hope — Page 9

An Advent Journey: Stop, Look, Listen – Day 5

December 6, 2012 By Diana

These pictures were taken in 1967 in what is now Zimbabwe, at Matopos National Park. The second and third of these three shots are of the same oddly shaped and extremely large rock with a sheltering ledge built right into it. The paintings drawn under that ledge attest to it’s use as a safe refuge.

“Truly my soul finds rest in God;

my salvation comes from him.

Truly he is my rock and my salvation;

he is my fortress, I will never be shaken.

How long will you assault me?

Would all of you throw me down —

this leaning wall, this tottering fence?

Surely they intend to topple me

from my lofty place;

they take delight in lies.

With their mouths they bless,

but in their hearts they curse.

Yes, my soul, find rest in God;

my hope comes from him.

Truly he is my rock and my salvation;

he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

My salvation and my honor depend on God;

he is my mighty rock, my refuge.

Trust in him at all times, you people;

pour out your hearts to him,

for God is our refuge.

Surely the lowborn are but a breath,

the highborn are but a lie.

If weighed on a balance, they are nothing;

together they are only a breath.

Do not trust in extortion

or put vain hopes in stolen goods;

though your riches increase,

do not set your heart on them.

One thing God has spoken,

two things I have heard;

‘Power belongs to you, God,

and with you, Lord, is unfailing love;’

and, ‘You reward everyone

according to what they have done.”

Psalm 62, TNIV

Whenever I read this psalm, I imagine the one who wrote it sitting high in the hills, looking out over some kind of rocky land mass. I have never been to Israel, but I have been to central Africa and as I read through this song for today, I remembered the overwhelming size of the rocks we saw there. Looking at such large, looming boulders is both daunting and deeply reassuring.

The psalmist sings out — cries out — for such reassurance, for refuge, for shelter, for a place to hide away, safely enfolded by God’s goodness and strength. There is an expressed need for bigness, for some sort of reminder that God is larger and stronger than any enemies who might be threatening. The singer wants to feel safe. And so the ‘controlling metaphor’ for his song is a great, big rock. A fortress-sized rock. An unmovable refuge.

We all want to feel safe. Yet we live in a decidedly unsafe world, with enemies of various kinds on all sides. Fiscal cliffs, sick children, struggling parents, and the very worst enemies of all — the voices inside our own heads, the ones that tell us we are worthless, useless, unloved and unwanted.

Advent invites us to sit with that unsafe feeling for a while, to listen to it — but also to speak back to it. Because Advent also invites us to sit with an expectant young mom and her brave husband, to join them in their waiting, in their uncertainty. And in their amazing trust. There is much we can learn from these two ordinary people, chosen by God for such extraordinary work.

I imagine that God alone was their Rock, their safe place, during much of the journey to Christmas morning.

I imagine that this very song was one of their favorites. I know it is one of mine.

Rock of Ages, cleft for me . . . there isn’t a rock on this planet large enough to picture YOU. But somehow, these earthy reminders help us to remember that you are bigger, stronger, more sheltering, and far safer than any trouble, struggle, or enemy we may encounter along the way. You never promised us an easy road; you promise us your presence in the midst of it. Thank you for being our Rock and our Refuge.

Filed Under: Advent, An Advent Journey, biblical reflection, church year, Encouragement, hope

An Advent Journey: Stop, Look, Listen – Day 4

December 5, 2012 By Diana

“This is a vision that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem:

In the last days, the mountain of the Lord’s house

will be the highest of all —

the most important place on earth.

It will be raised above the other hills,

and people from all over the world will stream there to worship.

People from many nations will come and say,

‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD,

to the house of Jacob’s God.

There he will teach us his ways,

and we will walk in his paths.’

For the LORD’s teaching will go out from Zion;

his word will go out from Jerusalem.

The LORD will mediate between nations

and will settle international disputes.

They will hammer their swords into plowshares

and their spears into pruning hooks.

Nation will no longer fight against nation,

nor train for war anymore.”

Isaiah 2:1-4, NLT

Sometimes I think it would be truly grand to have a vision. To see something spectacular and hopeful and encouraging, to see it in living color, larger than life and rich with meaning.

This vision of Isaiah’s is a corker, isn’t it? Overflowing with such magnificent images! People moving like living water to God’s holy mountain, God himself settling any disputes. And this one – no more training for war. Turning weapons into farm implements — in essence — turning away from darkness and into the full light of God’s glorious presence.

