. Peter jumps out of the boat and runs to shore. Most people talk about the magic fish, or the usual Feed My Sheep redemption sermon. 

Not me. 

It’s the small miracle of Jesus, just sitting on the shore. With a basket of fish, cooking breakfast for Peter.over a fire.

In all three of these Easter moments, Jesus met them where they were. To me that is the Miracle of Easter. God, the Divine, an Unconditionally Loving Higher Power come to meet me right where I am.

The Small Graces

Mary in a garden. Distraught.

The Divine comes to say my name with reassurance and let me know I am not alone or forgotten at the mouth of death.

Cleophas and another walking, probably home, disillusioned.

The Divine comes to help me understand when I am confused at how life didn’t work out. I am granted guidance when I am lost in what to do next.

Peter back at his day job. Humiliated and confused.

Most of all, the Divine comes to nourish me when I am depleted. When I feel like an absolute and utter failure. The Divine comes to simply sit with me until I am restored.

*The first 10 who subscribe to my YouTube channel and leave a comment here on the blog are eligible to receive a free digital download of the Small Graces Tryptic. * Sunday April 12 only. Giveaway closed.

These works are available on my Etsy today.

Field and Seeds

The Parable of the Sower seems to be that default Bible Story.

Each time I read it or hear it my heart breaks for the Hard, Rocky or Stony Soil. That Good Soil just seems so lucky.

Good Soil, the carefree, open to anything God has field of dirt. No doubts or impediments.

Of course when the inevitable question is asked,

“Are you the Good Soil? Do you accept Jesus’ Good News? Do you know your eternal destination?”

I feel like a fraud saying yes. Of course I agree. I want the seed of Good News to grow within me. Freely and unencumbered. But… sometimes I have doubts, distractions, and discouragements.

Girly and I began working through the Gospels this year using Concordia Press. In the study of Matthew last week we covered the Infamous parable. The second question in the study asked us to first consider the “earthy picture.”

We are surrounded by farmland in the Central Valley. I imagined the labyrinth of warn paths farm workers use to get round, not to disturb the freshly tilled areas. Just off the path are areas of roughly tilled ground, places the plow broke open but not softened. Then the corners of the field where irrigation quenches and weeds grow. Spots often missed by weeding.

And it occurred to me…

What if the Parable of the Sower isn't a destination parable? Did Jesus really tell this story as a onetime opportunity? We've all known of people who “Come to Faith,” then walk away. Instead of asking why, it is chalked up to:

They must have been Rocky Soil. Their heart was too hard to accept the Good News. Poor them.

They must have been the Thorny Soil. Serving two masters got in their way of growing in Christ.

Or, my favorite:

Their heart was hard like the seed thrown on the path. You know God hardens hearts sometimes. Too bad for them.

The whole thing reminds me of Puddy and Elaine in Seinfeld.

That aside, I imagined myself walking alongside the farmer in his field. It wasn't the first time it was tilled and planted. Places which were Hard Path last year could be Good Soil this year. Places which grew well before might be littered with weeds now. Last year's Good Soil could be this year’s rock pile. The field would change parameters based upon the season. Yet each year, the farmer would throw the seed. That seed would grow for him to harvest.

Instead of feeling guilty or overwhelmed when I struggled with faith, maybe I simply need to have that part of my heart cleared. Especially when I am wrestling to understand something of the Kingdom of God.

Because, the Creator knows my heart better than I. Where I feel parched and struggling I can ask for understanding. Where am I being stubborn or willful I can for the stones to shift. When I am overwhelmed I can pray to see where the entanglements are. I can seek the grace to have the thorns removed. Being Good Soil is a process, just like the farmer and his field is a process of seasons. 

Escape From Wonderland: Punk Grace

Friend knew a little about my life in Wonderland. Her intent was for me to simply have fun. One February holiday I spent the night at her house then she revealed her plan.

Her boyfriend had a friend who had horses. Friend knew how much I loved horses and arranged for us to go horseback riding. Friend assured me this was NOT a date. I didn’t even know the guy and he defiantly didn’t like me. Anyway; she had a plan to keep me safe from trouble in Wonderland.

