Laughter Spills Out

I hope today you laugh. Not because it's April Fool's Day, not necessarily. I hope you laugh because something strikes you funny and mostly because laughter releases light and hope into the world. You may burble up in the quietness of your own home -- but still, you've changed the quality of the air and charged it with happiness particles.
I hope today you laugh. Maybe, if you're especially blessed, you'll watch a baby giggle and just watching that pure bubbling delight will pull out the giggle in your own gut. Giggling sends out a message: Life is hard but I have this moment, and right now it's joy that occupies this space. Pure joy.
I hope today you laugh. May the ironic, the ridiculous, the just-plain-silly -- grab you by the shoulder and invite you in. I hope you'll laugh out loud in the grocery line. In traffic with your window down. With a friend at lunch. Next to a stranger in the waiting room. Waiting rooms, especially, need the infusion of laughter.
I hope today you'll laugh. Have you noticed? When you pass by a room full of laughter, it pours out of the walls and windows like so much warm sunshine, spreading warmth over everyone in its path. Smiles will curl up on worried faces and laughter will escape, even from unpracticed throats; it's just contagious. Even the slightest murmur reaches heaven.
I hope today you laugh. Not the manufactured stuff of sit-com tracks, but the genuine, belly-jiggling, side-splitting, absolutely irresistible music of your own voice letting out joy. Laughter around the dinner table is a particular gift. It bursts into the room like a beloved guest. You want it to stay all evening.
Laughter is medicine for the soul, affirmation for the doubter, a pocket of peace for the worry-worn, an embrace for the desolate.
Release it into the waiting world, a world that offers up countless wonders and comedic creatures; a world that softens the raggedy edges with a sense of the outrageous, the frivolous, the offbeat wackiness. A world that needs more goofy and less grumpy. More lightheartedness and less lead.
The universe grows smaller and more inviting when two souls share a joke, a smile, a rare splendid moment.
I hope today you laugh. Distractions will tug on your sleeve, bills will cry out to be paid, deadlines will shadow you, appliances will quit, people will drive like idiots. Still, there will be moments. Show up for them. You won't be sorry; neither will the people who need to hear your voice chortling out the music -- the off-key, blessed, bursting and brave music -- of laughter.

You Had Me at Ginger Snap

It was a ladies outing: 3 friends scouting out all the buzz that is Trader Joe's. I wasn't sure what to expect, but happy distractions greeted all my senses upon entering. First, the daffodils. Yellow upon yellow, buttery rows of them in the window. I chose several bunches and thought about my list, when I heard two of my favorite words: Ginger Snap. "Ginger snap," she called. "Who would like a free sample?" Her name was Katelyn. I had 3 triple-ginger snaps. As with any new store, I was unfamiliar with the layout and asked Katelyn to please direct me to the juice aisle. "I'll take you there," she offered. Katelyn consulted my list and deftly guided me to the crackers, the produce, the pickles and peanut butter. I could hardly believe my good fortune. I had my own Personal Shopper. As we found the items, I explained to Katelyn that I was shopping for specific foods for a friend who is having her second go-round with cancer. The chemo is tricky, rendering her tummy sensitive to many foods, and Trader Joe's has stuff she can tolerate. Katelyn said I was a good friend, to shop for these special foods. "I don't know," I said. "I just want to help in some way." I thanked her for the assistance, accepted another ginger snap, and kept exploring. I found greeting cards and tortillas. The produce section beckoned. Saturday customers jostled their carts, sampling little delectables like vegetable spread over crusty bread. I was taking in the happy buzz of it all, when round the corner came my new friend, Katelyn. She smiled, and held out a stunning bouquet of mixed flowers. And 2 of Trader Joe's signature canvas bags. "These are for your friend," she said. "From Trader Joe's, and me." I must have looked confused. "Or," Katelyn added, "they can be for you, if you want. The flowers. I just want to be a part of this, a part of what you're doing." What a darling, caring young woman. She showed up for work on this day, but more than that, she showed up for ministry. Katelyn attuned her heart to the needs of others, and responded. This is customer service with a warm smile and a ginger snap. If this is a typical experience at Trader Joe's, I'm officially a loyal customer. Thank you, Katelyn. And thank you, Page, the artist who drew the Get Well Card. Your kindness has been delivered, along with the groceries. Strong medicine and good doctoring can fight disease. So can prayer. And so can the kindness of strangers. After high-fives and hugs, I told Katelyn I'd be back, and to keep it vivid. Her face lit up with a smile, enough to trump the window display of sunny daffodils. And I carried that sunshine -- that human warmth and strength and caring -- to Erin, who has cancer. Life is hard. Cancer is a journey that nobody wants to be on, and it's also a tough road for the bystanders who feel so helpless. But when you choose to travel the road with the hurting, it sure is a blessing to meet fellow sojourners, be they angels or cashiers or ginger snap girls.

