Joining with Katie and her friends who encourage a single snapshot which illustrates a scripture verse:
 

 This swing hangs in an oak tree in our front yard and it is one of my favorite places to ‘take a load off.’  I like the image of a two-seater: sharing any load somehow makes that load more bearable. 

This respite spot is particularly inviting late in the afternoon, as the shadows lengthen and the evening breeze picks up. A good place to remember that I am never alone with whatever burdens I may be carrying on a given day, that there is rest to be found in God’s presence. 

When I first began working in my last pastoral position, a member of the congregation asked if I would be willing to visit with a friend of his who was in town for treatment.  She lived in Arizona and came to the local clinic for a lung cancer drug trial.  I was so grateful that someone in my new congregation would trust me enough to do this.  And when I met Helen, I knew that God had brought us together for all kinds of good reasons. 

Helen’s very favorite section in all of scripture was this verse and the two that follow it – “Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” 

I never read or hear these words without thinking of Helen: her gentle spirit, her deep faith, her love for her husband, her children, her grandchildren and her desire to live for their sake.  Yet, while she waited and while she hoped, she also lived with a calm assurance that all would be well, no matter the outcome.

Helen did die, about five months later, and during those months, I met with her frequently. I was privileged to plan and conduct a memorial service in her honor for friends and family who lived locally. We used these verses on the worship folder, in my meditation for the service and printed on cards with a lovely photo of Helen, a small reminder of who she was, something tangible for friends and loved ones to carry with them in their grief, in their missing her.

Helen lived the truth of these words better than almost anyone I’ve ever known.  To be with her, to pray with her, to hold her hand and look into her lovely brown eyes – all of it was gift, a holy space in the midst of whatever other brand-new-pastor-busyness was engulfing my life at the moment.

So I often think of Helen as I softly swing in the evenings. One of her sons was a builder and about a year after she died, her family sent me a lovely announcement with a picture of a beautiful, adobe-style, very small prayer chapel, built by her son in her memory.  A place to sit and remember that Jesus promises rest for the weary.  Oh, rest in peace, sweet Helen.  You are missed still.

Also linking up with Laura at the Wellspring and LL at Seedlings in Stone:

And…it’s that time again.  Already.  Friday morning and time to sign on with Lisa-Jo for her writing prompt.  This week’s word?  WONDER:  (pictures added later)

GO:


She sleeps beside me as I type.  Small, fierce, funny.  She will be 16 months old tomorrow and she spends one or two days a week with us while her mama takes care of patients, offering love, wisdom, training and calm presence to so many people. 

She is the littlest of our eight, a gift straight from heaven as we move into the full openness and clear-sightedness of retirement.  And she reminds me to touch that child who still lives inside this spirit of mine, the small one who looks out at the world with eyes wide and heart open. 

She points and gestures wildly, communicating her wishes with grunts, inflection, occasional clearly English words and frequent smiles, kisses, gentle pats on the face or arm.  She is also a curiousity child, wondering and wandering around our home and property, always within sight of one of us, torn between breaking away from us and running straight toward us.

Isn’t that what wonder is about?  Some sort of balance between moving out and moving home?  Openness to the new and deep appreciation for the familiar?  That sense of open-mouthed, wide-eyed delight in beauty, spectacle, small and large, right alongside the affectionate embrace of all that we love and lean into as we live these daily lives? 

STOP

 In response to the invitation from LL Barkat at “Everyday Poems” and Marcus Goodyear at “Books and Culture.”

Red Leaves

staring out my window,
begging the muse to 
pluck the strings
and make the words sing,
I wonder.
Could it be my silent heart
needs but a gentle breeze,
a moment of sunlight,
a rustle of promise
to release all
that waits within?

And because for the first time ever, I somehow managed to write a post that matched one of her weekly prompts, (write a poem about a photo) I’m also posting this at Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop:




 
 Ian Cron’s poignant, often laugh-out-loud funny, ‘memoir of sorts’ is the story of a lonely, frightened boy who grew up with an abusive alcoholic father – a man who just happened to work (at least occasionally) for the CIA.  It is ultimately a story of redemption and an exquisitely drawn portrait of grace. 

The cover image of a smiling young boy, sitting alone in a small boat, seems at first glance to be at odds with the sad and strange story within.  Until you read the author’s forward, and realize that this small ship is a lifeboat, and that the waving small boy within is beckoning to the future.  Small, smiling Ian is signaling to his adult self to get in the boat, to get in and hold on for dear life; it’s going to be a rough ride.

