Shannon S. McKee

musings and moments

Searching for New Normals During a Pandemic

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I’ve settled on my intention. I’m trying for some sense of normal. Get out of bed when the alarm goes off at its usual time. Find the scrunchie and pull the hair back. Slide on the slippers (the cute owl ones that I love). Stumble groggy up the dark hall. Light the candle on the dining room table. Start the soft piano music to fill the background. Unload the dishwasher. Change out the hand towel and the wash cloth. Hear the soft click of the gas lighting as I warm the kettle. Load the tea pot for me and the french press for him. Feed the dog. Check my weather app to see if I’ll be able to get a walk in.

Normal. That’s what I’m going for here.

As I move about the kitchen, my mind wanders. I feel a tinge of bitterness rise up like bile in my soul as I embrace the truth that things really aren’t normal. At all. I remember that our fam is supposed to be on a Spring Break in Florida this week. That little sliver of bitterness is just enough. A crack is all it needed and now the door is flung wide open. Next, I’m recalling last night’s reports about the stimulus bickering on Capital Hill. And then I’m worrying about my sweet friend’s recent Facebook live post and hoping she’ll be OK. From there, I’m waxing poetic (inwardly) about how much I hate the guilt-inducing virus memes and the skewed information in articles and posts online. And then back to worry… “is everyone OK? Why haven’t I heard back from my friend in Rome? I hate that mom and dad live 12 hours away. Is my MIL’s asthma putting her at higher risk? Is my Grandad lonely over there in that big house? Will my friend’s immune system cope with this?”

Welp. I wanted normal. And, if I’m not careful, this part is normal too. This tendency toward bitterness, worry, and stress is always lurking there in the shadows. THOSE neuropathways are well-worn in this old brain.

So I pour the tea and head to a cozy spot. The house is still quiet… because, well, things actually aren’t normal and the teenagers aren’t up and headed out for their normal days. Who really knows when they’ll be up – could be 10 minutes, could be two hours. Because… yeah, nothing’s normal. Except, evidently, my old, sinful nature! So… back to finding a cozy spot before I start getting bitter about the not knowing.

In the quiet, I admit that I don’t have the mental energy to go to Jeremiah – my original plan for lenten reading when I was all inspired back in February. Instead, I return to a familiar passage from Paul’s letter to the Philippians. I taught it just a few weeks ago. Who knew that we’d all need it so badly just a few days later?

The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

At that, I am calmed. This is how I build a new neuropathway. By renewing my mind with truth instead of staying stuck on the pathway that leads to inward destruction. I forge new connections, traveling a newer pathway that is really the most ancient pathway of all.

Oh, peace of God. Spirit of the Living God, come stand like a sentry over my heart and mind. Guard it like a prized possession – your treasure. Help me turn to you moment by moment, letting YOU and YOUR peace stand vigilant over my thoughts, emotions, passions, and desires. Thank you that I don’t have the burden of working harder to do the guarding all by myself. I don’t have to muster joy out of my own being. I just have to come to you. To let my thoughts dwell on you: YOU are true. YOU are honorable. YOU are just… not like our politicians but always exactly just. YOU are pure… there is no blemish in you; no sliver of bitterness rising up like bile. YOU are lovely… so lovely that I can barely take it in. YOU are commendable… in every way. Crowd out the old ways with Your presence and bring me back to this quiet mental space often, Lord. Nothing else will suffice. Make this my new normal. Amen and amen. 

Gathering Around a Long-Awaited Letter

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In case you missed it, I’ve been spending a good bit of my free time lately prepping for our Women’s Bible study that starts in a couple of weeks. I love teaching the Bible to other thirsty women. Several years ago I wrote a post that describes some of the emotion that wells up in me when we study the Bible together. Here’s a reprint from the old blog’s archives.

You know that prickly sensation when you’re in anticipation of something? I like to think of reading the Bible like that.

Sort of like we might feel if we didn’t have instant messaging or tweeting or email or even phone service. And we had to wait for letters to come great distances to hear from the ones we loved. I imagine it like the early immigrants to America might have felt. Maybe a letter has just arrived from our Grandad who still lives in the Old Country. How we all grab for it and want to read it first. Instead we gather around in the fire – brothers, sisters, cousins, all of us together. And one of us reads it out loud. And maybe his Scottish brogue comes through thick in his writing and Mom has to explain this or that because our own memories of “home” have grown dim. We didn’t really mean to forget. Not really. But, truth be told, it’s hard to remember what he looks like anymore or the way his hug feels after a walk in the meadow. And the littlest among us barely knew him at all before we left.

But when Momma reads we remember. We hang on every word. And I get goosebumps as I listen to words penned by his precious hand. A bit of him. Here. With us now.

That’s how I feel about getting to open my Bible and pour over its Words. It’s an imperfect analogy, I know. But, it gets at the heart of it for me. Sometimes we open the letter together, all gathered around the Book while someone reads it aloud. But, I’ve also got to acknowledge that the letter is for me alone also. It’s God’s communication to ME.

SONY DSCFor, I did receive a letter from a great distance. Only it’s not from Grandad. Naw – it’s even better. This letter is from the very One who called the stars out by name and told the proud ocean waves where to stop. And knew me while I was still being knit together in my mother’s womb. The One whose mercies are new every morning. He who heaps grace on me – grace upon grace. He has spoken. Written down all the things He wanted me to know for this life. Fantastic accounts of love spurned and the relentless pursuit of a Suitor. A picture of the cheater wooed back. Of a love that wins and a future hope that awaits me.

A letter like that shouldn’t be sitting pristine on a shelf. Friends, do you know that men died so that we could get this letter? And read it in our own language? This is a letter that deserves to be poured over. Read again and again. Slowly, savoring every word. Pages worn thin from getting it out over and over again.

