31 Days in which I Am Saved by Beauty – Day 15

October 16, 2012 By
So there are some days in which
beauty takes you by surprise.
I had a doctor’s appointment today –
not usually something that comes
even remotely close to being beautiful.
But for just a moment,
I spotted it.
“You look really good today,”
the cardiologist told me
when I went in to see him 
for follow-up to a change
in blood pressure meds.
“Your numbers are exceptional. 
I’ll see you in a year.”
That was a spot of unexpected 
beautiful news. 

And I had about one hour
after that appointment,
and before my next one.
I chose to spend it
in my second ‘office,’
reading through a couple of days
in a new devotional guide,
recommended by my friend, Nancy Franson,
and prayerfully pondering future writing
themes and projects.
This is “my” spot on the bluffs, overlooking Butterfly Beach.
From the front of my traveling office space,
this is the view.
Shifting just slightly to my right,
brings in this one, which is a little bit less dramatic.
And this is the view to the rear of my work space.
Not too shabby.
We have been blessed to see some of the most beautiful
coastlines in the world –
the Garden Route in South Africa,
the Amalfi Coast in Italy,
the Italian Riviera,
the north Atlantic seaboard,
from Connecticut all the way up to Nova Scotia,
the Caribbean shores of St. Thomas and Mexico,
the Pacific coast of Costa Rica and Baja,
and the entire Pacific Coast of North America,
as far as Alaska and the Yukon.
And this right here?
This is at the top of the list. 

And I can drive here in five – count them FIVE – minutes.
Thank you, Lord. 

I will admit this about being surrounded by such beauty –
I can easily be distracted.
Take today, for example.
This was a day for boats,
a subject about which I know very little indeed.
though I doubt these photos will give her enough
info to identify what type of boats
I was watching today.
This one was very purposeful,
heading toward waters down
the coast. (You’ll note that I did not say
heading south down the coast. That is because
our funny peninsula here faces south
rather than west, so it gets a little weird
if you say you’re heading ‘south.’)

This tiny guy, however, was content to just drift a bit,
taking in the sights,
enjoying the beauty of a suddenly balmy day
after a tender taste of real fall weather late last week.

 Then a bit bigger boat came into my sight line,
looking sleek and intentional.
Again, he was heading down the coast.

Suddenly, the meandering mellow guy
began to rev up the engine, 
and before I knew it,
I had an interesting shot –
the islands in the distance,
the oil derricks in silhouette,
and two ships, passing in the daylight.

And just before it was time to move my office
to a parking spot in front of a favorite restaurant
(yes, lunch with a friend is an appointment, right?),
one final flourish from a small craft heading up the coast.
Perhaps this was the first guy heading home?
Perhaps this was boat number 4 in 40 minutes?
Perhaps it was time for me to put the camera DOWN,
and write a bit? 

I did grab a few ideas here and there,
and quite possibly some of those will 
show up here or at 
A Deeper Story/Deeper Family/Deeper Church.
Who knows?
All I know for sure is this:
today’s office visit(s)
were rich with reminder
that I am – truly – 
being saved by beauty as I walk through each day.
O Lord, may I have eyes to see!


Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Beauty, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay, Writing

31 Days in which I Am Saved by Beauty – Day 10

October 11, 2012 By
I’ve been thinking a lot about contrasts lately.
Light and dark,
small and large,
near and far.
And about how so many of those things that we 
tend to put into opposition to one another
are not all that opposed after all. 
Both things are true,
both sides are instructive,
both realities are beautiful,
each in their own way.
Last summer, I spent two weeks 
looking at this view.
Here is the view on a sunny day –
with all the colors popping,
the architectural details sharp,
distinct, 
easy to follow,
the palm trees leading your eye out to the horizon.
If you look closely at the wing of the building
that was just outside my window,
you can see that the right side of the roof
looks a slightly different color from the left.
It doesn’t seem dramatic, does it?
Now – here are some similar views,
taken on a foggy morning.
The colors blend a bit more,
nothing stands out,
even the lines of the building
are fuzzier, the trees
fade away into the fog.
There is no horizon to be found.
In the cool of that foggy morning,
I began to see that the two sides
of that roof were quite different from one another.
I am facing due south in this picture,
so the westside of the building is the darker one.
I was intrigued by this and began to draw in
a little bit closer.
The fog was beginning to lift as
I screwed on the telephoto lens,
and this is what I began to see.

An astounding display of lichen,
moss, multi-colored plant life,
clinging like crazy-colored barnacles
to the terra cotta tiles

I found them stunningly beautiful,
especially in contrast to the rich red
of the roof; I was
fascinated by
these green and gray polka dots,
scrambling wildly down the rows.

I would not have seen them at all
if the fog had not rolled in,
forcing me
to take my eye off the horizon, 
to stop taking the long view,
and instead, 
to pay attention
to what was right in front of my face.

I have spent much of my life searching
toward that horizon,
thinking and dreaming about
what was to come.
One of my major regrets 
is that I did not fully appreciate 
what was
right in front of my face
while I was living it.

I got better at it over time,
thank God.
But how I wish I had
celebrated the glory
of the single moment
just a bit more,
especially when my 
children were small
and I was tired all.the.time.

I take some comfort from the disciples.
They weren’t able to see what was 
right in front of them, either.
Yet even they,
with their stubbornness,
their denseness,
their projection of their
particular hopes and dreams,
hopes and dreams
that were so far from God’s best
as to be laughable at times –
even they got to see the other side. 

