Photo Essay — Page 4

Playdate: a Photo Essay

March 30, 2013 By Diana

For the last seven years, we have had the joy
and the privilege of
living within easy driving distance
of our youngest two grandchildren,
both girls.
Every Wednesday and almost every Friday for a little over two years,
we had the youngest one in our care.
Last September, Lilly began pre-school and our weekly visits
became fond memories.
But this week,
ah, this week was spring break,
even at pre-school,
so on Monday and Wednesday,
we had a little fun.
Wednesday, we hung around the house,
created a Princess Wand from a kit she
received for her birthday,
and watched a couple of movies.
On Monday, however,
we hooked up the car seat and went on
an ADVENTURE.

We were headed towards Santa Barbara’s excellent small zoo,
but got there before it opened.
So we took a little side trip out to the marina,
where all the colorful fishing vessels,
and more than a few pleasure craft
were lined up in rows.

It was cool and overcast and the tide was in, but we braved our way
partway out the breakwater pathway.

A stiff breeze sent the flags straight in toward shore.

The waves crashed mightily right over the top of the wall, however,
so we turned back at the halfway point.

I love the juxtaposition of the mountains against the masts
and the reflection of the boats against the water.

It was time for the zoo to open!
So we unloaded the stroller,
and hit the ground.
Lilly wanted two stops right off the bat – the koi fountain . . .

. . . and the children’s play area.

Because you know,
dinosaur eggs are the most fun thing in the world.

And Poppy just had to have his picture taken, there, too.

She checked out the spider web and the butterfly bench and then
we started on the animal circle.

Colorful macaws.

Can you spot the boulder?
Looks a lot like whatever these animals are, don’t you think?

Shooting through a glass shield, trying to capture
this golden monkey,
I got our girl’s reflection, prancing in her ballerina skirt.

A very tiny fox with very big ears.

The only difficult exhibit for me was this one —
not enough space for a small pride of lions.
Having seen these magnificent creatures roaming huge game parks in Africa,
this one was tough to see.

But these guys?
Well, they’re just plain wonderful to watch.
These two are female and both are pregnant.

And Michael makes three.

He moves gracefully, slowly, deliberately,
always on the look out for something to nibble.

These large creatures are surprisingly dexterous,
bending their front knees to grab at the grass,
reaching around to scratch an itch.

So beautiful and gentle.
Can you see the ocean out behind him?

So cute. And the eyelashes?
To.Die.For.

This zoo is a rehab station for large birds of prey, including
the California condor and the American bald eagle.

Clivia, pincushion protea, cactus garden – geographical landscaping
as we moved through the exhibits.

Our beautiful bird lagoon, not an official part of the zoo,
but adjacent to it. There is a family of gibbons on one of the islands.

Lots of exotica — but barnyard animals are pretty fun!

A swing by the elephants,

a quick move to antartica for the penguins,
and then. . .

. . . a treat to end the morning.

We love this girl so much and are always grateful
when she invites us for a playdate.
Try it sometime — I promise, it’s good for whatever ails you.

Filed Under: Birds, family, memoir, Photo Essay, photography, Santa Barbara, The Grandkids

Signs of Spring — A Photo Essay

March 5, 2013 By Diana

A winter heat wave gave way this weekend to the beginnings of a spring storm.
Somehow, this change in the sky, in the texture of the air around me,
matched a move in my spirit.
We are midway through Lent, winding our way through the wilderness,
heading now for the Promised Land.
And the edge of it is in sight.
Can you see it, just there?
There is an undercurrent of hope amidst the sober reflectiveness of this season,
there is a sense of movement, forward movement, Spirit movement.

