memoir — Page 9

Midweek Meanderings: a Photo Essay

April 12, 2012 By Diana

The 5-point (meaning I pivoted 5 times to get the whole thing), 240 degree view from our back terrace this week. Sigh.

The rain last night was lovely, clearing the air, greening the hillside,

encouraging a warming fire in the fireplace.

This morning, all the clouds are piled up to the south,

slowly making their way to our real home,

and the homes of our children.

These shots taken on my afternoon circular walks around the driveway. Once, this was a grand central CA home. Now it is an amazing view with a very run-down house. It makes me sad to see homes neglected, but we are grateful for what there is in this spectacular vacation space, hanging over the bluffs with the hills just behind. And there’s lots of room to spread out, which is a good thing with so.many.of.us.

We’ve been together since last Friday,

spread out in a large, hacienda-style rented home.

A place in need of some major TLC –

but with a killer view of the Pacific coast.

Birds flourish here.

And so do children.

The 2-year-old runs headlong down the hill toward the bluff, causing gasps on all sides.

But someone bigger is always nearby

to step between her and the abyss.

May it always be so!

Eastertide is a season for celebration and for gratitude,

for remembering who we are as the people of God.

And here, on this rugged shore,

with a 17-year-old asking good, hard questions,

two 13-year-0lds sharing a kayak adventure,

a 10-year-old giggling his way through a great game of ping-pong and two 6-year-olds alternately

adoring and infuriating one another,

we are celebrating.

And we are grateful.

Even the 21-year-old was here for the weekend,

before heading back to school and responsibilities,

four hours south of this gathering place.

Our adult children are good and interesting people.

Their spouses are kind and good-natured.

All of them are attentive parents and generous housemates.

We observed Easter at a church unknown to any of us and followed with a feast, just as the Christian church has done for centuries. We are also celebrating the 70th birthday of Poppy,

our loved and lovable patriarch, the acceptance into his 1st choice college for the 17-year-old and a good private high school scholarship for one of the 13-year-olds.

After so many years of struggle and loss,

it is good to gather in gratitude.

We even took a family photo … the first ever …

to round out the weekend just past.

The photographer is working on the touch-ups

and we will soon have a lasting memento of this time spent together,

possibly by week’s end.

The hunters and the hiders – not sure who enjoys the Easter Egg Hunt the most.

Though she loves the idea of hunting and hiding, Lilly does not quite fully grasp the concept. Generally, if she hides, she guides the hunter until she’s found. :>)

In the meantime,

we soak in the beauty around us,

explore the small towns that circle round the sea,

while some play tennis,

and others a little b-ball.

One daughter and her husband paid for two days of heating the pool on the property and about half the crowd

jumped in and enjoyed getting wet and tired.

We’ve had an egg hunt or two,

enjoyed delicious home-cooked meals,

even traveled to a local ice-cream maker’s

“All You Can Eat” Tuesday celebration.

In a beat-up side room, there is a pool table and ping-pong,

and someone contributed a 2000 piece puzzle to pour over.

Settlers of Catan has made an appearance and Bananagrams, too,

so no one seems bored.

Many naps are taken in this house,

signaling the welcome arrival of true relaxation

and energizing Sabbath rest.

We all point and shout,

thanking God for sightings of otters,

sea lions, an occasional dolphin –

even a whale, far out in the bay.

Avila Beach, just north of where we are.

A creekside restaurant for lunch in San Luis Obispo

Through it all, we thank God for the richness of family life,

the push and pull of living in the same space,

sharing the work and the fun,

watching the children grow in wisdom and in stature.

Friday, we return to reality.

Or at least to our usual list of responsibilities and commitments.

Sometimes, though, I do believe that experiences like this week are the true reality,

life as it was originally designed to be lived.

Maybe everything else is mere illusion,

the structure that has been overlaid on human life

in the wake of Eden.

So, we’ll take these windows of grace.

And we’ll savor them, thank God for them,

take lots of pictures

and build reservoirs of stories to share

as the years progress.

And once in a while,

I’ll write about it here.

Because I really do believe that

this is the truest part of me.

At least, until Friday.

I’ll sign this one on with Michelle at “Graceful,” Jen at “Finding Heaven,” Ann at “A Holy Experience,” Em at “Canvas Child,” Laura at “The Wellspring,” Laura at “Seedlings in Stone,” and Jennifer at “Getting Down with Jesus.” I encourage you all to check out these fine blogs – but I am having increasing difficulty getting buttons to show up in the new blogger format. If anyone has any shortcuts for this tedious job, I’d love to hear them.

Filed Under: birthdays, church year, Easter, family, Family/Travel, memoir, Photo Essay, 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

Losing a Mentor: A Re-Post Plus a Tribute

March 4, 2012 By Diana

I am re-posting this one from last January,

in honor of Abbot David Geraets,

my spiritual director and friend,

who died on Friday morning.

These are words I wrote to a few friends earlier today about my response to receiving this sad news:

My mentor died on Friday. He was 77 years old – only 10 years older than I am –

and he’d battled a number of ailments this past year.

But still…I didn’t think he would DIE.

We all die.

I know this in my head.

I even know it in my heart,

as we’ve lost a lot of dear ones in the last 10 years.

Yet each time I get a phone call like the one I got on Friday afternoon, I am bereft. Like part of me has been sliced with a very sharp blade

and all that pours out are tears.