So, not wanting to disappoint my friend or having to explain why I was home early to Wonderland; I went along.

Her boyfriend and friend picked us up after breakfast.

We were simply friends.
Riding horses.
Then having lunch.

My heart found bliss with the horses. The morning adventure complete, we stopped for a simple lunch of pizza was seasoned with laughter. All piled into her boyfriend’s car they decided to drive me home.

That is when everything fell apart.

The Parentals were in the front yard. I ran into the house to keep them all safe. Before my mouth even opened, the verdict:

It was a date.
I was in rebellion.
It was as bad to God as the sin of witchcraft.

The yelling and screaming became phone calls to validate their verdict. I was put into the car and driven over to Friend’s house to “confront” her Mom. I felt ashamed. My poor friend who tried to create a safe place for me to have fun watched it blow up in her face. I sat in her living room with a bruised cheek as a Parental’s voice railed on about lies, rebellion and inappropriate behavior.

My eyes barely lifted from the carpet.

Then the real discipline happened. I was grounded until the end of the school year-four months. No phone, friends, television and only church activities they approved of.

Within the church’s youth group-The Garden-were subgroups called Seeds Groups. For two years I participated in West Seeds. The group filled with upper middle class popular kids. Part of my punishment was to be sent to the newly formed South Seeds.

With a broken will, I moved to that group. Richard-the Seeds Pastor-led the small rag tag group on the furthest corner of the church campus, away from the youth building.

Then I saw grace.

Richard welcomed everyone. Most of the people in the group were high school dropouts, or at least in the continuation high school. Those Punks-with army surplus combat boots, mohawks, safety pins pierced through parts of their bodies-talked about the Dead Boys, Sex Pistols, Agent Orange and others. I sat and listened as they explained what the music meant to them. Richard simply loved them. He never asked them to wear something different to church. He laughed with them and through his example I saw Jesus.

We all gathered and sang worship songs. Paul, still to this day my favorite guitar player, led worship. He taught me to sing, listening between the notes to find the harmony. It didn't matter if the not was not perfect; dissonance could always be resolved.

We studied the Word and struggled to figure out how to apply it in our lives. In that Seeds group of Misfits I began to feel normal. I wasn't the only one living in a Wonderland.

There was a way of hope.
A way of peace.
A way of escape.

In our own CBGB we found hope and purpose. Our own Hilly opened a way of purpose and redemption. Those Punks taught me what grace looks like.

An Ode to Poo

They’re cute, right?

Ase just into a toddler bed and Zany in a crib shared the master bedroom. With space to play and a huge window to watch the traffic drive by, they thought it was perfect.

Ase would wake up early, grab a few toys and give them to Zany in his crib. They would quietly play until I came in to get their day started. Ase would be changed and dressed first. Then Ase continued to play, but with one eye on me while I got Zany ready.

Then… the flu.

Ase got it first, then Zany. Both still in diapers. Carefully holding my breath I would peal back to reveal toxic waste.

After a few days, I went to the doctor. He told me about BRAT foods: Bananas, Rice, Applesauce and Toast. Doctor said it worked the same as Amodium and was better for them.

Ase responded quickly. Within a day he was solid and back on regular foods. Zany was slow to improve, but as they were tucked in that night I expected he would be fine by morning.

Their quiet murmurs greeted me as I walked down the hallway next morning. With a spring in my step and the hope of a poop free day in my heart, I opened their bedroom door.

Zany looked at me with dreamy blue eyes from the floor. Diaper gaping open. Brown goo smeared all over his legs and belly. Ase sat next to him: with a clean diaper and a hand full of wipes, his golden brown eyes met mine with pride:

“Mommy! I help Zany!”

I looked over at the crib. Sheets were spotted with caramel. What could I do? With a heart filled with love for his best friend, Ase gathered all the cleaning supplies, then somehow lifted Zany out of his crib. I couldn’t get mad. This was what we were working toward.

Brothers that worked together.
Brothers who would help each other out, no matter the cost.
Brothers who would work out differences.

So… I got down on my knees and helped him clean his brother. We talked about the mess. I told him how proud I was of him. That poop cleaning really is a Mommy and Daddy job, but I really appreciate him trying. It was a very loving thing to do.