Ten minutes at my beachside office before church on Sunday,
about 50 deep breaths of tangy sea air.
Then onto worship, first-Sunday-of-the-month worship,
which means communion with the community.
The table was inviting, with four stations for intinction,
with its tearing of the bread, its dipping in the cup.
Myriad candles were lit, the worship team took their place,
two high school students adding keyboard and violin skills to this Sunday’s mix.
A strong, good sermon on a tough passage,
a passage that ended with the parable of the fig tree.
I like that fig tree, because I so often feel unfruitful.
I find it heartening to think that God is the gracious and patient gardener,
willing to cultivate and fertilize the reluctant tree,
hoping for fruit in the year ahead.

I wonder what that cultivation and fertilization looks like in my life just now. . .

Communion was a bit chaotic, and I liked it that way.
It reminded me of meals shared in our home when our kids were growing up:
everybody wants to join in,
but no one is exactly certain where to go or what to do.
The spirit is lively, open, a little uncertain,
and that seems a good thing to me.
Eventually, a rhythm is found, everyone relaxes into this different way
of sharing the bread and cup.
Personal words are offered to those who partake,
the elements are both taken and received,
and sometimes that needs to happen –
we need to tear off a chunk AND we need to have someone else hold it for us.

An afternoon walk around our yard served to underscore this new reality,
the truth that the season is shifting.

Later on, we enjoyed our monthly Taizé service in the early evening,
a quiet, candlelit time with lovely prayer songs, softly sung.

Somehow, these Sunday things – morning communion, afternoon walk,
evening music by candlelight —
they all felt like harbingers of hope,
reminders that fallow times yield rich harvests,
that Lent takes us to Easter Sunday.

We’re not there yet – there is walking still to do,
there is more sober reflection to come.
There is Holy Week before there is Resurrection Day.

But the blossoms are out! The light is cracking through, the colors begin to unfurl.

Summer plums, rich and dripping with deep,
dark goodness are now bright white flowers,
spreading their way along old limbs, reaching toward the sun.
The remnants of last fall’s apples make rich fertilizer for next summer’s crop.

And shrubs of unknown name, planted by a long ago landscape architect,
are flush with brilliance this year.
Deep magenta spikes, covering different areas of the yard.

The late afternoon sun catches just a glimpse of their glory, bouncing here, there, everywhere.

This has been a hard winter in some ways.
My mom’s move, illness and surgery for other close relatives,
more writing deadlines than I’m used to,
a return to work for a few months.
For all these reasons and more,
I’m glad to see signs of change,
to observe promises of the future.
In the middle of Lent, I appreciate reminders that this journey
has a magnificent end point,
and it is coming soon!

I’ll have my monthly post at A Deeper Family this week and I’m trying to write three other deadline essays (welcomed by friends at other sites – my thanks to each and all!) in order to dig into my first sermon in over two years, to be preached on the 17th of this month. So I will not be writing much in this space for a while. I’ll put a link up on Thursday to ADF and I’ll join this one with some of my friends around the blogosphere tonight.
I am hoping that more frequent posting will come again soon!

Filed Under: biblical reflection, Church, church year, community, God's gifts, Just Write, Lent, Lenten Journey, personal journey, Photo Essay, photography, Santa Barbara, Taize, The Church

“Where Are We Going?”

February 18, 2013 By Diana

Just over a year ago,
we moved my small mama into this space,
an assisted living 1-bedroom apartment,
in the retirement community where she has lived for the past 10 years.

She was forgetting to take her meds, you see.
And she couldn’t see to walk across the street anymore.
And she was increasingly anxious about living
independently, in an apartment with a back door.

So we sorted and sifted and made uncounted trips
across the street from one apartment to the other.
My brother, my sister-in-law and I breathed
a very large sigh of relief, and trusted that
Mom would be snug and happy for a good, long time to come.

She had a little entry way, a large bathroom, a bedroom and a sitting room,
and two large closets. Even a very small kitchen wall, with fridge and microwave.
Perfect.

Well, not quite.
The cognitive losses kept multiplying,
the fantasies kept swirling,
the anxieties grew threatening and troubling.
And the nurses in the unit began to suggest that
she needed to make the next move,
to more care,
farther away from her friends and from the center of life on the campus.