YES! I’d love to have a vision like that.

And then, I realize.

I DO have a vision like that. . . this very one, right here in front of us on this blustery Advent Wednesday. I don’t believe Isaiah wrote this one down just for the heck of it — no, I don’t. I believe Isaiah, or someone writing under his grand name, wrote this down at the insistence of the Holy Spirit, precisely so that we could read it today.

Because this is a vision that every generation needs to see, this is a picture that all peoples need to have hanging on the walls of their hearts. This is a painting dripping with the colors of life and hope and expectation. And this is a vision perfectly designed for Advent, these 24 days of paying attention, of stilling ourselves so that we can see more clearly, of expecting God to show up in ways that surprise us and slow us and save us.

This is a vision of God’s desired future and this is a promise of wondrous things to come. Wondrous things that can begin now, inside of us, and spreading through us, to larger and larger circles of others who have eyes to see what God is up to in this world. “In the last days…” Every one of us lives in the last days. Every generation since Jesus walked the earth has lived in the last days. Every generation since Jesus has been slowly, slowly, slowly heading, like rivers of water, to God’s holy mountain.

And one day soon, we’re going to get there. Glory be!

We’re looking for you, Lord. We’re looking for you on that high mountain. We want to be a twig in that river that will stream upwards toward you! So now, while we wait, while we watch – will you teach us your ways and show us how to walk in your paths? We want to be ready. We want to be ready!

Filed Under: Advent, An Advent Journey, biblical reflection, daily devo, Encouragement, hope

A Season for the King

November 27, 2012 By Diana

We were late to church yesterday morning.

Lots of travel last week,

all of it good, fun, comforting, interesting.

But . . .

we were tired

and moving very s-l-o-w-l-y.

The sanctuary was full as we snuck in the back door,

so we sat in the balcony,

which provides an unusual view.

The large chandeliers that took on the look of a double crown in the photograph.

It wasn’t until I looked at the photo

that I saw that our view was remarkably apt

for this particular Sunday in the church calendar:

Christ the King Sunday,

the last one in the liturgical year.

Next Sunday is the first Sunday in Advent,

the turning of a new calendar page.

But yesterday. . .

yesterday was a celebration of the Cosmic Christ,

the One who sits at the right hand of the Father,

the One who will come again in glory,

the One who intercedes for us,

who reigns on our behalf,

and the One for whom the stars sing.

In the northern hemisphere,

this Sunday comes in the midst of Autumn,

the time of dying,

dying in full, vibrant color.

It feels fitting to celebrate Christ as King

in this season of the year,

perhaps because it also feels a little bit upside-down.

Wouldn’t the bright pinks and purples of spring or summer

be better suited to this kind of recognition?

Christ is surely King in any season of our years,

but somehow the Fall feels ‘right’ to me,

a good season to make special note of this truth.

After all, Jesus did not become the kind of king

that people were anticipating.

He shattered every preconception, every expectation,

every dream that was built on the power structures of our world.

In ways that are deep and profound,

Jesus of Nazareth did not become

Christ the King until

after

the cross,

the empty tomb,

the ascension into the heavenly realms.

Is there any more backwards way to become

a person of royalty than his way?

The way of death,

and resurrection,

and ascension?

So as the days get shorter,

and the hours of darkness grow;

as the leaves turn brilliant in their farewell address,

as the flowers dry on the stem

and the shadows lengthen on the lawn,

this is the time,

the perfect time,

to remember and to honor our King.

The One who was with God and who became a human person,

taking that long and winding downward journey,

living a more fully human life than any other ever has.

He died an ignominious death,

and by that death and the resurrection

which followed it,

brought us the gift of Full Life

in fellowship with the Triune God.

Only then, did he return to his rightful place

on the throne.

So YES, this season seems about right.

The season of dying in full, vibrant color.

On this Sunday, we celebrate that the King is for us.

We remember the greatness of our God,

we acknowledge the Glory of a Savior

who is much grander, fuller, more all-compassing

than any Being we can imagine or dream.

Lord of the Harvest?

Surely so.

Grand Creator of the universe in all its richness and variety?

Yes and amen.

The One who is above all, around all,

through all and in all?

Yes, yes, yes and YES.

