Archives for January 2012

What Makes a Student? The THC Book Club

       Two views of the one room schoolhouse on the LBJ Ranch near Fredricksburg, Texas
At the tender age of 15, I entered the classroom of Arthur Bottaro with fear and trembling. He was short, imposing, intense, demanding and highly intelligent. Mr. Bottaro taught 11th grade Honors English at Glendale High School, and he was perhaps the single most important teacher in my life.
In his class, we were expected to write weekly book reviews and essays and we were to type them on ditto paper. Please remember that I went to high school in the dark ages, before either Xerox or mimeograph machines. I went to school in the era of carbon paper – and dittos. A ditto master consisted of two parts – a front sheet of specially coated typing paper and a back sheet, laden with purple ink. The letters typed on the top sheet would pick up the ink from the back sheet and then the type-covered master would be attached to a drum that was hand-cranked to produce copies from its inked back side.
And why did we have to reproduce our work? Because copies of each and every written assignment were made and distributed to every member of the class. Then we proceeded to rip each others’ work to pieces, under the studious, challenging glare of our highly dramatic and talented teacher. I was scared to death about 90% of the time – but that year-long experience is the crucible in which I learned to write clearly, succinctly, honestly and reasonably well.
I thought a lot about Mr. B as I read chapters 3-6 of David Brooks’ fascinating book, “The Social Animal,” the most recent selection of the Book Club at The High Calling website. This week’s assignment takes us through the development of our lead character, Harold, by looking at how the human brain grows, changes and expands from infancy through high school.

From the amazingly high rate of synapses formed during the first three years of life (called synaptogenesis):
“If you want to get a sense of the number of potential connections between the cells in Harold’s brain, contemplate this: a mere 60 neurons are capable of making 10(to the 81st power) possible connections with each other. (That’s 1 with 81 zeroes after it.) The number of particles in the known universe is about one-tenth of this number.”
to the entirely unique pattern those synapses take in each one of our brains, and how repetition forms our “neural networks,” which:

“…embody our experiences and in turn guide future action. They contain the unique way each of us carries himself in the world, the way we walk, talk, and react. They are the grooves down which our behavior flows. A brain is a record of a life. The networks of neural connections are the physical manifestation of your habits, personality, and predilections. You are the spiritual entity that emerges out of the material networks in your head.”

Just as the ancient Hebrews believed, we are creatures who are all of a piece – head/heart/body/mind/spirit. And though Brooks, in his introduction, indicated that he would not be delving into the spiritual arena in this volume, he does not seem to be able to help himself. We are connected – to the various parts of ourselves – and to each other.
As I hoped he might, Brooks does look at how story-telling is an important part of intellectual and emotional development, noting that many of the stories we imagine in childhood carry over into adulthood, at least in terms of their tone, and in the way we think about life. An interesting contrast was made between ‘paradigmatic thinking,’ (which is “structured by logic and analysis”) and ‘mythic mode,’ (which contains “another dimension…the dimension of good and evil, sacred and profane. This mythic mode helps people not only tell a story, but make sense of the emotions and moral sensations aroused by the story.”) This distinction just may help me understand why my brother and I see the world so differently!

The sections in chapter 5 on parenting were deeply encouraging, underlining that good parenting does not require a graduate degree in psychology but rather depends on connections established early in life and continued at each stage of development. And it depends upon our modeling both resilience and problem-solving. The hackneyed phrase about giving our children both ‘roots and wings’ seems to have been proven in the social laboratories of our finest universities.

And the last few pages of that chapter reminded us with a powerful, storied example of how ‘fearfully and wonderfully’ we are made, with layer after layer of complexity that we cannot often see, much less navigate with success. “This is why,” Brooks writes, “all biographies are inadequate; they can never capture the inner currents.”
But it was in Chapter 6, where we are invited into Harold’s high school experience, that we delve most deeply into the powerful impact a courageous and dedicated teacher can have on adolescents. From his analysis of cliques and the intricacy of the socialization process, Brooks underscores the primacy of reading social cues correctly. Our hero possesses supreme skills in the social arena. But in the classroom? He is lost at sea.

Until he encounters Ms. Taylor, a teacher with powerful insights into how the adolescent brain is structured. She also possesses a grand idea for matching students with their particular passion for learning. And here is where Mr. Brooks’ writing and research began to resonate with me at a very deep level.

