Diana

An African Journey – Post Two: A Letter to My Younger Self…

August 16, 2012 By Diana

Standing next to an ant hill somewhere in central Africa, approximately 1966.

Dearest girl,

That’s what you are, you know. You don’t realize that, but I do. Looking back across these years, I see you. I see how very young you are. Twenty-one, newly married, recent college graduate, thrilled to be living your life, to be planning a cross-continental move, to be moving on, moving out, moving away.

You’re a little bit full of yourself and your university education, especially those three courses in African studies you took that last semester, in preparation for moving across the sea. Three college level courses does not an expert make – believe me, it just does not. But then, you learned that within the first six weeks of moving there, didn’t you? Yes, you learned it the hard way. I guess that’s how all good learning comes, sweetheart. It has to hurt a little to be real.

I look at these old pictures and I know you’re a bit nervous about all that’s happened to you in the last few months. I see a smidgen of uncertainty, a frisson of anxiety. But mostly what I see when I look at your face is this wonderful truth: you are just plain gob-smacked with the freedom you’ve found in being married.

You and he are on your own – and that feels grand, doesn’t it? You can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. Of course, there are limits to that, aren’t there? Limits of morality and common decency, which you both hold in high regard. But more than that, there are limits of believing and belonging, limits that you share, that you value, that you try to live.

Following in the footsteps of the Rabbi from Nazareth has always been part of who you are, for as long as you can remember. Suffering growing pains as a 4-year-old, you told your Mama one night, “That ol’ Jesus is down in my leg tonight and he’s hurtin’ me!” And you believed that with your whole, small heart. Jesus was there, living your life with you.

And walking down that center aisle of the old brownstone church in downtown Los Angeles, late on a Sunday evening the year you turned 11 – saying ‘yes’ to Jesus in front of your community of faith – that was important, significant. And you felt it deep down inside you as you drove home in the backseat of your parents’ car, staring at the street lights. You were filled with wonder that night – and so many nights since.

Your heart was true that 21st year, this much I know. But I also know that your heart and your mind had a lot of traveling to do in order to communicate well. And then there was the matter of getting what you knew and what you felt to travel down your limbs to your hands and feet. Living what you knew, what you believed, what you began to allow yourself to feel with the truer pieces of yourself – that took years and years, and still isn’t done. No, not done yet.

Our once-a-week dinner with the students at Choma Secondary School.

But here’s what I want to tell you, oh, brave younger self. Here’s how I want to encourage you. You will break out of the mold as you get older and wiser. And you will make a lot of mistakes in that process. But you will also learn and stretch and grow and change and enlarge your heart and your mind and your spirit . . . and it will be wonderful. Difficult, painful, anxiety-filled, marked by loss, watered by tears and tears and tears . . . but wonderful.

You will push three living beings out into the world and love them fiercely. Those three will form you in ways you cannot even begin to imagine now, but count on it – their mark on you will be indelible.

And while you’re at home, raising them and learning more about that Rabbi you love, you will begin the hard work of questioning much of what you were taught about who you are as a daughter of God, a sister to Jesus. And you will find answers from good people, from faithful people, people who’ve walked the road ahead of you. Some of them will be contemporaries; many will be much older saints, long gone to be with Jesus.

If you could see me across these years, you might be surprised, maybe even shocked. Life has this way of getting both more complicated and more simple as time passes. Layer upon layer of love and responsibility get added as your family and friendships grow. But at the same time, much that is extraneous and unnecessary gets stripped away, leaving the bare bones beauty of truth, faith, hope, peace, love.

You cannot see what’s ahead – neither the joy nor the heartbreak. And you can’t really see what’s behind you at this point, either. That takes time and work and self-care and you’re nowhere near that at age 21. You’re too busy living your life to look at it carefully. Give it a little time, however. You’ll start looking. And what you’ll find will surprise you, bring you to tears, fill you with thanksgiving and make you wonder about a lot of things.

It will take time and scrutiny to understand the impact of an alcoholic grandfather on your mother and her parenting of you. It will take time and patience to look at the steely-eyed pressure your grandmother put on your father and how his reaction to that made a difference in you and your own family circle growing up. These things take time, they take maturity. But you’ll get there. You’ll always be getting there, honey. Count on it.

Because that’s what this life is about. Truly, it is. We’re here to become human, to become the person we were designed and created to be – in a word, to look more and more like Jesus. And back then, you only had glimpses of all that, which was exactly how it should have been. Now, at this end of these years, I can say with gratitude that goes deep as the Marianas Trench – it’s all grace. Because it is, dear one. It is.