Jesus came to them,
in his new,
resurrected body,
and he stood before them,
greeted them gently,
offered them peace
and then sent them out 
to change the world.
The truth is, both sides, 
both views
are important.
The long view,
and the close-up one. 
And both views contain truth,
big truths – long-term goals,
aspirations, dreams –
and small truths –
the glories of
the immediate,
the blessings of now.

Somehow, I don’t think the world
can truly be changed
without some experience
of holding-both-sides-together. 
Because our world needs both:
the healing presence and comfort 
of the Jesus
who comes and cups our faces
and says, “Peace be with you,”
and the powerful creative energy
of the Cosmic Christ,
in “whom all things hold together,” 
who wants to make all things new,
including every one of us. 

So, even though I’m not a foggy weather
kind of person,
I will celebrate and appreciate
those days when they come.
In fact, I will seek them out,
looking always for
Jesus 
right in front of my face.

Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Beauty, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay, Spiritual Direction

31 Days in which I am Saved by Beauty – Day 8

October 9, 2012 By

I took my walk at Butterfly Beach today.
The shadows were long,
the temperature was unseasonably warm,
and I needed to breathe in the beach beauty
for a little while.

When I walk at the beach,
choosing instead to walk laps.
I pace up and down this long, level sidewalk,
edging the beach, and I marvel at the view.

The tide was high tonight,
with barely a beach to stand on.

It felt good to walk,
to stretch my legs,
standing tall in the fading sunlight,
sighing ‘thank you, thank you,’ 
with each step.

 This is my other sanctuary,
quite different from the one I wrote about last night.
Last night spoke to my hunger 
for the nearness of God,
the singular joys of being alone in the midst
of gathered community.

Today, I celebrated the bigness of God,
feeling myself puny, alone but not lonely,
relieved to not be in any way confused
with the person in charge of 
anything whatsoever.
I need them both, it seems.
I need physical reminders of God’s proximity
and of God’s distance,
of God’s willingness to become small,
and of God’s astounding immensity.

When I walk at Butterfly, I face both into
and away from the sun and the breeze.
One direction is cooler and things can be seen
in sharper outline than the other.
I like these contrasts,
I enjoy turning my face in a different direction,
and seeing the same thing from two sides.
This gull, for example.
Facing into the setting sun, 
he stands in silhouette,
dark against the shimmering sea.

But when I face away from the sun,
I see him in full color,
his subtle shades of gray and white,
that startlingly bright orange beak,
even his reflection on the wet sand. 

Right now, we are facing into a potentially difficult
situation for someone we love 
someone we love more than life.
When I think of her and pray for her,
remembering this experience today
is helpful, centering, yes, 
even calming.

Because today I had the momentary privilege
of seeing from two sides,
each beautiful in its own way.
Neither one is the whole picture.

We don’t get to see all that there is to see
in this life we lead.
We do see so much! 
So much that is beautiful,
in the way that we ordinarily define that word.
But there is more.
There is more than what we actually see
at any given moment in time.
And I am trusting that what I cannot
see just now
will have a beauty all its own. 

Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.

Sharing with Jennifer, Ann’s Wednesday group, Emily and Duane this time around.





Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay

31 Days in which. . . I Am Saved by Beauty

October 2, 2012 By

At the end of it all, I am tired.
I am weary, to tell it true.
I wonder about so many things,
so many people,
so much pain,
confusion,
loss.

There are days when I am tempted
to lose heart.
To chuck it,
check out,
roll over and play dead.

And then . . .

I walk into a room
where I will be alone
for a few days.
And I sigh, deep.
I peer through the slats,
find greens and browns,
lines and curves,
light and shadow.
And I am stunned,
silent.

I hear water, 
moving over rocks.

Smell rain,
coming in the back door,
blowing, dancing,
playing with the sky.

I find welcome,
tables spread with goodness,
candles lit,
napkins ready,
bread fresh-baked.

I find row upon row of hand-thrown mugs,
colors of earth and sky,
ready,
for the taking,
for the warming.

And the sighs keep coming.
One of my mother’s 
greatest gifts to me —
the finding of beauty in both
the everyday gifts
and the  
once-in-a-great-while ones.

Like simple wild roses,
and cerise beauty-berries,

exotic and unusual
to this California
grandmother.

Solid, old hymns,
and newly-minted words,
all of it gifted
with excellence
and joy.

There is deep thinking,
hard questioning,
good learning —
about our brains
and our words,
and our faithfulness
to the gifts
given us.

And there is the turning-around
closing service,
chairs facing out over the glory,
beholding the Glory.
Because this is the heart of it all.
When we’re weary,
when we’re frightened,
when we wonder where next
to put our feet,
this is how we find the way.

We hear the words,
we say the words,
we see the words,
and we meet the Word.
We take the Word,
we share the Word,
and we remember.
We re-member.
We find food for the journey,
rest for the weary,
and hope for the world.

Giving thanks this night for time at Laity Lodge, whose location, hospitality, beauty and generosity are not to be matched. We were led by brilliant and creative teachers – Professor, researcher and author Dr. John Medina; author and film critic Jeffrey Overstreet;  publisher and editor, John Wilson; author and priest, Lauren Winner; Professor, poet and essayist Julia Kasdorf; musicians extraordinaire, Ashley Cleveland and Kenny Greenburg.

And with this post, beginning a 31 day exploration of a famous Tolstoy quote which has haunted me for the last three years, since it was given to me by my spiritual director as we began our time together. Somehow, these seven words (“The world will be saved through beauty.”) have spoken to deep places in me and I’d like to explore those a little, with photos, words, quotes, scripture, prayer. It’s not all mapped out, but I believe we’ll get there just the same. Kind of like life.