“Of course, Ms. Taylor wanted to impart knowledge, the sort of stuff that shows up on tests But within weeks, students forget 90 percent of the knowledge they learn in class anyway. The only point of being a teacher is to do more than impart facts; it’s to shape the way students perceive the world, to help a student absorb the rules of a discipline. The teachers who do that get remembered. She didn’t so much teach them as apprentice them…She forced them to make mistakes. The pain of getting things wrong and the effort required to overcome error creates an emotional experience that helps burn things into the mind. She tried to get students to interrogate their own unconscious opinions…She also forced them to work…She pushed. She was willing to be hated. Ms. Taylor’s goal was to turn her students into autodidacts. She hoped to give her students a taste of the emotional and sensual pleasure discovery brings – the jolt of pleasure you get when you work hard, suffer a bit, and then something clicks. She hoped her students would become addicted to this process. They would become, thanks to her, self-teachers for the rest of their days.”

 And this, of course, is the place where I wrote Mr. B’s name in the margin of my book. For in addition to a long list of books, we also talked about ideas; we particularly talked about how ideas IN books can change the world. We acted out scenes from Shakespeare and Wilder; we enjoyed earnest discussions about controversial reading material; we learned to take a book apart, by theme/characters/plot and then to put it back together again. We were encouraged, even demanded “to think on paper,” as he used to say. Mr. B. was largely responsible for any academic success I enjoyed at UCLA and many years later, at Fuller Theological Seminary. Because Mr. B. gave me permission – and provided the expertise – to read anything and everything on multiple levels at once: analytically, emotionally, intellectually and experientially. And then he taught me how to write about it with clarity and occasionally, on a really good day, to write about it with grace. 

He died of a heart attack, very suddenly, about a dozen years after I graduated, when he was about 17 years younger than I am now. And I never went back to say ‘thank-you.’ So tonight I will say it: 
“Thank you, Mr. B., for your careful attention to each one of us and your unique teaching style with all of us together. Teachers like you are a gift to the world and I am forever grateful that you were a teacher of mine.”
 

 

God Has GOT to Have a Sense of Humor

Remember that trip we took?
The one on the winding road? Highway One?
You remember. I’m sure you do – 
the one with views like this one? 
Sun on the water, rocks and sand and surf?
 Well, take a closer look at those rocks. 
Especially that big one right in the middle of this picture.
Hey, wait a second!
That ain’t no rock.

In fact, it’s a seal.
A very particular kind of seal, 
that hauls out on a very particular beach 
called Piedras Blancas.
And you can park-and-view near this very particular beach.
And let me tell you, if you’ve ever wondered if there is 
weird wonderfulness in this world,
this is the viewpoint where every single suspicion is confirmed.

These are elephant seals.

The males can weigh up to 8,800 pounds 
and live for 20 years.
Their name comes from that strangely-shaped proboscis –
and their immense size.

 And they are amazing to watch.
 They spend 80% of their time in the water, diving deeply, eating a whole lot.
They haul out to breed,
to birth,
to rest.
And we get to watch it all.
 These mamas are very attentive – for about five months.
Then they waddle off to swim away and the pups are on their own. All of them that survive that first year find their back to their birthing beach again and again.
 And if the wrong mama gets near the pup?
Fuggedabout it.
The jig is up.
And sand will fly.
 (Actually, the sand flying is just a way to keep cool 
and moist as the sun beats down.)
 It’s an amazing sight.
Weird,
wild,
noisy,
a bit smelly,
and fascinating.
 Stop by sometime, especially if you ever get the chance to visit San Simeon, 
the Hearst castle on the hill. 
This beach is just below there.
 These are faces perhaps only a mother could love.
But to tell you the truth,
I think they’re kinda cute.
In a strangely alarming sort of way. 
And they pretty much convince me that God likes to smile.

Posting early, but will join with Laura’s Playdates with God 
and L.L’s On, In and Around Mondays early next week.
On In Around button

The Primary Verb: FOLLOW

Maybe it started with … Abraham,
following the call of a God he barely knew,
a Voice in his ear,
in his heart. 

Or maybe it was Jacob?

Finagling his way to a birthright,
following the north-eastern road to find safe harbor,
and discovering the God he never knew,
the One who was in ‘this place.’
And then there was Joseph.
And Joseph didn’t exactly ‘follow,’
 or did he?
Forced into Egyptian slavery,
yet … always hearing,
always listening,
always hoping.
Always following.
Moses followed the Voice, too.
The Israelites followed the Cloud and the Pillar of Fire.
Sometimes.
It was hit and miss most of the time, actually;
the judges, the kings, the priests, the prophets.
Sometimes staying on the path;
sometimes not so much. 