The Quivering In-Between

So here we are: Dwelling in that middle-season that follows Winter and precedes the eruption of Spring -- the Quivering In-Between. Have you noticed?

I was a passenger in my friend's car and together we assessed the muddy landscape. "It's just depressing," she said. "The snow is gone and the earth looks, well, kinda gloomy." "Yeah, nothing worse than dirty snow and a dull gray landscape," I replied.

We were like a couple of amateurs, really, looking with untrained eyes at God's Canvas. What we beheld, now that I think about it, is a countryside landscape of Anticipation: a quivering in-between; a first blush of Possibility and Life. Amidst the road dirt and the muddy edges and the sleeping fields and the unadorned woods, we were looking at the backdrop for a miracle.

 Spring has arrived on our calendar, and it's busy maneuvering its greatness now, behind the scenes. While we humans bustle about and switch ice scrapers for umbrellas, a mighty army of bulbs and seedlings are nudging the waiting earth. While we complain about the rain and how badly our car needs a good washing, the quietest velvet of early-green arrives on silent knowing branches. While we dig out mud boots and walk the dog and pay the bills and whine about the leftover road grit and cavernous potholes, the soil is quivering and maybe the earth is laughing as it gathers momentum for the Bursting Forth of Glory.

Soon enough, we will look up one day and notice an unfurled leaf, an affirmation that the warmer days are really starting to settle in. We'll step out into the day and feel, instead of a slap of icy wind, the whisper of a Southern Zephyr on our upturned faces. A robin will sing, and we will actually notice.

At some magical moment, we will become the hushed audience before the downbeat, and the Overture will begin.

Mesmerized, we will finally look around. "Hey! Did you see my tulips this year? They're amazing!" you will say to anyone, everyone. "Wow! You should take a drive up the hill - the forsythia are the yellowist yellow I've EVER seen!" "My neighbor's daffodils are having a national convention! Man! They're all the way past the driveway into the back field! Come and see!"

And so it goes.

We, you and I, make this oh-so-subtle shift from the whine to the wow.

 From the blasé to the blown-away.

From glum to giddy.

The canvas has exploded into a drama of color and light. The Quivering In-Between has crossed the fence and there is no turning back. A cacophony of peepers and birds and neighborly greetings merge into one glorious Symphony.

 Pretty soon we'll be complaining about the way the grass grows too fast and the lawn needs mowing and the dandelions are taking over and who forgot to buy the citronella candles for those pesky skeeters? Oh, we are a silly unbridled bunch, blithely unaware sometimes, of our own leafy newness.

In spite of our limited vision, we have managed to find an underground, wiggly strength.

 Our canvas too, which was in the icy grip of waiting, is now warm and radiant and painted with Possibility and Life.

 This is Easter. Settle in, and don't miss the Overture.

A Reservoir of Grace

At the office, we have a provision called a "Sick Bank", whose basic purpose is to provide sick leave to fellow employees who really need it, but have used theirs up. Here's how it works: Let's say you've had a really good year, and health-wise, you've had a banner year. So good, in fact, that your accumulated sick time has been untapped; you have plenty left over. This accumulated, unused sick time goes into a "bank" so that your colleagues can draw from the savings when they most need it. The Sick Bank is not for sniffles and minor setbacks, rather it is available for a person in case of incapacitating, catastrophic, personal illness after his or her own sick days have been exhausted. So I was thinking. Wouldn't it be great if we had something in life called a Grace Bank? This would be a fluid, refreshing cascade of GRACE available to anyone suddenly incapacitated by, say, a broken spirit or extremely low hope platelets. Maybe the person is a bereft parent with a wayward child and has spent every last bit of his own grace on the kid; he could certainly use a hefty withdrawal from the Grace Bank, for his unseen, debilitating wounds. Or maybe the person married to an alcoholic, who carries battle scars from years of worry and heartbreak. Couldn't she have access to the Grace Bank, too? Wouldn't its reservoirs of strength get her through another day? Certainly her personal illness, though unseen, is catastrophic in nature. I could list a plethora of scenarios here - you get the picture. For you, too, are surrounded by dear ones who have spent all their Grace and the only loose change left in their Bank is jangling misery, crumpled bits of counterfeit hope. How amazing, then, to step up to the Grace Bank and withdraw during seasons of despair? We all travel in seasons. Some of us, maybe you, are enjoying a season of calm. You are able to build up your Grace Allotment and you're so grateful for this boon that you choose to pour your excess grace into the lives of those around you who are suffering. You are doing something so precious, so under-the-radar, yet so very critical to the wellbeing of another. When you give to the Grace Bank, you are carrying someone out of the depths of discouragement. How do you contribute to the Grace Bank? Simple - a smile, a hug, a personal note of encouragement. When your grace is overflowing, extend it to the person who has used theirs up. And you can take that to the bank.