Joining with The Nester and the 1000 (YES, ONE THOUSAND other bloggers who have taken up the gauntlet and will write every day for the month of October. Go on over there and check it out if you don’t believe me.

And I cannot leave this particular post without saying specific words of thanksgiving for the people with whom I was privileged to live, eat, work, think, talk and worship this past weekend. Here are a few of them:

From left to right-Dena Dyer, Sheila Lagrand, Michelle DeRusha, Deidra Riggs, Nancy Owens Franson, Sandra Heska King, Amanda Johnston Hill, me. (with Shelly Miller and Marilyn Yocum at the table just behind this one.)
Shelly Miller of Redemption’s Beauty and Amanda Hill of Hill+Pen
Marcus Goodyear – our faithful Senior Editor at The High Calling 
and his henchwoman, Deidra Riggs.
A whole bunch of The High Calling bloggers – we were about 1/3 of the total number of 
participants in this magnificent weekend.
Megan Willome and Dena Dyer, former neighbors, native Texans,
brilliant writers, great people.
Cindee Snider Re (Breathe Deeply) and Marilyn Yocum, one from Wisconsin, 
the other from Ohio,
fabulous human beings, creative lovers of beauty.
Amanda Hill, Shelly Miller, Michelle DeRusha (Graceful) and Sheila Seiler Lagrand (Godspotting). DO YOU SEE HOW BLESSED I AM?
IF YOU EVER HAVE AN OPPORTUNITY TO COME TO LAITY LODGE IN THE HILL COUNTRY OF TEXAS,
MAKE EVERY EFFORT TO GET YOURSELVES THERE.
IT’S NOT EASY, BUT IT IS SO, SO GOOD.
THEY OFFER A WIDE VARIETY OF RETREAT EXPERIENCES THROUGHOUT THE YEAR.
YOU CAN CHECK IT OUT
Sharing with Michelle, Ann, Jen, Laura Boggess & LL Barkat tonight:

On In Around button




Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Beauty, Blogging, God's gifts, Laity Lodge, personal journey, Photo Essay, Writing Retreats

5-Minute Friday: GRASP – A Photo Essay

September 28, 2012 By
I am sitting on a porch, in a beautiful wooden rocking chair, overlooking the Frio River in the Hill Country of Texas. Gathered at a Writers’ Retreat are about 70 people, here to learn more about the creative process, to eat well, watch a little rain fall onto a drought-prone stretch of chapparal, and to marvel at the goodness of God. I am at Laity Lodge for the second year in a row, delighted to be among such good company, with time to laugh, converse, think–even to write. So, this week’s 5-Minute Friday will look a little different than most. I’ll write first and then give you a 
brief photographic overview of our trip out to the canyon yesterday. 
 Please come on over to Lisa-Jo’s fine blog, where over 200 folks join in the party each and every week. We are to write for 5 minutes, no editing, no over-thinking -just whatever comes out of our fingertips. It’s great fun and often more than a little revealing.
Five Minute Friday
GO:

It’s hard to get from Santa Barbara CA to San Antonio TX.
It requires an overnight stay near LAX,
getting up at 3:45 a.m.,
going through airport security before one is fully conscious,
flying one hour to Phoenix,
walking miles through the airport to another terminal
to board another plane for 2 hours to your final destination.
Then you wait for your van-load of compatriots,
some of whom you actually might recognize,
and drive for 2 hours away from civilization
to this amazing place.
I’ve been here once before,
so I know what to expect.
It’s an enriching, challenging,
welcoming experience to land in this space.
And I cannot quite grasp the words to say why.
We’re singing with a a grammy-winning worship leader,,
listening to a PhD in neuro-biology tag-teaming with 
a film critic, learning how to write a good sentence
and just sort of spreading out on the inside of our souls.
Funny stories, serious questions, shared struggles – 
all of it makes for an enriching, encouraging experience.
There is freedom in this place,
there is welcome.
There is beauty, silence, companionship when desired.
And there is a sense of God’s smile everywhere you look.
I sat on a bench by a jogging trail early this morning
and just listened for about 5 minutes.
Do you know what I hear?
Nothing.
Only a far away bird song.

THAT’s what this place provides that 

so few places on this earth can – 

the sound of good silence.

STOP

Driving away from the airport.
The contrast of brilliant light and pouring rain off in the distance seen 360 degrees around in Texas.
What you might expect to find in Texas actually can be found in Texas.
Something about these mailboxes seems representative of the wide open spaces and ranch land of this part of the world.
Turning off the highway to the dirt road leading down to the HEB Foundation Camps.
A lovely harbinger of good things ahead.
Reaching the river road that leads to Laity Lodge
This is the only way in and it’s remarkable.
The rainbow almost spanning the canyon carved by the Frio.
Looking out over the Frio right after our arrival at about 6 last night.
Hopeful reflections of beauty to come. Thank you, Lord.
Filed Under: 5 Minute Friday, Blogging, community, personal journey, Photo Essay, Writing, Writing Retreats

An African Journey: Post Five – The Very Best Part

September 13, 2012 By
There we were, minding our own business,
getting to know this new country,
these new friends,
this new work . . .
and then the world shifted.
Well, maybe not the entire world,
just our tiny corner of it.
And it took a while to sink in, too.
On the 4th of June, 1967, 
I wrote to my mom and dad and said this:
“I have been feeling lousy the last 2-3 weeks.
Attacks of nausea at odd times, extreme sleepiness
and a late period. I am going to see the doctor next week
to find out what the trouble is. Will let you know the results.” 

