Hide and Seek

Several years ago a friend and I went out twice a week with food, and warm clothes to serve the homeless people in our city. We knew many of them by name, knew some of their stories and what the factors were that led them to life on the street. It was a heartbreaking experience with just enough hope and humanity to make it bearable. So much despair. So much pain.

From there I went on to cook in a shelter for men. That was quite an adventure and I had many delightful and hilarious experiences there. ( I share about this in more detail on the cooking page of the blog.) I tried to write a sitcom about that experience when I quit working there, but I didn’t enjoy the process. If you know someone who writes screenplays I have a great pitch.

One of the take-aways I found while working there was that the line dividing the well-heeled and the down-at-the -heels is not as clear as some might think. Those groups have more in common than either would admit. The clients at the shelter were at least aware of their brokenness and often more likeable in their humility and transparency.

This poem came out of my observations during those years.

That Homeless Man is My Brother. Why he Doesn't Just “Get a Job” | by Megan Regnerus | P.S. I Love You

Hide and Seek

He is hiding from the addict 
and He's crying, "Try to find me,"
And He's hiding from the hooker
looking for another john.

He is hiding in the city
where the streets run red with shame.
He is hiding in the garbage
with the fetus with no name.

He's hiding in the squalor
of the squat where children weep.
He's hiding in the lullaby 
they shoot to get to sleep.

He's hiding in the cocaine,
He's hiding in the crack,
and his blood is crying softly,
"Try to find me."

He’s hiding in the 
Better Homes and Gardens magazine,
in the neat and shiny places
where the chaos isn't seen.

In the halls of power and wealth
where, “We're doing just fine thanks,”
He is hiding, He is hiding
He is hiding in their ranks.

And the substitutes can't cut it - 
they are counterfeits and lies
for the love that constant cries 
"Try to find me."

But his ear is finely tuned
for just one cry, “ I'm lost.”
and He will find you, He will find you
no matter what the cost.


Luke 15: 4&5









	


	





	

		
Heart Surgery
	


	
	

		

John 15. 1-5





I have kept a journal, where I can safely express the deep longings and raw struggles of my heart for decades. It is Lois 1.0  where I pour out my soul to God. Unedited. He can handle it. 





But writing poetry is different. For me, at least, that is a process of elimination, purification and distillation. Each word must serve the vision. No freeloaders allowed. This process is both painstaking and painful as it often involves some serious soul-searching.





This poem was born of a difficult experience that exposed some not-very-lovely parts of my character.  How often it’s those soul-crushing events that reveal our true motivations and idols.  I’m overwhelmingly grateful that  God sees, cares, and knows how to deal with my sometimes stubborn heart.  





Consent  
Yes, Lord, is protocol. 
 My howling, "No!' shatters the stratosphere. 
Shock waves reverberate.
 You are not moved.
 
Lord presumes sovereign.
I assume benevolent,
 kindly, like Santa, 
a lamb not a lion.
 
Now you come at me with pruning shears,
 like a gardener bent on bonsai,
 now a surgeon with a scalpel, 
 now a soldier with a sword. 

But that first yes was substance, 
and every howling no  rings hollow. 
Your various blades work to one sure purpose: 
carving out a space for love in the jungle  of my heart. 












After, lo, these many decades, I can honestly say He has yet to make an unnecessary cut.










 Afterword. Much later -Dec 2023





For a while now I have been wondering what was wrong. It felt like ages since I had experienced pruning.   Scripture says that the Lord disciplines those He loves – so why wasn’t I being disciplined? I am well aware of my many flaws.





Well to put your mind at ease – I have been assured of His love.  I won’t go into the gruesome details (I’m still smarting a bit from the sting) but something happened recently and through it the Lord exposed a rather ugly aspect of my personality. Although I was embarrassed and ashamed, at first I couldn’t see the harm in what I’d done. It wasn’t a glaringly obvious sin – to me. 





But it’s the adage of not seeing the forest for the trees. When you are submerged in a culture you become blind to its flaws – or sin. It took me a few days of examination to get to the root of the situation.  I had broken one of the ten commandments. No small matter. “You shall not covet.” 





Covetousness is the foundation of our whole consumer materialistic culture. Years ago I had rejected just that when I became aware that ’stuff’ would not,  could not satisfy the deep longings of my heart. But somehow I had slipped back into believing that having something I wanted was important enough to bend.   





I’m grateful for my sister, who actually responded when I texted at 4:30 AM, and lovingly agreed that the deed had to be brought into the light. And when I confessed to the appropriate person I am grateful that she first dealt with the spiritual implications.  





Revelation 3 :19 Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline, so be earnest and repent.