I took my usual evening walk on Friday, walking circles around our large driveway parking area. I’ve been learning to pray while I walk this past year – many fewer words, lots more images. But what I found myself doing on Friday was simply saying the name of Jesus, over and over and over again.

And here is why: a friend had posted a very old video on YouTube. A video of the mentor I had just lost. This clip, filmed in 1986, was an interview with Abbot David (who, at that time, led a much larger community in New Mexico) by a nun named Mother Elizabeth. Now may I just add, with a repentant heart and spirit, that if I had seen this video when it was filmed 26 years ago, I would have either switched it off immediately, or watched it with a sort of gleeful feeling of superiority to those ‘weirdos’ in the habits and collars. I’m ashamed and embarrassed to admit that, but it’s the hard truth.

I watched all 30 minutes of that grainy old video, marveling at the sweetness in David’s face, the kindness of his words and the truth of his life. I met with him monthly for the last three years, receiving spiritual direction in the form of dream interpretation. He was an expert at that and also at encouragement and gentle prayer. In this video, he suggested praying the Jesus prayer (which has been a favorite prayer practice of mine for about ten years) or just simply saying the name of Jesus over and over for 20 or 30 minutes. I have discovered that following Abbot David’s advice is a very helpful thing. (I wrote a post about the benefits of one piece of that advice at the end of January.)

So on that first afternoon after this dear man’s death, that’s what I did when I walked. I cannot put into words how intensely moving it was for me, in these initial hours of grief, to just say the Name over and over and over again. And I wept my way through a 45 minute time of walking, praying, remembering, celebrating. I will never again feel the dear Abbot’s fingers make the sign of the cross on my bent forehead at the end of our hour together. I will not be blessed by his hand when I receive my certificate in spiritual direction next August. I will not engage with him in friendly, loving conversation.

And that is a huge, huge loss to me.

And to so many.

Thank you Abbot David Geraets for your loving commitment to Jesus, for your years of kindness, wisdom and gentle correction, for your heart as big as the sky above the ranch you and the brothers live(d) in out in the back country of San Luis Obispo.

I will be grateful for your presence in my life during these pivotal years in mine until the day I die.

And then I will hug you fiercely.

SLO stands for San Luis Obispo, a town 115 miles north of my home.

This was our late-lunch view today, as we traveled home again.

One day each month,

I take a road trip.

This particular road trip is not like

the other ones I take.

I’m not going to take care of my mother.

I’m not going to enjoy my children and my grandchildren.

I’m not going on vacation.

Strike that.

I am going on a vacation, of sorts.

I am vacating the usual rhythm of my days

to embrace a different one.

And I find that I am hungry for re-creation as I travel.

I am eager to be addressed as…

me.

Not as wife/mother/grandmother/daughter/

pastor/teacher/friend.

Just me.

Child of God.

Stumbling follower of Jesus.

Seeker after wisdom.

And this is where I go.

A strange looking monastery,

one that used to be the ‘dream house’

of a retired dentist,

but was bought by some monks

from New Mexico to be their community home.

The monastery is the long white,

red-tiled house to the left in this shot.

To the right of the drive, is the chapel & bookshop

with a couple of additional bedrooms.

To the left of the drive, below the monastery itself,

is the home of Connie, the oblate who lives on the premises

and assists the brothers.

There are only five or six of them now,

praying the hours,

assisting the people of a dozen parishes

with healing prayer, special masses and spiritual direction.

This is where I meet my spiritual director every month.

The sign says it all:

And this is the view from that house,

in the springtime,

when all the hills are green and the sky is blue.

And this is the man I meet with in that house:

Abbott David.

Spiritual Father to this small band,

and an acclaimed leader in the

charismatic renewal movement

of the Roman Catholic Church.

He is a remarkable man, gifted and humble.

Did I ever tell you how we met?

Now, that’s a great story.

“Once upon a time, there was a tired pastor,

full to overflowing with the needs of her congregation,

the struggles in her family.

She had tried direction a couple of times,

with mixed results.

“Not a good fit,” was the diagnosis,

whatever that means.

For her, it felt like failure.

And she is not a fan of failure.

So she began to pray about it,

to search for someone.

She even went online, used Google

and found a monastery website.

Not a fancy, bells-and-whistles kind of place,

that website.

And the monastery featured there was over 100 miles away.

But something caught her eye,

her spirit.

And email responses were invited.

So she sent off a note.

“Is there anyone there interested and available

to offer direction to a tired

female pastor,

one who needs listening ears,

wise words,

some guidance along the way?”

That was in July of 2007.

Nothing came back.

Sigh.

So, she got on with life,

a life that was feeling a bit overwhelming

about then.

And she forgot all about that note.

One early morning, in September of the following year,

FOURTEEN MONTHS

after her initial inquiry,

her cell phone rang.

Puzzled at the early hour, she picked it up.

“Abbott David here,” a strong, friendly voice declared.

“You wrote about spiritual direction?”

And she burst into laughter.

“Yes,” she said. “I did. Over a year ago!“

“Really?” came the response.

“Because I just received this yesterday.

Would you like to meet with me and see if this

might be what you’re looking for?”

They set a date for one week later,

she drove up the 101, took the country road out to

his place and sat,

absolutely fascinated and astounded as he told

her his story.