So, she and I together talked and cried and looked at options.
And with my brother’s input, we decided that the next move would
be a little bit further than across the street.
She would move to Santa Barbara, ten minutes rather than
two and a half hours away from me.

Mom, flanked by her two good friends Patricia and Ginny
on the morning we left Hillcrest.

One last look at #162.

Mom’s new room in Heritage Court

And this was the Big Weekend,
the move away from friends, toward family.
The move away from the normal flow of independent living
to the more restricted movement of a memory loss unit.
The move down.

One room with a bath on a hallway of 15 other such rooms,
filled with people who were further down this road
than my mom,
a lovely, large living room for everyone,
and a private dining room,

The whole family pitched in and we rented a small truck,
loading it and two cars with what was left of her 91 years of life.
We drove through southern California traffic for nearly three hours
on Saturday morning,
were met by my son’s wife and youngest daughter,
who brought us a delicious homemade lunch,
and then we
unpacked it all and began hanging pictures.
In the process, we introduced her to aides and residents,
trying to get her settled as quickly and thoroughly as we could.

I told her she now has what the Brits might call a ‘bed-sit.’
Her bed fits nicely in the corner, out of sight of the entry.
Her blue cabinet still holds her precious Royal Doulton figurines.
Her plates and artwork are all in place.

We worked hard, all of us aging children.
My brother’s wife is an artist and a work-horse,
and together, we make a formidable team.

Dick’s sister,
who was there to be with her own mom, spent several hours
talking with my mom, introducing her to people,
making her feel included while the rest of us schlepped and hammered,
grunted and groaned.
At the end of the day,
we left her in the dining room,
already being gracious to two total strangers,
who don’t, as she put it, ‘have much to say.’

No, Mom, they don’t.
But I’ll tell you what —
those two women said more to you that night
than I’ve ever heard them say to anyone else.

I think it is entirely possible,
that even as she continues this downward slide,
my mother will be a minister of hospitality
right where she is.
It’s a gift, you know.
And she’s got it in spades.

I find I don’t yet have the internal space to reflect on this whole thing just now,
but I’ll join this more straightforward report with Michelle, Jen, and Laura tonight.

Filed Under: Aging, family, memoir, personal journey, Photo Essay, Santa Barbara, The Journey with Mom

Bare: A 5 Minute Friday, Embellished + A Photo Essay

February 9, 2013 By Diana

I have a love-hate relationship with the wind.
It’s a California weather feature that no one talks about very much.
You hear about the sunshine. Or the smog. Or the fog.
But the wind?
Not so much.

But it’s here and it’s sometimes huge.
When it comes in the dark of night, howling through the canyons,
I detest it.
Sleep becomes impossible, yard furniture tumbles across the lawn,
tree branches click against the windows, power flickers,
often going out for hours.
Demons can loom large in such weather.

When it comes in the light of day,
and the day is hot and the season is dry,
I fear it.
Wildfires are endemic to this climate and they are terrifying.
Massive damage in moments,
families displaced, memories lost, even lives,
if it’s bad enough and fast enough.

But when it comes in the middle of winter,
as storms are brewing and blooming,
the wind is an entirely different thing.
It’s a friend, a welcome, bracing blast of cold, clear air.

And I remember what it felt like when I was an early adolescent,
old enough to be taller than almost everyone I knew,
but young enough to allow a rich imaginative life.

We had a back porch that was nothing more than a steep staircase with a landing.
We had milk delivered to that porch, twice a week,
and I often put the empties out in the case
to be picked up in the morning.

When the wind blew in the wintertime,
I would go out to check on the bottles,
imagining that they might be lonely or frightened,
and I would tell them that everything would be all right.
And I would stand up tall, spread my arms,
lean my head back and close my eyes,
and present myself to the force of that wind,
standing bare before it, willing it to blow me over.