So we sing, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” and

“Crown Him with Many Crowns,” and

“Creation Song,” and “Revelation Song,” and

any other hymn of praise that rises to our lips

as we recognize the Bigness of our God.

Next week, we celebrate the Littleness.

Isn’t that amazing?

Joining this with Laura Boggess and Jen Ferguson and the Sisterhood, with Cheryl Hyatt Smith and Ann Voskamp this week.

Doesn’t quite fit any of their themes exactly, but. . . this is what I’ve got.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, church year, God's gifts, hope, Photo Essay, Sunday Reflections

Letters to Me – A Book Review

November 11, 2012 By Diana

Over the course of the next few months, there will be a number of small-press books making their way out into public view, collections of essays on a theme, carefully edited and lovingly written. This book is one of the first–and, in some ways, one of the most interesting. Nineteen writers were given this assignment: write a letter to your younger self somewhere between the ages of 18 and 30. Advise, if you must, but basically help yourself to see that things have a way of working themselves out. These letters are meant to be offerings of encouragement and hope, written from a distinctly personal and well-informed point of view. After all, the writers know the recipients intimately–more intimately than anyone else.

I was delighted to find some old ‘friends’ in this collection – Lyla Lindquist, Tamára Lunardo, Shawn Smucker, Charity Singleton, J.B. Wood, Lore Ferguson, Anita Mathias – people I have previously encountered through their blogs and their comments on mine. And none of them disappoints. All are fine writers, good thinkers and excellent communicators.

I loved reading about Shawn’s blue-eyed girlfriend, Charity’s courageous act of resignation, Tamára’s heartfelt choice for life when faced with an unplanned pregnancy as a 19-year-old. Jim Wood begins with, ‘GET A GRIP!’–SO perfect for many of us as we look back at our angst-ridden younger selves. But he goes on to celebrate all that happened in those long-ago years, praising and encouraging himself-from-way-back-when. I think we all need to do that from time to time, don’t you? Look back with love and support?

If pushed, I guess I’d have to say that Lyla’s letter was particularly poignant for me, rich with wry, careful reflection and a superb pages-long metaphor of life-as-a-Rube-Goldberg-contraption:

“So many people think there’s a sure-fire, idiot-proof way to know the right thing. They get this idea that God’s whole plan for every person on earth can be derailed with one small misstep. I suppose some do get a clear and certain sense of the way they are to go. But it seems that for many of us, the fleeces and pro/con lists, the long straws and coin flips are formalities. Sometimes we’re going to have to ‘fish or cut bait’ as my dad would say. We’re just going to have to make a guess. Maybe an educated guess, but it’ll be a guess all the same.

“What I want you to know now is that it will work out, better than you could have known or planned. Because for many of us, life is less like following a road map than coursing through a Rube Goldberg contraption. It seems far more like an elaborate series of springs and pulleys, levers and ropes that sets a chain reaction into motion.”

And she is off and running for a series of beautifully described twists and turns, rolling down ramps, across all kinds of fascinating obstacles, always following the marble on its relentless path to somewhere. It’s gorgeously done and worth the price of the book all by itself.

Yes, Lyla is a friend. But she happens to be an inordinately talented one. Each person in this collection contributes to the whole in their own unique way, telling pieces of his or her story. If you know someone in this age bracket–18 to 30–who is feeling discouraged, a little bit lost, wondering where they’re headed, why not purchase a copy of this book and pass it along to them? I know they’ll find encouragement. I pray they’ll even find a small, sunlit piece of hope to hang onto when the way ahead feels decidedly murky.

I was given a copy of this book for review purposes but received no other compensation for this essay.

Filed Under: Book Review, Encouragement, hope, Laity Lodge

The Saving Grace of Work

August 30, 2012 By Diana

This post was originally written almost exactly one year ago in response to an invitation from Charity Singleton for a High Calling Blog Hop. I’m reposting it today for Ed Cyzewski’s week of blogposts on “A Hazardous Faith,” the title of a recently released book he co-authored. This particular post is actually more about a long-term season of struggle in the life of our family – both my immediate family and our church family. And it speaks to the role of my pastoral work as an anchor and strong center during that tumultuous time. Because, let’s face it – LIFE is hazardous – that is just a fact. And following Jesus in the midst of it somehow manages to both add to and subtract from the riskiness of it all. We are never promised sunshine and roses when we choose to place our feet in the shadow of the Rabbi, no matter what the televangelists might tell you. We are not rescued from life and its losses. Rather, we are invited into a relationship that makes those losses easier to navigate, a relationship that never ends and never fails.