Cron is the youngest of four children born to parents who were already drowning in a difficult and dangerous marriage.  He learned early not to depend on his father for anything, most certainly not for the love and affection he so deeply needed.  Children of alcoholics often carry inordinate amounts of guilt – convinced that if they had just been a better boy (or girl) the sick parent would have been well. Cron is no exception to this sad truth. He lived much of his life alternating between shame and fury, longing and disillusionment, chronic anxiety and outright terror.

Raised in the Catholic church, he senses something of the mystery of God very early, surprising himself with tears of awe and gratitude during his first communion. A good priest provided some guidance and encouragement during these early years, as did a remarkable British nanny, who came with the family when they moved from London to Greenwich, Connecticut. 

But as his father’s absences and binges continued and grew, Cron became bitter, believing that God had abandoned him.  Struggling in school, both socially and academically, he opted to experiment with alcohol himself.  Cron’s very first encounter with the bottle proved overwhelmingly that he carried the family disease.

He experimented with pot, then tried being the ‘good student,’ then went back to excessive drinking, always looking for peace, solace, centering.  He was exposed to some caring Christians along the way: a Young Life leader or two, a good friend who saw the crash that was coming, some college friends who tried to reach out.  By the time he was a student at Bowdoin College, he had moved back to faith in God, but it had little to no effect on his drinking. 

During those years, he met the love of his life, his father died, he got married and also began working in a church.  But the drinking continued.  About 18 months after his father’s death and his own marriage, he began to have what felt to him like a nervous breakdown.  A compassionate physician sent him to a 70-year old psychologist, a man who proved to be the personification of God’s grace in Cron’s life.  Using his skills as a counselor, his own life experience with alcoholism and some ‘tough love,’ this man was able to get through to the heart of it all.  

Working through the grief, loss and intense pain surrounding his relationship with his father, Cron found his way home: home to himself, his wife, his calling.  He is now an Episcopal priest, a father to three, a best-selling author and an articulate and winsome reminder that no story is beyond the power of God to redeem. He has been sober for 25 years.

Cron readily admits that he has taken artistic license with some of the ‘facts’ of his story.  Memory is not always perfect and details can be heightened, lessened or even created to help make memoirs more memorable.  But in the end, that really does not matter.  The story, as it is written, is powerful and it is true, in the best sense of that word.  This is a book well worth reading, filled with sadness, hilarious bits of self-description and ultimately, the radiant beauty of homecoming. It was a privilege to read.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze®.com book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 : “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

Joining in a very fun photo scavenger hunt that requires all new photos on a series of themes.  Sadly, I am unable to capture their button.  The blog title is:  “Ramblings and Photos: Scavenger Hunt.” And the website is http://www.ashleysisk.com/search/label/Scavenger%20Hunt’


And because it was fun AND because they were all shot at home, I’m also submitting this one to Laura and Laura at “Playdates with God” and “On, In and Around Mondays:”
 

A rose at my eye level and what we both saw, 

 

 

Found a fun new place to post pictures and see what others are up to at Beverly’s Pink Saturday.

Linking up with Lisa-Jo again this week, where in her words:


This is the time of the week when we steal those five minutes while the kids are fingerpainting the dining room table, the neighbor’s dog has stopped barking, or the microwave is popping some corn to splash down some thoughts on paper.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in. 

GO:

Glimpses of home…

Bonnie over at the Faith Barista invited us to reflect on Father’s Day this week.  My thoughts are a bit all over the map, but here they are:

                                     I apologize for the blurriness of this photo – someday, I will learn how to scan and save old ones!  This is a picture of a picture in a very scratched old collage frame which cannot be re-opened or I’ll lose everything in it.  Taken at my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary celebration on Kauai in 1991.  My parents had been married 64 years when Dad died.

It’s been six years now, six years since my dad died.  I still talk to him, though.  Most often that happens when I’m driving or sitting in solitude somewhere.  I’ve missed him so much these years – but I think I actually began to miss him even before he died.  Because one of the hardest parts about watching your parents age and become frail is the sad truth that pieces of them die before their body follows.

Two of my dad’s most defining characteristics, the ones that stood out for me all my life, just sort of disappeared in those last three or four years before death came knocking: his two deepest passions seemed to evaporate – his love for the piano and his care and concern for my mom.  

The first one was the most evident, I suppose.  All of his life, my dad played the piano, and he played it very well indeed.  So well that he became the family trophy when he was just a boy, trotted out at gatherings like a small super-star.  

