How to S.T.O.P. (Or Sitting in the Rain and Loving It)

After a snowstorm earlier this month, rain assaulted this house on Layton.

Rain in January. An icy, damp, chilling, and generally depressing bit of weather.

In mid-afternoon the kitchen lights blazed in premature twilight. The kettle hissed on the stove, and I refilled my cup with another variety of Tazo. A week's worth of mail lay helter-skelter across the kitchen table. Bills, advertisements, late Christmas cards, early birthday cards, catalogs, a few large manila envelopes, even a package. The pile that awaits a vacationer upon her return.

Rain pelted the kitchen window. The wind hurled the snow shovels across the porch, and they clattered about.

I sorted the heap of mail carelessly, tossing fliers and ads on the floor, and randomly choosing to open any envelope that caught my eye.

Here was a Christmas photo of my sister's family. Her annual holiday letter, always creative and lengthy, recounted the achievements of my niece and nephews through the past year. They had launched successfully from high school to college. I relished the list of accomplishments. News worth tweeting about.

I recognized Joan's broad, flourishing strokes on a card. We rarely see each other, but year after year, she never forgets to send a birthday wish.

I opened several more birthday cards, a few with small gifts tucked inside, from friends, separated by distance or long absence, and some from friends near, faithful remember-ers.

A yellow envelope, stuck with customs forms and the profile of Queen Elizabeth, could only be from cousin Ann in Wales. Her annual holiday gift from the Celtic kingdom by the sea. One year she sent a Welsh cook book. Another year a book of Welsh sayings. This year's souvenir - a CD of two Welsh tenors singing carols in their guttural, native language. It reminded me of my personal favorite among Welsh tenors - my grandfather.

I wanted to save the brown-papered box as the last piece of mail, but it wouldn't wait. Eddie's careful cursive and the San Francisco postmark called me. My translator during a visit to China fourteen years earlier, Eddie maintained our friendship. He left China during the ensuing years, and he lives now as an American. The package captured the flavor of  Frisco: a bag of Ghirardelli chocolates and a small ceramic horse, a reminder from Chinatown of the Year of the Horse.

A "Year of the Horse" reminder from Eddie.

I STOPPED and stuffed a few of the Ghirardelli in my mouth, sipped a bit more Tazo, and savored every minute of this gray-day-turned-sunshiny at my disheveled table.

In a recent Bible study, teacher Beth Moore encouraged me to S.T.O.P. everyday and Savor The Observable Presence of God.

This afternoon I knew God sat with me at that messy table in my rain-pelted house. His presence sang from each piece of mail. Love in one. Grace in another. Blessing in a third. The United States Postal Service deals in heavenly business!

God doesn't forget birth-days or ordinary days. He delights in showering us with blessing anytime. I sat indoors, drenched in those rain showers. It was warm and sweet.

A final card, not meant for a birthday but heaped with blessing, simply left me breathless. Nestled inside was a gift that would pay for an entire year of  "The Voice of Hope," our blog talk radio show into China.

That winter afternoon there was no outside world, no clattering on the porch, no concern about the mess on the table, just a kitchen aglow with His observable presence. HE filled the room. And I . . . I savored the beauty of basking in His love and attention and sitting in the rain.

STOP and Savor The Observable Presence of God in your life today.

Shiny Days!

Some days shine.

Not just because the temperature reaches 75, and the sun finally spends an entire twelve hours glowing.

Perhaps the shining has more to do with sensibility rather than meteorology

Today was one of those days.

Could it have been aglow because I spent the day with my 92-year-old father, a pleasure few can enjoy? Dad drives the 700 miles between South Carolina and Pennsylvania on his own, he can walk without assistance, he golfs a mean 46 on nine holes, he hikes a mile every day, he looks 80 - tops, and he can complete a crossword faster than I can read it.

Or was it because we had breakfast out with neighbors? Good friends, pleasant conversation, the richness of relationship building with people we enjoy . . . not to mention the buttermilk pancakes.

Was it the two children in front of me on the airplane who had obviously never traveled before? They grasped their mother's hand on take-off, and when they became comfortable at altitude, they vied for the window to ooh and aah at every stretch of cloud. "Look," the girl gasped. "It's a city!" Unjaded travelers awed by the miracle of modern science.

Or could it have been that magical moment in the arrivals lounge in Wilmington, North Carolina? As we sat awaiting yet another long-delayed flight, I took to people-watching. The young soldier in dress uniform on the sofa cross from us was hard to miss. Over six feet tall and handsome, his demeanor belied his appearance. His fingers tapped endlessly on his knee, on his chin. He wiped his brow. His leg vibrated up and down. I thought perhaps he had just returned from the war; perhaps this was Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. And then a flight arrival announcement bolted him from his seat.

As he stood by the gate and watched the disembarking passengers, his tension grew. Finally, a perky, petite cutie with a crop of curly blond hair came through the gate in her pink and white sundress with a matching bag and sandals. Our soldier quickly wrapped his arms around her, a momentary kiss and a few words ensued, then . . . he dropped to his knee, all six feet of him, and he took her little hand in his. "Look, Dad!" I elbowed him wildly, but he was lost in a chess game on the NOOK. "Look!" By this time the entire lounge had zeroed in on the life moment unfolding before us.

We heard our soldier say, "Will you marry me?" A small box came out of his pocket. Our heroine said, "Yes!" and a ring was placed on her finger. He stood, lifted his arms to the heavens (and the arrivals lounge clientele) and boomed, "She said "Yes!' " Of course, we spectators couldn't get enough of this real life movie scene, and we burst into applause.

The bride-to-be jumped into his arms, and there was a twirling and hugging in the middle of the lounge. More applause. Joy all around.

Quickly, the couple moved off toward the exit. The moment united those of of us frustrated with airplane delays. No doubt, everyone's memories traveled to the day of our marriage proposals, our weddings, or our long journeys since then. And we smiled for the hope of newness and fresh starts and young love.

"She did everything right, " Dad remarked finally surfacing from the NOOK in time to see the action. "She even lifted her leg when he picked her up." A coquette indeed. A magical life moment shared by a room full of strangers.

Or did the day shine because of a special gift? As I sat in the megalithic airport known as Charlotte, awaiting the plane for yet another leg of my journey back to Layton (not an easy place to acess from distant points), I recognized a friend. A rush of joy and excitement always accompanies reunions in foreign arenas. "Cindy!" I yelled, and we hurried to embrace. Our mouths started clattering non-stop, and before we knew it, our flight was boarding. Old hands at travel, we didn't rush the gate but relaxed to wait for our zones to be called.

The clattering and chattering continued and . . .  somehow . . . we missed our call. The door to the aircraft had closed! How did that happen without our knowledge? In unison and before a crowd of hundreds at ten conjoining gates, we banged on the closed door. In hindsight, it was interesting that no security came to stop us or bind our panic. Instead, the gate attendant showed up with a grin. "Why, girls, they had cake at the next gate, and I just had to get me some! You're OK. Here, I'll change your seats so you all can sit together."  So the chattering, clattering, and add giggling to that mix, continued until we reached Scranton . . . where the sun rarely shines, but the friendship glistens.

Some days just shine . . . even when it's gray . . . here on Layton.