2009 was most definitely not my favorite year.

Come to think of it, 2008 and 2007 were pretty rotten, too.

And 2006 and 2005 were not a whole heckuva lot better.

At times, it felt as though we were riding a dangerously out of control roller coaster, careening from side to side, tilting on one very narrow edge as we rounded some treacherous turns and corners.

My dad died at the beginning of this long stretch of tough stuff, a rugged dying, leaving my mom both exhausted from care-giving and desperately lonely for her partner.

My husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer about two months later, enduring painful and debilitating surgery and still in recovery mode during a long-planned anniversary trip to France soon after.

Our son-in-law was applying for long-term disability, literally fading away before our eyes. His wife, our eldest daughter, was beginning an education process that would give her a master’s degree and special ed certification in 12 months. Their three boys were struggling to find their bearings in this new universe.

Our middle daughter’s 3rd boy was born in distress, tiny and in the NICU for 5 days. Our daughter-in-law needed a slightly dicey C-section for her first-born, just weeks after her cousin’s difficult entry into the world.

My youngest brother landed in the ER with a severe leg infection, requiring a long list of care-giving efforts from me, my other brother and our mom. This illness began a long, downward spiral of long-missed diagnoses, homelessness, sober living residences, heart surgery and eventually, sudden death in 2009.

Our son-in-law entered the last year of his life with multiple hospitalizations, serious complications of a wide variety, and a miraculous six-month respite, giving us all some memories that were lovely and lasting. That year, 2008, ended with a devastating pneumonia that took his life in a matter of hours.

And the next year, our beautiful town was hit by wildfires – two times – requiring evacuation from home and church, plunging our worshiping community into emergency mode for months on end.

As I said, it was an unbelievably difficult few years.

And every week, except for vacations and emergencies, I went to work. Many people wondered why. Why do you want to step into other people’s difficult situations? Why do you want to visit the sick? Why do you want to write Bible study lessons? Why do you still want to preach in the rotation? Why do you want to lead in worship? Why? Haven’t you got enough on your plate already?

I don’t know that I can fully answer that question.
But I will try to write a coherent list of possible reasons in this space:

work grounded me;
work reminded me I was not alone;
work taught me about community;
work provided an external focus;
work brought at least the illusion of order
to my terribly disordered world;
work kept me from drowning;
work brought relief from the weight of worry that
was an almost constant companion;
work allowed me to stay in touch with the
creative parts of me as well as the care-giving parts;
work gave me a different place to look,
a different place to reflect,
a different space in which to be me –
the me that was called and gifted and capable.
As opposed to the me that was helpless,
impotent and
overwhelmed.

Work was something I could do,
something I could manage,
something I could control – within limits.
My life was spinning frantically out of control,
at least out of my control,
heading down deep and dark crevasses that terrified me.
Work was more easily containable,
expectations were clear,
contributions were valued.
Work was grace for me during that long,
long stretch of Job-like living.

Work was a gift,
a gift of God to a weary and worried woman.
It allowed me room to breathe,
it provided me with commitments I could keep,
it brought me into contact with people who
could actually use what I had to offer.
And it brought me into contact with people
who could bear me up,
who could tend my gaping wounds,
who could be as Jesus to me,
even as I tried to be as Jesus to those
I loved most in this world.

I did not do any of it perfectly.
Lord knows, that isn’t even possible
and it surely wasn’t true.

My body let me know how big the load had become last year, when it was my turn to enter the hospital and begin round after round of medical appointments.

The end of 2010 brought the end of my work life. I have missed it at times. But I am discovering that even in the lack of structure and schedule of these first months of retirement, God is underneath. And around and in between. Just as God has always been.

I don’t completely understand why this truth is true, I just know this: the gift and grace of work helped me to see and to know God’s presence when the roller coaster was tilting crazily. And somehow, we’re still here, clinging to the sides of the coaster car, doing our very best to enjoy the ride.

Please check out the other posts being offered today in this busy week of commentary on a powerful topic. Here is a link to today’s page at Ed’s blog.
And while you’re there, why not order a copy of Ed’s new book?
He is a great guy, a talented writer and editor and he has a brand new baby boy.
Go on, make his day.

