Stress interrupted

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

I've been all het up lately.  Politics. Religion. Economics. Justice. Messed up toenail. Poison oak everywhere. Truck won't start.  I get this way sometimes. I turn into an auger, boring myself into the ground. The harder and faster I spin the more solidly I get stuck in the muck.

An intervention is appropriate.

And that intervening grace (I'm sure this is already a theological term, but I didn't look it up) comes in a variety of ways, thank goodness.

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee. is the intervening grace appointment on my calendar.  Lately I have not protected this moment, and have replaced it with things that had to be done. I need to quit doing that.

Intervening grace can be gentle, almost imperceptible. A soothing, warm breeze. An old melody that brings forgotten memories.  Gentle chuckles that grow into belly laughs.  It can be forceful, practically irresistible.  A firm grip on the arm when one is about to step in front of an oncoming bus. A friend stealing the keys from hands under the influence.  Loss of electricity.  It comes in the form that is needed.

I had a meeting yesterday afternoon.  Normally that would not be grace.  A meeting on Friday afternoon at four o'clock?  That seems more like a hellish notion.  But the meeting was at Camp Sumatanga.  The sun was sinking low, the breeze was cool, and Greasy Cove was brilliant with the water color palette of spring. The talk around the supper table journeyed through the past at Camp. Everyone had their own. It was grace when it happened way back when.  It was grace in the remembrance.  I felt different when I left Sumatanga.  But that's not unusual.  It is the most grace-full place I know.  You can enjoy some of that grace, or remember past grace-full Sumatanga times next Friday and Saturday during the Sounds of Sumatanga.  I love Sumatanga. I love music. So it's a no-brainer for me. Here is a moment of intervening grace for me from Sounds of Sumatanga 2008.  I may wear the same shirt next week-end if I can find it.  I am afraid some of my family may have hidden it as a means of intervening grace.  Seriously. Come to Sumatanga next Saturday.

This morning I was looking at facebook. There was a post from Kristine Praulina, which included a link to some songs she has recorded recently.  I met Kristine at Wesley Camp, the Methodist camp a short drive (if you know how to get there) from Liepaja, Latvia.   At the end of a couple of days of workshopping, our group was whipped, mostly because we Americans forgot that the sun did not set until after midnight and bounced right back up shortly thereafter.  Everything was quiet. The sun was bright outside and a cool breeze blew through the Alabama room, which is a finished out gigantic hay loft, the assembly hall of Wesley Camp.  As the rest of us simultaneously began a siesta, a single voice gently began to cover us like a warm blanket. It was Kristine.

It was grace, intervening. Then, and now.

Hallelujah.

.