The magi followed the star,

Joseph followed the dreams,
Mary followed the promise.
And thirty years later, Jesus went on the road.
And over and over and over again,
he used one single verb:
follow.
Follow me, to be exact.  
That verb came first; it came before
believe,
obey,
live,
love.
Follow.
At the heart of discipleship is this word,
this verb which comes from the root ‘to hear.’
This is the ‘essence of discipleship,’
our pastor said.
And I think he’s right.
But here’s something else I think:
it’s a really, really tough gig.
Because, see, I want to follow.
Yes, I do.
I want to follow Jesus, no matter what,
no matter where.

But then…I see a promising rabbit trail,
that one over there that says,
“Let’s Keep It Safe.”

Or the one that takes me to a box,
a nice big one,
with square corners,
and clear borders.
Borders that are not terribly permeable.
This box keeps Jesus neatly within my
particular worldview,
removing the uncomfortable bits,
the tough stuff.
Like denying myself,
or taking up that cross.
Or selling all and giving it away.
Or becoming like a child.
If I can just keep Jesus inside,
where we can have tea once a day,
and talk about life –
well, that’s the kind of following that seems doable.
There’s another route I could choose, too.
In fact, I too often do.
I truly do follow Jesus,
right down the path.
But I sorta stop part way.
I take a pit stop,
right there in that part of the path
where it’s just the two of us,
spending quality time together.
And that’s the true path,
the good path.
But it isn’t the whole path.

When I keep it close like that,
when I make it only about Jesus and me,
that’s when I am most apt to
miss the adventure,
to miss the abundant life Jesus promised.

So here’s to taking a bigger risk,
to letting go of that overwhelming need to be safe,
to breaking through the edges of the box,
to reaching out
as well as going deep.

Do I want to be a real disciple?
Or not?

Signing on with Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer, Ann and Emily tonight.



 
 

Just an Ordinary Saturday…

My new friend Joe Bunting has this amazing website called “The Write Practice.” On it, he offers advice, writes lovely essays himself, and provides interesting prompts for 15 minutes of reflective writing.  This weekend he had a doozy, generating more than 70 comments and lots of interesting response. It’s about inspiration vs. perspiration – check it out and play along. I don’t do what Joe suggested we do – jot things down in a notebook for future inspiration AND perspiration. But I did the next best thing. I just wrote for 15 minutes about the events of an ordinary Saturday. But….BUT the ending to that ordinary day was something else. And the photos that you see sprinkled throughout these words give only partial testimony to the extraordinariness of the evening. So…an ordinary day…lit by an extraordinary bit of central California coastal glory.
She sits and looks at me across the scones and tea. Tired and sad, the tears begin to gather, the jaw line begins to tense, the fingers curl.

A friend has asked for a meeting, for a listening ear, a word of encouragement.

She waits, trying to control the barrage of emotions that are washing through her as she speaks. Some are triggered by memories older than she is; some come from pieces of her own story, long before these events;  some are as fresh as today’s coffee, the scent of which is filling this public space.

I try to listen and to speak carefully, gently asking questions when I need to, offering words of comfort, making one or two suggestions.
We spend about 70 minutes together, sipping tea, wiping tears, sharing stories. I bless her at the end of our time. I bless her with the words of Aaron and I hold her hands and cry out silently from deep inside myself; I cry out the ancient words of the blind man by the side of the road, the words of the leper on the way, the words of the woman who grabbed the hem of his garment. I cry out to the God who made us both: Have mercy, Lord. Have mercy.
Then I drive across town. Through the traffic, the road work, the line-up for the downtown farmer’s market, the red lights and the green ones. I pull into the underground parking, find a place to park and ride the elevator up to the first floor to look at shoes.
Shoes.

The bane of my existence. 

Nothing fits. Nothing is comfortable. Nothing ever works.

But today, I find some fur-lined clogs that are PERFECT. And I stride upstairs, able to walk in something other than Asics running shoes for the first time in several weeks. Triumph!

There’s a baby shower this afternoon – a last-minute invitation that was a bit awkward. As the former (now retired) associate pastor, people are often a bit uncertain. Should we or shouldn’t we? This mother-in-law decided to go for it and I am happy to be included.