And it never did.

Instead, it reminded me that there was much in this life
that is so much bigger than I am,
and beyond any feeble ability of mine to control.

I was reminded of that feeling yesterday,
and it was wondrous.

I took a walk on the bluffs, following the paths to Coal Oil Point Reserve.
And the wind was blowing mightily.
My jacket zipped to my chin, a brimmed hat holding wispy hair
firmly in place, I walked in wonder,
dressed from head to toe,
yet bare before the beauty.
Bare.

I’ve been feeling overwhelmed by my life of late,
trying hard to control all the pieces that are coming together
in this month of February.

I am back at work for three months,
something I never planned, nor even thought about,
to tell you the truth —
yet here it is.

My mother will move to my community next weekend,
and various family members will help me make that happen.
That’s not something I planned, either,
even though I have done all the legwork,
checked out the options,
taken my mother to see them all.

Still, I didn’t plan to have to care for her in these late years of her life.
I didn’t plan for her to have dementia.
I didn’t plan for her to lose her eyesight,
her son, her self.

But here we are.

Why, I wondered, did I say ‘yes’ to this job right now?
Am I crazy?
(Don’t answer that.)

I’ve been laying out Lenten services for the last couple of weeks,
enjoying the feel of it, not sure about the weekly commitment
of leading them all, but pondering, with what I hope is an open spirit.
Yet I haven’t felt any strong confirmation that
this decision was one I should have made,
thinking only it is one I have made.

Yesterday’s walk opened something in me.
I guess that’s what being bare can do, isn’t it?
Standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind blowing wildly all around you,
staring off into the wonder and beauty and complete untame-ability
of this world — well, that can strip away a lot of things.

So, as I got in my car to drive home,
after taking these pictures, and saying, “Thank you! THANK YOU!!”
with my arms outspread, my head bent back, my eyes closed —
after that. . .
I drove down the ramp to the 101 Freeway,
I thought about the intense privilege it is to be
asked to pastor anyone, anytime, anyplace,
and tears of gratitude spilled.

I GET to do this.
I am invited to do this.
I am welcomed to do this.
I do not, in any way, have to do this.

I cannot put into words what a gift that experience was to my roiling
spirits and troubled heart.
What’s happening in my life right now
IS beyond my control. It just is.
But it is not beyond God,
it is not beyond hope,
it is not beyond wonder,
it is not beyond joy.

It is gift.
ALL of it.

Thank You.

Joining late with Lisa-Jo’s community over at the 5-Minute Friday link-up. Five minutes took me to “beyond any feeble ability of mine to control.” Another ten minutes took me to the end of the words. The pictures and the techno stuff with formatting?
Well that took another 45 or so.

I just read this through, after plowing through HTML to figure out why the font keeps shrinking every time I insert a picture. Finally, the preview matched the draft. And as I read, I wept again — grateful for the windy day, even more grateful for the ways in which God chooses to reveal love and grace to me, despite my anxious heart and control-freak nature!!

adding this tonight to the Monday crowd – Michelle, Jen, Laura and Ann – with thanks for the invitation to think about how God is working in us, how we’re learning through play, and how gratitude changes everything.

Filed Under: 5 Minute Friday, Beauty, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, memoir, ministry, personal journey, Photo Essay, photography, prayer, Santa Barbara, The Church, The Journey with Mom, Uncategorized

Ups & Downs, Ins & Outs – Riding the Coaster

January 23, 2013 By Diana

Remember the old movie, “Parenthood?”
A recurrent theme in that story of growing up
was the comparison of life to a roller coaster —
and our need to follow the ups and downs,
the ins and outs,
to tolerate occasional queasiness and to
look for joy and beauty along the way.

I’m feeling those dips and swoops a lot lately,
often more than a little bit queasy from it all.
And I’m trying hard to look for the joy,
the small beauties that show up, if I have the eyes to see.