Love you – more and more,

Your older, wiser, creakier Self

Waiting for the bride at my nephew’s wedding, April 2012

Delighted to be re-joining Bonnie over at Faith Barista, whose prompt this week was a letter to our younger self. I’ll also check in with Emily at Canvas Child.

Filed Under: An African Journal, An African Journey, family, God's gifts, memoir, personal journey, Wonderings in the World

Paying Attention: A Prayer with Photos

August 14, 2012 By Diana

Grant that I may I have eyes to see you, Lord.

To see you in the light,

to see you in the dark.

To see you in the rainbow,

to see you in the clouds.

To see you in the new,

to see you in the worn and weary.

To see you in the blessed and blissful details,

to see you in the rougher edges.

To see you in the easy, graceful gifts,

to see you in the slogging, stultifying backwater.

To see you in the immensity of the universe,

to see you in the intensity of a single cell.

Grant that I may have a heart to hear you, Lord.

To hear you in the laughter of children,

to hear you in the slowing of age.

To hear you in the soft sighs of the sea,

to hear you in the harsh cries of the hawk.

To hear you when the joy breaks loose,

to hear you when the sobs don’t stop.

To hear you in a beating heart,

to hear you when the beating stops.

To hear you in the wonder of a well-fed child,

to hear you in the one who starves.

To hear you in the still, small voice,

to hear you in the silence
of questions without answer.

Even there, O Lord.

Even there.

May I have eyes to see,

ears to hear,

and a tongue to tell

the glory of our God.

Even.There.

The photo of the ‘shoes’ near the end of this prayer is from eastern Europe –
a WWII memorial sculpture commemorating Hungarian Jews
who were lined up on the edge of the river,
told to take off their shoes, and then shot to death.
This reflection was prompted by a post about photography and truth at Kelly Sauer’s blog today. She was pondering old versus new in her photographic style. That got me to thinking and praying about the contrasts in this life; that the light and the dark are often closely connected and reflective of one another; that God doesn’t abandon us when life looks dismal or terrifying. I need eyes and ears that look and SEE and hear and LISTEN for evidence of the Presence of God – wherever and whatever and whenever.
Sometime during the dark morning hours, I realized that this post was also triggered by the powerful WWII story shared by Ann Voskamp in yesterday’s blog post.
Even in the most horrific of human-devised schemes,
God does not abandon us, God is not absent.
So thank you, Kelly. And thank you, Ann.
I’ll put this one with Michelle tonight, Jen tomorrow, and Ann on Wednesday and Duane and Jennifer, too.

Here is a legend for the photographs.

1. Reflections of stained glass on the stone walls of a cathedral in Cologne, Germany, 2009.

2. Sunlight breaking through the clouds as we flew from Florida home to LAX, May 2012

3. Cloud-covered moonlight over Puget Sound while staying on Whidbey Island, August 2007

4. Layers of color at sunset at the same place and time as photo #3

5. Our youngest granddaughter Lilly on the day she was born – 2/25/10

6. An oversized drawing entered in an art contest spotlighting the homeless population of Haarlem, The Netherlands, 2009

7. Our dining room pine buffet, loaded with my much-loved Fiestaware, taken on the day of my mom’s 90th birthday party, June 2011

8. Silhouetted ruins above the Rhine River, 2009

9. A tableau of bicycle against the stone wall of a local Catholic retreat center, Spring 2011

10. Garbage gathered at the edge of a marina in Miami FL, May 2012

11. Yosemite National Park, summer 2010

12. A birch leaf in our front yard, fall 2010

13. Sunlight through amber windows at the New Camoldolese (Benedictine) Hermitage Retreat Center, near Big Sur CA, December 2011

14. Our granddaughter Gracie, aged 2, laughing at the antics of her cousin Griffin, aged 2, on Whidbey Island, August 2007 (They’re six years old now, soon to turn 7)

15. My favorite centering prayer spot – the beat-up swing that hangs from an oak tree in our front yard, taken in the spring of 2010

16. Hendry’s Beach, Santa Barbara CA (officially known as Arroyo Burro State Beach), sunset, winter 2011

17. A bird of prey overhead – maybe a hawk, maybe an osprey, in British Columbia, summer 2007

18. Municipal flower garden, Nuremburg, Germany, 2009

19. The cross on our back fence that marks the place where my youngest brother’s ashes are buried. Taken in the spring of 2011.