A Thrill of Hope

Have you ever had a sudden twinge of anticipation? A jolt of joy? Out of nowhere, a thrill of hope?
If so, dear reader, you are twice-blessed: dwelling in possibility, yet validated with little snippets of well placed hope.
A dear friend called me amidst the holiday hustle to share an insight she'd had about the sacred song, O Holy Night. The line that struck her was "....a thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices..."
It was enough, she said, to stop everything for a moment and consider the unexpected surprises in life; the little care packages of pure love; the thrills of hope, from God Himself.
For my friend, it became a prayer: "I invite you, Lord, to surprise me with hope!"
Indeed we are a weary world, a people burdened with wayward children, empty chairs, draining accounts, tired soldiers, and worrisome futures. And yet! And yet -- in the midst, when we are not really looking Up, an otherworldly current of electricity pulses through us. It is an infusion of trust, a blinding shaft of sunlight, a thrill of hope!
Such jolts are surely meant to delight us and to remind us there is always hope. When the mortgage is due, when the baby is crying, when dark storms are swirling on distant horizons, there are little "thrills of hope" welling up inside anxious souls like yours and like mine.
How thankful I am that my friend paused to consider a familiar phrase from an old carol. It became a gift to her, a gift she is carrying into the new year with a sense of expectation.
May you, too, be surprised and renewed in the middle of an ordinary day. It is a gift, a prayer, a splash of gladness in a weary world. This is hope, God with us, Emmanuel, beyond the nativity and into our needy hearts.

Christmas Is

Christmas is a collision of images, thoughts and emotions. When these word pictures bump into each other, they form a kaleidoscope of the holidays. It's as though we're looking through a colorful lens at patterns and prisms that dazzle the eye and stir up memories. Each element is keenly felt, yet the combination is a heady mixture of joy and pain, fulfillment and need. Please indulge me as I try to capture sound, color and light in a "Christmas Collage".
Christmas is the cry of a baby, changing the world forever. It's the kiss of peppermint, the comfort of hot cocoa, a moveable feast.
Christmas is the peal of a bell, a tangle of lights, a shiver of hope, a right jolly old elf.
It's an awkward hello and a tearful goodbye. It's an empty chair, an aching heart.
Christmas is a velvet dress, a sticky giggle, a weary soldier, a solitary meal.
It's a whisper of snow, a hint of pine, a toothless grin, a festive package.
It's a hope deferred, a fragile truce. It's a living creche, a dying wish, a watchful prayer.
Christmas is a drink from the cup of Forgiveness -- even when the dregs are bitter.
It's the bray of a donkey, the blending of carolers, a crackling fire. And, steady in the East, one bright star presides over all our distress and delight.
Christmas is, forevermore, Emmanuel, God with us.

Snippets from the Produce Section

It was a regular Thursday night at the grocery store. No big deal. Preoccupied and checking off my mental list of items, I careened my cart in to the produce aisle. And there it was: a simple, hand-written sign -- above the Baby Spinach: "Teenage Spinach ~ discounted prices while supplies last!"
Now, here's why I laughed out loud: I had given a quick once-over to the Baby Spinach, pretty much deciding it was over the hill. No longer crispy, a bit weathered around the edges. But when I spotted the little sign, I decided to buy some. After all, who can resist a bargain?
Whoever wrote that sign is a true visionary, a person with the keen ability to see a deficit and turn it into something appealing. Visionaries are hopeful types, gleaning the happiest from a situation and making it rise to the top.
And this is why I practically skipped out to my car on an ordinary Thursday night, Teenage Spinach and all. What had appeared used up, unsavory, and rather unremarkable had, with a little spin on the name, become a package of potential; a leafy green worth picking through; a symbol of what it means to make the most of a deteriorating situation.
Okay, I know it was just a bag of fresh spinach (well, not so fresh). For me, however, the clever little sign infused a fresh spirit of hope into my landscape. It was just what I needed.
And, just so you know, the "teenage" spinach offered a generous garnish in a few salads, not to mention a colorful addition to my scrambled eggs in the morning.
"Pay attention to details," my English teacher said, so many years ago. "You can miss so much by not reading the captions."
Well, she was right of course. If you see a middle-aged Mom in Aisle 3-B, poring over the labels, that's probably me...gleaning the most potential from the least likely source.