Grace and Peace

The phrase “Grace and Peace” was firmly entrenched in the lexicon of Emmaus Road Community Church. It was said as both a greeting and farewell during services, but it also slipped into our everyday vernacular. Emails, letters, cards—all signed “Grace and Peace.” It was a benediction, a prayer, a blessing.

Now I have those words above the door in our porch. The outside is an invitation, Bon Repos, and the inside is a final prayer, a last
thought before you leave our house, Grace and Peace.

I am aware of God’s grace in my life every day—probably every minute of every day. I see it in my husband’s hand wrapped around mine. I see it when our kids laugh together, bright, unfettered laughter that fills the house and sets Lennie barking and running in tight circles.

Grace surrounds me; I breathe it in. I sip it like wine.

But peace. That’s another story. I struggle with being at peace. There
was an X Files episode where Mulder wished for world peace. What he
got was an empty planet inhabited only by him. I have a quote on my
wall by Virginia Wolff that says, “You cannot find peace by avoiding
life.”  My first thought is, why not? That sounds like a plan. Just
avoid unpleasantness. But I don’t think Mulder or I would truly find
peace just by being alone or avoiding life.

True peace is something that comes from inside. A quiet surety of Who
is in charge and a steady confidence that He wants what is best for
us. There is a reason that the words grace and peace are often linked
together. God’s abundant favor, His overflowing mercy leads us to a
life of rest and peace.

Grace does surround me, but I think I need to breathe a little deeper
and drink to the dregs.

An Invitation

Bon Repos

I have always wanted a house with a name. (Of course my imaginary house was a centuries old stone cottage surrounded by herb gardens and flowerbeds.) And I have known the name for the last fifteen years. Bon Repos. Good Rest.

I don’t have a stone cottage but I do have an old farmhouse that has stood strong for 127 years. No longer surrounded by fields, it is nevertheless rooted on a corner at the top of a hill overlooking houses decades younger than itself. Four nights ago I saw the walls lurch violently as a small earthquake shook Northern Colorado. I imagine this house has seen its share of storms, floods, fires and even earthquakes in the last five quarters of a century, but here it stands. Cool breezes blow through the porch carrying the smell of cut grass. A certain hush inhabits the house, one that has nothing to do with sound. It is a patient waiting for people to accept what is offered.

Rest.

Bon Repos. Just like Bon Appétit but for the heart instead of the stomach. It is part wish, part command, and part promise.

Our house in Laramie was a haven, a refuge, a place of safety. But only for us. It was a bunker built for four and it sheltered us through many battles.

1801 11^th Street is different. The words “Bon Repos” are outside over our screen door. Right out in front where anyone can read them.

It is an invitation.  

Lennie

And as I knelt beside a brook

To drink eternal life, I took

A glance across the golden grass,

And saw my dog, old Blacky, fast

As she could come. She leaped the stream---

Almost--- and what a happy gleam

Was in her eye. I knelt to drink,

And knew that I was on the brink

                        Of endless joy - John Piper, Glorified, 

                                                                                                          

There are dog owners and dog lovers. I used to be the former, and a really bad one at that.

I got rid of Tilly when I came home one day, walked into the living room and saw her, ears back and what looked like someone had come in and spilled a bucket of brown paint all over my one week-old carpet. I shamefully admit I was a disinterested, lazy and occasionally abusive dog owner. That was Raul 1.0.

A year or so later, about a month into my new and constant battle with panic disorder, I approached Tara and the kids about getting a puppy. I told them I was ashamed to bring it up given my “criminal” record, but I was weary of sitting home alone all day with nothing to do but agonize over two questions -

“WHAT IN THE WORLD IS HAPPENING TO ME?!”

and

“HOW DO I MAKE IT STOP?!”

I needed something to do because there is such a thing as being in one’s head too much. Surprisingly, they agreed to it and, one week later and a visit to a kennel*, we came back with Lennie: half bichon frise, half boston terrier and all chicken. I named him after Jerry Orbach’s character on Law & Order - Detective Lennie Briscoe. Yes, I watched a lot of L&O back then.

From the start, I was determined to “do it right”. With high hopes of atoning for past sins, I became a Cesar Millan groupie. Early on, my heart felt different and somehow I knew Lennie would play a role in my healing. It’s hard to explain. I became a Lennie Lover and soon my family started referring to me as his Mother. He’d whine incessantly when I wasn’t around and rarely obeyed anyone else. I taught him to sit and lay down. Half a dozen times he’s caught a frisbee, but I’m convinced they’ve all been by accident. I frequently walked him off leash when no one was around. He’d pee on everything within a 20 yard radius and, once out of his system, he’d walk next to me. Then I would read aloud from the Psalms - my camping spot of choice at the time - and I’m convinced he knows more Scripture than any dog I know and certainly more than cats. I sing hymns to him, staying true to the melody but replacing all the lyrics with the words “Lennie Puppy” in a way I’m sure makes Saint Augustine smile. All twenty-seven pounds of him barks at every little noise he hears outside (I’m no Caesar) but I try to remind myself he’s just protecting his Mother. He’s seven years old now - the equivalence of forty-nine human years according to Lorne Greene - which makes him only two years older than me except he has the energy of a teenager. He needs braces but we can’t afford it.