What can I say?
I was young and . . . naive? 
Let’s just say it . . . 
I was plain old stupid about the process of reproduction.
Yes, thank you very much, I did know how it happened.
I just didn’t have a clue what happened when it happened.
So . . . stupid?
Yeah, that about covers it.
My mother just laughed hysterically when she read that letter,  
and her diagnosis arrived about the same time the doctor’s did:
you are two months pregnant.
About four months along, sipping a Coke on the Garden Route in South Africa.
My husband’s parents and younger sister came to visit us and took us on a wonderful three week trip to game parks and other beautiful places south of our home. I will write another journal entry about our travels to other parts of Africa while we lived in Zambia.
About 6 months along in these two faded black & white photos.
So. We were pregnant.
DEEP breath.
And so, the thinking and the wondering and the planning
and the gathering began.
My doctor was an American,
a member of the denomination with which we served,
and his work and his hospital were 40 miles away,
over a very, VERY bumpy dirt road, out in the bush.
I saw him three times during my pregnancy.
My everything- you-wanted-to-know-about pregnancy reading was limited, 
to say the least.
A friend who was a nurse had an old ob-gyn textbook,
filled with pictures and descriptions of 
all that can go wrong in pregnancy and delivery.
Lovely.
Fortunately, there were women living in our 
neighborhood who had borne babies before.
In fact, over the next four months,
four other women announced that they, too, were pregnant.
It was an epidemic!
Those of us who were newbies learned from the old hands,
and somehow, we muddled through.
Our baby was due on January 9, 1968,
and I worked as a teacher through the end of the term in
mid-December, grateful for papers to grade,
students to love and exams to prepare.
We found treasures to be repaired and painted,
I created curtains out of fabric bought in our town,
friends sent me maternity clothes and baby clothes
from home, carefully folded into 9×12 envelopes.
Over the next few months,
the reality began to sink in:
we were going to be parents.
Yikes.
January 9th came and went.
January 19th came and went.
My 23rd birthday on January 23rd came and went.
I lay on the bed, weeping, convinced that I would have this oversized basketball in my body for the rest of my life.
At about 6:30 in the morning on Sunday, January 28th,
I woke up with a strong back ache.
I went into our bathroom/laundry room and
sat on the edge of the tub, folding clean towels.
I remember being overwhelmed with
the realization that my life was going to change
forever
by the end of that day.

I was, however, still stupid.
I stood in the middle of the lawn at about 9:30 a.m.,
watching my stomach ripple under my dress,
begging my cross-the-street neighbor 
(who was pregnant with #4) 
to tell me if this could possibly be labor.
She just looked at me and said,
“Diana, get yourself into the car and drive to Macha.”
So that is exactly what we did.
If you ever find yourself wondering how you might speed things along in early labor, I have a suggestion for you.
Find yourself a very bumpy dirt road and drive on it for about an hour.
I guarantee that things will pick up nicely.
We arrived at the hospital about 10:30 in the morning, went to a very nice room with a bath and my husband proceeded to talk to me about our travel plans for the summer, 
when our term of service would be ending.
I think I may have thrown the notebook in his face, 
but I can’t be certain. 
It’s all a bit of a blur.
At about 11:45, they wheeled me into the delivery room. 
Only, it wasn’t really a delivery delivery room,
it was a surgical suite.
The doctor was a thoracic surgeon and he did a whole lot of chest surgery out there in the bush.
They didn’t have a delivery table as such, 
just a surgical table,
and that sucker was hard.
His favorite nurse, who happened to be his wife,
gave me a small mask to put over my face with each
pain, a gas called Trilene.
I had no other medication.
At 12:12, just after noon on a glorious sunny summer day,
Lisa Ruth Trautwein entered the world,
a thick head of dark hair and a great set of lungs
announcing her presence.
And I distinctly remember sitting up on the table and
shouting, “This is fabulous! I want ten of these!”
As I said, stupid.
Sigh.
Winnie Worman, the doctor’s wife and an excellent nurse, holding our 1 day old daughter.
I stayed at the Mission until Thursday, eating in their home. Dick spent the first night with us both and then returned to school on Monday morning to greet his students.
The doctor himself (Robert Worman) with our beautiful girl.
With Winnie and Lisa, outside my room. The government asked them to add 5 private rooms and I got to be in one of them. The entire birthing experience cost us about eight dollars.
We had a rocky first night.
Because my husband was with me, the nursing staff left the three of us alone that night. I very quickly learned how much I did not know about mothering, 
and, once again, how much I did not know about being a woman who carries babies and gives birth.
My baby cried non-stop. Nothing would soothe her.
 And I was more than a little bit weak and wobbly from very normal blood loss that scared and surprised me.
Because, as I’ve said . . . I was terribly uninformed . . . 
Yup . . . stupid.
By 6:00 the next morning, 
I greeted the nurse on duty like a super-hero of some sort. She took one look at our girl and said, 
“Oh, this one loves to suck. I can see it. Try this pacifier.”
Glory be! It worked. From there on, it got easier.
In the picture above, Lisa is about 22 hours old.
I’d been up, showered, shampooed, curlered and combed out, (there were no portable hair dryers in the entire country of Zambia!) and in this picture, I am figuring out how to bathe an 8 1/2 pound human person.
Fortunately, she loved it. . . and so did I.
We brought her home and introduced her to our room and to the space that would eventually be her room.
Dick and I were both ecstatic, overwhelmed with gratitude,
sometimes anxious, but basically simply delighted
to be living with this entrancing creature.
She was, of course, the most precocious child in the history of humankind, smiling at 10 days, laughing big at two months, growing blond hair with dark tips.
Our African students adored her. I think she was the only newborn baby they had ever seen who had longish, straight hair, 
and they loved to touch her, to hold her, to stroke her head.
A Zambian friend loaned me her baby carrier and I used it as a pattern to make this one for Lisa and me.
There were no Ergo carriers in the 60’s.
In fact, American and European parents 
knew nothing about carrying babies on their bodies.
I learned about it from my African friends 
and I used this sling all the time.
From the time of Lisa’s birth until the time we left five and a half months later, I was called Bina Lisa by my African colleagues, most of whose first names I never really knew, as they were always called Bina —- (insert the name of their first-born child). I have been unable to find even one picture of Lisa with our African principal and his wife or with the students who earned pocket money by helping me with my ironing twice a week. (Remember ironing??) They are among a small set of pictures that we haven’t been able to locate as we’ve been scanning old memories into our computer.  But I have strong and happy memories of their warm acceptance of our baby and of the gigantic leap of respect our becoming parents engendered in the attitude of our students toward us.
This was Lisa’s favorite position, hanging upside down, sucking vigorously on that pacifier.
All five new babies near the end of our time in Zambia. 
Lisa was the only girl.
Our next door neighbors, Rosemary and Harry King, holding Lisa at a staff gathering. Harry took the black and white photos you see in this and other of these African Journey posts.