(Sorry, Ed, I couldn’t make the banner work.)

Filed Under: death, Ed Cyzewski's Synchroblog, hope, personal journey, Wonderings in the World, Writing

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

The Pulse of a Church: Faithfulness

July 10, 2012 By Diana

Yesterday was one of those days for me.

One of those puzzle-clicking days,

when the pieces come together

and lock into place,

creating a picture that is both

recognizable and beautiful.

It’s taken about 24 hours for me to begin to see

how that happened in my heart, in my spirit.

And I’m not sure that I can find the words to tell you about it.

This much I know.

It wasn’t about the building,

although I love that place

and am grateful for every inch of it.

It wasn’t even about the worship service,

although some pieces of that service helped

the picture to come together with focus and intention.

Mostly, it was about the people.

ALL the people of the long, interesting,

sometimes exhausting day that was yesterday.

Our pastor is back from vacation and that’s a good thing.

And he brought a word that he’d been pondering

for many weeks.

And that’s a good thing, too.

And part of that word was definitely a piece

of the lovely jigsaw that has been coming to life in my heart.

Reflecting on a brief sojourn in Egypt,

he said this about the Christians he met there:

“The future depends on their faithfulness.”

And I thought – YES!

This is the age-old story of our faith,

this is what Jesus kept saying to us,

in parable and story and miracle.

This is what God modeled for the people of Israel,

this is what the epistles urge the burgeoning

movement of Christ-lights to remember:

Be faithful, even as God is faithful.

Learn to listen well, and to do good.

Learn to lean into love.

Learn to care for one another.

Live as though every single thing you do matters

in the Big Picture of life.

And teach your children all of this.

As I listened to that word, I took a look around me.

About 275 people were gathered in the same space,

people of all ages, from newborns to folks in their 90’s.

A group of six led us in worship –

a father and his 16-year-old daughter on guitar and vocals,

a pastor’s 16-year-old daughter on vocals,

a professor father and young-adult son on piano and guitar,

a former staff member on bass.

The last number of the opening set was an a capella

version of, “Down to the River to Pray,”

and when those two young women

and two middle-aged men joined their voices

in gorgeous 4-part harmony –

a small window to heaven opened before me.

And a piece of the puzzle clicked.

Then our Moment for Mission was an interview

with a son of this church and his gracious, articulate wife.

They gave up lucrative jobs in Orange County to

use their gifts in computer science and music,

working with Wycliffe in Texas.

Their report was wonderful, encouraging, humbling.

And another piece fell into its slot.

I listened to one of the most beautiful prayers

I’ve heard in months,

offered by a man who moved here

about a dozen years ago to retire.

He has jumped into ministry with both feet –

music and tutoring and working with our littlest children.

Click.

Then I watched this happen.

Every week, the kids are invited to come and sit on the steps,

where the pastor has a special word or project just for them.

Yesterday, this beautiful ‘welcome wagon’

was wheeled down the center aisle.

It was built by hand as an Eagle Scout project –

and an act of gratitude to the church –

by a recent high-school graduate,

a kid I’ve watched grow up since he was three years old.

And then builder and pastor and seven little kids

laid hands on that cart, and dedicated it to the

service of the Kingdom of God.

By now, I’m just beginning to catch a glimpse of the

design taking shape inside my heart.

We rushed home from church to welcome our small group,

this month including kids, lunch and swim time.

My husband is 70, Iris is 2, the rest of us fall

somewhere on the spectrum between those two extremes.

We had a grand time together –

sitting in the shade, enjoying one another’s company.

Two of the women in our group have endured

brain anomalies; two of the families have

weathered tough problems with their kids;

all of us believe that the single greatest task

to which we are called is the care and tending

of faith and faithfulness in ourselves and in our children,

followed closely by serving others in the name of Jesus.

I had to leave our gathering a little early,

and I had to leave for a hard, sad reason.

Another son of our church had recently died,

tragically and too soon.

His mother and dad are among my favorite

people on this earth – gentle servants who set out

communion month after month,

who greet folks when they arrive on Sundays,

who share themselves quietly and humbly.

I wanted to be there to remember their boy,

to offer words of prayer and committal,

to acknowledge that sometimes,

the circle is broken too early, too early.

This, too, was a piece of the puzzle –

a darker piece, but an important one.

Last night, and again this morning,

I thought through that entire Sabbath day.