And I love shopping for baby things. Yes, I do. I’m not ashamed to admit it – I love it. So I pick up several adorable tiny things for this little-girl-to-be and leave them to be wrapped while I walk across the third floor to the restaurant.

Lunch. That’s exactly what I need! A salad, a tall, cool glass of water, a Cookie Royale. Sigh. I spread out the paperwork I’ve printed and look at all the possible writing assignments I can sign onto for this month. One deadline is past – that one is shoved aside. One is due within the week. Maybe. One the 31st of this month – definitely. And one the 20th of next month. Absolutely. Now I have a little direction for this writing part of my life. The salad tastes better because I did this small bit of sorting first. And the cookie – well. The best cookie ever baked, that’s all there is to it.
But as I look around me, I see something that makes my own eyes well up this winter Saturday. There is a table, just to my right, with three women at it – three generations of women, actually. A white-haired older woman – attractive, convivial, engaged; a brown-haired woman of middle age – listening to the older woman attentively; a 20-something, head moving between the two older women, shifting from one end of the conversation to another, taking a bite of lunch, pausing, pushing back the hair from the side of her face.
That was my life just about 18 months ago. My mother was stronger, saner, her beautiful, vivacious self. I and one or the other of my daughters would sit together with her, enjoying a meal or a story, listening and learning. That part of my life appears to be slipping away, along with large chunks of my mother’s mind. I miss that life.

I miss her.

A quick trip home, some furious computer work for my husband, then on to the baby shower. Always nervous entering a room full of women, I load my plate too heavily, find a place in the corner and sit and watch for a while. Again, I am struck by the connections across the generations. The women in this room range from early 20’s to late 60’s. They have gathered from near and far to offer gifts to a newly forming female child, to shower love on someone they have yet to meet. 
So, I forcibly relegate the rising tide of inadequacy, timidity, and wondering-if-I-will-ever-really-belong-anywhere feelings to the room called ‘pointless noise’ in my brain. Instead, I choose to think about the blessing. The gift that is womanhood, the privilege of being a mother or an aunt or a grandmom, the joys of shared stories, shared experiences, mutual memories. And I offer up a breath of thanks for it all – the chatter, the scent of tea, the savory and the sweet on my plate, the love offerings wrapped in pink.
As I leave, the sun is beginning to color the sky. The mission is nearby, so I swing by there, struck by the clear view of the channel and the outlying islands. I grab my camera, swing into a parking spot and stand on the Old Mission steps just as mass is over. Snap. Snap. Gasp.
Then I race across town, down through the ravine to the state beach. Too late for the most dramatic of the evening’s color, the view is still breathtaking. University Point to my right, Santa Cruz Island to my left, the huge expanse of Hendry’s Beach in front of me. 

And suddenly my ordinary Saturday is anything but. Rose and gold on the water, twinkling lights in the distance, stripes of sky and sea and sand, piled on top of one another like a horizontal crazy quilt, as the crisp winter wind reminds me to breathe out. Glory be.


And Hallelujah.
Added on a couple of photos of the winter flora at the Old Mission, viewed in the fading light – just because I felt like it. Joining these meanderings with Laura B and LL B for their weekly memes at “The Wellspring” and “Seedlings in Stone,” respectively. And also with Heather at “The Extraordinary Ordinary,” and her invitation to JustWrite:
On In Around button


David Brooks on What Makes Us Human: The THC Book Club

She’s sleepy, and fighting it – hard.
I take her back to the bedroom and open the computer,
dialing up iPhoto so that she can look at ‘pichures, pichures.’
As she looks, and identifies each person she knows, 
her hands begin to snake their way up my sleeve.
This is a favorite sleep aid – the touch of human skin, 
the skin of those who love and care for her.
It’s a repetitive behavior pattern that we’ve wondered about a little, 
as parents and grandparents sometimes do.
Now, thanks to some fascinating input 
from the latest book selection at the Book Club over at The High Calling, 
I have a little more insight into why this works so well.
She has discovered a primary source of self-soothing, has our active, charming, I-won’t-sleep-unless-you-absolutely-force-me-to granddaughter.