The Kings were from Virginia. Millie and Dave Dyck, our neighbors on the other side – and the parents of Michael, born 2 weeks after Lisa and pictured above and below, were from Canada. He went on to become the head of the Mission Board of the Mennonite Brethren Church in that country.
Michael must have been teasing Lisa to make her pout like that. 
Mom and babe on Easter Sunday, 1968. Is she not the cutest thing ever?? 
(Until her sister and brother were born, of course. To say nothing of all the grandkids…)
We did take a trip on the way home.
But by the time we actually left in June, that trip
had been shortened considerably.
We spent one week in Kenya, visiting some friends who were teaching there, then about 10 days in Switzerland (pictured above) and Germany, visiting my cousin and some friends from UCLA.
We were so smitten with our girl that we wanted to get her back to the arms of our loving families just as quickly as we could. And she was a great traveler, too . . . until our very last flight. From Copenhagen to Seattle, she cried almost the entire way, then settled down as we made the last leg into LAX. 
That little one was just plain done with airplanes.

We were greeted at the airport by grandparents, a great grandmother and a small horde of aunts, uncles and a smattering of cousins. 
It was a deliriously happy time and
I think we brought home the very best souvenir imaginable, don’t you? 

 Becoming a mother changed me in ways that are profound, 
in ways that I cannot articulate.
Carrying, birthing, nursing and tending three small persons is soul work, 
down deep living-life work, sometimes terrifying, always gratifying heart-work.
Meeting Lisa was my introduction to that work
and that meeting took place a long way 
from the only home I had known to that point.
There is a very real sense, however, that birthing her in that wonderful place cemented in my spirit, 
my heart, 
even in my body, 
this truth:
home is not a geographical place 
so much as it is an emotional space,
a spiritual point of connection and commitment.
All of her life, Lisa has been able to say,
“I was born in Africa.”
And we have been able to say,
“Africa was our home.”
And those two things go together.

I will happily join this long story with Jennifer and Duane:
 
And one week later, this will be my first entry in the Parent’Hood synchro blog, joining through Joy Bennett’s blog:



Filed Under: An African Journal, An African Journey, community, family, God's gifts, Home, Marriage, memoir, ministry, personal journey, Photo Essay, Travel, women, Wonderings in the World

An African Journey: Post Four – An African Wedding

September 5, 2012 By
At our wedding reception in December of 1965, 
one of my husband’s oldest friends and his wife stood in line,  shook our hands, wished us well, and jokingly said,

Ray and Dick were born just a few days apart and ‘met’ at the church their parents attended when they were infants.
They went to high school together and were part of a group of guys who kept connected through college and beyond.
Finding out that they were thinking about 
traveling around the world the same time we were?
Astoundingly good news!

And that’s exactly what happened, eight months later.
Only their location was a little more in flux than ours,
we traveled on different ships,
and we weren’t at all sure where they would end up
once we all got there.
As it turned out, for the first few months,
they were housed at a mission station in the bush, about 40 miles away from us. To get there required driving on this dirt road,
the same corrugated dirt road that we traveled 
nearly two years later when I went into labor.
There were villages located all through this area,
and all of the people who lived in them walked or rode their bikes to the mission for two primary reasons:
to receive quality medical care or
to get married in the chapel.

Every few weeks, we would drive out that road
to see how our friends were doing.
Or they would come charging into Choma,
often on the motorcycle they bought their first week there.
Their presence was a huge gift to us. Huge.
This was the small rondaval they called home for those months. It was one room, with a corrugated tin roof and an outhouse.
And you may remember how we lived . . .
in a stucco and brick house, with three bedrooms and indoor plumbing. 
Plus, we had electricity about 80% of the time.
And yes, we did feel more than a little guilty about
encouraging them to come on this adventure.
They both wanted to teach school, 
so while they waited for an assignment, 
they lived at Macha Mission. 
Ray managed this workroom, and used his considerable mechanical gifts to repair all kinds of things.
Anita made herself useful wherever she could and was 
so delighted when they rigged up cooking equipment in their small home.
Prior to that, they had to eat in the main house,
with a tribe of other workers.
Once in a while, that kind of community is a grand thing – if everyone is moderately compatible and easy-going.
But three meals a day, seven days a week?
It can be tough sledding.