Raised on a farm in Wisconsin,

paid his way through college by playing

trumpet in a dance band,

became a priest,

sent by his order to

study in Rome,

multi-lingual,

specialist in Jungian psychology

and dream analysis.

“If you work with me, you’ll keep a dream journal.

And that’s what we’ll talk through each month.”

She was hooked – line, sinker, bobble, lure –

the whole kit and caboodle.

“Thank you, Jesus,” she cried to the heavens as she headed south again

at the end of the hour.

Before their next visit,

there was a tragic death in her immediate family.

And before the following visit,

there was a ferocious wildfire in her community,

stripping lifetime memories from many in her congregation.

Within the first year, she herself landed in the hospital, was forced to make a major shift in her own training

program to become a director herself,

and by the second year, she was enrolled in the Abbott’s school for spiritual direction certification.

Not sure that she lived happily ever after,

but deeper ever after? That would be a big ‘yes.'”

Now I would call that whole tale

a God-thing.

My friend Jennifer might call it “God-Bumps” or a “God-Incidence.”

All I can tell you is that my entire spiritual journey

took a decisive turn upward from the moment

I heard that voice on the phone:

“Abbot David here. You wrote….?”

Abbott David leading mass in the monastery chapel.

Today, I had only one dream for the month.

Of my own, that is.

I also shared a tricky one from someone I am directing.

Somehow, this kind, brilliant man

(who has been seriously ill this year)

wove those two together, asked me some penetrating

questions, and helped me think about myself

in some new ways.

“You’ve spent your whole life relying on your left brain, Diana, your intellect.

It’s time to learn to trust your gut, your intuition.

You need to spend long stretches of time just sitting and looking at the ocean.

Do that long enough so that eventually, you find yourself on the other side of the picture – you’ll be the ocean, looking back at you.

And take a look at what you see when that happens.

I think you’ll like what you find.

Be still long enough to let the beauty in,

to let God in,

to shift inside from reason to intuition.

Learn to trust that,

to know that God meets you there, too.

This is the gift of aging, Diana.

There is gift in all of life.”

I sure hope he’s right.

I’m counting on it.

Stopping at Costco on our way home this evening,

I looked up from loading the bags into the back of the car and saw this.

My gut said, “Grab that camera, even if it is the little one,

even if the picture won’t be sharp.”

So I did.

The gift of the present moment.

Right brain all the way.

Joining with Jennifer and her “God-Bumps” meme and with Ann and her Walk with Him Wednesday invite. Even though this is way too long – two posts in one, actually – I’m also joining with a few friends with very different invitations – not because this post in any way ‘matches’ with most of them, but because it’s a big piece of my heart right now and I’d like them to know.

Bonnie & the two Laura’s and Michelle, too:

Filed Under: death, friendship. personal journey, God's gifts, memoir, prayer, Spiritual Direction

In Which I List the Ways That Pastoring is a Lot Like Mothering

February 6, 2012 By Diana

I didn’t ask to be a mom. I didn’t have to work too hard to become a mom, either – at least in the biological sense of that word.

Our first daughter arrived five days after my 23^rd birthday. I was 14,000 miles away from home and had no pre-natal care except the advice of experienced missionaries living nearby and the limited resources of a used gynecological textbook from some nursing curriculum somewhere. Yes, there was a doctor – and a good one – but he was stationed at a hospital 40 miles away, over a very corrugated dirt road; I saw him a total of three times before Lisa was born.

This is what I remember: all of a sudden, I was pregnant – and then, all of a sudden…I was a mother.

There she was, in all her amazing perfection and beauty. I had no parenting guides, no clue where to begin, so I just…began. By the time babies #2 and #3 came along, I was once again living in the land of high-tech hospitals, bookshelves lined with how-to manuals and more people willing to tell me what to do than I could count. But I continued as I had begun: I muddled through.

I made a lot of mistakes. I blew it with dreadfully predictable regularity. I yelled too much, relied on television too much, fed them food with too much sugar too often, dragged them around in cars without seat belts, much less car seats. And somehow, by the grace of a faithful God, they all lived to tell about it. Not only that, but they flourished – my myriad mistakes and all.

Sometimes they hated me – I know this because they told me so, one with alarming frequency. And sometimes, in and around adoring them with every fiber of my being, I hated them, too. That was only when I was exhausted, exasperated, confused or frightened, of course, but between those four emotional coordinates, I’d say that was more often than I’d like to admit. And I don’t REALLY mean I hated them – it was actually more like I hated what happened to me when I was trying my darnedest to be a ‘good mother’ to them and it all fell apart in my face.

When my youngest was a senior in high school, I went back to school – to seminary, actually. And by the time I began working in my profession, all my kids were married and I was a grandmother, on my way to eight grandkids. And guess what? I discovered that all that muddling through I did as a stay-at-home mom? Well, it came in mighty handy when trying to pastor a congregation of 350 highly individual individuals.

“How is that true, Diana?” you might ask. “What possible parallels can there be between parenting and pastoring? “ “Ah,” I would say right back to you, “Let me count the ways!”