I know I need the letter. Oh how I need it. Because, I’ll be honest, sometimes I forget. I forget what He’s like and how His story has become my history. Let’s face it, there are lots of other voices competing with the letter. Trying to keep me from it. Some even mock the letter. “How do you even know it’s from Him? What if it’s a fake? Or been altered by the deliveryman?”

But I know better. Aside from apologetic proof upon proof, there is the reality that His fingerprints are all over His correspondence. His heart beating with the very idea of something so impossible as grace. There’s nothing like it in all the wide world. No ancient text from any other religion that quite reads like this one. I both need and WANT to hear what He has to say. To be reminded afresh.

I know, right? You felt it too. Goosebumps. So what are you waiting for? Go get your letter and soak in the words from the heart of your Suitor. Go find out for yourself what it is that makes Him so worthy of your affection.

Sometimes it Gets Ugly When Expectation and Reality Meet

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2016When I declared 2016 to be my year of the soul, I was imagining something peaceful and reflective. A year full of contemplative moments. Days dripping with meaning and contentment. With candles and depthy, soul-stirring music accompanying me at every turn.

What I did not anticipate were more of the ugly cries than my usual. I did not expect to have my heart so bound up by the lives of some tiny people in Costa Rica. Or that I’d be so overwhelmed by the plight of women and children all over the globe even though I don’t believe feminism has the answers to their angst.  I didn’t think I’d wrestle so much with issues of my own calling and vocation. I did not anticipate wondering if I could handle another second of mothering or growing so stinkin’ weary of making yet another meal for my family. No one told me that I might stress-eat a whole bag of Dark-Chocolate Milanos because raising two very strong-willed teenagers is scary and hard when your soul is engaged in the whole ordeal. Or that I’d have terrifying moments of wondering if God really meant it when He made me the p-dub (pastor’s wife) or if I should really be the one leading our precious church’s women’s ministry. You could never have told me that I’d leave my Bible closed for a few weeks at a time and just want to play Sudoku on my iPad instead.

I didn’t expect to feel so raw and exposed. And want to run from that. Not what I expected at all, actually.

As if a person could really tend to the garden of her soul without getting dirt under her fingernails.

There are many outward forces that can render a garden fruitless. Crushing storms and hungry critters and root-killing pests all threaten the health of a garden. I know this to be true – literally and figuratively. I even sort of expect them to come in this sin-stained world of ours. I have even trained my mind and heart to be on guard against them. But, there are also inward forces. Weeds that have been left to grow hidden and unchecked. Or, worse yet, that have broken off at the surface but not been pulled out at the root. Invasive vines that intertwine themselves with the good plants. Depleted soil that hasn’t been cultivated, fed or watered.candles (1)

It has been these inward things that are the source of my surprise and angst. I’m not sure there’s any easy, painless way to deal with those. Deeply rooted weeds don’t get yanked out without some digging and disturbing of the soil. Removing invasive vines can leave a barren spot in the garden or render a good plant weak for a time.

So, my year of the soul has been much harder than I expected it to be. I’m not saying it’s been bad or that I want take-backs. It’s been profoundly good. In the eternal, God’s economy kind of way.

Thankfully, I’m not toiling over my soul garden alone. Never alone. I’m cooperating with the Master Gardner. Yes, sanctification is a joint affair. I am tending to my soul by working out my salvation with fear and trembling. But, He superintends the work, pouring out streams of living water for the withered plants and cultivating the soil that surrounds them. He supplies what I need to say “no” to another bag of Milanos. His mercies are new every single day when I feel like I don’t have what it takes to mother or be the p-dub. He feeds me through His Word, speaking grace and mercy over my soul. He supplies me with a husband and an abundance of dear friends who know me and speak truth to me and laugh with me and pray for me. He surrounds me with stories of redemption so that I do not lose focus on the bigger, kingdom-sized picture.

And, sometimes, He gives me candles and peaceful moments in beautiful spaces, too. Because He’s just like that.

The Keeper of the Stream – A Parable

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There once was a town high in the Alps that straddled the banks of a beautiful stream. The stream was fed by the springs that were old as the earth and deep as the sea.

The water was clear like crystal. Children laughed and played beside it; swans and geese swam on it. You could see the rocks and the sand the rainbow trout that swarmed at the bottom of the stream.

High in the hills, far beyond anyone’s sight, lived an old man who served as Keeper of the Springs. He had been hired so long ago now that no one could remember a time when he wasn’t there. He would travel from one spring to another in the hills, removing branches or fallen leaves or debris that might pollute the water. But his work was unseen.Munroe Falls Metro Park, Indian Spring Trail

One year the town council decided they had better things to do with their money. No one supervised the old man anyway. They had roads to repair and taxes to collect and services to offer, and giving to an unseen stream-cleaner had become a luxury they could no longer afford.

So the old man left his post. High in the mountains, the springs went untended; twigs and branches and worse muddied the liquid flow. Mud and salt compacted the creek bed; farm wastes turned parts of the stream into stagnant bogs.

For a time, no one in the village noticed. But after a while the water was not the same. It began to look brackish. The swans flew away to live elsewhere. The water no longer had the crisp scent that drew the children to play by it. Some people in the town began to grow ill. All noticed the loss of the sparkling beauty that used to flow between the banks of the streams that fed the town. The life of the village depended on the stream, and the life of the stream depended on the keeper.

2016The city council reconvened, the money was found, the old man was rehired. After yet another time, the springs were cleaned, the stream was pure, children played again on its banks, illness was replaced by health, the swans came home, and the village came back to life.

The life of the village depended on the health of the stream.

The stream is your soul. And you are the keeper.

(taken from John Ortberg’s book, Soul Keeping)