In about our third month there, we had a true adventure together. 
There was a wedding at Macha – and we were invited!
The wedding was scheduled for about 10:00 a.m.,
but didn’t begin until a little after noon.
Why?
Because in Zambia, it was customary for the groom 
to purchase the attire for the bride.
This groom didn’t have a clue about sizing and the dress
he selected for his small wife-to-be was about four sizes too big. 
The entire mission staff was busily trying to make adjustments 
so that this girl could come down the aisle. 
Many safety pins and an improvised cummerbund later 
(made from a cloth diaper) – and, voila!
It worked and somehow the wedding happened.
Some western traditions were incorporated – like the clothes and the attendants. But one custom was entirely Tongan:
the bride never looked up, never smiled. Ever.
This was the most important and serious day of her life
and she was not supposed to make light of it in any way.
And she did not.
Following the ceremony, we were invited to the feast held in celebration of the new family – at the groom’s village.
The women had been cooking for hours,
gifts had been gathered,
and the couple’s new hut had been officially decorated . . .
by the groom, with new clothing, fabric and other gifts for his lovely bride.
We drove over a bike path, then a cow path, then through a small stream, where we had to get out and push the Kombi-bus. The bride and groom hitched a ride with us, however, so we knew the party couldn’t begin until we got there.
The houses in the village were made of mud bricks, the roofs thatch. The smaller structures were grain storage bins because the staple food for this entire region is ensima, a porridge made from ground field corn. Every village kept a ready supply of the tough kernels in these small, raised huts, out of the reach of hungry warthogs and wandering cattle.
 In the morning, ensima is served thin, gruel-style. 
For meals later in the day, it is quite stiff and usually served with a relish – most often vegetables, but on special occasions, chicken or beef.
This was a special occasion and there was chicken cooking in the pots!
Meals were cooked communally and sometimes eaten together, 
sometimes in smaller family units.
On this day, we were ushered into the groom’s hut and food was brought to us.
We felt overwhelmed and embarrassed by so much special attention, 
but had been told ahead of time what to expect 
and to just receive this hospitality for the lovely gift it was.
The groom’s hut was not quite as large as this one and did not have windows,
but it was cozy and welcoming.
As I recall, I was not feeling at all well that day, but I was determined not to miss this once-in-a-lifetime experience!
You can just barely see that the groom has a good supply of both sugar and hand soap – high on the list of desirable products to own.
They brought us so.much.food – stiff corn meal mush and some stewed chicken to go with it. And we loved the enamel ware bowls it came in!
This was the view looking out the door of the groom’s hut,
just a snapshot of village life.
After everyone had eaten their fill, the party began.
There was dancing,
and there was singing,
and there was gift-giving.
Each gift would be danced up to the couple –
a five-pound bag of sugar,
a box of tea,
a bar of soap or a box of soap flakes.
Everyone was delighted to be there and showered this
couple with love and generosity.
 About six weeks after this remarkable adventure,
Ray and Anita were moved 500 miles south of us
to one of the oldest mission stations of the denomination.
It was located in the beautiful, rocky landscape of the Matopos hills in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe.
Getting together got a lot more complicated.
We thanked God for the steam train and made the effort, however. 
And we got to see some gorgeous country in the process.
This is the school where Ray and Anita taught for nearly two years. They had indoor plumbing and generated electricity during daylight hours. They loved their students and made some long-time friends in this place.
Whenever we visited, they took us sight-seeing.
And there were such beautiful sights to see.
They came back to Zambia to visit us, too.
We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries together when we could, laughing and enjoying the long threads of our shared history.
Anita was one of the greatest friends of my life.
She taught me how to cook, how to laugh,
how to enjoy life.
She died one month before I began my life in Santa Barbara
and I have missed her ever since.

Ray was skilled at so many things and so generous with those skills! 
He and Dick shared many years of close friendship.
After we returned to the States, 
our families gathered every New Year’s Eve and Day,
and vacationed together several times.
Those ties were begun here,
in our bright red kitchen and their hilltop adobe home.
Ties that connected us heart to heart,
soul to soul.
Sharing such life-changing experiences binds people 
in ways that are hard to describe or define.
But I am eternally grateful for all of it – 
the experiences,
the ties,
the friendship.
I am so very glad we had this cross-cultural 
adventure when we were young, 
but I find that what I miss now that I am not-so-young is 
not the adventure itself, but that sense of long history with heart-friends. 
It has never been replicated in our lives.
And as I look at these old pictures,
as I read the letters I sent home,
it is this connection that I miss the most.
There simply is no substitute for it.
Thank you, Ray and Anita, for loving us well
and sharing our lives for so many years.
I miss you.

I will join this at Jennifer’s and at Emily’s and at Duane’s places. Also with Laura Boggess and with Michelle and Jen and the SDG:







Filed Under: An African Journey, death, friendship. personal journey, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay, Travel

A Photo Essay: Quiet for the Weekend – August 31-September 2, 2012

September 1, 2012 By
It’s been a strange sort of week.
‘Found time,’ here at home,
time we thought we’d be traveling –
but we’re not.
So we got to extend our days with our
youngest granddaughter by a couple of weeks,
and that was sweet.
Next Wednesday, she begins pre-school.