20. Lilly, playing in her tent, Christmas 2011

21. Santa Barbara cemetery on a foggy morning, winter 2011

22. Lilly’s adorable bunny slippers, Christmas 2011

23. A skeletized leaf, picked up by my grandson while we were hiking in the Redwoods near Santa Cruz CA, summer 2011

24. Window angel spotted in a side street of Regensburg, Germany, 2009

25. War Memorial in honor of slain Jewish citizens, Budapest Hungary, 2009

26. Approaching Laity Lodge through the Frio River, the hill country of Texas, September 2011

Filed Under: hope, personal journey, Photo Essay, photography, prayer

An African Journal – Post One: Beneath the Surface

August 11, 2012 By Diana

With this post, I am beginning what I hope will be a series of reflections and rememberings about a formative part of my life and journey as a Jesus follower – the two years we spent living in Zambia in the 1960’s. As I’ve noted elsewhere on this blog, one of my primary purposes in writing here is to have a record for my grandchildren, most especially my two young granddaughters, a record that tells a little about who I am and how I got here. I so wish I had something like this from my own grandparents! I am deeply grateful to my grandson Joel Fischinger for scanning our 500 slides from that time so that I can access them for these pages.

The VW Kombi bus labored a bit as it climbed the hill just before the border crossing. Before us spread the great savannah of central Africa, dotted with trees and brush that were strange to our eyes, yet oddly reminiscent of our southern California home.

This label made us giggle. Yes, it was a BIG tree – a baobab tree.

I look at these pictures and think, “We were such babies!” I was 21, he was 24.

“Look! What’s that?” I cried from the passenger seat.

“Honey, don’t tell me to look over there,” my new husband begged, with the beginnings of a quaver in his voice. “I can barely manage to keep this thing in the lane!” After all, he was driving on the right side of the car and the wrong side of the road.

“Just slow down a little bit and look over there to the left,” I continued. “Do you see what I see?”

“Give me a sec,” he agreed, slowing the bus just a little. “Wow! What the heck is that?”

“Look, look, look! It’s a whole tribe of baboons! Slow down, oh, please! Slow down!”

We were too startled to pull out our tiny, square-format Kodak 126 camera when those baboons traipsed across the road in front of us. But here are two unrelated pictures of two different kinds of monkeys we saw at later dates.

And he did, mouth agape, startled to see an entire troupe of 50-60 monkeys serenely crossing the road right in front of us. Mamas carrying babies, larger males, young adults – the whole extended family was there – scampering, to be sure – but unafraid of us or our vehicle.

“Holey moley, honey! We are not in Kansas anymore!”

“You’re not kidding. I can’t believe it! Did that really just happen?”

We had traveled far to be in that van on a sunny Monday morning: California to Brooklyn by car, Brooklyn to Capetown by freighter, Capetown north through Rhodesia in a van to be shared with other missionaries, yet to be met. We were on our way to Zambia, a land completely unknown to us, a land that would be our home for the next two years.

Married just 8 months before, we were young, idealistic and ready for adventure. It was the mid 1960’s and the escalating war in Vietnam brought deep soul-searching for many men of draft-able age. My husband had a unique up-bringing which led to an unusual choice, a choice which took him far away from the jungles of Southeast Asia.

“The draft” had been part of American life since the early years of WWII and the nation was heaving with discontent as the war in Southeast Asia continued to escalate. A saving grace in the draft process was the option to register as a 1-W – a person “opposed to bearing arms by reason of personal religious conviction.”

And that’s exactly what my husband had done. Raised as a pacifist, with family members on both sides vehemently opposed to killing for any reason, he had registered as a conscientious objector (CO) when he turned 18. He knew that meant two years of service offered in lieu of joining the military.

My husband wanted to do those two years somewhere far from home, somewhere that would require an element of sacrifice on his part, somewhere that the cause of peace could be served in a practical, hands-on way. Every 1-W during those years was drafted. Most of them chose to work within the continental US for their two years, but he wanted something different.

The school that would be our home and workplace from 1966-68.

And that’s what brought us to the center of Africa. Working with the Mennonite Central Committee, we would teach at a boarding school in the small town of Choma. The school itself was run by two denominations – my husband’s and one other, even more conservative in both dress code and theology. Given his own life experience, my husband had more than an inkling of what our life might be like.

I, on the other hand, had never heard of a CO before I fell in love with my husband. Intrigued by the idea – and thrilled at the possibility of a cross-cultural adventure – I was eager to unpack, settle in and get to work. Both of us were committed followers of Jesus, we just came to that place down very different roads.

The small town of Choma, about 2 miles from our campus by bicycle or Kombi-bus. I’ll write more about Choma in later posts.

And now we were driving 1400 miles north on the Cape to Cairo road, blithely unaware of what was ahead of us. Two fifty-gallon oil drums crammed to the top with wedding gifts – waiting to be opened and sorted; a campus and a town waiting to be navigated; new neighbors waiting to be met.