I reflected on the many facets of the picture

taking shape inside my heart,

and I began to see it for the soft yet strong,

slow-growing but sturdy,

sometimes weary but always winsome

picture that it truly is,

and it looks a whole lot like Jesus.

Sometimes it is easy to be critical of the church –

I will readily admit to frustration, impatience

and disappointment

with how slowly things change,

with how stuck we can sometimes get.

BUT…

Yesterday was a quietly unfolding gift to me,

all of it –

the lovely stuff and the terribly painful stuff.

It became a deep and personal portrait reminding me that

faithfulness sometimes looks like this:

the generations standing together,

singing together,

working together,

giving together,

mourning together.

In fact, I guess I’d say that’s exactly what

faithfulness looks like.

And it is beautiful.

Joining this tonight with Michelle and Laura,

tomorrow with Jen and Jennifer and Wednesday with Duane:

Filed Under: community, hope, personal journey, The Church, worship

Reflections on Mortality and Holy Week

April 3, 2012 By Diana

It only lasts a minute, maybe two.

That sense of stepping off a cliff –

when a lump rises in your throat,

and immediately catapults into your stomach.

Or maybe it’s more like being blind-sided by a phantom,

a phantom with snarling breath that blows down the back of your collar
and frizzes the ends of your hair.

You can be living your ordinary, everyday life –

driving the car, for instance.

Or having lunch with someone you love.

Or resting after minor surgery.

And wham! It hits you like a bracing splash of ice water:

death happens everywhere.

We are surrounded by it,

entangled in it,

bewitched by it.

And most of the time, we are oblivious.

Quite intentionally so, I believe.

We cover it up,

tuck it away,

move it aside.

And we do that with all kinds of things,

in all kinds of ways.

We do it with food,

or alcohol,

or television,

or reading,

or even – gasp! – writing.

It’s the spectre on everyone’s horizon,

the uninvited guest at the table,

the devilish imp around every corner.

And we don’t want to see it.

And much of the time, we don’t.

We don’t.

But then, you turn just a little,

and you cast a glance over the wrong shoulder,

you catch a glimpse
just there –
off to the side –

and the rawness of it socks you in the gut.

Two sisters, having lunch.

Best of friends, longtime traveling companions,

singing life’s song together for over 85 years.

You stop to take a picture –

and you see it.

Just there, in the sagging skin.

Or there, in the squinting struggle to see something –

anything that’s recognizable.
Or to the right – see it? – the big red walker,
just there,
the one that carries the frail, flailing, failing body
slowly and carefully from place to place.

And you know:

it won’t be long now.

Or you take a little drive,

off to find a new dress for a 90-year-old.

You go down familiar streets,

remarking on changes made here and there.

And then – there it is.

The shabby motel where he lived,

your youngest brother,

the one who hid so well –

who hid the drinking and the illness and the shame,
the one who died, far too young.

Over there –
just there –
lurking by the office,

just down from the dark, dank corridor

of his room – you spot it.

And your stomach clenches,

your eyes fill ever so briefly,

your breath catches

between the pleasantries you speak.

Or you’re driving home from the dentist

after a routine surgical procedure,

and your face begins to pound and swell.

Within hours, you look like a prize-fighter,

so you pile in the car for some urgent care.

And you see it again!
Just there,
in the bright red gauze,
the deepening purple of bruise,
the slow, constant tender aching.
No longer a wraith, but a sharp, clear reflection
in the window pane behind the surgeon’s worried face.
The ever-present visitor that no one
wants to see, to wrestle with, even to acknowledge:
we all age;
we all die.

For these intimations of mortality are all around us,

constant reminders of the ephemeral nature of our

sojourn on this planet.
No one escapes,
no one is immune,
no one is immortal.

But then…

Holy Week arrives,
right in the middle of the muddle,
amid the weariness of watching death in action,
inexorable and overwhelming.

And a tiny green thing begins to wriggle its way
to the surface of your soul.
A sprig, really.
A small, tender shoot of hope and life.
Because somehow,
in the very middle of death itself,
there is this ever-growing wick of light.
As we follow the story
to the upper room,
to the garden,
to the house of the high priest,
to the halls of Herod and Pilate,
through the narrow winding streets
of the city,
up that pathway marked by the blood of Jesus himself –
even there…
even there.

