Sometimes I sit around thinking about stars.  I  go outside at night, especially in the heat of summer just to look at the shimmery night sky.  On my farm, I'd lay on the front sidewalk after I put the kids to bed and stare up into the heavens waiting for my eyes to adjust, my vision to clear.  Haven't made the time or a way to do that here in the city, but I still walk into the night to see what I can see. What makes stars shine? Did God place those stars in order by speaking?  How can the universe have no end or beginning?  Stars make me happy.  Summer makes me happy. 

Other times I sit around and think about hands.  I ponder the work of the hand and the amazing value of all things handmade.  I consider the amazing task of the fingers.  At church this morning, my daughter held my hand today in her palm and traced the lines inside both of our palms. It seemed our lines matched and I wondered if these lines are the same among most people, or is it our shared DNA?   My mind wandered to gypsies and palm readers during Blue Bear's (she came up with this new name for herself instead of Pooh Bear) examination.  I thought of how hands may show industry or leisure.  I use my hands to drum to songs on the steering wheel and dash as I sing (loudly) in my car.  I intentionally conjure new ways to nudge, beat (nicely), shove my teenage boys to meet their mom touch quota. I rub my little girl's sore back after her long vaulting practice. I make art and write with these digits.  I madly swat mosquitoes I encounter on my evening runs.  Hands are not something to take for granted.  Hands make me happy.

So, today when I following along to a new-to-me song during liturgy: 


Come see His hands and His feet,
The scars that speak of sacrifice;

The next line I stopped singing and hung suspended in full awe.

Hand that flung stars into space


My mind's eye created a beautiful picture of The Christ laughing out loud as he pitched glowing shapes upward into the black like a frisbee or in the manner of a discus thrower.  I wish I'd been there that day!

The next words pierced my very heart.  They were quite unexpected- Happy Jesus now turned somber and willing to submit those same hands which made the beautiful sky to penetrating iron.

To cruel nails surrendered

The cross remains a scene I contemplate over and over again in my brain.  The gift for me bound up in pain.  Awe leads me easily to the place I rarely visit, humility.

Three teenage boys.  Who don't particularly like me.

I can't say I blame them.  It's not easy to live with someone who used to listen well, who used to look out for academic, spiritual and social needs.  Now I'm rushing these young men out the door or shuttling from this practice to that meeting.  And I find myself telling them to pick up, sweep up, or clean up.  I don't have time to listen closely, because I just need things done.  So, I tell them more.  Louder.  I resort the weak or non-parenting strategy of arguing.  Some years ago I realized that too doing too much contributes to an ill temper. So, I cut out the doing and began being present for my children.  Now as a working person, the "being present" has ended, and the ill temper returns.  The teen years are not the best time for a mom to become short.  Nevertheless, I'm working diligently with white knuckles to stay positive at best or at least neutral. If you're the praying kind, I'll take 'em.