And most of those looked a whole lot different than I did.

Our home for those two years – cinder-block to distract the termites, 3 bedrooms and electricity most of the time. FAR nicer than the tiny 1-bedroom apartment we lived in while I finished at UCLA.

“Did you see how many of these women are wearing prayer bonnets?” I asked plaintively as we took a walk around our new, small neighborhood.

“And look at the length of those skirts! Wow, do I feel out of place! Who in their right minds wears long sleeves in weather like this?”

“Well, it is a little more ‘cloistered’ than I thought it might be. On the west coast, we don’t see as many with this sort of Amish look. But relax, sweetheart. I don’t want you to look like these women – I want you to be you.”

We moved into a house that had been inhabited by missionaries on furlough. They planted this HUGE garden, which to my very young and inexperienced eyes looked overwhelming. We managed to keep much of it alive and put up 40 jars of tomato juice our first month on site.

Momentarily mollified, I fingered the pearls at my neck. They had been a gift from Dick on the day of our wedding and I loved them. Somehow, touching them from time to time brought back happy memories of that day and of the courtship that led to it.

I had always considered myself to be on the conservative side – modest in dress, wearing only a little make-up, hard-working and committed to my faith.

But here?

Here, I was a wild-eyed liberal, a hussy who colored and cut my hair, who wore sleeveless shirts and skirts at the knee. And jewelry. I wore jewelry.

What in the world had I gotten myself into?

A staff Thanksgiving celebration, near the end of our time there.

“What’s this?” I asked my husband several weeks later, fingering a letter from the local denominational bishop.

“Um…well…,” he stuttered, dreading the reaction he knew was coming. “It’s a list. A list of things you are not to do.”

“A what? A list of laws? Are you kidding me?” And I burst into tears. For the first time in our nearly two months away, I was desperately homesick.

Dick folded me into his arms, sighing into my hair – my short, artificially colored hair – and held me while I sobbed.

Between hiccoughs and tears, I sputtered, “Are they really serious? I can’t wear my wedding pearls, even just to the staff gatherings? I can’t wear ANY make-up? I have to cover up my arms and lengthen my skirts?”

Slowly, I calmed down and began to let the shock dissipate a bit. Dick kept apologizing and patting my back, trying to assure me that I was fine, just FINE exactly as I was.

And slowly, I began to believe him.

“You know what? This is not going to work for me. At all. The jewelry thing – I get not wanting to look ‘rich’ in front of the students. I get that. But at Bible study, off campus, with just staff? I will wear my pearls once in a while, whether he likes it or not.”

“That’s my girl!” Dick smiled.

“And I’ll try to talk to the bishop about what I believe, about how I know and experience Jesus and see if we can maybe meet in the middle. What do you think?”

“I think maybe our friend the bishop has met his match in you. And I’ll go with you to that meeting.”

It was not the most comfortable 45 minutes of my life, but that meeting helped cement in my spirit the importance of being open to a wide variety of faith expressions within the Christian community. We both gave a little space to the other – I would not wear jewelry or sleeveless dresses in the classroom. He would not complain if I wore my pearls to Bible study or dressed more casually at home or in town.

Over the next two years, we lived in community well. A new bishop arrived, one with a few less concerns about dress code. And a few women actually cut their hair short and began wearing lighter-weight clothing, with shorter sleeves and hemlines.

I grew up a little and began to see beneath the prayer coverings and the pinafore-style dresses and sensible shoes. To see the tender hearts and deep commitment of these neighbors who were fast becoming friends.

They introduced me to Pennsylvania Dutch cooking; I introduced them to homemade flour tortillas and ground beef tacos. We laughed, we loved our students, we commiserated over the obstacles in their way and celebrated their accomplishments. We realized that not one of us had it all figured out – and that God loved us all anyhow.

And I was never homesick again.

We arrived the end of August, had that meeting with the bishop in mid-October and celebrated our first wedding anniversary in December. One of our new friends baked us this cake and we had a lovely evening celebrating together.

Because this is an exercise in ‘playing’ with my past story, I’ll be connecting these posts with Laura Boggess’s invitation to a Playdate with God and with Laura Barkat’s In, On and Around Mondays. Also joining with the sisterhood at Jen’s place and a new one to me, Hazel Moon’s “Tell Me a Story”:

Filed Under: An African Journal, An African Journey, Family/Travel, memoir, personal journey, photography, Wonderings in the World, Writing

Garden Glory: Summer Weekend – August 10-12

August 11, 2012 By Diana

Every day I walked circles in the parking lot.

We sat a lot during the School for Spiritual Direction

and I needed the exercise.

So, I walked in circles,

round and round the lowest level of the parking lot.