THEN I cleaned every surface of that room. Praying nothing was left behind. What happened next was Legen...dary.

They traded that crap for the next six weeks.

I began to hate BRAT foods. They weren’t a savior, they were bondage. Just when things would get solid and they would try regular food, all went loose. In a fit of desperate crazy after Oprah one day, I made up the preschool germ nuking formula-1 part bleach/10 parts water- and cleaned the shit out of that room.

God often whispers this memory to my heart when I reach out to help someone. Ase was too small, to immature to effectively help Zany. How many times do I walk into someone’s life to help them but, instead make it worse? Many times the answer is simply to love the sinner and let Holy Spirit do his job. God is much better at cleaning up shit and getting the job done.

Unicorn Poop Christianity

Getting to know God through a 7th grader eyes is a holiday of wonder. This year I served in our church's Jr. High. That first night, the sweet, church raised girls had their minds blown. Nothing was off topic. Farts, boobs, butts, boys and theology were on the table.

One night in talking about all things relevant to Jr. Highers we talked about Unicorn Poop cookies. I promised to bring them one night. Little did I know it would prove to be a marker of sanity for me.

The series for the year was an overview of the Biblical Narrative. Sunday morning was the formal teaching and Wednesday night we discussed. Most of the stories they knew from Sunday School. What was most amazing though was how little truth they understood. Discussion questions measured out as we sat together each Wednesday.

The discussion would begin with glib answers.  Quickly these were labeled "Sunday School" answers. The girls were allowed to share only one Sunday School answer, then they had to come up with a real one. Quickly it became a contest of who could say the cheesiest one. After great laughter, we would begin to discuss the reality. What does "A man after God's own heart" mean? What is sin? Does God hate us? Why did Jesus come? Was Bathsheba an immoral woman for that bath? Did Sampson have dreadlocks?

 This is where things became REALLY interesting. These girls, who had grown up in church, didn't understand what sin was. They just knew it was bad. The topic of temptation was a brain cramp. The concept of the Triune God, they had no clue. In our final weeks' discussion of what the Gospel/Good News really was, the faces were blank. What does eternal life mean? Why did Jesus really die? Who do we share Jesus with if we are supposed to only have Christian friends? How do I deal with a Christian girl who is really a bully? She's my friend, but...



One of my rules was: If we can't talk about it at church, we shouldn't talk about it all. We shared stories of my bizarre boys, anime and what inappropriate really was. Through the vault of truth, their faith was being formed. The flame of Holy Spirit's gift was growing. These girls began walking away from Cultural Christianity and into a budding relationship with a loving Savior. They realized that Holy Spirit lives within them and talks to them through the still small voice, scripture and situations. They stood up to bullies at school. Relationships at home took on a whole new understanding. Salvation became real. A sisterhood formed.

Last night was Leader Appreciation Night. All day my skin crawled with anxiety. I didn't understand or agree with making "leaders" accept forced accolades. With the tray full of the magical Unicorn Poop cookies in tow, I endured the games to win a prize for the leader. We giggled as the girls tried to remember "The Main Idea" from the year's sermons. They didn't win the "prize." All were dismissed for the last 30 minutes for freedom with the leader. The carefully guarded Unicorn Poop was taken to our group spot which happened to be in a popular area. All grabbed the glittery, shiny poop and began to share.


I began with my best bar voice to tell each one what I loved about them. Their spiritual intuition, teachability, humility, love for others and grace. When I was done, to my surprise, the girls wanted a turn to share what they liked about each other. The room full of vulturing 8th grade boys vying for video games and girls' attention, each one graciously loved on each other. Uniqueness was celebrated. My closing comments to them were :
I want you to walk away from this year with these truths;
Seek out scripture for yourself, don't simply accept what is taught from the front of the room.
Don't just become "Christian" friends but be friends who encourage one another in Christ.

In the middle of a game playing chaotic Jr. High room, they cheerleader shouted, "AMEN!"

I looked at what unified us throughout the year. Unicorn Poop. The magical, mysterious and mythological Sunday School stories were formed into a truth that was real and very delicious. That was all the appreciation this servant needed.