We took time to plan vacations for next year,
always a fun thing to do.
But communication with the agent got a little dicey 
and we weren’t sure why.
Everything worked out in the end;
it generally does. 

Yesterday, we went to see “The Odd Life of Timothy Green,”
and found it quirky and sweet.
And then the projector blew up about 2/3 of the way through.
Say what?
We got a couple of free theater tickets out of it,
but still . . .
So we had an early dinner at a nearby
cheap-o place that turned out to be pretty good,
and we shopped at Costco, to prepare
for the thundering herd (in the nicest possible way!)
that will descend on us for the holiday weekend. 

It was 7:00 p.m. and the sky was unusually pretty,
so I turned the car right instead of left as we drove out of the parking lot, and headed to Isla Vista – the crazy college community that isn’t quite crazy yet,
 as UCSB hasn’t begun their fall semester. 

There was a good place to park, so I grabbed it,
reached in the back seat for my camera bag,
and headed out onto the bluffs,
just as the sun was beginning its last 
sinking, saturating radiance,
and the blue moon was starting its ascendency.
And I walked.
And I looked.
And I breathed.
Every once in a while,
I stopped to take a picture
to exclaim over the beauty all around,
and to say, ‘Thank you’ to the One who made it all. 

Come along with me, won’t you?

(By the way, I have no idea what all those multi-colored small flags mean,
but they were pretty and whimsical in their own right, so I took their picture.
And I have to say that just scrolling through these pictures makes me say ‘Thank You’ over and over again. I cannot begin to put into words how grateful I am to live where I do.) 

And these words from scripture jumped out at
me as I reflected on this experience today, 
the day after all that confusion – and all that beauty.
Because someday, all that we see now as 
spectacular,
glorious,
breath-taking,
and life-giving
will pale in comparison to the LIGHT
that will overwhelm and bedazzle us on the Day of the LORD.

“No longer will violence be heard in your land,
nor ruin or destruction within your borders,
but you will call your walls Salvation
and your gates Praise.
The sun will no more be your light by day,
nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,
for the LORD will be your everlasting light,
and your God will be your glory.
Your sun will never set again,
and your moon will wane no more;
the LORD will be your everlasting light,
and your days of sorrow will end.”
Isaiah 60:18-20

Joining Michelle DeRusha’s invitation to Summer, for the last time this year,
and with Sandy and Deidra for their ongoing weekend invitation to quietness and reflection.



Filed Under: biblical reflection, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay, Quiet for the Weekend, Santa Barbara, Slowing Down

Things Change. . . A Mixed Media Post

August 31, 2012 By
Life has gotten interesting of late. And I haven’t had as much opportunity to join with Lisa-Jo as I’d like. But when I saw this week’s prompt, I went to my draft pile and pulled this one up. I started to write it a week ago, to note what feels like a great, big, massive change in our lives – our youngest grandchild will no longer require our weekly care.
Gasp. She begins pre-school next week. How can this be??
So, you’ll see where I began the timed part of this post – and I surprised myself with where I went from there. Isn’t that always the way with 5 Minute Friday?? 
(Pictures added both before and after the 5 minutes!)
Five Minute Friday

Lilly – one-hour old
About 10 months old.
Feeding the bluejays with Poppy.
Tough girl pose – 15 months.
Playing doctor, 18 months.
Sweetness at 22 months.
Just a little uncertainty, also 22 months.
A series of wild-hair shots. Oh, my – yes. About 2 years old.
At her 2nd birthday party.
Under some semblance of control with Aunt Lisa, just past her 2nd birthday.
Lilly at 2 years, 6 months – how can it be?
A little dress-up play, three weeks ago.
Perhaps a cell phone would have been simpler for this little jaunt??
Every Wednesday since June of 2010,
she has come to our house to play.
And eat.
And sleep.
She was four months old when we began,
and I was just weeks out of the hospital,
and more tired than I knew.
So when nap time came,
I would put her down on the bed next to me.
I’d run the TV softly to create a little white noise,
 and sit next to her while she slept,
my computer on my lap.
During those first months,
I would do email,
research for teaching or preaching,
and wonder what the looming world
of retirement would be like.
Since the end of that year,
I’ve used Lilly’s nap time to
read blogs,
check Facebook,
think about posts,
write posts,
and watch her while she sleeps.

START:
Two days ago marked the end of an era for us,
an end to babies.
First there were our own three,
each of them remarkable,
unique,
full of fun and curiosity and determination.
Then those three grew up,
met some pretty amazing partners,
and started having babies of their own.
Three boys from daughter number one –
one, two, three.
Three boys from daughter number two – 
one, two, three.
Loud, rough-and tumble,
some more than others –
wonderful promise of sturdy men to come.
Then, just one month after that last boy,
our boy and his wife had a GIRL.
Glory be.
And nearly four years and one miscarriage later,
another girl.
And now, they tell me, they are done.
Their family is complete.
So.
Will I live to see great-grandbabies?
It’s within the realm of possibility –
our eldest is 21.
But I’m not sure it’s within the realm
of probability.

Everyone waits theses days.
We married young,
had kids while we were kids.
Not so much anymore.
There is education to be gotten,
jobs to be found,
houses to be bought,
lives to be lived.
And that’s all wonderful. . .
but . . .
I wouldn’t change a thing about our journey.
I loved growing up TOGETHER,
hanging on by a shoestring,
having babies before we had the money for them,
and loving every (well, almost every!) minute of it.
So,
change comes.
And we?
We roll with it,
or
it rolls right over us.

STOP.

Maybe I won’t miss this mess every week  . . .