And every day, I noticed a lovely garden just below me.

Twice each week, volunteers came to weed and water.

It took me two summers,

two weeks each summer,

to actually stroll down into that garden below me.

And I discovered something wonderful.

An historic garden,

filled with flowers and fruits and vines

that were in use during the late 18th and

early 19th centuries, during the era of the missions

and Spanish rule of Alta and Baja California.

A lovely small piece of summer serendipity in the middle of an intense time.

“Serendipity is the faculty of finding things we did not know we were looking for.”
Glauco Ortolano

“May Jesus himself and God our Father, who reached out in love and surprised you with gifts of unending help and confidence, put a fresh heart in you, invigorate your work, enliven your speech.
2 Thessalonians 2:15-16, The Message

Joining with Michelle, Sandy and Deidra this beautiful summer weekend:

Filed Under: God's gifts, Photo Essay, Quiet for the Weekend

What Love Looks Like in the Long Haul: a Tribute Post

August 9, 2012 By Diana

This was a story I entered for one of Joe Bunting’s invitations. The theme was ‘love story,’ and this was the one I chose to write about. Most of the entrants write fiction – I do not. However, I will not vouch for accuracy of details and ‘facts’ in this account, which happened over 20 years ago. I will vouch for the truth of emotions, observances, character and commitment which this story so beautifully illustrates.

Lucille is 95 now, twice-widowed and I took this photo about four months ago.

Mentor, friend, 3rd mom in my life, Lucille Peterson Johnston, a woman of valor.

I knocked hesitantly, not wanting to wake anyone who might be sleeping. The morning was bright and warm, typical for southern California in late May. But this was the home of a very sick man and I wondered how far inside the threshold that warmth might carry.

He’d been sick before, this dear old man. Kidney cancer that was controlled and managed for over a decade. But now? Now, there was nothing more to be done and he had come home to die. No one knew how long his journey might take, nor what the detours along the way might look like. They simply told his wife, “Take him home. Love him as you have for the past fifty years. We’ll give you meds to keep him comfortable and a standing order for nursing help if you need it.”

And so she had. She’d brought him home. Home, where their own bed waited, good mattresses held by an antique wooden frame, layered with quilts from the old country. Sweden was where their family hailed from, the cold Scandinavian northlands. Hard to imagine such a place cradling these warm and loving people, but here they were. Proud, hard-working, hospitable, dedicated to God and family, surrounded by pieces of their long story together.

I entered slowly, aware that such times fairly shine with the luminous glow of a thin place, a liminal spot, a wrinkle in time between this world and the next. She led me to the bedroom, talking to him as she walked. “Harold? See who’s come to see you today? It’s our friend, Diana. Isn’t that nice?”

He was in a fetal position, small beneath the covers, this formerly husky man, who loved his wife’s cooking and carried the evidence with pride. His eyes blinked briefly, a smile just creasing one corner of his rugged face. No words to offer, but I hadn’t expected any. A smile would suffice, more than suffice.

His wife kept up a gentle patter, describing what I was wearing, asking me how my family was, how I was enjoying my new job on the pastoral staff of the church we all attended. Always careful to include him in the conversation, she was cheerful and genuine, without a hint of self-pity or condescension. They were best friends, these two. Had been for a very long time. They’d raised three fine children together; ran a popular shoe store in the community long past the age of retirement; volunteered in community and church leadership, working long hours for no reason other than the joy of serving.

She had more energy than anyone I had ever known, planning events for women and families, on her feet cooking for hours at a stretch, an expert on anything related to food, needlepoint, child-rearing, entertaining, small dogs, church governance, the encouragement of others. She had seen something in me and called it out, giving me responsibilities long before I thought I was ready for them. We worked side-by-side, she gently teaching, I absorbing, stretching to meet her confidence. I learned by watching and I learned by doing. And my admiration ran deep and true.

Truth was, I missed her. Both of them were fixtures in our congregation. In their retirement, they had assumed many of the everyday duties of tending a large, aging facility. They cleaned and sorted, set up tables and chairs, kept tabs on the use of our large, beautifully planned community kitchen, a creation of her design. Sometimes, he came across as a little bit cranky, particular, over-anxious. But I knew better. I saw the softness underneath the sometimes gruff exterior, the deep commitment to things of the Spirit manifested through his commitment to the gathered body in our corner of Pasadena. “You know,” he’d say to me. “You look a little like our daughter. And our daughter looks a little like my wife. You could be our daughter, you know.” And sometimes I felt like a daughter.