1. Authenticity

Now here’s a paradoxical/oxymoronic statement for you to chew on as we begin this counting thing: Even when I haven’t known who I was, I have still managed to be the real me. From the time they were itty-bitty babies, I have talked to my kids like I talk to my friends like I talk to the people I meet almost anywhere. God has been in the process of forming me/shaping me/changing me – sometimes with a great deal of reluctance on my part – for a very long time now. Since I was about 11 years old, in fact, and went forward at a revival meeting in my home church in downtown Los Angeles. I’ve gotten detoured, lost, overwhelmed, discouraged and embarrassed multiple times along the way. But I’ve always been who I was at any moment in history – not any more than I was, but not any less, either. And I’ve always talked about the processing going on as honestly and openly as possible. For as long as I have known them, I have loved to be around my kids, loved to talk to them, to show them what’s going on in the world around them, to invite discovery, to laugh and to cry when things were appropriately wonderful or terrible. And while I did all that, I pretty much let it all hang out – the flaws, the overwhelm, the not knowing. Also, the thirst for knowledge, the eye for detail, the quick sense of humor, the willingness to work hard. What they saw was what they got.

2. Encouragement

I never had the looks or the coordination for the job, but I coulda been a GREAT cheerleader. I believe in encouragement as a force for world peace, reconciliation between warring tribes, the solution to global warming. I cannot think of a single negative thing that comes from encouraging someone else on their journey of life. Not one. I was a huge fan of each of my children – still am, as a matter of fact. They are, without a doubt, the most brilliant, kind, compassionate, creative, loving human persons who have ever graced the planet. Well, other than Jesus himself, of course. And their children are following right along in their parents’ footsteps. I believed in my kids, even when I didn’t know if that was the smartest row to hoe or not. They were not perfect – but then, neither am I, neither is their dad. But those kids came dang close, I’ll tell you. And when they had a down day, I was there to tell them it would look better in the morning. And generally, it did. It really did. Encouragement is the name of the game. And I think the apostle Paul – and yes, Jesus himself – would agree with me on that one.

3. Nurturing

At the risk of sounding like a particularly sappy Hallmark card, this is what’s at the heart of mothering, is it not? Protecting those chicks, even when they’re bigger than you are. Providing a safe haven, a cozy nest. Paying enough attention to know when they need a ‘mental health’ day off from school but not so much attention that they feel suffocated. Packing lunches (or double-checking the cash reserves for the cafeteria); baking birthday cakes (or buying exactly the right kind at the corner bakery); knowing what they like and what they don’t like – for dinner, in their closet, coming out of your mouth; knowing who their friends are, praying for friends if they don’t have any (or if you think they need a little broader selection). Paying attention and being there – pretty much sums it up.

4. Listening

I’ve already mentioned that I spent a lot of time talking to my children when they were young. But I spent a lot, a lot, a LOT of time listening to them as they got bigger. Some of my kids were better talkers than others. The one who is male clammed up at about age 12 and I had to carefully figure out ways to continue the conversation. This is what I discovered: if we were in the car, where we did not have to make eye contact, my son would open up like he used to before the hormones began flooding his lanky frame. (In two years, he grew ten inches and gained about fifty pounds of big bones and solid muscle). Sometimes I didn’t like what I heard, but I kept on listening, trying not to react, cringe, frown or otherwise shut down the flow. Making space for the other person to talk, even if that talk is painful confession or emotional outburst, is really a requirement for any kind of meaningful human relationship, don’t you think?

5. Teaching

This might seem to be the facet of mothering with the most direct carry-over into the pastoral life, and in some ways that is definitely true. But maybe not in exactly the ways you might imagine. From the time my kids were about 18 months old, I invited them to make choices about their lives, starting with the small stuff. What would you like to wear today? I’d ask. And that made for some fascinating fashion statements at times. As they got bigger, I’d gently comment that maybe we could choose pants OR the skirt, or perhaps both of those busy prints might look more restful if they weren’t worn together. But initially, they wore what they wanted, even if people thought I’d pulled their outfits out of a dumpster somewhere. And I applied that principle across the board. The encyclopedia, the dictionary, the daily newspaper, the Bible – all of these became rich resources in my efforts to help them become their own persons, with their own ideas. If I knew something about a topic they were interested in, I talked about it or I showed them how to do it for themselves. They all got reasonably good at doing laundry, cooking a basic meal (although I was never a good cook and they are all far better at it than I ever was), doing basic household chores. They also learned how to read and to write critically and well, how to wrestle through hard ideas and issues and how to take care of one another. You know, the basics – the essential skills needed to live life in a sometimes crazy world.

6. Releasing

This was the hardest part of mothering for me, bar none: letting them go. And I had to begin doing that when my eldest was a lot younger than I wished. She got married when she was 19 and she basically shifted her primary focus to the man she married when she was just a slip of a girl at 16. The Lord and I wrestled hard about all of this for each of those three years and I continued to wrestle with it for a lot of years after she was married and gone. I had never asked to become a mother, but once I was one? It became my primary identity and mission in life. I loved every thing about it, even the hard and ugly stuff. But what I learned during those years of wrestling was this so-important truth: my children were not mine. They were entrusted to my care, they were among the greatest of God’s gifts to me, but they did not belong to me. They were their own unique selves, gifted and shaped not to become mini-me’s but to become Lisa, Joy and Eric. And for that to happen, I had to do a whole lot of work up front and then get my mucky hands off. I had to stand back and watch them move out into the world all on their own. They made mistakes, they fell down – hard, sometimes – but oh my, what magnificent people they are! Each one of them an individual of irreplaceable giftedness, heart and finely crafted personality.