	


	





	

		
Net Worth
	


	
			

				
			


		
	

		

Our three children pretty much grew up in the same house, a modest bungalow we owned for 38 years.  I took great joy in the kitchen. It was a place to nurture friends and family – to feed body, soul and sometimes spirit – to create community. There’s something about sharing a meal that knits people together: our common humanity expressed in hunger, shared  pleasure in food and setting,  and  proximity – our feet under the same table. All these serve to break down barriers and forge bonds. Loneliness is epidemic in our culture, and community is the cure. 





When I downsized in 2016 I had to leave the buffet and china cabinet behind (ouch), but fortunately the table* – which can expand to fit six comfortably, eight snugly and ten intimately! – made the cut. That table has its own story (I love things with stories) – I acquired it in 1973 in a trade for my trusty little Volkswagon beetle  – but that’s another story for another time. 





 Financial wealth had never been a value of mine – I recognized early that none of the important things could be bought with money, and wearing oneself out to attain it meant you had to be willing to sacrifice the really valuable things.  But beauty comes close to being a necessity.   Simple beauty – a line of poetry – a rose bud – a perfect omelette, a trusted friendship (which has sometimes, like the omelette, required breaking a few eggs). So, while not rich I have been grateful for what I have, and have never in any way felt less than both wealthy and privileged. 















  Net Worth 

 I have wealth that others only dream of –  
a kitchen where nobility may dine.  
Warm red quarry tiles underscore the scene,  
the love-worn table nestles between corner  windows   
where morning's gold pours in.   

The treasures on the shelf befit royalty; 
 a feather, (He sees the little sparrow fall),  
a perfect, filigreed, Chinese Lantern,   
a thumbnail of emerald moss,  
 half  a robin’s egg -  just because. 
 
Wildflowers on the table whisper,
“Welcome.”  Coffee is on.
 Won’t you stay?  

Yesterday a king came to tea.

 
















 And the fact is, He did. Regularly. In tears, in joy, in struggles, sorrow and laughter.  I worked through many  difficult issues at that table, fought many  battles, ( and surrendered – not always graciously but ultimately gratefully),  confronted many enemies and discovered many life-altering truths.  I look at it now, scratched and scarred – the original French polish a distant memory – it’s a pretty good life metaphor.   The challenge continues – to make my heart a welcome home for the king.  





I’ve just discovered and am loving this group, Sounds Like Reign. 













My worth and my unworthieness – wonderful truths.










*Incredibly,  Jesus says to the church in Laodicea, in Revelation 3:20,  that He stands at the door and knocks, and if they open it, He will come in and dine with them.  Imagine the conversations around that table!

	


	





	

		
How Can These Things Be ?
	


	
	

		

I was surprised when the counsellor I was seeing told me it would be good for me to attend AlAnon. Apparently he didn’t get that I wasn’t the one with the problems  – he assured me I was. And, although I was naively surprised,  it also suffused me with hope. If the problems were mine then I could certainly do whatever it took to come to a place of emotional health.  His comment lifted me almost instantly from the status of struggling victim to potential victor. 





It was pretty brutal work,  possibly  much of it unnessarily so. There were probably lots of short cuts I missed along the way, signs I misread,  months when I stumbled around like Pooh in the Hundred Acre Wood, circling the same sad lies and memories.   But  by amazing grace, merciful interventions and  wonderful friendships I came out on the other side. Not to say I have all the answers – not by a half. But I have peace, joy, love, strength and hope.  And that’s not half bad – in fact I’d say it was good. Very, very good.





How Can These Things Be





Because a corner of your soul
died that day and deep inside 
the shock waves ripple yet.
Because rough hands  bruised you,
though your soul, already callused
did not feel.

Because nameless, faceless
hands make worse the wound
and the only cure you know
makes matters worse.

Because your anger and your pain
are fertile ground for seeds
of noxious weeds to send forth shoots
and the long roots of bitterness
stretch to the farthest reaches of your soul.

And the doctor says you’re dead mate
and the undertaker too 
and the pall bearers
hurry to the wake.

Because of that you must be born again.

John 3: 1-9






	


	





	

		
Try  Unity
	


	
	

		






Recently a friend and I were discussing how  our childhoods and our fathers had shaped our lives.  Our homes couldn’t have been more different. She was the daughter of missionaries, born in the jungle, raised in a legalistic  home – whereas I grew up in the frequent chaos of parental alcoholism.   Her father had been distant, distracted, difficult to please – she felt she never measured  up.  So she found herself struggling with the most common image of God in the Bible: Father. She was burdened always with a  sense of unworthiness in her attempts to relate to Him.





 Though far from perfect, in the midst of a party- central-anything goes  home, my father somehow managed to convey  love and strength  to me.  I found it comfortable to relate to God’s fatherhood. On the other hand,  I  did have trouble navigating a relationship with Jesus – the man – when I hadn’t always felt  accepted or safe with men. And as for the Holy Spirit – well that took some understanding.   Holy rollers were the subject of many a joke in my home. 