They were everywhere at church, all the time, moving quietly in the background, checking to be sure things were as they should be, that people were welcomed and comfortable. Newcomers might not always know their names, but they surely knew their faces. And those of us who’d been around awhile? We knew them like we knew our own family members. Because that’s who they were.

I will never forget what she said to me that particular day I went to visit. My friend had been sick for about six months at that point, and his wife was with him every day, all day. I found it hard to imagine how she was managing, how she was embracing this life, the one with such small parameters. She who had been the center of a very busy hive was now in the backwater, tending to the needs of a single dying man.

So I asked her. We knew each other well enough, we loved each other deeply enough. “How are you doing this, my friend? How do you stay sane? Don’t you miss your life, your projects, your contributions? How are you? How are YOU?”

She was relaxed, ready for my question. She looked at me deeply, and with no hesitation said, “Diana, this is a privilege. This is a joy. I cannot imagine doing anything other than this, just exactly this.”

And I knew it was true, true right down to the tips of her well-manicured toes. She was radiating peace and contentment.

“Isn’t it hard to watch him shrivel and disappear like this?”

“Yes, of course, it’s hard. But this is what happens to all of us, you know. We all die someday. And we’ve had 52 years together. Fifty-two years of love and story-telling and story-making. Who else could do what I can do now? This is the last, best gift I can give him. And I am happy to do it.”

He died six months later, on the eve of my first-ever sermon, an event which they had foreseen many years before. An event which they had prayed toward, and encouraged me to shoot for, walking by my side down the road through seminary and internship. So, early on that Sunday morning, those who had gathered round me to pray God’s blessing on our worship, told me very gently that Harold had gone home, with his family gathered round. Oddly encouraging to think that both of us were encircled by love as we each stepped out onto a new leg of the journey of life, the journey of death.

And I wept. I wept with the sorrow of good-bye. I wept with the power and beauty of true love. I wept with deep gratitude that my story was interwoven with theirs. I wept because these two friends had shown me what love looks like when it’s old and well-worn and bounded by vows kept, vows honored, vows lived. I wept because of how they had modeled for me, indeed our entire community of faith, what faithfulness looks like. I wept because of the goodness of God paradoxically and beautifully revealed in and through the harsh, sometimes starkly intimate details of a protracted and difficult dying. I wept because my friends were together to the end, and now they were both free.

Adding this to Ann’s Wednesday invitation, Em’s Thursday one (if it’s open) and Duane’s, too.

Filed Under: death, friendship. personal journey, Marriage, personal journey

What Does It Mean to Be Blessed? Reflections on a Life

August 7, 2012 By Diana

My mother-in-law, Kathryn Trautwein, with my mother, Ruth Gold. Picture taken at Easter 3 years ago. Today they are 96 and 91 years old.

She was sleeping today.

She sleeps a lot.

When she’s awake, she is often unhappy,

confused, disoriented.

But once in a while, when I stare into her hazel eyes,

I see her in there.

I see the Mama I’ve known for nearly 50 years,

the woman who bore my husband,

who welcomed me into her family,

who blessed my children with her loving care.

I see brief glimpses of the

quiet feistiness that empowered her

to stand against the strict requirements of her

family’s faith.

She kept her hair short.

It was easier, she liked it and she didn’t

want to deal with the prayer coverings

that all the women in her family wore.

She shared their faith – she lived that faith

every single day of her long life.

But she did not share their restrictive way of

expressing that faith.

So she went her own way,

without angry words,

without an ‘I’m-right-you’re-wrong’ attitude,

without open rebellion.

She simply made quiet, thoughtful shifts on the inside

that began to show on the outside.

She took me clothes shopping before we left for Africa,

so many years ago.

We were going there to live and work for two years,

teaching school in a small Zambian town.

She very carefully and gently advised me on
skirt length, sleeve length,

the best kind of shoes (closed toes),

the simplest kinds of fabrics.

She knew.

She knew that I would feel woefully out of place

and would wonder why on earth
I had come to serve with people
who looked and lived so dramatically differently
from anyone I had ever before encountered
in my Christian life.

She did not advise me to change who I was –

she was far too wise for that.

But she did advise me to be more aware,

to honor those with different lifestyle values

while still being true to my own.

Mama was not one to offer advice very often,

preferring to keep most of her opinions to herself.

But she found us our first house to buy.

And she outright put her foot down when we got ready to

move from that house to another,
one where the entire backyard was a swimming pool.

She never learned to swim, you see.

And we had two toddler girls and a baby on the way.

No way, José. No way.

Even when we moved here to Santa Barbara,

our kids all grown and married,

she carefully let us know that she preferred
one house we were looking at over another.

Always subtle, gentle, non-intrusive.

But there was steel there.

The good kind of steel.

