He was on my mind all day, despite the busy schedule of chime choir and cantata rehearsals. Thirty-one years ago today Michael first came bawling into the world, all red faced and jaundiced. Twenty-one years ago, he slipped quietly out of it, having left his mark in my heart.



Clearly I remember his smiling round face, his exuberance, his joy and enthusiasm for just about everything and everyone. He was every inch a rough and tumble boy yet tenderhearted towards those having a hard time. He loved dogs and collected rocks and tried his best to keep up with his brothers despite the extra weight the medicine he took added to his frame.



I sometimes wonder what he would have been like as a man. Each of my children is unique, distinctive, following their own path. It is difficult to imagine Michael as a grown man.



Would he, like Drew, have been comfortable with high school and have lots of good friends, love playing soccer, join the robotics team, be good at photography?



Would he, like Kiel, have joined a church? (How appropriate that Kiel did so this year on Michael's birthday). Would he love to work with young children, be passionate about soccer, have tons of friends like Kiel?



Would he, like Mark, have continued to struggle with health issues that impact jobs and careers? Would he have excelled in music as Mark does, be a competent sales person, be able to take anything apart and put it back together again fixed, be an amazing artist, a great cook?



Would he, like DJ, have graduated from college and found his life's calling and also his life's passion and followed them both? Would he lead a Boy Scout troop, be tenderhearted and caring when others do not even see needs, write well, and love horses as DJ does?



Would he have married and had children?



I do not know the answers to those questions. I do know that I love him as much now as I did then, that my memory of him has not faded over time, that I sometimes take out the photo albums and gaze hungrily at him doing all sorts of activities and antics. And I know that I will see him again when I get to heaven.



Today though, I simply wish him a Happy Birthday and celebrate his special day by helping young boys who need a little something extra. They are easy to find but I am sure they will never realize their gain is in honor of my son. And that's OK. It is enough that I know. It is enough that I remember.

Unexpected Light Bath

4:12 pm. I am at work. The Library has been busy all afternoon. As the semester is wrapping up, students are buckling down, getting serious about their papers and studies. They cluster in small groups, urgently forging theses and pushing themselves to complete assignments.

I love the hum of studious effort. People come and go quietly, seek reference materials, type furiously. The reference desk is constantly sought out by students who are stuck, need one more resource, can't figure how to cite something. It is a librarian's dream.

Suddenly there was a break in the questions, and I leaned back in the chair to stretch. As I did my face turned towards the little windows near the roof of the building. There along the stone wall and the light olive plaster overhang shone a swath of sunlight so bright I thought at first someone had turned on a floodlight.

Instinctively, I turned and looked out the lower windows near the reference desk. The sky was a dull gray with not a spot of sunshine in sight. I looked again towards the ceiling at the bright path of sunlight painting the top of the building with glory. How uplifting the warm sun appeared. I sat still and watched it for a full ten minutes before it moved beyond the walls and disappeared.

In another ten minutes, the world was bathed in that unique dusk that makes everything stand out in vivid relief as the sky blushes pink, then purple, then fades to velvet black. The near full moon obligingly continued reflecting the wash of light over the waiting world. It is a night of magic, of wonder; a night when miracles happen.

I want to reach out and take a miracle for my Father, who continues to struggle with breathing difficulties. I want to wave a strand of light over him and make the dis-ease go away. Alas, I cannot. I do the only thing I am able to do.

I bow my head beneath God's amazing heavens and pray for my Father, for strength and ease of breath, for peace and a close sense of God's presence. I send my prayers winging to the throneroom of grace, followed closely by my tears.

God collects my tears. He hears my prayers. Help is on the way. I know because Dad prayed faithfully for me during my cancer bout, and I felt God's presence and help. My words cease, but my heart flows on in love and concern for Dad. Send your light, O Lord, and deliver him from distress.

Prism Peace

It had been one of those days at work where no matter how hard you tried, you got yelled at for something you knew nothing about but somehow the buck stopped at your plate. In fact, the whole week had been rather like that. Maybe its me being extra reactive because I am concerned about my Father.

Maybe I have been away too long and things have veered enough off course that everything is a bit off kilter. All I know for sure is that I am done being gracious and understanding, done cajoling and wheedling and giving the benefit of the doubt. You yell at me and I will be hard core letter of the law. No grace.

I realized I was out of control in the afternoon when someone asked me a simple question and I started defending my action vigorously. She looked at me in surprise and said, "It was just a simple question!" (ie, pull in your claws!). Whoops. Wrong mode. I went to my office to ask God's forgiveness and help in getting back to my normal self. I was determined not to let the overbearing rudeness of the few affect my interactions with the many.

I was glad I had made plans to attend a choral concert at Houghton College in the evening. There is nothing as soothing and calming as sweet vocal music. And for a bonus, I was going with a friend. Still, it is difficult to ratchet down from being offended. You somehow feel the need for someone to hear your plight and agree that you have been wronged and deserve restitution from the injuries suffered at the hands of some barbarian. I'm afraid I chewed my friend's ear off with my tale of woe, though it did help to hear her say "Fire the clod!"

We arrived on the Houghton campus where we discovered beautiful lumieres scattered liberally about the place. Every building had three or four on each step. The administration building had them in every window. The library was equally as lighted. The white light transformed the snowless grounds into a winter wonderland, setting a perfect stage for the concert. We perused the art gallery while waiting for the doors to open, then found our seats, marvelling at the huge quilts covering the chapel windows, quilts that spelled out JOY. And then the music began.

What an amazing collection of world musics and art from every imaginable corner of the world Shri Lanka to Korea to Brazil, performed by every ensemble and artist in the school. The pictures projected behind the performers had been carefully selected to augment the theme of the evening which was Joy to the World, the Lord has come. We were wrapped in music - from all three balconies, from in front of us, from behind us, moving around us, from the foyer. Instruments ranged from harp and shakahashi flute to acoustic guitar, drums, orchestra and a Capella voice.

Sound swirled, ebbed, flowed, softened, boldened, reverberated, whispered the good news that all the world celebrates the Christ child, not just us. How wonderful it was! We could not help ourselves as the concert was concluding with Joy to the World, a wonderful arrangement by one of their professors, Dr. Hijleh. The auditorium was plunged in total darkness. Suddenly, a sound. A single light. Then the sound spread as did the light, growing and growing until we were caught up in the excitement, in the beauty, in the pure joy of candles and drums and trumpets and all singers and performers and audience joining together in celebration of Christ. We rose to our feet, singing, uplifted.

All thoughts of bad days and stressful events and rotten summers slid away. We stood in the healing light of Christ, laying it all at his feet, enveloped in his love, his care, his provision. Yes, it will be alright. I needed that - the reminder of God's love. I already want to go again next year. This prism concert is good medicine!