And then there was touch…As Harry Harlow’s famous monkey experiments suggest, babies will forgo food in exchange for skin…They’ll do it because physical contact is just as important as nourishment for their neural growth and survival…Human skin has two types of receptors. One type transmits information…[about]…objects. But the other type activates the social parts of the brain. It’s a form of body-to-body communication that sets off hormonal and chemical cascades, lowering blood pressure and delivering a sense of transcendent well-being. pg. 33

 Smart girl, our soon-to-be-two Lilly.

Rife with tidbits like this, David Brooks’ new book, “The Social Animal,” is a fascinating, often hilarious, always insightful collection of a lot of different scientific information gathered together in an engaging story-telling format.

Brooks takes the results of research – from biology, neuro-science, psychology, anthropology – and skillfully weaves it together in and around the history of a fictional family. What I am discovering is that the data is ‘sticking’ with me far better in this format than it would in a scholarly article. 
My particular brain seems wired for story.
And I’m guessing we just might find some evidence for that in the data that is still to come in Brooks’ collection.
The introduction and first three chapters are filled with the basics of human partnering, relationship-building, baby-making, and knowledge gathering.  (There are only a couple of pages dedicated to the actual physical act responsible for babies; there is much more emphasis on developmental issues, all of which are intriguing and often bring an ‘aha!’ moment of recognition).

What has been most interesting to me thus far is the number of parallels between what hard science is discovering in laboratories and guided studies and what early psychologists – most especially Carl Jung – discovered early in the 20th century by doing lots and lots of talk therapy. These words from page 32 sound an awful lot like what Jung called the ‘collective unconscious:’

The truth is, starting even before we are born, we inherit a great river of knowledge, a great flow of patterns coming from many ages and many sources. The information that comes from deep in the evolutionary past, we call genetics. The information revealed thousands of years ago, we call religion. The information passed along from hundreds of years ago, we call culture. The information passed along from decades ago, we call family, and the information offered years, months, days, or hours ago, we call education and advice. But it is all information, and it all flows from the dead through us and to the unborn. The brain is adapted to the river of knowledge and its many currents and tributaries, and it exists as a creature of that river the way a trout exists in a stream. Our thoughts are profoundly molded by this long historic flow, and none of us exists, self-made, in isolation from it.

 At the end of this week’s assignment, a lovely, and by far, the most poignant small piece of story-telling in this volume, came from Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
So sweetly, these words served to underscore that ‘aha!’ moment I’d had earlier about our Lilly and her need to be skin-to-skin.

Coleridge’s three-year-old son once woke in the night, 
begging his mama to come in and touch him. 
Perplexed, his mother wondered why.
“I’m not here,” the boy cried. 
“Touch me, Mother, so that I may be here.

You are here, sweet Lilly.
You are most definitely here.
Thanks be to our good God for that wondrous truth.

Five Minute Friday: Awake…Oh, Really??

There was this one morning, when I did manage to lunge my way out from under the covers to get my anxious husband to the airport for an early flight. And I was amazingly surprised on this ONE day to note that the sun rises over the ocean on our peculiar peninsula at certain times of the year. 
And I got to see the fishing fleet set off for the day. 
Yes, it was truly lovely. 
No, I did not do it again.
The single most difficult thing I do every day
is get out of bed.
Yes, it’s true.
I am not a morning person.
No, I am not.
Not. At. All.
I struggle to see past the end of my nose.
I resist the sunlight, pouring through the transom window.
I resent the cheeriness of my partner for the last 46 years.
He is fully awake,
ready for the day,
bounding out of bed,
full speed ahead.
I am putt-putting in his wake.
If it’s a really good day, I get to stay in bed for another hour or so after he has made his wide-awake presence known.
And I am quite happy to let him make his own oatmeal 
(which he does every single day),
to vaguely listen to him jostle the dishes in the sink,
to turn over and move right back into dreamland, 
thank you very much.
It takes me a while to be fully awake, 
even after I’m out of the bed.  
I hem and haw and shuffle and mutter 
and gradually make my way past the bathroom 
into the closet and then out into the daylight.
But I’m not a happy camper.
No, I am not.
By about 10:00 a.m., I’m polite.
By noon, I’m downright gregarious.
And by 9:00 p.m. – I’ve had a second wind, 
ready to read or write or watch TV or engage conversation.
And my partner?
Sawing logs.
Yes, he is.
Sigh.
Back with Lisa-Jo this week for her 5 minute prompt, which today was the word AWAKE.
Check out some of the other contributions – they’re always fun to read.
She encourages us to write for 5 minutes flat without worrying about whether it’s right or not – no editing of any kind.