The kind that holds things together.

The kind that adds form and shape to life.

The kind that stands firm when the ground shakes,

or the wind blows,

or the fires rage.

She is 96 now and suffers from dementia.

She’s fallen twice in the last four days,

her speech is suddenly very slurred,

her appetite way down.

Maybe the end is beginning.

I don’t know.

I just know that today,

as I stood in front of her recliner chair,

watching her sleep and dream,

I thanked God for her.

I prayed the blessing of Aaron over her.

And I wept at the memory of her laughter,

her generosity,

her kindness,

her lifelong faithfulness.

You ask me what it means to be blessed?

I’ll tell you this:

to be blessed is to have a second mother

who loves you no matter what;

who doesn’t always understand you,

but who always, ALWAYS supports you;

who lives Jesus day in and day out,

mentors younger women,

leads Bible studies,

keeps your little kids at a moment’s notice,

adores her children and their children,

understands why her husband reacts to life the way he does

and loves him like crazy anyhow.

This is blessing to me today.

This woman of God,

this mother to my husband.

This woman who came to tea one day long ago,

driving 40 miles across town,

sitting in the living room of the house where

I lived while attending UCLA,

and letting me know that if I was serious

about her boy, then I was welcome to his whole family.

And I was.

Other than the family I was born to,

this has been the greatest of God’s gifts to me.

I am blessed.

And I am grateful.

Joining with Em’s synchro-blog today. You can find other entries here:
http://www.emilywierenga.com/2012/08/what-it-means-to-be-blessed-synchroblog.html
Also with Ann and her gratitude linky:

and with Jen and the sisterhood.

Filed Under: family, Family Portraits, God's gifts, personal journey

Quiet for the Weekend – August 4-5, 2012

August 5, 2012 By Diana

“Timely advice is lovely;

like golden apples in a silver basket.”

Proverbs 25:11 (NLT)

“Rebellion against your handicaps gets you nowhere.
Self-pity gets you nowhere.
One must have the adventurous daring
to accept oneself as a bundle of possibilities
and undertake the most interesting game in the world —
making the most of one’s best.”
– Harry Emerson Fosdick

“Try to make at least one person happy every day,
and then in ten years, you may have made three thousand,
six hundred and fifty persons happy,
or brightened a small town by your contribution
to the general enjoyment.”
– Sydney Smith

“Look, I really don’t want to wax philosophical,
but I will say, that if you’re alive
you got to flap your arms and legs,
you got to jump around a lot,
you got to make a lot of noise,
because life is the very opposite of death.
And therefore, as I see it,
if you’re quiet, you’re not living.
You’ve got to be noisy,
or at least your thoughts should be
noisy and colorful and lively.”
– Mel Brooks

Pictures of ripening pomegranates in the historic gardens of the Old Mission, Santa Barbara CA
Quotes are examples of ‘timely advice,’ Bold italics added to my favorite parts.
Joining Sandy and Deidra in their quiet spaces this weekend, with gratitude
for who they are and how they welcome us.

Filed Under: Quiet for the Weekend, Santa Barbara

Learning from the Humming Birds: A Photo Essay

August 4, 2012 By Diana

It’s been a wild ride the past few weeks – a major writing project to complete, followed by two weeks living in community with the charismatic Benedictines, wonderful friends who think deeply
about life and spirituality and who teach me so much – with their words and with their wisdom.
Our last evening together (in each of the two 2-week school sessions over the last two summers) is spent sharing stories, skits, reflections and laughter. This year, I put together a slide show with a narration.
And I promised my friends there that I would post it in this space.
It will not show up as a slide show here, but what I can do in this space is interweave the narration a bit better than I could with the time constraints of a 4 minute Chris Rice piano version of “Come Thou, Fount.”

Fourteen days ago, I drove myself into the parking lot

of this beautiful retreat center,

exhausted from too many deadlines and too few hours.

I was not exactly ‘conscious.’*

Fumbling for words, dropping things, overwhelmed by the kindness of friends,

I took a deep breath,

looked around at the curving architecture,

the quadrangled green space,

and thanked God that I had made it.

My room welcomed me to smallness and quietude,

and I began to feel the almost imperceptible movement

of muscles unclenching, stomach settling

and spirit stretching.

The foggy mornings helped to slow the pace,

gently covering all the sharp edges of the landscape –

the one around me and the one inside me, too.

Morning walks helped point me to beauty –

light and shadow;color and texture and shape; pinks and yellows and purples and reds.

circles and oblongs and heart-shaped buds;

Afternoons found me tucked away in a small side garden, where leaves,

backlit by the western sun,

shimmered and shook with glory.

