The Cup of Anticipation

Participating in Communion has recently taken on new meaning for me after learning the significance of a cup in a Jewish proposal.

Imagine the perfect, starlit evening. A beautiful, young Jewish girl is sitting with her parents and listening to a young man tell them about himself and why he would make a worthy husband for her. She is smitten with love, of course. At the end, wine is poured. Everyone watches to see whether the girl will accept his proposal. There is no hesitation, though she still trembles slightly from excitement as she lifts the cup and drinks deeply. He is smiling broadly now, suppressing mounting excitement, for that drink was her way of saying, "Yes!" 

Instead of whisking her away immediately, the young man left to prepare a place for his bride but would return just as soon as his father agreed that the chamber was ready. 

And that cup? Imagine how she felt when she lifted it to her lips during those days of waiting. Imagine her smile, her quickened pulse, her anticipation. It not only reminded her of the vow she gladly made to him, but drinking from that cup reminded her that he was coming again. She smiled and tuned her ear for the ram's horn blast and the call of her name that would announce his arrival. Her wedding day was approaching. 

I feel like that girl. I have sealed my commitment to a Heavenly Bridegroom and am waiting for His return. It won't be long until I hear the sound of the trumpet and will gladly go to meet Him.

And that cup? Every time I lift the cup of Communion to my lips, I remember how He gave Himself so completely for me and how I have gladly said "YES" to being His. 

But there is more! 

 "Do this in remembrance of Me," He said. 

And 1 Corinthians 11 adds. . . "until he comes." 

And suddenly the cup is filled to the brim with the anticipation of His coming.

I am waiting for those clouds to burst open and the trumpet to announce the arrival of the Bridegroom.  In that glorious moment, His Bride, the Church around the world, will joyfully receive him and these long betrothal days will finally be over.

I lift the cup to my lips and my heart quickens its pace as I anticipate that 'grand tomorrow.' He is coming soon.

Our new-found fun: Geocaching

When I first heard the word "geocache" I looked up its definition and instantly fell in love with the idea that the whole world is a treasure hunt. Not only are there thousands of geocaches waiting to be found, there are some nearly within walking distance of my home.

Fascinated, I called a friend and said, "Hey, John is going to be gone for the evening. Wanna go geocaching with Mary and me?"

Within minutes I had her hooked, just as I knew I would. We started with the one at a park near my house but, though it was labeled "easy," we couldn't find it. Concluding that someone must have taken it, we set out undaunted for the geocache a block away.

I think it was after we walked through a parking lot and were behind a couple of buildings that we started second-guessing ourselves. "We aren't trespassing, are we?" I could imagine a jail cell full of innocent geocachers, child and toddler included. But the back alley opened up into the parking lot of a fire station and my cell phone chimed, signaling we were getting close to the geocache.

"It must be along the rail," we reasoned. And there it was. A battered Altoids box (bearing a log sheet and a few trinkets to trade with the ones I brought along) had been tucked out of sight on the back of the railing. We were triumphant.

Our first geocache. . .including Barb who sent me the picture
 of the geocache in the grass (above) a few days later by way of
telling me that she was
still hooked and finding them without me.

Our find boosted the mood of the evening and we bagged two more before it was the children's bedtime and too dark to continue looking.

Since then, I have stopped along the route I'm driving to find more geocaches, intrigued that the green dots marking their position on my phone change to yellow smiley faces when I log them. John and I also spent part of a rare date poking around in a public bus stop along a busy road looking for an elusive geocache. Geocaching isn't for the self-conscious.

That was reaffirmed this past week when my mom, sister and I were geocaching and waiting to cross the road until a red car passed by. Only. . .it stopped beside us and a concerned motorist rolled down his window to ask if we needed help. I can't imagine why. Three ladies wandering down a road with the four-ways blinking on their van behind them is perfectly normal, right?

We were in high spirits and cheerfully said, "Don't worry about us; we are geocaching."

He looked at us uncertainly. "What did you say?" He had never heard of it, poor man. Think of all the fun he has missed out on.

"We're searching for a geocache. Look it up when you get a chance. Go to Geocaching.com." He was looking at us blankly enough that I hoped he would take our suggestion if for no other reason than to clear our good names.

Reluctantly, he drove away, almost as if it went against his gentlemanly nature to leave three women stranded along the road when their mental health must clearly be in question. Within minutes another vehicle stopped and a relative of ours leaned out, "What are you girls doing?" From the tone of his voice and the look on his face, I gathered that he wasn't the geocaching type.

We explained the game, but his expression when driving away looked like the previous guy's: uncertainty (hopefully not for our sanity) was mixed with the blank look of realizing he had understood our entire explanation but still had no clue what we were talking about.

The cheap entertainment of a worldwide treasure hunt continues to interest me. I looked at a map of Ghana to see there are 15 geocaches hidden there. In that case, our family fun can continue after our move, though I can only imagine all the questions we will get in that well-populated country. Chances are that we'll grow very familiar with the "I-heard-you-but-don't-understand-you-at-all" look.