On my evening walk last Friday,
I almost missed this glory.
The fading sunlight was hitting our neighbor’s blossoming tree at
exactly the right angle to make us gasp with delight.
Such a lovely, serendipitous moment of beauty as the weekend began.

And these three sentinels glistened against the sky as I made my rounds,

The next morning, I drove south to meet these three sentinels —
my mom on the left (91), her ‘baby’ sister in the middle (on her 89th birthday),
their brother on the right (90).

These three have been the heart of our family for over a decade now,
the last remaining members of the older generation.
Their mother died in 1997 at age 101, her sister eight years later at 102.
I doubt very much that these three will live that long;
all are showing signs of wear and tear, the ravages of age.
I lunched with my cousins while our parents shouted at one another
in a private dining room at my uncle’s assisted living residence.
They’re wearing ‘hearing aids’ constructed out of water bottles
and offered as a fun gift by my cousin’s kids.

It is hard to watch this process — my mom is the only one with dementia,
but the other two are dealing with much more serious physical issues than Mom is,
so who knows how long they’ll be with us?

When I got back home, 4/5ths of our middle daughter’s family
was here, ready to relax and enjoy the holiday weekend.
It’s been a while since we’ve spent extended time with these dear ones,
and we were so grateful for their presence,
for their happy and sometimes boisterous reminder of youth
and life and promise
as we deal with our aging moms.

We opted to skip church on Sunday (gasp!) and went out to breakfast instead.
Then we drove to the butterfly preserve north of our home.

It was a gorgeous day, mid 60’s and sunny.
The trail meanders through eucalyptus groves and out onto
the bluffs just north of the UCSB campus — gloriously beautiful.

The deep hanging clusters of monarch butterflies were not to be found this day,
perhaps because of the unseasonably warm weather.

What butterflies there were flitted all through the grove,
enjoying the sunlight.
They are such stunning creatures, these monarchs.
Brilliant orange and black,
making the long migration between Mexico and Canada every single year,
stopping all along the California coast to rest and re-group.

We followed the trail all the way out to the bluffs,
stripping jackets as we walked and gawking at the endless view
of water, sand, islands.

It is a good walk, with enough ups and downs to make it interesting
and even a tiny bit challenging in the full sun.
Kind of like life, I guess.

Turning away from the water yields a mountain view,
beautiful in its own right.
This stretch of coast is one of the last and longest undeveloped
expanses in our state and we love it.

We are blessed in our children and in our grandchildren,
and they are blessed in each other.
Even though we’ve ridden some pretty steep and scary curves together,
I’d say the ride has definitely been worth it.

It’s good to be reminded of that sweet and powerful truth
when the queasiness sets in, don’t you think?

Once Lyla helps me straighten out some formatting grinches, I’ll join this with Michelle, Jen, Laura and Ann:

Filed Under: family, Family/Travel, God's gifts, Grandparenting, memoir, parenting, personal journey, Photo Essay, Santa Barbara, The Grandkids, The Journey with Mom, The Sea, Uncategorized

An African Journey: Post Six – The Gift of Sight

December 29, 2012 By Diana

A continuing series of reflections built around newly-scanned photos from long ago. From 1966-1968, we lived in Choma, Zambia, teaching school, running a ‘book-room’ (a small book store with a surprising reach, providing educational resources to the entire southern province), living in close quarters with missionaries and other volunteer workers and enjoying wonderful opportunities to travel and explore the great continent of Africa.

We were so young and our eyes were not as finely tuned as they are now. Too often, we didn’t know what we were seeing, we didn’t value what came to us as gift and treasure because of the remarkable place in which we were living and the truly gifted and committed friends who shared that living space with us.

But when we took the time to move out from the schedules and the commitments, to travel and see the sights — that’s when our eyes finally began to open and we enjoyed brief moments of insight, clarity and wonder.