Lennie reminds me I worship and serve a God of second chances and that I can feel His love through fur and slobber. He brings out kindness and tenderness in me. And, yes, I believe he and Blacky will run the Streets of Gold together someday. And John Piper and I will visit.

This is Raul 2.0.

PS   Lennie's on Facebook. You can request him as a friend here.
PPS Lydia wrote a profile about him that can be read here.

*Shortly after we got Lennie, Prairie Bark Kennel turned out to be a puppy mill. It was investigated by 9News and consequently shut down. I like to think we rescued him.

Our Magic Porch

We have a Magic Porch.

After two years of living in rented or borrowed space, our lives began to gain some semblance of stability, and we decided to take another leap of faith by pursuing home ownership. It was a buyers' market, so things were in our favor. Not wanting to overextend ourselves, we bought conservatively: a two-story built in 1887, one of the first homes in the vicinity, most likely on farmland but now with one foot in the ‘hood and the other, well, close to the ‘hood. Really close. 

When Tara first walked into Liam’s room and started complaining of vertigo, I got a little worried. While Liam got his space ready, he set his longboard on one end of the room and it rolled clear to the other side. This would either be a charming and quirky space or our own real-life rendition of The Money Pit.

We didn’t go looking for The Porch. It just happened to be attached to one of the few houses on the market we could afford. And we certainly didn’t realize it was magic because, for a couple of months,

it turned out to be a convenient place to store the stuff we didn’t want to deal with. Every time I walked through The Porch and weaved around the stacks, I’d get the sudden urge to take a nap. 

By this time, 3 Coffee & Roastery  was in year two and looking financially grim. We had tried three different locations. To quote TS Eliot, we were going out “not with a bang but a whimper”. My heart for coffee and business had waned and was unexpectedly being replaced with a desire for ministry. It was at 3 Coffee that I began to engage relationships again. Customers would frequently tell me very personal things, many of them unaware of my background in pastoral work. Eventually, I quit griping, accepted it and embraced it. Saying “no” all the time to what God gently but persistently calls us just gets tiring after awhile. I knew I was going to lose anyway.

In the absence of the intimate space of the coffee shop, our L-shaped porch began to resemble 3 Coffee. Tara has created a space to write, her latest addition being a flavored laptop. A window and the front door open into a straight line. If I sit on my side and Tara sits on hers, I could peg her with one of our Nerf guns.  

Two of our coffee shop tables found their spot in there. Soon my “pickin’ gliders”, oil lamp, an old tabletop humidor Tara and the kids had given me. Then my pipes. And finally a framed three-page letter my dear friend Dee Tillman had given me exactly five years ago today. It tells me every day what he believed by faith when I didn’t – that the storm would pass, that I’d get tossed and beaten by the waves, and that I’d eventually wash up on the beach of a beautiful island where God had built us a new home. This new home happened to come with a Porch and we have have flung the screen door wide open. The Porch has become a place of hospitality where many have found rest, good wine, lively guitar music, joyful laughter, sorrowful tears and rich soul conversation. We recently learned it has inspired our son Liam and his cousin Glenn to shape a Magic Garage of their own. I tested it out last night. Good to go!

People who sit on our gliders speak often of how they feel or what they experience in The Porch. And it was here that I embraced this next season of life – to walk with people as we journey through this beautiful and messy thing called life.  And yes, sometimes even sit with them.

Don't Wait

“Don’t Wait.” How often do we hear that advice? Usually we operate under the directives of: Be careful. Don’t rush into anything. Wait and see how you feel tomorrow. But everyday I am confronted with the mandate “Don’t Wait” hanging as nicely as you please right above my sofa.

The final picture in my triptych shows a pair of feet racing off with a bowl of spilled berries dropped carelessly on the ground in the rush. I’m not much of a racer or a dasher—I like to think things over. However, there comes a time when thinking must turn to action. The tricky part for me is to determine when that moment comes.

We’ve been doing a lot of work on our “magic porch” (more on that later from Raul) and it has been so much fun. Then Raul pointed out to me that everything I’d been creating and preparing was for other people to enjoy. He was right. It seems my heart didn’t want to wait any longer; but my mind was still stalling.

I’ve made many decisions based on what my heart was telling me. And it is time for another. I have held fast and saved my strength for the last seven years and now it is time to drop my bowl of berries and race off to the next adventure.

I made a list. I want these things to be a part of that adventure.