 Two of my grandaughters enjoy writing and I thought it would be fun if we each wrote a poem on the theme of remembrance. It was not quite fair, I have so many more decades to work with than they do – but this was the first memory that came to mind; it had loomed large in my early life . 

























 Foundations





  I remember the scene, I remember the fears,
  Then the horrible howling  complaint of the  gears
  As in anger she swiftly departed. 

 I remember the comforting scent of your skin, 
 The mingled aroma of Old Spice and gin  
As I sobbed in your arms brokenhearted. 

 I remember your "Hush" as I leaned on your chest
The sigh as you put my anguish to rest, 
    And the image of God  you imparted. 

      










 I’m not sure what God makes of gin – but Jesus’ first miracle was turning  about 120 gallons of water into wine.   My parents had been alcoholics for years  and I had  been married  for 7 years when they  turned their lives over to God. They both quit drinking,  instantly and finally, with no apparent symptoms of withdrawal.   A minor miracle before their family’s astonished  eyes. 





 The change in their lives was so pronounced, sincere and sustained it forced me – and several siblings – to examine  the  truth claims of Christianity by reading the Bible.   Though I had always believed God existed I’d never given a thought to either His holiness or my lack of it. To my shock He was  much more than a celestial Santa Claus or a feel good force.  As CS Lewis wrote, “A young man who wishes to remain an atheist cannot be too careful of his reading.”  





Although I’d never been an atheist, I wasn’t enamored of the idea of being a fanatical Christian. I had rather liked my benign imaginary God who made no claims on me. The word God carries some large implications…which is perhaps why so many avoid it, preferring to focus on the here and now, as if by denial you can delete Him.  As the old joke goes, ‘The trouble with God is, He think’s He’s God.’





One of the signposts that points to the  trinity of God is the bold statement that God is love. For if God is eternal, outside of time – then, before time – before the universe existed,  He could not have been love without there being an object of love. Love does not exist in a vacuum. But the God of the Bible is both relational and loving and the picture of Father, Son and Spirit loving and honoring one another eternally is beautiful.  Out of that love and relationship flows both creation and the hope of family. Although I don’t completely endorse its theology, the novel The Shack by William Young does a wonderful job of portraying that relationship. 





A big part of my spiritual journey has involved growing into loving and being loved by all three members of the Trinity – for which I am glad – it was always a tad uncomfortable not trusting the one who had redeemed you from death and the power of sin. And I can’t imagine trying to live a life pleasing to God without the help and strength of the Spirit.























If, like my friend, you  have found yourself hurting and unable to relate to one of the members of the trinity – it’s quite okay to approach God from a  different angle until those issues can be resolved, that pain healed.  













	


	





	

		
At Bay
	


	
			

				
			


		
	

		

 I wonder how many of us practiced social distancing and wearing masks long before it became mandatory.  There was a time when I experienced so much shame about my many failures, flaws and shortcomings that I kept friends at a distance. It felt like the safest way to live – even in the church. Perhaps even more so in the church.  Rather than setting me free, my understanding of the church kept me in chains. 





I had no idea who I was, what I believed, and what I liked. I’d learned early that being conciliatory and charming was an effective way to keep as many people as possible happy.  Often, by the end of the day my face hurt from the smile I continually wore.  Eventually the mask chafes and cracks.  It was becoming difficult to hold it all together and I found myself coming undone – in inconvenient places – crying in libraries, grocery stores, public streets.  Try as I did, I could not fix things on my own.  





A counsellor suggested I attend AlAnon, (any twelve step program is a good place to start).  For several years I did the difficult work of examining the events and beliefs that had shaped me.  I felt like I might die in the process.  Of course, instead, I found life – or life found me. 















At Bay

You can see through glass.
You can see in and out.
You can hear through glass.
You can live almost normally.

No one  knows it is there
until they try to draw near
and  are rudely deflected.
by its cold hard touch.

Everything is safe -
just one  quick wipe
with Windex once a week.

Then He ambled by
with love so tangible 
I flung one window wide,
blind to His hammer.
 
Love has to touch you.*








Much of the healing in my journey was mediated through my amazing and patient friends who spoke truth lovingly,  and prayed powerfully and repeatedly until I finally came to believe that my life had some value.  The joy of finding that my life has purpose, that what I have learned, and who I am can bring hope and healing to another struggler is still a precious  gift.  





The “He” in that poem is Jesus. And the incredible truth is that He died so I might live.





*I struggled with including that line lest it be misunderstood.  The Lord has never been anything but loving and gentle with me. But, the walls that shut out life and community  had to come down. The church is a body not a building, and connection is a must.  Anything less than that is a travesty.  