Driving through a wide variety of ‘game parks’ was a visual delight, a smorgasbord of color, imaginative creative detail and environmental adaptability.

From long-necked giraffes to graceful gazelles,

to the realities of ‘nature, red in tooth and claw,’

a beautiful impala, recently killed by a mama cheetah who had three hungry cubs to feed

we developed a deeper appreciation for God’s created order

and for the realities of wildlife conservation and its importance.

Almost our first weekend there, we traveled out into the bush for a baptism ceremony, staying overnight in this grass hut.

One night.

My husband was sick the entire night

and I was pretty much terrified.

Yet people around the world live in spaces like this all the time. How blessed we are to live with the creature comforts we do — and how valuable it is to experience even a little bit of what everyday life is like

for so many people in this world.

Watching a crew of strong African men create the building blocks for homes and hospitals brought the sober realization that our friends could not take a trip to the nearby home improvement center and purchase everything they needed for a DIY project. These adobe bricks required hard work, several days in the sun to harden up, and then the actual building could commence.

We were newlyweds while we lived in Zambia and it was important for us to remember that from time to time.

When our friends lived nearby, we took a couple of short trips together, just for fun and exploration.

This one was to the capital of Lusaka, enjoying the closest thing to a department store within a couple of hundred miles, admiring ‘curios’ being sold by the side of the road and making a stop at a beautiful roadside garden.

This is the president’s mansion just outside of Lusaka. Kenneth Kaunda was the first president of this new land and he remained in office for nearly 30 years.

After Lisa was born, we took that corrugated dirt road a lot further into the bush for a weekend with a sports-master friend who lived and worked 100 miles into the back country, near the Kafue River.

Dick was the sports-master at Choma Secondary School.

He also taught civics and a beginning business class called ‘commerce.’

This kind gentleman (whose name we have forgotten) came from Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) to work and support his family.

His family, however, did not make the move.

We enjoyed a great soccer match and a wonderful curry dinner, which he made for us in his small kitchen.

This bridge crosses the Kafue River, either just south of Lusaka or out further into the bush. Since the road is paved, I’m guessing we’re nearer to city life in this picture.

But this is a river shot from further in the back country

and this cheerful young man played us a tune somewhere off the paved road.

Early in our time there, we went with our friends to see Kafue Dam, one of the more modern wonders of this new country.

We were too naive to realize that swimming in a reservoir is not a great idea AND that the waters in this place contain really harmful parasites. Fortunately, we did not become infected.

While he worked in the bookroom, before he began teaching, my husband took a trip to the mining towns of Ndola, Broken Hill and Kitwe.

Copper mining was hugely important and the rise and fall of copper prices has wreaked havoc with Zambian economy for decades.

When he did begin to work at the secondary school, it turned out that my husband was an excellent teacher, investing heavily in his students. He found a series of exams published in Britain, designed for commerce and business students, and he helped his small class of about a dozen students prepare for and pass them. This provided them with some important certification of excellence as they prepared to move out into living in the 20th century, finding a job and supporting a family.

He also took his students on some excellent field trips.

A larger group went in the back of a big truck to see Victoria Falls, almost all of them for the first time in their lives.

And he took his civics class to the capital city to tour the governmental buildings and see first-hand how their new democracy was working.

It was his job as the sports-master, however, that brought him the greatest joy and enabled him to travel to a variety of different secondary school settings in our district. We had two champion distance runners, pictured below — and their names were Hercules and Samson. No kidding.

And they were great runners.

We have tried several times to discover what became of these young men and others of those we loved while we lived among them. We kept track pretty well for about five years. And then the AIDS epidemic began in southern Africa and many of the students we knew were lost to that dreadful disease, most of them in the earliest years of its scourge-like impact on the continent, before we even knew what it was.

To this day, we are grateful for the experiences of 45 years ago, and we have been marked in deep and significant ways by our time living

and working in a cross-cultural setting.

