Articles by Ann Voskamp at Heartlight

Sweat the Small Stuff: It's the Big Stuff

http://aholyexperience.com/ (Ann Voskamp) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 00:00:00 -0500

"It's a design flaw."

My mother's words drift from the sink, her milky white hands scrubbing dishes, skillet and spatula immersed under suds, and I'm searching. Cabinets banging shut, pots clattering, enamelware clanging.

"Yes, I agree, a design flaw. Such a little piece, and if it's lost, the entire appliance is rendered useless." I shuffle cutlery about, wondering if the child who responsibly put away the dishes may have inadvertently dropped that wee center gizmo for the Bosch food processor in here. Or here?

"It's like the weight that sits atop the pressure cooker," I mutter, rifling through oven mitts. "If you don't have that little piece, all grinds to a halt."

I turn to Mama, looking upon her crown of white suspended over stainless steel scoured. She feels the look close and receives it with warm eyes, eyebrows arched, inviting thoughts to step out into the open, and through.

So they do: "I think little things are actually the big things."

Little things like weights for pressure cookers, gizmos for processors, easy smiles for children, and long hugs for husbands. Peering into the corner of cupboards, I think how little things are the minute gears necessary to move the titanic arm of God, small things that move heavy hearts.

Doesn't the significant, humble by its very nature, masquerade as the insignificant?

And I realize, as I stand atop a chair to inspect a top cupboard, how very wrong I am. This is no design flaw, but rather, the wisdom at the heart of a Designer who values the least of these. "Little drops of water, little grains of sand,
Makes the mighty ocean, and the beauteous land."

More than the little simply comprising one microscopic element of the grandiose, the momentous moves by very virtue of that which is but a moment. Or it is no more.

I scour a kitchen while Mama scours pots, and it buffs up, how moments leverage a life and little acts of love, little resistances, little noble stands, they wield this existence of ours. "And the little moments, humble though they be, make the mighty ages of eternity." The diminutive fuels the portentous, the seemingly unessential being in fact the most essential of all.

I don't know why it comes, but that it is the peculiar ways of Him who is Spirit, but standing there at a loss in the kitchen, having a processor assembled with all the pieces save for a singular, unremarkable piece, I see with startling clarity that the loss of a little thing like prayer immobilizes the entire scope of a life of faith. When a life doesn't -- won't -- work, is prayer the integral missing piece? Prayer appears disposable. And yet, a rudder under the hulk of a life, hidden far below the waters, it steers—no, more: propels -- a soul Homeward. Do I not pray more because I foolishly deem the small thing inconsequential?

Doesn't the adage go to the effect, "Don't sweat the small stuff! And it is all small stuff"? I understand the sentiment, and, in large measure appreciate the directive. Yet sometimes I wonder, especially when the misplacing of one small component of a kitchen appliance brings a meal preparation to a standstill, if the small stuff, (which, true, is much of life), isn't actually worthy of most of our attention. Because much of life hinges on it.

Standing on tiptoe, feeling along a shelf, I whisper a prayer for a little food processor gizmo. And fingers find it in a green splatterware bowl, tucked back behind.

Mama's smile catches mine at the sound of this whirling processor.

On prayer's hub, we listen to life hum.

Father God, am I paying attention to life's smallest, biggest stuff?

Photo: processor gizmo and pressure cooker weight found. Photo courtesy of Holy Experience and Ann Voskamp.

Ann helps us see "the holy" in laundry, listening, and liturgy. Her blog, "Holy Experience," is a fresh breath of air for the soul.

Website: Holy Experience

Living on Beam Unending

http://aholyexperience.com/ (Ann Voskamp) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 00:00:00 -0500

There is a patch behind the country church with its split rail fence, there beside the quiet of the woods, where heaven meets earth and I stand there in the early morning still. Clouds, gray and swelling with spring, loll over. Brown leaves, fall's remnant left behind by winter just gone, lay wet underfoot. Only the sound of water trickling off the water mill there in the pond meanders up through the trees, asking me if I want to fall down too. I think that is why I came.

Tentative, I step closer and let my hand feel the weathered wood, wet from last night's rain, of that Cross that grows out of the earth back here. An Old Rugged Cross.

Fingertips brush the moss that clings to the grooved grain, new life out of that which died. Without fanfare, velvet moss pulls up over the crossbeam's nakedness. It's just two lengths of lumber. tree long dead, I know, but where it takes me, to the intersection of history, of humanity and its Maker, of my sin and His mercy, that is the holiness that hushes me, bringing me low.

I press my forehead against the wood, leaning, It holds. And that verse from past week's memory work slips up unannounced,

"In this the love of God was manifested toward us, that God has sent His only begotten Son into the world that we might live through Him" (1 John 4:9 NKJV).