And I think he had a pretty mixed attitude toward that.  He was a quiet kid and a quiet man.  He didn’t say much, but what he did say was always worth hearing, his well-chosen words revealing a deep intelligence, a very dry, wry humor or his love and appreciation for his family.  So being forced into the limelight didn’t sit well with him. 

However, if he wanted to be in the limelight, he went for it.   And if someone else got attention that he wasn’t entirely convinced was well-earned, he ever-so-quietly grumbled about that. He was the primary accompanist for congregational and choral singing in the church where I spent the first 12 years of my life and when we moved to a different community, it was sometimes hard for him to occupy more of a back-seat in the line-up of gifted pianists at our new church. 

But whether he had a specific ‘job’ connected to his music or not, my dad always, ALWAYS played.  He practiced hard, learning lots of different kinds and styles of music, from Chopin to Sondheim. Our home was filled with the sound of his big hands caressing those keys, working out intricate harmonies, repeating the tough parts until they literally sang their way into every room. He also had a wonderful ability to play by ear and created medleys of all kinds, entertaining friends and family, playing at banquets and other social gatherings. Even into his early 80’s, he enjoyed accompanying a community choral group near their home in Orange County.

Then Parkinson’s Disease arrived.  And dad could no longer control those great hands.  So the piano was played less and less.  As his personal care needs accelerated, my two brothers and I became concerned and we encouraged our folks to consider moving to a stepped-care retirement community. 

And when they did that, the baby grand piano moved to my daughter’s house, where her talented sons continue to play it.  We bought dad a great keyboard for their new apartment, one that looked like a spinet piano but sounded like a concert grand.  But I don’t think he ever really played it – the encroachment of neurological disease brought with it a deepening depression, a distancing from former loves, an inability to find pleasure in very much of what life had to offer him as a frail old man. How I missed that music!  And how he must have missed it, too. 

And that frailty, those insults to his sense of himself – these hard things also blinded him to the needs of his wife, his primary caregiver and faithful companion.  And for me, this was the death that was the very hardest of all. 

My parents shared a passionate connection and commitment to one another, an almost tangible spark passed between them as I was growing up under the umbrella of their love.  My mother was as vivacious and social as my dad was quiet and reflective, and somehow that balance worked well for them.  He adored her sparkle, she relied on his quiet strength. 

They always took time away together when we were kids and I always knew EXACTLY why they wanted and needed to do that.  I loved watching my father love my mom – it was one of the pillars of my life when I was a child and adolescent.  They were quietly affectionate and playful and were truly devoted to each other and to their marriage. Those first 15 years of retirement were great years for them – time spent traveling, playing tennis, entertaining, volunteering at their church and doting on their grandkids. 

My mom always thought that dad had rescued her, rescued her from her binge alcoholic father and her over-worked mother.  She loved her own family deeply and so did my dad, finding them to be warmer and more open than his own family of origin.  But my mom was the caregiver in her family home and dad saved her from that weight of worry and responsiblity.  And he introduced her to the world of higher education, valuing her natural intellecual gifts and helping her to blossom.  In return, she made him the center of her world and of our family, perhaps creating a high set of expectations, even a sense of entitlement in my dad. 

As his health deteriorated, he simply did not see the impact his care was having on my mother.  She became exhausted and overwhelmed, unprepared for the toll her devotion would take on her body and her spirit.  How I missed seeing that loving husband during those last months and years!   In the midst of my grief over his very serious health issues, I found myself sometimes angry at his inability to see beyond them and reach out to my mom in her fatigue.  The adult part of me knew that this was more than partially due to the ravaging effects of disease on my dad’s brain and nervous system.  But the child part?  The child part wanted my strong, quiet daddy to step up, to peek out and to reach out – to allow my mom a little respite, to care about her well-being as well as his own. 

And it’s the child part that still speaks to my dad as I drive and as I muse.  And I’m finding that the frustration and anger are dissipating and the confident, secure loving is ascending.  My father was and is one of God’s greatest gifts in my life.  He was not perfect, but I’ll tell you, he came damn close.  Up until that last bout with a devastating illness, he loved his wife and his family more than life.  He had a deep and quiet faith, he was an encourager, a questioner, a thinker, a fine teacher and academician, a noted statistician and author, a loving grandfather and one of the funniest people I ever knew.  And I miss him terribly almost every single day.  Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  I love you more than I can say.