At some point, I hope to write more reflectively about the missionary sub-culture and its impact on our thinking

about how we did church in the mid-20th century.

There is much to criticize and regret.

But there is also much to celebrate and treasure,

chiefly the faithfulness of previous generations who came and built schools and hospitals as well as churches and chapels. Workers who believed that to be true to the gospel meant living it out in a holistic way, taking the good news to people who needed to experience it as well as hear it,

who deserved education and health care

as well as gospel tracts and evangelistic sermons,

servants who took Jesus’ own stated commission from the pages of Isaiah, who brought sight to the blind, health to the sick, hope to the downhearted.

The good work that continues in that place is built on that sturdy foundation and we thank God for it, and for them.

Filed Under: An African Journey, Marriage, memoir, ministry, Photo Essay, photography, Travel

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

Of Sunshine and Seasides and Hope – A Photo Essay

November 14, 2012 By Diana

See that girl in the pink?

She is the best medicine in our lives just now,

and we had ourselves a good, healthy dose yesterday.

Last week’s visit to my mom was hard,

and the road ahead will continue to be so.

This end-of-life journey will be fraught with

confusion and loss

and I will hate it.

A lot.

I am talking to God about it,

often yelling while I do,

but also coming back round to center,

remembering that no matter how lost

my mother feels to me,

she is never lost to God.

Never.

So. Yesterday was a school holiday for our girl,

and we were given the gift of being with her.

The.Entire.Day.

She sprang through our door about 8:45 a.m.,

dressed from head to toe in HOT pink,

complete with sequins lining the pockets of her fleece jacket.

A new outfit from Target, picked out by herself. . .

and of course, it had to be pink.

And not just pink, but PINK.

We pulled out the Lego bins, filled with

colorful bricks that once belonged to her dad,

and she dug in with gusto.

Almost three hours for this 7-year-old

of creating, disassembling, re-arranging

and fun.

I sat at the table, 10 feet away,

reading blogs and email,

enjoying her easy company and occasional conversation.

Then we piled into the car about noon,

and headed out to the wharf.

It was a stunning day.

Crystal clear, about 60 degrees,

with warm sun on our shoulders.

We went to the local Sea Center,

a small marine museum, featuring exhibits

about the creatures which inhabit these coastal

waters in the Santa Barbara channel.

This is a very bright girl,

eternally curious and actively engaged with

whatever is going on around her.

From tiger sharks to sea stars,

from restless Garibaldi to the breathtaking view

out the back wall,

she explored it all.

In the ‘wet room,’ where buckets are dropped

directly into the ocean through a large hole

in the wharf,

she watched, intrigued,

as several students older than she

put the contents of a bucketload through a

sifter and then a microscope.

Upstairs was a small exhibit of jellyfish,

those brainless creatures of grace and transparency.

You can just make her out to the left of

the observation window,

momentarily entranced.

Against a very dark wall, there was a slide

of moving shapes and colors

and Gracie wanted a picture in front of it.

A little bit too dark, however,

and the flash obliterated the slide on the wall.

In the upstairs gangway, there was a small puppet theater,

which enraptured her.

She had such fun entertaining us with

each and every one.

Each.And.Every.One.

Smile.

One look at this sweet girl’s face

and all the sadness just sort of lifted

away like a cloak,

dropping to the floor around me.

This guy apparently inflicted some pain!

But the dolphin was sweet as could be.

We took her to lunch at Longboard’s about 90 minutes later.

She loves the peanut barrel there,

where you can scoop up as much as you want,

eat as much as you want, and —

wait for it! —

toss all the peanut shells right onto the deck!

How cool is that??

We finished our adventure with a trip to the

ice cream shoppe –

single scoop of Cotton Candy on a sugar cone, please.

It even matched her outfit.

She ate every last bite, too —

without spilling a drop on her new outfit —

until that very last bite, when the cone

broke. . . and there was a bright blue

spot in the middle of all that pink.