Not only know Him. Not only be saved by Him, reborn and washed. But to live through Him. Like oxygen.

Daily, I count gifts, numbering how He loves, and yet it's here at the Cross He drives the stake into the ground, nails His devotion over humanity: "In this the love of God was manifested toward us ...."

The common blessings I experience daily only extend the Crossbeam of Calvary into my everyday, leading me along the Love that supports the cosmos.

I inhale this place. Today, to live through Him, on this, the beam of blessing unending.

Ann helps us see "the holy" in laundry, listening, and liturgy. Her blog, "Holy Experience," is a fresh breath of air for the soul.

Website: Holy Experience

Real Spring Cleaning

http://aholyexperience.com/ (Ann Voskamp) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 00:00:00 -0500

[This article ran last week, but because of server problems, many of you missed it. For an introduction to Anne, please see the editor's note at the end of this article.]

What I caught began with an innocuous call, or so it seemed, mid-morning on Monday. An insurance agent needs a digital photograph of our geothermal heat pump by Friday, a formality for our file and his job. Which compels Dutch Farmer on Monday evening to remove every boxed up memory, Christmas wreath and invoice from the last 7 years out of the storage room to begin reorganizing afresh so that aforementioned agent will not injure himself getting his photo of said heat pump. I join the late night lustrating.

Come Tuesday morning, I slip into the storage room to file a gift bag, and am met with open floor, empty shelves -- space. Throughout the course of the morning, I find several excuses to crack open the door, just to steal a peek at the wonder of it all, and, now, in hindsight, I think that in fact the wonder of it all was contagious, for by noon on Tuesday I begin stripping down bookshelves, sorting Thorton Burgess, G.A. Henty, Wilder, Montgomery, Dr. Seuss, Flaubert, Teale, Porter, and Richard Scarry, discarding, purging, releasing, and reshelving. Which leads to the rearranging of three desks, two children's tables, a puzzle box, a piano, and 5 bookshelves. And so the dominoes continue to fall, with the dividing up of toys, labeling of tins, arranging of baskets.

I wake Wednesday morning, still feverish and deep in the throes of it, and before breakfast, empty out our bedroom closet of corduroy shirts, maternity swim suits, packages of ping pong balls. I fling overalls I once wore to the zoo, bag skirts I wore with cowboy boots, and toss cowboy boots I don't wear. I gather for the thrift store an old suitcase I hauled around Quebec for three months when I was fourteen and can't now zipper shut; but I write my name on the dust it wears and smile and think of the memories. Gone too are pants that never did fit in spite of all my wishing, a pair of shoes that pinched my little toes red, a sweater that itched and irritated whenever I foolishly wore it. And soon, through a tangle of clothes hangers and a knot of old ties, it emerges: open floor, empty shelves -- space!

Calling shoes out from the shade of dresses, I align them on a shelf, and they blink, adjusting to light of day. So I stand back. Stretch. Breathe. Revel.

Dutch Farmer, in from the barn, searches me out and I seek his face, reading for multiplied delight. And trip on this,

"You put your shoes on my shelf?"

Your shelf? My mind scrambles: I sent the ping pong balls, rolls of scotch tape, race car trophies, and batteries that merely squatted there, and moved them all into rightful residences! I reclaimed neglected territory! I enlarged our boundaries with the removal of unnecessary tonnage! But my tongue lies, thankfully, barely, still.

I mumble something unintelligible, collect an armful of clothes for the thrift store, and retreat. But changing over the laundry, indignant retorts roar through my frontal cortex, hardening heart arteries. I let them.

Iron heart sharpens razor tongue.

I set out breakfast dishes, and this heart tail snaps and whips subtly, quietly ... stingingly.

"Are you planning to go with us into town this afternoon?" he asks, buttering bagels.

Feeling less than buttery, I crack out a sharp "No!"

They eat, and I return to the closet. Another shuffle gives my shoes a bruised home elsewhere. Mainly because I haul, rather unceremoniously, my wedding dress, crinoline, veil, out of the closet and down to capacious storage room. I flick out the light, close the door.

At the close of breakfast, and before we step out into the day, we pray the day's Scripture. It's my turn, and I read:

"Therefore as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience" (Colossians 3:12 NIV, emphasis added).

Is it normal to feel so conspicuously, startlingly, the unclogging of one's arteries?

In my spring cleaning furor, how had I purged out the only attire necessary? Compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience. And how was that I would pray this verse, this day, with this ugly, naked heart? But He knew.

So come Wednesday at noon, a wedding dress once again anchors the corner of the closet, he and I wear happy, sheepish, forgiveness, and our shoes mingle intimately in the shadows of a top shelf.

And maybe this house, heart, is cleaned a bit deeper.

For grace is contagious and love a spacious, wide open place.

Lord, wash this heart clean.