But this week, I will admit to some formatting after the 5 minute bell. Other than that – this one was a breeze. It’s the story of my life. Even when my kids were little, I struggled with mornings. I got up, I did what I was supposed to do. But I was semi-conscious most of the time. I had a small floral business for a while and that meant I had to get up really early to get to the flower mart on a wedding/party weekend. And I always enjoyed that weird, upside-down world of activity in downtown Los Angeles – at 4:00 a.m.! But I was quite happy to give up my re-sale number after daughter number two got married, nearly 18 years ago.

 

The Winding Road – Highway 1

 There is a small seaside town about two hours north of where we live; a charming place, filled with home-grown berry pies, antique shops, rolling pine-covered hills and a great arcing bay called Moonstone Beach.
 There is a wooden walkway around this bay,
bounded by rope and post,
inhabited by gulls and the occasional sea lion.
 The coastline is dramatic here,
rugged and noisy,
colorful and dizzy-making.
The waves crash over rocks,
some of them as high as the ‘mountains’
found in the eastern half of this great country of ours.
One of them even has a name: Morro Rock. 
Our destination was north of there, 
a place called Cambria – pronounced
two ways, depending on which side 
of the town you choose to believe:
C-A-as-in-at-MBRIA
or C-A-as-in-came-MBRIA.
It’s spelled Cambria.
 We took four days away, right after Christmas,
with our oldest daughter, her new husband and her three sons. They rented a house-on-the-hill; we rented a room at the Fogcatcher Inn. Good choice. The walkway pictured above was just cross the parking lot.
 One of those four days, we all took a drive,
up Highway One toward Big Sur.
If you’ve never done this, I cannot encourage you strongly enough to 
TAKE ANY OPPORTUNITY YOU FIND to do so.
Especially if the weather is clear.
It’s winding and wild, breathtakingly beautiful,
and typically California. 
Much more California than either 
Los Angeles or San Francisco. 
Those cities are magical in their own unique ways, but this?
This is the real deal, the pristine beauty 
of desert mountains hugging the sea, 
wildflowers, strange sea creatures 
(for another post – amazing), 
and views up the wazoo.
 Lisa packed us a wonderful picnic lunch and we took it up above the highway, on the road to the New Camaldoli Hermitage Retreat Center (I posted a couple of pictures from that glorious place in this post.)
 That ribbon of road is the famous One – stretching for 70 miles of steep turns and high cliffs between Morro Bay and Carmel. We went about 2/3 of the way up. (The retreat center is near the beginning of the Big Sur Wilderness Area.)
 We took a few quiet moments to explore the chapel building after we ate our lunch and the light was just right to the north, making interesting patterns on the walls.
 The wild pampas grass was mostly sticks, 
except for this one bend in the road,
where we caught a glimpse of the furry fronds 
waving at us as we followed the curve.
 The rock formations at the inlet to Julia Pfeiffer State Park are unusually captivating, filling pictorial calendars across the state. 
We’ve been blessed in our lifetime to travel a number of coastal highways – 
The Garden Route in South Africa, 
the Cinque Terre in Italy, 
the cliffs of Dover and Cornwall and Devon in England, 
the Burren in Ireland 
(and the fingered south west coast on that magical island).
And I’ve got to say that this is a match for any of those 
in natural beauty and heart-stopping drama.
 We came back down the road as the sun began to set,
following its path for miles and miles.
It was a restful time, rich in beauty and good company.
After the busyness of the holiday season,
and before the rigors of my mother’s move to assisted living,
these four days provided respite, refreshment, re-connection.
I am grateful beyond words to live where I do,
to have easy access to places like this,
 to have a husband and family who tolerate my excessive ooh-ing and ahh-ing over every rock/stick/shell/bird/cloud or wave and who actually encourage me to take more pictures.
Even in the middle of messiness, pain and loss,
life is good. God is good. And Beauty soothes every bump.
Sharing with L.L. and Laura B tonight, because they are so kind as to invite us to do so every single week:
On In Around button

It’s Time…the Water Is Ready

What is it about water?
The Book we read is literally swimming in it.
The waters of chaos,
out of which the Lord God creates.
Waters flooding the earth,
to wash it clean from the evil wrought by humankind.