As we sat in the sun, enjoying our ice cream,

this catamaran came within about a stone’s throw,

gliding through the sea,

loaded with inquisitive tourists,

eager to view the coastline and enjoy

their afternoon on the water.

I took a deep breath, trying to capture the moment.

A beautiful grandchild – one of eight such

magnificent gifts in our life.

A spectacular day – in a magnificent location.

And we get to live here,

fifteen minutes from this girl and her sister.

The older kids live one to three hours south of here,

so these are the kiddos we see most often

and are graced to care for from time to time.

This, this is gift.

And I am grateful.

And for a while, as the sun shone down,

and the water sparkled,

and the glory-girl grinned her toothless

grin at me while her Poppy watched with love —

for a while, that hurting place in my heart

was healed right over.

Thank you, Gracie, for being you:

God’s gift to all of us.

Signing on with Michelle DeRusha, Jen Ferguson, Laura Boggess and Ann Voskamp. Sad to say good-bye to Seedlings in Stone this week – but trust that Laura Barkat’s fine work will continue to show up in some other sparkling setting – I know it will show up at TSP!

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay, Santa Barbara, The Grandkids

31 Days in which I Am Saved by Beauty – Day 23

October 23, 2012 By Diana

In Celebration of the Color BLUE

I am deeply grateful that God saw fit to fill the universe

with a sparkling array of shades of blue.

Blue is cool and calming,

yet strong and sturdy.

Cerulean, azure, lapis, turquoise, royal.

You can find all of that in sky and water,

at just about any time of day or night.

Water, water everywhere!
And often it shows itself in a beautiful mix
of aqua, teal, indigo, even navy.

Spinning the wheel right to the edge of violet,

flowers come in blues, too.

Some of my favorite people sometimes
come in shades of blue, as well.
Lilly, on her blue blanket,

Gracie in her blue dress,

and before he discovered orange, blue was one of Griffin’s

favorites when he was littler.

Joel, dressed in blue, passes birthday goodness to his big brother, Luke,

and Poppy wears it around lots of days, too.

Eric and Griff share a similar shade and a plateful of goodness.

Mom and I squint into the sun, each wearing a piece of coolness.

And this smile – above a blue (or any other color) shirt? Well, that’s one of the most beautiful sights in my world.

We all wore it for our one-and-only family photo shoot.

Places wear this color very well. The Chagall windows at St. Stephen’s church in Germany are among the most spectacular uses of it I’ve seen anywhere.

And we live with a lot of blue around us.

Maybe that’s why we’re such cool, calm, friendly people. (Not.)

And this small winged creature is one of my very favorite
garden guests. Maybe that’s because she, too, is blue?

We try to capture it, we human artists.

And some of us are genius at it. Genius.

But all the beauty we create,

grand and glorious as some of it is,

well — it pales in comparison

to the Master Artist and the splendiferous palette

of creation, don’t you think?

Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Beauty, family, God's gifts, Photo Essay

31 Days in which I Am Saved by Beauty – Day 21

October 21, 2012 By Diana

Sitting in the swing one evening about ten days ago, I noticed a little bit of color creeping onto the western edge of the clouds.

So I took a little look around the sky.

Sometimes it’s hard to know which direction to look,
toward the setting sun,
or toward the hills to the east.

The weather was, as usual, changeable.

Hot sun, followed by blustery wind.

Those two together often create ideal conditions

for a beautiful evening sky.

So looking toward the west allowed lovely silhouettes,

especially these king palms, which are one of my favorite
California trees.
Something about them speaks of pre-history,
quiet grandeur.
They also provide hidden homes for scores of birds,
birds of all kinds and sizes, from
tiny finches to screech owls.

But the view from the backyard?
Well, this particular evening,
it was nothing short of spectacular.

The layers of sky and hill upon hill
took my breath away.