I’m not sure if what I’ve written here exactly fits into the category of ‘practices of parenting.” Nevertheless, I am contributing them to Sarah Styles Bessey’s Blog Carnival of ideas and suggestions. She’s issued a wonderfully warm invitation and many of us are joining the party. Come on over to her place and check them all out. I will also add this one to the new meme forming to help cover the absence of Emily Wierenga for a while. I’ve done her “Imperfect Prose” for almost a year now and so enjoy the company of that place. But Emily’s life is over full just now, so Kim at “Journey to Epiphany” has stepped in with a temporary community gathering space called, “Painting Prose.” Thanks, Kim!

Filed Under: family, Marriage, memoir, personal journey

I Do: Long-Term Love

February 6, 2012 By Diana

He comes in regularly and stirs the fire.

And every single time,

I am struck with gratitude and wonder

that we chose each other so many years ago.

It’s such a simple thing, stirring those logs around,

just a few moments of time.

But I know this – it is an act of love, this fire-tending,

an act I deeply appreciate.

An act that is emblematic,

representing the story of who we are somehow.

Not all of who we are,

but kind of a meta-picture,

a summary statement.

Because the truth of our story is this:

we grew up together.

We were so young, you see.

When we met, I was seventeen, he was barely twenty.

When we married, I was the 20-year-old,

mid-way through my senior year at UCLA.

That summer, we moved to Zambia for two years,

traveling by freighter over a choppy Atlantic Ocean

for eighteen long days.

The sunsets were glorious;

the storms terrifying.

Not a bad description of the next 25 years or so, actually.

We had so much to learn – beginning with ourselves.

Raised in ‘traditional’ 1950’s Christian homes,

we had a whole lot of firmly held opinions

about what marriage and family should look like

and we did our darnedest to live up those.

I put together our wedding liturgy (I loved liturgy, even then),

and I searched for the old wording to be sure and include the word ‘obey’ in my vows. Those who know me at this end of the last 46 years

might be surprised by that small piece of trivia.

But they would probably not be terribly surprised to learn that it was my husband who first chafed at the thinking behind it,

that it was he who began to call out my gifts as a teacher and leader.

I was too frightened at the prospect of ‘messing up’ my marriage

to go there for a very long time.

Together, we’ve changed up the dance,

trading places – both literally and figuratively – as time and circumstance demanded.

We’ve hit a few rough patches along the way, that’s for sure.

We went to a counselor for a while at about year 25,

when I was in the midst of seminary and carrying a couple of part time jobs and we both felt confused and angry and badly disconnected.

The best thing that came of that experience? The last twenty years.

Somewhere during that time of counseling,

we looked at each other and said,

“We’ve got a good thing going here; let’s make it better.”

And, by God’s grace, we have.

We are very different people – different politics, different temperaments, different favorite-times-of-the-day, different tastes in television

(except for Downton Abbey!).

And guess what?

We are never bored.

Yes, we can get snarly sometimes.

We can get our feelings hurt and our feathers ruffled.

But we make each other laugh louder than anyone else we know.

We have spent so much time together that we seldom have to guess

what the other is thinking.

We each think the other is the finest person on the planet.

We adore our children and our grandchildren.

We are committed to faith and family above all else.

And most of the time,

we really, really like each other.

We’re even learning to do this thing called retirement,

which for a couple with very busy schedules

for very many years, was a somewhat daunting prospect.

While I was pastoring, my husband was commuting

for three-day stretches away from me every week while he continued to work in southern CA.

During those mid-week days, I grew to understand the deep dividends of solitude.

For the first time in my life, I was spending time alone –
and I was loving it.

How would we manage being together 24/7?

Well, one way is this:

in the evenings, he watches sports in the family room;

I write in the bedroom.

And during the winter months,

he builds me a lovely fire in our bedroom fireplace.

About every 90 minutes or so, I hear him coming down the hall,

to peek in and make sure

that fire is performing as a properly built fire should perform.

And that small act tells me what I most deeply need to know:

my husband values who I am and what I do.

In this quieter season of our life together,

it’s an echo of sorts,

an echo of what he said to me when it began to look like we’d be moving to Santa Barbara so that I could take a job.

“Honey, for the last 30 years, you’ve built your life around my career choices. You’ve supported me through all the twists and turns my professional life has taken. Now, it’s my turn to adjust, to let you flourish and grow and become more of who God designed you to be, just like you’ve always done for me.”

He values who I am.

He values what I do.

I value who he is.

I value what he does.

Even now, we want

to keep learning, keep growing,

keep leaning into Jesus and one another.

We want the fire to burn bright,

so we’ll keep tending,

keep stirring,

keep enjoying the light, the warmth, the beauty.

Even when he’s in one room,

and I’m in another.

This essay was written at the invitation of Jennifer Dukes Lee and The High Calling. I am joining the community writing project at THC by signing on with Jennifer’s weekly meme. Ann Voskamp is also encouraging essays about love this month, so I’ll put it there as well. And with all the sisters at Jen Ferguson’s place, the soli deo sisterhood. And, at the end of the week, with Bonnie’s discussion on Love Unwrapped.