Editor's Note: Article and image courtesy of ANN V. @HOLYEXPERIENCE. I've been blessed to meet a great group of Christian bloggers as we traveled to Uganda together with Compassion International. One blogger that wasn't on this trip that has repeatedly blessed my life with spiritual refreshment is Ann V. of Holy Experience (see link below). This is a brief glimpse of Ann's heart. Be blessed.

Ann helps us see "the holy" in laundry, listening, and liturgy. Her blog, "Holy Experience," is a fresh breath of air for the soul.

Website: Holy Experience

Real Spring Cleaning

http://aholyexperience.com/ (Ann Voskamp) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 00:00:00 -0500

[Please see editor's note below!]

What I caught began with an innocuous call, or so it seemed, mid-morning on Monday. An insurance agent needs a digital photograph of our geothermal heat pump by Friday, a formality for our file and his job. Which compels Dutch Farmer on Monday evening to remove every boxed up memory, Christmas wreath and invoice from the last 7 years out of the storage room to begin reorganizing afresh so that aforementioned agent will not injure himself getting his photo of said heat pump. I join the late night lustrating.

Come Tuesday morning, I slip into the storage room to file a gift bag, and am met with open floor, empty shelves -- space. Throughout the course of the morning, I find several excuses to crack open the door, just to steal a peek at the wonder of it all, and, now, in hindsight, I think that in fact the wonder of it all was contagious, for by noon on Tuesday I begin stripping down bookshelves, sorting Thorton Burgess, G.A. Henty, Wilder, Montgomery, Dr. Seuss, Flaubert, Teale, Porter, and Richard Scarry, discarding, purging, releasing, and reshelving. Which leads to the rearranging of three desks, two children's tables, a puzzle box, a piano, and 5 bookshelves. And so the dominoes continue to fall, with the dividing up of toys, labeling of tins, arranging of baskets.

I wake Wednesday morning, still feverish and deep in the throes of it, and before breakfast, empty out our bedroom closet of corduroy shirts, maternity swim suits, packages of ping pong balls. I fling overalls I once wore to the zoo, bag skirts I wore with cowboy boots, and toss cowboy boots I don't wear. I gather for the thrift store an old suitcase I hauled around Quebec for three months when I was fourteen and can't now zipper shut; but I write my name on the dust it wears and smile and think of the memories. Gone too are pants that never did fit in spite of all my wishing, a pair of shoes that pinched my little toes red, a sweater that itched and irritated whenever I foolishly wore it. And soon, through a tangle of clothes hangers and a knot of old ties, it emerges: open floor, empty shelves -- space!

Calling shoes out from the shade of dresses, I align them on a shelf, and they blink, adjusting to light of day. So I stand back. Stretch. Breathe. Revel.

Dutch Farmer, in from the barn, searches me out and I seek his face, reading for multiplied delight. And trip on this,

"You put your shoes on my shelf?"

Your shelf? My mind scrambles: I sent the ping pong balls, rolls of scotch tape, race car trophies, and batteries that merely squatted there, and moved them all into rightful residences! I reclaimed neglected territory! I enlarged our boundaries with the removal of unnecessary tonnage! But my tongue lies, thankfully, barely, still.

I mumble something unintelligible, collect an armful of clothes for the thrift store, and retreat. But changing over the laundry, indignant retorts roar through my frontal cortex, hardening heart arteries. I let them.

Iron heart sharpens razor tongue.

I set out breakfast dishes, and this heart tail snaps and whips subtly, quietly ... stingingly.

"Are you planning to go with us into town this afternoon?" he asks, buttering bagels.

Feeling less than buttery, I crack out a sharp "No!"

They eat, and I return to the closet. Another shuffle gives my shoes a bruised home elsewhere. Mainly because I haul, rather unceremoniously, my wedding dress, crinoline, veil, out of the closet and down to capacious storage room. I flick out the light, close the door.

At the close of breakfast, and before we step out into the day, we pray the day's Scripture. It's my turn, and I read:

"Therefore as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience" (Colossians 3:12 NIV, emphasis added).

Is it normal to feel so conspicuously, startlingly, the unclogging of one's arteries?

In my spring cleaning furor, how had I purged out the only attire necessary? Compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience. And how was that I would pray this verse, this day, with this ugly, naked heart? But He knew.

So come Wednesday at noon, a wedding dress once again anchors the corner of the closet, he and I wear happy, sheepish, forgiveness, and our shoes mingle intimately in the shadows of a top shelf.

And maybe this house, heart, is cleaned a bit deeper.

For grace is contagious and love a spacious, wide open place.

Lord, wash this heart clean.

Ann helps us see "the holy" in laundry, listening, and liturgy. Her blog, "Holy Experience," is a fresh breath of air for the soul.

Website: Holy Experience