​​Pray the hours

​​Learn French

​​Learn to paint with pastels
                  Grow herbs and tomatoes

​​Finish writing my book

​​Finish typing “Letters from my Laddie”

​​​(letters my Dad wrote to his mother when stationed in Korea)

​​Make bento lunches

​​Make a quilt

That’s part of my adventure. I’m open to whatever and whomever God brings my way.

I don’t want to wait anymore.

Save Your Strength

I come from a long line of quilters. My mom has made quilts. My aunts are remarkable quilters—so good, in fact, that one was disqualified from the state fair because her stitches were “too perfect.” They assumed it was machine quilted. Not only are these quilts works of art, they represent home and security, family, warmth. Safety.

The second picture in the triptych above my sofa shows two bare feet poking out from underneath a quilt. “Save your strength” is in the upper left corner.

Other captions, for me, could read: “Don’t Leave.” “Be Safe.” “Avoid Stress”  “Stay Together.” “Stay wrapped in a quilt like a fragile bit of glass and don’t risk getting hurt, disappointed, scared, embarrassed …” You get the idea.

Our family had reached a precarious balance, a new normal, and I was desperate to keep everything stable. But there was a problem. This was the exact opposite of my deepest desires for our family. I never wanted my kids to lead a “safe” life. I wanted passion and adventure and daring for them.

My heart was in constant struggle. If something was difficult for Raul—being in crowds or going shopping—well then don’t do it. Stay home. Stay safe. Liam chose to go on a two-month mission trip to Brazil. Stay home. Stay safe. Lydia decided to go to school in New York. Stay home. Stay safe.

No one is prouder of her family than I am. My husband is the most courageous man I know. My kids are bold and independent. They’ve thrown off the security blanket while I, like Linus, am still dragging it around.

But I’m close to letting go.

Hold Fast

part 1 of a three-part series by Tara Cruz

I tend to surround myself with words. Metaphors, symbolism, imagery—this is how I make sense of the world. And often I am drawn to something before I fully understand what place it has in my life. This is the case of the three pictures now hanging above my sofa.

Three images torn from a book and framed, rather inexpertly, by me. (I rarely take the time to measure things properly.) They’d hung on my wall for weeks before I really studied them and grasped the story they so clearly were telling. It was the story of our last seven years broken into three parts.

The first is an image of a hand clinging to a branch, a bit desperately in my opinion. It reminds me of a Robert Frost poem about grapes. In the corner there are two words, “Hold Fast.”

“Hold Fast” sums up the first three years as succinctly as the smell of lilacs sums up spring. Hold fast was all I could do. I held fast to a husband I feared, if given a chance, would slip off a precipice and be lost to me forever. I held fast to a son, just entering junior high, whose catastrophic first week left him homebound in our 1600 square foot house. And I held fast to a daughter starting tenth grade, who wrenchingly wanted to make things right for everyone.

I also held fast to God. Not in a nice, friendly let’s-hold-hands sort of way, but rather a white-knuckled-dangling-over-the-abyss sort of way. My hand clenched. My fingernails gouged deep. The tendons in my wrist were tight to the point of snapping. My whole arm grew numb. How could I even be sure I still held on to something?

We were not dashed upon the rocks. -tc

I Have a Limp

I went surfing for a picture depicting the story of Jacob wrestling with God (Genesis 32:22-31). It took me longer than I anticipated because most of them looked like they were playing London Bridge. This one looks like they're doing the Tango:

I decided to go with this one because they look like they're getting after it:

While serving as a chaplain for the Laramie Police Department, I participated in a Custody Control training class where we did a ground fighting exercise. When they told us they were 30-second rounds, I thought to myself, "These are COPS?! That's a pretty low bar". It was the most exhausting thirty seconds I've ever experienced. I've never been that sore for that many days.  It hurt more than the tazing I once got at another training.

Jacob was actually winning the match, refusing to let him go until he received a blessing.  God dislocated his hip and, as a result, walked with a limp for the rest of his life.

For the REST OF HIS LIFE.

When the panic attacks started a little over seven years ago, I understood very little of what was happening. I did, however, know that God and I had started a ground fight, that I was getting my ass kicked and that it would somehow mark me for life. I also knew that nothing would ever be the same.

A gross overprescription of Xanax for the first year and a half caused an array of bizarro symptoms (trembling, facial twitches, stuttering, agoraphobia, and startle responses to name a few). Getting jacked on psychotropic meds actually amplifies the symptoms it's intended to treat (reader beware). Once discovered, these symptoms had reduced by half within a couple of weeks. The next 40% took about 5 years.

That leaves 10% and I'm still waiting. Loud, crowded places are hard. I hate going into Walmart (I think it's where Satan shops). Weird, high pitched noises freak me out. I get shifty-eyed when I get confused.

On August 25, I'll hobble through the classroom doors at Denver Seminary with a limp. Maybe I get to keep that 10% to remind me that God has a not-so-funny way of blessing me. -rc