Filed Under: family, Marriage, memoir, personal journey

Family Portraits #6: Uncle Chuck

December 8, 2011 By Diana

This series began as an invitation from The High Calling to write a short, descriptive word picture of someone from our childhood who had an influence on us, either for good for not-so-good. I so enjoyed that invitation, that I kept going. Then Thanksgiving was upon us all, and my Wednesday Family Portrait page (I wish for the life of me I could figure out how to ‘do’ pages on this blog!) has been seriously slighted for several weeks now. No longer! I am back at it, with a list of names still to be written about. Trying to keep it to 5-600 words has been a challenge, but a worthy one. Here is the latest entry in the log:

He was a larger-than-life person to a little girl. Dark hair, swept away from his face, jowls that made you think of Santa Claus – without the beard or the white hair – and a laugh that invited you right on in. He was handsome, he was charming, he was fun and he was crazy in love with his wife and family. I loved to be around him.

And that’s a good thing, because in my earliest growing-up years, we were around him a lot. Chuck was married to my mom’s sister, Eileen (the first in this list of family line drawings). They were young when they married, and he had a little girl who was two years old. Then they had another girl and then a boy – very close in age to me and my next youngest brother. And they lived 3 blocks from us for about eight years. Many days after school, I would stroll over to their place as easily as I would my own.

We had meals together every so often. We went to Daily Vacation Bible School with their kids. Chuck met Jesus as an adult, a dad who loved his kids and wanted a good life for them. And he decided that the best life to be found was that of disciple. For years, our little family was the only one in my mom’s extended family that went to church, committed to following in the Jesus way. Then Chuck and Eileen stepped onto the path. And off again for a few years, when their beloved pastor was mistreated by his congregation. Chuck was a tender man underneath the laughter and the joie-de-vivre. And injustice was very hard for him to grapple with.

Chuck worked in the grocery industry and he worked hard. Long hours, some traveling, worries over the bottom line – these added lines to his face and stress to his life. But whenever our families gathered, all of that faded away. And we laughed together, we sang together (my mother and her sister used to sing a duet of “Whispering Hope” that wildly embarrassed their children!), we played games together. And we took some vacations together, too. I remember getaways to Rick’s Rancho Motel in Santa Maria. And I remember wonderful times at Newport Beach and Balboa where we would rent a house or apartment for the whole tribe of us.

After all of us grew up and began growing families of our own, Eileen and Chuck and my mom and dad took some wonderful trips, just the four of them – to Europe, to the British Isles, to Canada, to the northeast to see the fall colors, to the south to see the Outer Banks. And they had such a great time. Their love for each other, the fun they found together, their shared sense of adventure – these are the things that marked me deep, as a kid and as a grown-up. My father was a quiet man, very reserved and private. But he loved Uncle Chuck’s gregariousness, his social ease and his ready sense of humor. When Chuck became suddenly and seriously ill about 8-10 years ago, and then died within a matter of weeks, my dad suffered greatly. In truth, I think Chuck’s death hastened his own, which came just a few years later.

I miss that laugh. I miss the sweet singing, and the dancing that often went along with it. And most of all, I miss all that love.

Filed Under: family, Family Portraits, family tree, memoir

Family Portraits #5: Uncle Harold

November 18, 2011 By Diana

It’s been a weird week – lots of travel, with many hours spent in the car. And intermittent problems with internet connections several times this week, too. So I am late with this post. And I completely missed posting on Sunday’s service, something I will try to rectify very soon as we heard a magnificent sermon at our daughter’s church, one that we’ve been pondering ever since.

With this week’s word portrait (500 words, lots of detail), I’m moving back to my mom’s family after a couple of weeks with dad’s siblings. One more uncle next week, then a few reflections on more distant relatives before circling round to each of my grandparents. I highly recommend this kind of written memory work – it helps to pull together some of the threads of your life and serves as a kind of living gratitude journal. Try it – I think you’ll like it!

My mother with her kid brother, at Mom’s 90th birthday party last June.

Fifteen months younger than Mom, my Uncle Harold – like all the Hobson children – was a beautiful baby. Now in his late 80’s, he is an adorable old man. In between, he was a heartthrob teenager, an emotionally wounded soldier, a man who dealt with some personal demons, and a devoted husband and dad. Like all of us, Harold’s personal history is a tale that is complicated and uneven. But in my life, as a little kid and through all the stages of adult life, he has been a steady, fun-loving, kind and affectionate presence.

During most of my growing up years, my grandparents owned and operated two nursery schools in the San Fernando Valley. They lived at one of them. I have clear memories of family gatherings there – with the play equipment in the yards and no furniture in the house. Instead there was a master bedroom, where my grandparents lived, and there were assorted cubby-shelves, small tables and chairs, toy baskets and napping cots spread throughout what would have been a living room, dining room, family room and additional bedrooms.

Both of my uncles worked for their parents, but one of them always felt like the low man on the totem pole. I am sure my grandparents tried to balance the complicated dual relationships that so often show up in a family owned business, but they were not terribly good at it. I spent a week or two assisting my grandmother during summer vacation from high school and I saw those hurt feelings erupt into bitter confrontation. At the time, I found that puzzling and troubling.

As I’ve gotten older, I have understood more about it – and I have been able to see my grandparents in a more realistic light. They did play favorites, they did keep secrets, they did undercut their middle son and it was not fair, it was not right. And I am sorry for the pain of those years and for the scars that were left, scars that lasted a long, long time.