Rebekah watering the camels of a traveling servant,
leading to the foundation of the people of Israel.
River water as the salvation for the baby-in-the-ark,
the one who grew up to become 
the bearer of the rod,
the rod that brought water to its feet 
in the parting of the Sea of Reeds,
and brought water from the rock
for a thirsty, complaining people.
The Promised Land, 
a place fed by streams and 
pools and springs abundant.
The Jordan River –
the headwaters into which the people of Israel
carry the Ark of the Covenant,
and stack the stones of remembrance.
The Jordan –
through which and by which the 
Baptizer offers his call to repentance
and shouts out the promise of One Who Is to Come.
The Jordan –
into which steps Jesus, the Messiah,
submitting himself to the same waters of repentance
as every other respondent to John’s call.
The Baptism of Our Lord –
one of the layered meanings and celebrations 
marked with the name Epiphany:
revelation.
The light dawns,
the promise is fulfilled,
God comes to the help of God’s people.

Descending under the flow,
rising up through the surface,
glistening in the afternoon sun,
shaking the drops from hair and beard,
gasping for air, arms outstretched,
the Savior, our Immanuel, hears a voice
and the dove descends.
It is time.
No trumpets, no angels, no drum roll.
A simple walk from the shore to the river.
And the mission is launched.

What does Jesus hear as he steps out of the crowd,
out of obscurity,
out of preparation time
into the arena, ready for the main event?
What does he hear?

And what do we need to hear as well?

Three things – three things as vitally important
as the water itself to the life he – and we – are to lead:
He hears who he is.
He hears he is loved.
He hears he is pleasing.

Because of Jesus, we also have:
a new identity;
a powerful and life-changing relationship of love;
a deep-seated knowledge that
God is pleased with us,
before we do one single thing.

Do we get that??
God is pleased with us.
Because of Jesus.

And it is in the water,
the waters of our own baptism,
that we know these things to be true.

Water.

Simple. Ordinary.
Tangible. Irreplaceable.
And absolutely vital.
 The Living Water calls us to reflect who he is,
he calls us to be life, 
to share live, 
to live life
as if Jesus himself is the well.
Oh, how deeply can I draw from this Well as 2012 unfolds?
How widely can I spray this essence of life around me?
What time is it for me?
What time  is it for you?

I am indebted to Pastor Don Johnson and the worship team at Montecito Covenant Church for most of the ideas contained in this reflection and most particularly for the beauty of a worship service in which we are given the precious opportunity to renew our baptismal vows. Swishing our hands in the waters of the font, singing, “All Who Are Thirsty,” every New Year, we remember again WHO WE ARE. Thanks be to God.
Joining with lots of friends today as I’ve been away from this blog for over a week, traveling to get my mom moved and then re-settling at home with a too-full calendar. So tonight, I’m fixin’ to join with Michelle, Jen, Emily (if she’s open for business again), Ann, Jennifer & Bonnie. Each of these lovely sites has great writing going on – check them out.




The Power of a Good Romance

 A good story well-told is a powerful thing. Story can bypass the regular channels of intellect and observation, cutting to the chase of emotional and spiritual connection; it can provide beauty, relief, even epiphany. Because story, like all good art, can touch the soul as well as engage the mind. Story can speak of things eternal – like hope and joy and love. And the best story-telling can do all of that in and through the nitty-gritty of real life, never ignoring or denying the pain, suffering, failure and struggle that mark our days on planet earth. 

I began to understand these truths most deeply while our son-in-law was in the midst of an extremely difficult journey that led to his death three years ago. Watching him suffer, and watching our daughter and their three sons share in that pain, there were days when I simply could not imagine how life could ever again be good and rich. And on those days, I turned to story to help me – to remember that suffering is not all there is, that death does not have the final answer, that the power of Love is stronger than anything else in this life.

And the story-telling that spoke most clearly into that time of darkness was romance. Good romance, not dimestore fantasy. I read and/or watched everything that Jane Austen ever wrote and the BBC ever produced from that writing. I lost myself for a few minutes or a few hours; I let the harsher realities of life  sit in the background for a little while. And I allowed myself to enter into those stories of trial and error, of personalities rubbing against each other in misunderstanding and false expectation. And most especially, I celebrated the resolution that always came at the end, when clarity and sanity were recovered and Mr. Darcy or Edward Ferrar or Mr. Knightley spoke their hearts and found reward as Elizabeth Bennett and Elinor Dashwood and Emma Woodhouse happily said, ‘Yes.’