There is a whiff of green, a scent of spring.
EVEN THIS, Jesus knows.
This sinking queasiness, this revelation and recognition
that death is an unavoidable part of life –
Jesus has been here, too.
Jesus has been here ahead of us.
And Jesus walks with us when the
dark, shadowy fears show up and torment us.
Even this, Jesus knows.

So today, and tomorrow, and the next day…
I want to shelter this bit of life amid the ashes;
I want to water it with my tears,
and nourish it with my songs of thanksgiving.
And then I want to position it
just there,
where the sunlight,
streaming forth from the empty tomb,
can help it to grow strong and true,
always and forever stretching toward the Light.

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade.”

1 Peter 1:3-4

Joining with Michelle at Graceful and Jennifer and the Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood at Finding Heaven and the generous Kimberly at Journey to Epiphany, who is temping for Emily Weirenga for a while. I’ll also join it to the Lauras, even though it’s not a particularly playful post nor is it so much about a place physical as a place emotional and spiritual. And with Ann V, too. (Although I can never get her button to work here.)

 

Filed Under: death, Holy Week, hope, Lent, Wonderings in the World

Remembering with Gratitude: A Life Well-Lived

March 10, 2012 By Diana

Abbot David Nicholas Geraets, OSB
March 4, 1935-March 2, 2012

Entered St. Benedict’s Abbey, Benet Lake Wisconsin
Made monastic profession – September 1, 1957
Ordained to the priesthood – September 29, 1962
Baptized by the Holy Spirit – November 1967 and began
ministry to the charismatic renewal.
Elected First Abbot of Pecos Monastery – April 11, 1973
Abbatial Service – 1973-1992
Conventual Prior in San Luis Obispo 1992-2012

I’m fumbling around for the right earrings.

Packing an overnight bag for a short trip.

My fingers trip and tangle,

the jewelry falls on the counter,

and I feel the tears behind my eyes.

Looking up into the mirror,

I ask myself:

“What does one wear to a wake?

To a Resurrection Mass for a priest,

an abbot,

a mentor,

a friend?

What do I wear?”

And the answer comes,

“Wear your heart.”

And I pack it right up,

lay it in the suitcase,

next to the small jewelry box,

the St. Benedict medal on its chain,

the clear colors he always noticed,

the small, ordinary pieces of an everyday life.

Because that’s all I’ve got, isn’t it?

This heart full of memories,

of words heard and received,

of sweet smiles and heartfelt prayers and gentle marks of the cross.

We drive north,

this drive we’ve taken together for almost two years now.

Ever since my health scare and hospitalization in May of 2010, my husband has chosen to make this trip with me each month.

He takes long walks up and down the steep driveway of the monastery while I sit in the Holy Spirit House with the abbot.

We’ve both come to love this day-long venture together.

And I wonder as the wheels turn and the miles slide by,

will this be the last time?

And I wonder,

is this really why we’re going today?

To say good-bye?

We choose to stay overnight at the coast,

15 minutes from the mortuary and the church.

A good, good choice for us ocean people.

Just walking on the bluffs in the warm wind,

it blows courage into our souls.

We get there early,

the mortuary where the vigil will be held.

Because that, I learn, is what a monastic wake is all about.

It’s a time for call and response singing and reading,

for sharing memories and stories,

for keeping vigil with one another

on the eve of the final good-bye.

A short, strong nun leads the sung part of our prayer time.

And she is gifted, so gifted.

Gracious, confident, calling us to join the song with the lifting of her arms.

I relax into the music, letting the Spirit sink deep.

The brothers read lines from St. Gregory about St. Benedict.

We sing the “Sucsipe” – the song sung by every Benedictine priest at the time of vows and renewal of vows:

“Receive me, O Lord,

as you have promised

and I shall live.

Do not disappoint me in my hope.”

Can I just tell you how deeply

and strongly

my soul and spirit resonate with this kind of worship?

Simple melodies,

heartfelt words,

the ability to be silent without tension.

Too many churches in my life do not know how to do silence. At all.

These warmhearted, generous Catholic friends?

They know how.

And the next day, it is the same.

This time a formal Resurrection Mass,

complete with the presiding Bishop of the diocese and a trailing line of priests from all kinds of places,

sitting together, joining their voices throughout the litany.

“A motley crew,” the bishop named them.

And they are that.

But I think perhaps these are a brave crew, too.

Standing and singing and praying together for a departed friend.