But here is what I have learned from watching my Uncle Harold live his life: by the grace of God, we can choose to let go of the pain, we can choose to learn from it, grow through it, be transformed by it. Like my mother, Uncle Harold suffers from macular degeneration and is almost completely blind. He lost the love of his life to a rare form of cancer, he lost one son at a young age to the ravages of drugs and another to a long lifetime of sad choices. He lives alone (enjoying dinners out with a kind lady friend most days), he has two beautiful, courageous daughters whom he adores, and he is one of the sunniest, most cheerful people I know. He thanks God for his life, even for the hardest parts of it. And this small man with the twinkle in his eye, well… he literally radiates good cheer wherever he goes. For me, he epitomizes growing old gracefully and I am grateful.

Filed Under: family, Family Portraits, family tree, memoir

Family Portraits #4: Aunt Frances

November 10, 2011 By Diana

I must admit that I am finding this series to be both fun and moving to write. It is a good thing to remember the people who influenced me in my early life – a very good thing. This week’s installment is about my dad’s older sister. Keeping these essays to 500-550 words greatly limits what I can say, so it’s interesting to note that what rises to the surface are all the truly positive things I recall – and usually one or two interesting, even quirky memories. There is no room here for complication/implication/criticism, and each of the people I am remembering was (or is) a very complicated person, living lives filled with both good and bad choices – like we all do. My thanks once again to http://www.thehighcalling.org and Ann Kroeker and Jennifer Dukes Lee for designing the original series from which these ongoing Wednesday reflections flow.

The fountain at Laity Lodge, where I met both Jennifer and Ann.

Like my dad, Frances was born in Arkansas, and traveled as a toddler to Los Angeles where her parents, grandparents, and other assorted shirttail relatives settled in adjacent neighborhoods. Both Frances and Dad were born in the midst of World War 1 and grew to adulthood during the Great Depression. Sepia-toned photos show her with a brown bowl-cut, a huge bow on her head and a large, heavy-looking jaw. Her eyes twinkle, looking out at the world with intelligence and curiosity.

When she went to UCLA, she studied hard and excelled, also working a part time job to save money for jaw surgery and orthodontia. It is hard for me to imagine such female determination in the 1930’s, especially growing up as she did in a very conservative Methodist home. But education was highly valued by my dad’s entire family – my grandfather had an accounting degree, my grandmother a teacher’s certificate and all three siblings were college graduates, two earning doctorates. ‘Looks’ were definitely not a high value. I don’t think it occurred to my grandmother that Frances felt self-conscious about hers.

After college, she married a big, blustery Norwegian named Bob and together, they set out to change the world. Literally. My Uncle Bob was a local politician, working in city and county government until his death from cancer about 35 years ago. And Aunt Frances? Well. Frances Gold Anderson was the driving force behind two county-wide Sunday school organizations – G.L.A.S.S. and B.R.A.S.S. That first acronym stands for Greater Los Angeles Sunday Schools and the second for Bernardino Riverside Area Sunday Schools.

Let me tell you, from the 1950’s up until about the 1990’s, those organizations were a very big deal in southern CA evangelicalism, and lots of people knew and deeply respected my aunt. To me, however, she was just another member of my dad’s quirky family – a gifted, sincere, big-hearted soul. It wasn’t until I was in my 30’s that I realized that Aunt Frances was a Big Deal.

This is what I know about her: she loved the Lord, she loved the church, she loved her family, but she also really, REALLY loved her work with para-church ministries. In truth, I would say that she was a very driven person. In her later life, she added a ministry area and worked to build California Baptist College into a university with a growing reputation for excellence.

And she knew how to throw one heckuva bridal shower. She did that for me and for each of my three kids at her sprawling home in Riverside. Everything was always carefully, creatively and deliciously done. She did not have my mom’s flair for beauty and décor, but she was great at clever games (so was my dad, actually), really thoughtful about family history and a gracious hostess and concerned aunt.

Every single Christmas, she sent out a long family Christmas letter, almost always written in rhyme. Yes, that’s what I said – rhyme. Oh my, we giggled over those! But we also looked forward to their arrival and secretly sort of admired her chutzpah. She was a widow for a long time and was the last of her siblings to die. I didn’t always understand what made her tick, but I admired her a lot. And I loved her, too.

Filed Under: family, Family Portraits, family tree, memoir

Family Portraits #3: Uncle Charles

November 3, 2011 By Diana

This is third in a series of about twenty family portraits I am attempting as a ‘kick-start’ to the compilation of some sort of memoir for my grandchildren. It began as a Community Writing Project over at www.thehighcalling.org. We were asked to submit 500 words, with lots of detail, about someone in our close circle growing up, someone who influenced us either negatively or positively. This week, I’m also joining Bonnie over at The Faith Barista for her weekly invitation. Her theme this week is “a gift you’ve recently received from God.” Uncle Charles as gift is not a new thing – but this project most definitely is. In the process of searching my memory for influential people, I have been reminded over and over of God’s goodness to me over time. My family growing up was far from perfect – lots of eccentricities and flaws. But it was most definitely God’s gift to me – helping to form me into the person I am and modeling for me the living of a faithful life. I am grateful for the story that is mine – the good stuff and the tough stuff – and it is a pleasure and a privilege to reflect back on some of those people whom God used to let me know I was loved. So, this week – Uncle Charles. (This one is about 65 words too long, but I really, REALLY tried! Portrait #1 can be found here and #2, here.)