Now I add Michael Kent to the list. And Sarah Hughes. “The Dancing Priest,” by Glynn Young, is a romance for today, a tale very well-told indeed, and a beautifully wrought reminder that, “God is not dead nor doth he sleep.” I suppose this story is to be categorized as ‘Christian fiction.’ But for me, this book far out-classes most of what I’ve read in that genre. (Admittedly, my sample is small.) It does have specific references to conversion (for this is a love story on multiple levels) and uses some of the lingo of the evangelical world here and there. But basically, this is a rousing good romance, period. A great read for just about anyone, Christian or not. A great story that is told through characters who are complex and interesting, and settings that vary widely. The lead players are each loaded with back-story and fascinating friends and family, all of whom add depth without distraction.

I had the wonderful experience of reading this story aloud as my husband and I took long car trips over the last few weeks. We were both hooked immediately and looked forward to turning on the Kindle whenever we set the cruise control. If I had to guess, I’d say that at least a dozen times, I had to stop reading for a moment to control tears. The story is that gripping, that real.

And here’s my armchair analysis of why that happened: this story, this romance, is a brilliant reflection of the Great Love Story that centers our universe, our life. For that’s what the Christian faith surely is – the greatest love story ever told. And those of us who follow after Jesus find ourselves – even in the middle of our messiness or our pain –  we find ourselves caught in the grip of a rousing good romance: the God of the Universe, the One who took the downward journey to Bethlehem, who walks with us through the good and the bad, the beautiful and the messed-up – that God of very God waits for each of us to say, ‘Yes.’

“The Dancing Priest,” captures the imagination and the heart; it tells a beautiful, complex story that is just plain fun to read. At the same time, this very particular story mirrors for us The  Story that claims and centers us as human persons. We who are created in the image of God, who are called into relationship, who are wooed and won, restored and rescued by the lover of our souls. Read it – I promise you, this romance will grab you and not let go. 
 
Picture legend:
Top: The California coastline, just north of Julia Pfeiffer State Park on Highway One, surely one of the most romantic views in the entire world.

Middle: The chapel at the New Camaldoli Hermitage, two miles above highway one near Lucia, CA.

Bottom: the reflection of the ‘trinitarian chandelier’ in the same chapel, shining up from the stone floor.
 

One Word: Waiting



Joining the crowd growing at Alece’s place – choosing one word for 2012 – a word that will shape decisions, influence thinking, guide us into God’s presence with greater intentionality during the year ahead. And also joining with Bonnie over at The Faith Barista for her invitation at the Thursday jam session.

This choice was a tough one for me, primarily because I am by nature not a patient person. But here it is:

 WAITING
Not because I want to.
Heaven knows I’m not good at it.
But because it is absolutely
central
to what it means to be
a follower after Jesus,
one who is invited 
into the fellowship of
our Trinitarian God.
So.
I am waiting.
Waiting with hope.
With expectancy.
With trust.
At least that’s what I’m asking for
as I wait.
That I might be able to say with Simeon,
“NOW, O Lord, let your servant depart in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation…”
Not that I’m in a great big hurry to go anywhere,
not even to heaven,
truth be told.
But because the beauty of Simeon’s character 
just shimmers through every word of that verse in Luke 2.
I’d like to shine like that.
And I’m guessing that learning about
waiting
is how to pick up a glimmer or two,
here and there.
I have no clue how God will use this word,
this experience,
to form me,
to buff up the shine,
to build in me a clearer reflection
of the LIGHT.
But I’m willing to lean into it
with all I’ve got.
To consistently make an effort to take my hands off
the reins of my life,
and the lives of the people I love,
and to trust that all will be well. 
Even if it doesn’t turn out like I expect.
Even if it doesn’t turn out like I hope.
Even if it doesn’t turn out at all. 
Because I think that’s a big part of trust, don’t you?
Turning our hands upward,
empty,
and saying,
“Thy will be done.
Thy will be done.” 
And I don’t think that can happen if I am
striving,
pushing,
driving,
insisting,
worrying,
obsessing,
fretting,
or
otherwise trying to control things
over which I truly have no power.
I do think it might happen if I can learn more about
waiting.
So that’s my word for 2012.
Every three months or so, I’ll try and post here about how it’s going, what I’m learning, where Life is taking me.
If you need me,
I’ll be here.
Waiting.