	


	





	

		
Believing is Seeing
	


	
			

				
			


		
	

		

Although born into a home where faith was scorned, I found myself believing in God from childhood onwards. To my unjaded eyes the wonder and order of the natural world not just spoke but had stamped on every surface, Created by God.  How could anyone think otherwise? Indeed. 





 As a teen and young adult I had several transcendant moments, and though I had no idea what they meant, they did cause me to reject a materialist worldview. Something was out there. Possibly someone.  Although I wasn’t spending any time trying to solve the mystery, I did think it important enough that I would not have married someone who didn’t agree.  





And when everything is running smoothly and life is easy – why rock the boat?  But darker days come don’t they ?  Days when you just don’t get it. Why me? What have I done to deserve this?  How long? 





 While it certainly doesn’t feel good, those are perhaps the most fruitful times in our lives – if – and it’s a big if, we don’t look for ways to kill the pain. Pain is a good thing. It’s a message to our souls that something is amiss.  There are so many ways to kill or at least dull the pain. I’ve tried many. But if you want to grow, want life, the healthiest thing to do is embrace it.  Let it do its work. It’s worth it. 















Believing is Seeing 

No one told me he had died
so when God called,
 I answered.
I told him all my secrets.
He told me some of his.

I hid every word
 like a child at the beach
stashing shells and rocks 
 in a  sturdy cardboard box,
to store the ocean’s roar
for landlocked days.

Time passed, light lapsed.

   Pleasure played me,
   gravity grabbed me. 
  The simple awe of knowing him
  got  shoved on a shelf 
  at the back of the closet,
got lost in the  dust -
  just a sock under the bed.

Cataracts formed on my spirit
eclipsing  the ambient light.
Not strobe - nor neon,
neither particle nor wave 
 pierced that night.
All were dulled,
palled by the shroud 
that clouded my soul.

The road is hard in the dark.

    A ray of hope from home today,
  a poignant  parcel sent my way.
   The scribbled note had this to say,
 "I found them in a  closet and 
I couldn’t throw them out.”

An ocean of  recollection 
washed  out of the box,
         a high tide of light          
 that had been ebbing out
for decades.
     Longside a stretched out lumpy sock,
        lay conches, whelks, the tumbled rocks!

Majesty and mystery,
 essence of the mighty sea,
 clung to them like limpets.

     From the sock, still intact, 
       a silent starfish blazed with fact,
        the blinding truth that I had lacked.

     Light finds its source in Him.
 











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Allow Me to Introduce Myself
	


	
	

		




























 





Scrambled Eggs?  Well, it’s not what I’d hoped for but if you have ever attempted to choose a username or name a blog you’ll understand. Whatever subliminal urge prompted that name, ( the breakfast dishes abandoned on the counter )  it was accepted and I embraced it.  Mine.  It feels appropriate and freeing. I can discuss anything under that rubric. 





So, who am I and why am I here?  I am the second eldest of six,  mother of three and grandmother of eight. From early childhood I believed my name did violence to my character.  Lois – stodgy and serious where I was quick and funny.  And Ann – without an e.  Dead boring.  But immaturity aside, the significant journey of my life has been discovering who I am as Lois, daughter of the Most High King, created in His image to reflect His glory and to serve His purposes in advancing His kingdom on earth.  Boring?  How could life anywhere in proximity to the very creator of the universe be less than amazing!





Life holds so many delights,  a dizzying, dazzling  panorama  of joys to experience:  family, food, friendships, plants, birds,  and poetry are a few of mine.  But the primary passion of my life would have to be seeing captives set free. 





Hence my appearance here. We were created by God for freedom, love, joy and peace – all within the context of relationship both  with him and our fellow man. Just a brief glance around shows how few lives are thus characterized. The words themselves almost seem a mockery of 21st century reality. 





Although born into a home where faith was scorned, I found myself believing in God from childhood onwards. To my unjaded eyes the order and wonder of the natural world not just spoke, but had stamped on every object, Handmade by God.  How could anyone think otherwise?  Indeed.  My poem ‘Believing is Seeing’ speaks of this journey.





 For many years various friends and family  had encouraged me to publish my poetry, but I had serious doubts that it could go anywhere. I began to publish the blog Scrambled Eggs in 2020 – during that period of heightened stress. It was a good outlet for my need to communicate while locked down during the early days of Covid hysteria. And now I am turning my blog into a book.










  I was publishing  the blog posts somewhat randomly, starting with my favorite poems, so this little book will also be a tad random and lacking in chronological order. My apologies.  There is a big dis-connect between the technologies of blog and print so the links to outside sources are lost in space. Plus, alas, I was unable to make the poems stand alone.  The algorithm seems to have a mind of its own which doesn’t allow for precision formatting.  So, like me, this wee book is a lot less than perfect.