Rise up early and lay down late

I've been back a couple of days from Georgia, where the familia spent a week (sans Internet access) mostly chillin' with my very dear friend and mother-in-law, Sandra. She lives in a sprawling old house in the town of Ailey (pop. 623), which is down the road a spell from Vidalia -- home of the sweet onions. Roy and I spent Wednesday night away from the kids in Savannah at the lovely bed and breakfast to which we always return. It's a beautiful, eccentric city.

I've got a few stories to share from the trip. A couple of pictures to post. But darned if I didn't just visit Boomama's blog and sit here at my computer trying hard not to cry. Her dear friend's husband died suddenly. The post is beautiful, a tribute to a marriage that was apparently what God designed marriage to be.

There's a lot of dying going on, and I don't mean mostly among people I don't know. There always is -- dying gone on. But I'm either more aware of it these days or -- and this is what my friend Erin would say -- I'm more connected. And the more connected we are, well, the more hurting people we encounter: mourning people, damaged people, lost people, people in need.

We're supposed to love on 'em. That's the Message. LOVE on people.

Look, it doesn't come that easy to me. My awesome mom clearly has the gift of hospitality. She'll do just about anything for anyone -- and feed their family while she's at it. She keeps an open spot at the table; she speaks words of wisdom ... and listens.

My husband, now he has the gift of mercy. He feels people's pain, and that's not a backhanded Bill Clinton reference. He does. The first time Roy spent a week at a Russian orphanage, I worried for a while, just a little, that I lost a bit of him to that place. He was so heartbroken when he returned.

I'm not so much that way, really. Oh, it's certainly in me to be hospitable. To be merciful. But they're not my gifts. My gift is reading through great stretches of inky night to the music of frogs and crickets. My gift is disengaging from marathon talkers who don't respond accordingly to very clear body language. My gift (and shame) is being able to tune out a little boy clinging to my leg demanding I make Madeline give him the plastic fish while I write an email.

You won't find any of these gifts in the New Testament. I think Paul probably ran out of room as he compiled the list. Papyrus was limited in prison. He probably also intended to include the gift of sarcasm. (Which I've obviously passed on to my five-year-old daughter, as tonight, when I told her rather abruptly to "find the soap; you're the one in the bathtub!" responded, "Yes. Boss me around. I love it.")

So, to recap: I'm a book-nerd, me-time lovin', slightly narcissistic wise a--.

So it's a mystery why the Lord keeps leading me to engage with people desperately needing to be loved -- as they heal, or, sometimes, as they die.

Man, it can be hard. Hard when I don't know what to say or how to say it. I've come to realize that's no excuse. Being afraid is no excuse. Being unprepared is no excuse. Being tired won't even wash that often. (What mom isn't always tired?)

One morning a while back I prayed God would help me die to myself that day and live as Christ. (I'm finally getting what Paul meant.) That, if needed, I would be Jesus' mouth, his legs, his arms for whoever needed them.

Well, it was a whopper of a day. I was peripherally involved in a crisis situation that arose among a family we care for. That and a few other factors took pretty much all of my energy. That evening I looked back with a mental "whew!" and looked forward to bed.

Then the phone rang. Another friend needed me. Needed Christ through me.

Did I mention it was a long day? That I was tired? That I'm a bit, ah, selfish? Then I remembered my prayer that morning and it hit me fiercely if I'm going to live for Christ, it's not always or often going to be on my terms, during my free time, when I'm feeling refreshed and ready to go. I'm just supposed to respond, or try to, when I'm needed.

So, like Boomama, we might find ourselves watching a best friend kiss her husband goodbye. We might place a friend's head in our lap while he cries over the cancer that's killing him. In between those awful and awesome times, we might do a thousand other things that don't register with the world.

We might rise up early and lay down late so we can be Christ's mouth, his legs, his arms.

Praise God. What a blessing.

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