first frost

We were in Georgia for Thanksgiving.

And the boys got dirty, grime-under-your-fingernails, smudgy faced, snot-run-wild, kind of dirty. It took some time for this suburban momma to unwind, to become accustomed to letting Carter outside just to play–no agenda, no plan, no real supervision required. It was just family there, hunkering down for the holiday on Grandma and Gampa’s homestead, fifty something acres of space, of untamed room to breathe, and the fish weren’t biting but twice, enough for the kids to boast a catch apiece and I got scolded for driving the golf cart through the woods because “didn’t I know it was huntin’ season?” while Carter’s acquired country accent only became more pronounced.

The last night we were there, the mercury fell and the earth relinquished her heat, abandoning the grasses to fiend for themselves against the cold and they could not. We awoke to witness the pasture, quietly telling her story of what happened while we slept, blanketed in a blue-grey frost. I remembered those first few years, when boyfriend had taken me up to meet his Gampa who swore and smoked and stole my heart and Grandma with her biscuits and cookies and soft skin, and we sat on the porch swing and took drives through the mountains and walks through the woods and it was cold so we sat close and held hands and my heart was falling for him and I swore, I could be part of this family, I really could.

For this California transplant, the pasture’s frost was magical, a mere manifestation of the wonder that had transpired in my heart.

Years passed, and many trips later the beauty of the country had become familiar and babies and their demands captured my attention. It was one of those mornings, this past morning, when the frost fell. Walker had been up every two hours or so through the night, and I trudged through the morning routine, wishing the coffee was a bit more stiff like the sludge my side of the family makes.

I saw it, out the kitchen window, while finishing up breakfast dishes, and I saw it again, through the patio’s screens as I turned PBS on for Carter and placed Walker in the pack n’ play.

It would be Carter’s first frost, I thought.

It could be magical for him.

But I fiddled at this, and worked on that a bit longer, if only for some closure, some sense of accomplishment for the morning.

I glanced out the window.

The frost was melting.

We could miss it entirely.

I tried to explain to Carter what we were doing, shoving one shoe on a stubborn foot, his eyes fixated on singing dinosaurs. He had no frame of reference for frost. He would have been content to stay exactly where he was. But we freed ourselves from predictable monotony, a bit overdressed, and trekked down where the warming land had spared a few patches of crunchy grass for us.

It was enough.

I wondered then if this is why Jesus said we must become like children in order to enter the kingdom of God.

I get so myopic with my attentions, with the things that preoccupy my energy and emotions. These are good things, in the house of my soul, they are honorable and worthy of my labor. But as someone invested in ministry, in leadership, it’s easy to slip into becoming familiar, too familiar, with being around God. I can do all the right things, cross my t’s and dot my i’s, and John Maxwell would certainly have much to critique, but I’m growing and I see God moving, here, in this life of ministry, all around me. If I am not careful, though, something that was never meant to be confined to my routines in ministry and in life, will conform to my low expectations, my comfortable predictability, and my sense of control.

Living with God and living for God was never meant to become the spiritual equivalent of washing dishes, throwing back some caffeine and hoping to make it to nap time. There’s just too much of God for that. He is outside our religious responsibilities, he’s outside the successes or failures we face, even those in his name, he exists beyond our pains and aches, far beyond our finite vantage point.

Some mornings, probably most, we must be mother and care and nurture, search the fridge for good things to feed our children, wipe their faces and set them to rest in safe places. Some mornings, we will wake and something may be different. Some mornings, we might sense the Spirit beckoning us to dance in a field of a thousand crystals, inviting us to set aside the routine and make our way back to the wonder of knowing God.

If I were to become like a child, I would get outside the kingdom of my life more often to glory in a Bigger God.

If I were to become like a child, I would esteem each manifestation of life-change, each miracle of God in another, as wondrous, resulting in pure worship.

If I were to become like a child, I would behold the face of God reflected in a million shards of ice and I would run outside to meet him, breathless and with shoes untied, each and every time,

as if it were my first frost.