Water soothed and stilled me, running off the edge of a nearby fountain,

abundant and nourishing.

A deep-seated thirst found quenching.

Surrounding the gentle circles of water was a sea of deep blue lilies,

held aloft by long stems moving in the afternoon breeze.

As I sat and soaked it in, those blue spires began to dance
without the help of wind,
stirred instead by fragile wings,
wings that beat 2 to 3 thousand times a minute.

Tiny feathered flyers ducked and swiveled,

hovered and darted,

long, thin beaks dipping deep for nectar in each periwinkle bloom

To my right was one bright red feeder, and hanging far above my head, another.

Sometimes one feisty bird at a time, they sipped and rested – gathering nourishment for the next few minutes of fevered flight.

And sometimes, they came in gangs,
dive-bombing one another to find a seat at the table.

One small trio shared well and drank deeply.

And so did we.

I will remember these two weeks for many reasons –
for good conversations, for stellar teaching,
for the nourishment of worship and eucharist.

But I will remember the hummingbirds, too. Tiny carriers of creation goodness, reminders of the need to inhabit my own smallness.

For to see these glimpses of glory, I, too, must become small – small enough to sit still,
to be quiet,
to listen well,
and to trust the goodness of God.

*The word ‘conscious’ in this context was an inside ‘joke’ (very feeble!) based upon much of what we learned together about becoming persons who can be more fully present to others and to God. Learning to be increasingly aware of ourselves and our own struggles/issues/shadows is often called ‘coming to consciousness.’ It is hard work to become more consciously aware of all the stuff that churns inside of us, often causing reactivity, defensiveness, projection-of-our-own-crap-onto-others. But the kind of work we strive to do with others in spiritual direction requires us to do our own work first. Much of what we learned together over these two years was directed at helping us become increasingly aware of when, where and how (and how frighteningly often!) we are not aware, not in tune with our own spirit or with God’s. I feel like I am just beginning some days!

I will join this with a few friends over the next day or so – most likely Ann Voskamp, Laura Boggess, L.L. Barkat, Michelle DeRusha, Jennifer Dukes Lee and Jen Ferguson.

And with Cheryl Smith, too – if this linky works –

Filed Under: Birds, community, personal journey, Photo Essay, Spiritual Direction

Being a Grandparent…

July 13, 2012 By Diana

Today was a welcome dose of normalcy. After one solid week of terrorizing, wind-driven fires all around us here in Santa Barbara, trying to do some semblance of ministry while choosing which items to accompany us in evacuation, worshipping in a hotel ballroom because our sanctuary – for the 2nd time in six months – was off-limits due to encroaching flames – it was absolutely delightful to just be Nana for a while today.

Gracie is our youngest grandchild and only granddaughter. She is 3.5 years old, smart as a whip and, of course, absolutely adorable, stunningly beautiful, funny, lovable, creative and an all-around exceptional child (as are all of our six grandsons, it goes without saying. Lovely thing about grandparenthood – you get to brag as much as you like). And she is the only one of our kids to live within easy distance for babysitting and special events.

Grace’s parents were working today and unable to attend her pre-school Mother’s Day Program and Luncheon – so I got to go. Such fun!

Her class sang two songs by themselves (all of them in bird costumes, which were assigned to their parents to create. Rachel sewed a lovely white plastic set of ‘feathers’ and created a crown-of-flame-feathers headpiece.)

Then Room Two sang two songs, and Room Three did 4 short Shel Silverstein poems in batches of 3 or 4 kids, and then sang two additional songs. Then all the classes together sang two more songs, complete with hand motions, one of which was truly wonderful to hear and to watch. Something about sewing new clothes for every member of the family – all you need is: (add one with each verse)
a sewing machine (appropriate noises), (this one for mama)
a bolt of material (extreme hand motions to each side), (this one for papa)
a tape measure (z-z-z-i-p, z-z-z-u-p), (this one for sister)
a pair of scissors (snip, snip, snip), (this one for brother)
a steam iron (pss, pss, pss), (this one for baby)
and a washing machine (can’t remember the sound for this one! (this one for the whole entire family)

And then we feasted! And Gracie is a great eater – plowed through a small croissant sandwich with turkey, a KFC drumstick, a handful of grapes and a small piece of cake without even blinking.

I also got to pick her up at the end of the day and we went to the village grocer for supplies and came home and made chocolate chip cookies. Only she wasn’t so sure about the oatmeal I included. A purist, I guess.

At any rate, it was good for me in every way possible – even good for my soul/spirit. A reminder that life is a gift, that children are among life’s best gifts, that continuity, family, music and food are to be enjoyed and relished.

Filed Under: Uncategorized