The same nun leads the singing, serving as cantor extraordinaire.

The scriptures are chosen from those David loved –

the Shepherd’s psalm

(which we sing and I am undone, just undone),

Habakkuk 3 – the vision will come…wait for it

Revelation 21 – behold, I make all things new…

John 3 – unless you be born from above…

And his friend and partner in work,

Father Ray Roh preaches a magnificent memorial sermon.

I am blessed, grateful, aware that this was not an easy task to take.

Communion is moving, as it always is.

All stand, in prayer and attention, until each person is served.

And we sing, we sing.

New to this world of Catholic gatherings,

we assumed a 2:00 service would be followed by a reception of desserts, to which we happily contributed a big bowl of beautiful fresh berries and some cookie bars.

Oh, no.

A full lunch spread – gorgeous and yummy looking.

Except, of course, we had eaten lunch.

So we watched and listened and felt the love vibrating throughout the Parish Hall.

And then we washed out our bowl,

loaded the car

and headed home.

Encouraged, exhausted, fed.

Grateful, grieving, content in a strange and satisfying way.

We are left marveling that we

never knew such richness existed in this Catholic space,

that we were so narrow in our view of life,

of worship,

of God.

And the simple, haunting melody of that psalm,

that’s what we each remembered,

that’s what we continue to draw on.

Here is a YouTube version of Marty Haugen’s beautiful liturgical rendition of Psalm 23.

The response comes first – to teach the congregation.

Then the verses, followed by the response each time.

Watch, savor, listen, SING:

All I can say,

all I can sing,

all I can pray is
THANK YOU, LORD.

THANK YOU.

We’re heading out of town for a while in the morning. I hope to have a chance to link this with Michelle at “Graceful” and with Jen at “Finding Heaven.” But I’ll publish it now and link to it on Facebook in case I can’t find reliable internet service while we’re away.

Thanks to so many of you for your kind words, your support and encouragement and your prayers. Oh, most definitely, your prayers.
I also tagged onto both Laura’s this week – Barkat at “Seedlings in Stone,” and Boggess at “The Wellspring,” and at Ann Voskamp’s Wednesday round-up. And today, I’ll tag in at Bonnie’s place as she’s taking six weeks off to finish her book! And at “Journey to Ephiphany,” who has so kindly taken on Emily Weirenga’s weekly log-in:

Filed Under: grief, hope, memoir, personal journey, Spiritual Direction, Sunday Reflections, Travel

Five Minute Friday: Color

December 10, 2011 By Diana

I’ve missed a few weeks of this very fun exercise, but I’ll give it a shot today – while it’s still Friday! Our assignment is to write for five minutes flat – no editing – on the topic for the week. And we all sign up over at Lisa-Jo’s place to share our very different responses to the same prompt. Check it out – I think you’ll like it a lot!

Today’s prompt is:

COLOR

GO:

I’ve spent most of this week elbow deep in color – Christmas color. Reds, greens, golds, silvers – all the rich, jewel-like tones that have come to symbolize this season of the year. I’m not done yet, either. The lights are on the tree, but the ornaments? That takes some doing and we’ll have to carve out a few hours tomorrow afternoon to get those beauties dangling.

I am a clear-color-lover. Don’t give me a dusky or muted palette – it will drive me to drink! I like lots of color around. Take a good look at the world in which we live most of the time. Is it not rife with glorious, eye-bending color collages? Yes, I think it is. And so, I revel in it.

But I’ll tell you this: as much as I enjoy adding all the razzle dazzle of this holiday season to my home, I am also very glad indeed to take it all down again in January. Why? Because I have come to love the colors we live with year-round – they speak to my heart of home and happiness and I miss them when they’re gone.

When we re-modeled our home about 4 years ago, I ordered new Fiestaware. I had never bought a set of dishes like this before and I was delighted to pick out: Sunflower, Turquoise, Chartreuse and Blue. They made me happy. So happy that I planned the entire renovation around my new dishes. And I’ve never been sorry. To me, these are the colors of creation – at least the parts of creation that resonate most strongly with my spirit. They speak of life and hope, of springtime and growth. And I LOVE being surrounded by varying shades of these 4 plus light-toned woods and white trim everywhere.

And people who visit seem to respond exactly the way we do – they tell me they feel happy and welcome when they get here. And that’s what it’s all about, right?

STOP