But signing "The Thing Finder" on log sheets on another continent might be worth the risk.

To Grandmother's house we go. . .

With our trip to Ghana looming on the horizon, we are spending several weeks with my parents in IN and are drinking in the moments spent with family. It is such fun, precious moments here and we are enjoying it to the full.

One evening we went to Flavor Freeze, the ice cream joint we frequented on summer evenings when I was a child. My brother and his son went along. It was fun to introduce my children to the same Kiddie Circus Sundaes I had as a girl. 

We had a campfire one evening.

Blueberries are in season, and amazing berries they are! Some were nearly the size of cherries and hung by the handful on the bushes. Sophia is holding the bag of berries she picked all by herself.

Tyler is learning to ride a bike on a cement driveway on the same bike I learned on as a child, and Sophia is having fun on a big trike. 

Smiling prettily in her new dress.

  

 Grandma is soaking up every moment with the grandchildren. So precious!

On Kittens and Disappointments

When we reluctantly agreed with my sister that "every child needs a pet," I had no idea that the tan kitten named Snowball would overtake our hearts so completely. From the moment we brought the orphaned kitty home, Tyler adopted it saying, "I'm the daddy for this kitten." (We even lowered ourselves, John and I, to being called the grandparents of the cat.) Tyler took his job as parent seriously and sat his charge down for a father/daughter talk. 

"I am the daddy for you, so you need to listen to me and obey me. Don't go close to the road, okay? Never, ever. If you go on the road, the cars will smash you and you will die."

The kitten just looked at him and blinked its big blue eyes. I grinned and sincerely hoped that somewhere nestled beneath the fur would be a brain big enough to take the advice to heart. 

About the next thing we knew, our Grandcat supplied its special Daddy with three adorable kittens: Brownie, a gray one; Snowball, a tan duplicate of its mother; and Tiger, a clawing, orange striped one. The three instantly were as much a part of the family as ever a kitten can be. 

But there was a problem, of course. We are moving overseas and family or not, the armload of kittens will not relocate with us. I gently broached the subject with Tyler when he was laughing over their antics. "One day we're going to have to give your kittens to someone else," I said. "We can't take them on the airplane to Ghana."

He turned those molten chocolate eyes towards me, nearly puddling with tears over the very idea. "Not my special Snowball," his voice was pleading. "Not this guy with the jolly, cute face." He lifted Snowball up and planted a kiss deep within its fur. 

I didn't press the point, but I ached along with him. 

The day came when the kittens turned six weeks old and were eating kitty food very well. I knew it was time to start finding homes for the babies, but I dreaded it like crazy. There are so many changes and things my boy will need to give up when we move. I wished there would be a way for him to keep his kitten with the "jolly, cute face." But there wasn't. 

My sister volunteered to take two. "But they need to be the same gender." Her words were decisive. "We don't want to start a cat farm around here."

Then there was no choice. Tiger and Snowball are boys; Brownie is a girl. That meant the first kitten to go would be the jolly, cute one. I woke up in the wee hours one morning and was unable to fall back to sleep right away. I had just had a dream in which two kittens were given away and Tyler was left without Snowball. In my dream he turned his eyes towards me, all pooled with tears, and said, "Now I only have one left." 

There is something about your child's disappointment that deeply hurts the mama, too. The ache in my heart was strong enough that I had trouble falling back to sleep.

When the time came to tell Snowball goodbye, I had Tyler kiss his kittens one last time and tell them good-bye. He did, a little reluctantly. We handed the kittens over and left. 

I was ready for his tears. If he had melted into a puddle of them, I wouldn't have blamed him and might have even joined him. But there were none. I couldn't believe it. I resisted the instinct to let my jaw rest slackly on my knees. How could he be so brave? I didn't know he had it within him. 

When I shared the story with a friend she said simply, "You carried his grief for him." 

I wasn't sure that I totally bought the idea, but I could relate to the concept. Jesus died not just for my sins but to bear all the grief and guilt that are associated with them. He carried it and lets me go free. 

I watch my son play happily with the mama cat and the one remaining kitten. His countenance is clear. He laughs. His eyes, those expressive brown ones, are shiny and bright. He loves like he has never lost his special kitten with the jolly, cute face. 

Jesus wants me to live as freely as my son is. He knows I've had my share of things I could carry guilt and shame over. He knows my heart would be broken with things that have grieved me. But He carried all of that so I can be free. He wants me to lift up my chin and laugh as freely as my son does. 

I turned to my son and took the kitten he offered me to hold. Tyler smiled at me, his little jaw stiffening the way it does whenever he is feeling tender towards something cute. "Look at this special baby," he said. "Isn't it darling?" 

It is. One of these days he's going to need to say goodbye to this little one, too. Hopefully he can do it without too great a disappointment. But even if it does hurt a lot, I know that I'll carry some of his grief, too.