He was my grandmother’s ‘baby,’ born nine years after my dad, ten years after their sister. He came with a cleft palate and separated lip – and his mother said ‘no’ to major corrective surgery: the lip was sewn shut, the palate wasn’t touched. Gran thought it would be ‘too painful’ for her sweet little boy. Such a hard choice, and such a wrong one – Charles struggled his entire childhood with both talking and eating; pictures of him as a small boy show him glowering, always on the outside edge of things.

He was a college kid when I was born and I remember him as a ‘big brother’ who would often swoop me up and take me outside to play. My grandmother kept chickens at her home in Los Angeles and my uncle had a favorite he called Rusty. One Sunday, gathered around their table for an after-church dinner, Charles refused to eat. I was young and curious, so I asked him what was wrong. “This is Rusty’s leg,” he said, angrily picking up a drumstick, “and I will not participate in this meal!” I was stunned and shocked. So that’s where drumsticks came from.

When I was about eight, Charles disappeared from our lives for a few years to do some biblical studies in a different state. He went to Asbury in Kentucky and met and married Aunt Norma. I could not for the life of me figure out why he needed any other female in his life!

He found a job in Duluth, Minnesota where they lived when their two sons were born, last in the line of cousins of which I was first. About that time, Charles opted to have the corrective surgery his mother had refused him so many years before. It required money, pain, and hard work, learning to talk and eat all over again, and I was so proud of him. I also sensed his bone-deep discouragement as he struggled to find a teaching job during those years.

In later years, Charles poured all of that pent-up determination into pursuing a PhD, becoming a concert level organist and an excellent and highly competitive tennis player – sometimes at the expense of his family life. Both of his sons grew up estranged from the church and both died young and sadly.

I asked Charles to be the organist for our wedding. And the single thing most folks remember about that day is this: just before the pastor was set to introduce us as husband and wife (as part of a liturgy that I had put together at the know-it-all-age of 20), he jumped into the “Toccata” postlude a beat too soon. I turned toward the organ and stage-whispered, “Not yet, Uncle Charles!” And he stopped just in time for the grand announcement to be made. We made a good team.

Charles died over 20 years ago, the first in his sibling trio. The doctors said it was pneumonia, but I have always believed he died of a broken heart. His life was a mix of struggle and triumph but at the end, I think maybe the struggle just wore him down. I admired and loved him, but I did not understand all the angst that drove him so fiercely. I trust that he has found the peace he sought – and I miss him.

Filed Under: family, Family Portraits, family tree, memoir

Family Portraits: #2 – Auntie Mae

October 28, 2011 By Diana

I don’t have a photo in my computer files of Auntie Mae, but this is me, my mom and her sister (the famous Aunt Eileen from Family Portrait #1) on the day of my youngest brother’s funeral in October, 2009. Still trying to follow the guidelines set out by The High Calling’s Community Writing Project – 500 words or less, rich in detail, describe a family member who influenced me during childhood.

Bird-like, slightly mischievous, eyes a-twinkle, heart afire, Mary (Mae) Thompson Alsup Nichols managed to leave a very large footprint, despite wearing a size four shoe. And she was proud of those feet, happy to tell you that she was among the select few who could purchase the shoes displayed in the store window. Because every shoe looks ever-so-much better in a size four, right?

Left motherless at age three, never to have children of her own, she ‘adopted’ her sister’s kids – my mother and her siblings. Mae had energy to spare, loved to laugh and was cute as a button, right up until she died at the age of 102. She married and buried two husbands, both of whom she adored, and lavished love on all the various children of all the various cousins in my extended family.

To this day, my 90-year-old mom and her 88 and 86-year-old siblings give thanks to God for Auntie Mae. Their parents worked full-time during the depression and were seldom home. But my grandmother’s kid sister and the two female cousins with whom she and Mae were raised – they were always available for comfort, fun and companionship. These three attended Angelus Temple and were fervent admirers of Aimee Semple MacPherson. When Mae married and moved across town, she attended The Church of the Open Door in downtown LA, but she never forgot the drama of the Temple.

And color? The brighter the better. She learned to crochet in her late 70’s and promptly began creating anything and everything imaginable. Afghans, sweaters, hats, novelties – I lost count of how many ‘dolls’ she created with crocheted skirts to cover the extra roll of TP on the back of the toilet. Unfortunately, she also went through a ‘neon’ phase. One year, she made coats and hats for my daughters in vibrating fluorescent colors so intense they never made it out of the closet, except for photos to send with thank you notes.

When I was five, I had my tonsils out in a local doctor’s office. Something went terribly wrong and I landed in the hospital for a week, fighting for life. When I was released, I went to Mae’s home, because it was closer to the hospital than our little 40’s house in the valley. She cared for me as if I were her own little girl, bringing me ice cream at the demand of my bedside bell, encouraging me to talk gently through that ruined throat.

It was a two-week stretch of time that only we two shared. Even though I badly wanted to be in my own home, with my parents and brother and my own safe bed, I somehow knew Mae was special. The gift she offered with her kindness and care was an important one, one that breathed Jesus to me even before I could fully grasp who Jesus was. Mae truly loved the Lord. And she lived a gospel life while creating fun wherever she went.

Filed Under: family, Family Portraits, family tree, memoir