. . . and maybe I won’t miss this weekly menagerie as I tried to get a very sleep-resistant girl to acquiesce . . .

But this?

(at 15 months old)

And this? (last week)

And yes, THIS (two days ago) I will most definitely miss.
She now covers almost the entire bed . . .

. . . and sometimes adjusts herself to make contact, her head on my leg as I type.
Sigh.

Filed Under: 5 Minute Friday, family, memoir, parenting, personal journey, Photo Essay

An African Journal – Post Three: A Living Landscape

August 25, 2012 By
Where we are teaches us a lot about who we are.
I am a Californian, born and bred.
Oceans, mountains, deserts – 
these are in my blood,
part of my psyche.
Cycles of wet and dry,
hot and cold,
sail-filling winds and
soul-slowing stillness –
these are part of me now,
not to be separated out,
placed on a shelf somewhere
like a seldom-read geography tome.
The real geography of this place is part of my soul.
Perhaps that’s why the geography of a different place,
a faraway place,
never felt alien to me.
I ran to it, embraced it, let it fill me up –
as much as a 21-year-old is capable of such rapture.
It was dusty and dry much of the year.
And as a Californian, this look I knew.
But anything short of jungle could grow there,
and grow it did, all over the savannah.
 And all around the edges of our small neighborhood,
with its dirt roads and driveways,
its brick houses, wide-open sky views, flat-topped trees
and all that red clay, just beneath the dust.
Grasses of all kinds flourish in this climate,
turning brown in the dry season,
but bright green when watered by seasonal rains.
The cloud formations were breathtaking,
the ground fog during ‘winter’ was not.
Much like California, we enjoyed three seasons
in Zambia rather than four:
Hot and dry,
warm and wet,
cold and foggy.
 When we first drove onto the campus, we were flabbergasted
to see tall poinsettias – and they bloomed every year,
bringing spots of bright color to the green and brown.
The shady side of our new home encouraged calla lilies and 
coleus in every color combination.
The front yard featured a row of bright coral-colored
flowers I had never seen before –
gerbera daisies,
always twisting toward the sunlight.
 Our campus was completely flat,
making it an ideal space for soccer matches –
a sport new to us in 1966.
My husband learned it well enough to coach it;
neither of us learned to love it.
 We lived about two miles off of the Cape-to-Cairo road,
a main thoroughfare going north and south on the continent
of Africa. Our town of about 2000 was a delightful place,
where something interesting was always bound to happen.
 There was a hospital, a small elementary school,
two general stores,
a butchery,
a bakery
and a small book store,
run by the church we served with.
 Acacia trees graced the southern entry to Choma,
sheltering the post office at that end of town.
And the train stopped in Choma, too.
A steam train – just like the picture on the sign below.
And we rode that train about twice each year,
sleeping overnight,
waking with cinders in our hair and on our clothes.
It was in our local train station, the first week we arrived,
that I had one of the most profound experiences 
of my young life. 
My husband and I got separated for a moment just as a train pulled up. Surrounding us was a veritable sea of Africans,
waiting to meet friends and family 
or to board the train for a new destination.
Every single face around me looked 
different from mine.
Every one.
And like a shot to the gut,
I had just the tiniest inkling of what it feels like
to be the minority – for the first time in my life.
This is an insight that simply cannot be bought,
or even taught,
and I am grateful for it.
The bus stop was right outside the bookstore, 
across the street from the bakery.
Bags and babies hung from every window,
from every baggage strut,
and the energy of a newly born country
poured out into the street.
This is the local police,
and this is the fire department.
There was one house fire in the two years we lived there,
and this team successfully extinguished it.
One of the two banks in town, about to have its
name changed as the nation of Zambia was four years old
at this point. Any reference to its former name 
(Northern Rhodesia) was being eliminated.
Note the drug store next door – called the Chemist.
As a former colony, many Britishisms remained.
A young mom, baby on back, getting ready to cross the street.
I don’t think she had to wait long.
Every once in a while, a touring car would
whiz by, making a stop for supplies or refreshments.
This was a highlight for the local community.
We met Australians, South Africans, Germans 
as they were heading either north or south on the transcontinental highway.
At the other end of the transportion spectrum,
we sometimes saw this coming down the main street.
Cattle were visible signs of wealth in Bantu society.
The Tonga tribe was the main group living in the
southern province, and despite the fact that it was 
officially against the law of the land, 
brides were bought and sold . . .
with cattle – lobola must be paid.
These gentlemen are the tribal elders
and it was their primary job to palaver,
to meet and talk.
Every day. All day. About anything and everything.
I never did get used to that as a know-it-all
20-something.
Looking back as a knows-very-little-indeed 60-something,
I believe this constant communication 
contributed to the well-being of both the 
tribe and the family.
Things got thoroughly talked through
before hostility developed.
This nice looking man was proud to be the owner
of a rifle and he asked me to take this picture.
I was happy to oblige.

We lived at an elevation of just over 4000 feet and it was suggested that at least once a year, 
we travel to sea level to take a break, 
get a little richer oxygen and basically rest up. 
We did that exactly once.
My husband’s parents and younger sister 
visited us the second summer we
were there, and the five of us took a wonderful trip 
which I will write about sometime soon.
But one place we could get to in an afternoon
was about 120 miles south of us.
 From this angle, a peaceful river.
 From this one, a glimpse of why the local people called
this place, “the water that thunders.”
Victoria Falls, one of the wonders of the modern age.
Astounding, spectacular, magnificent – words fail.
Completely fail.
My husband took a truck load of students there on 
a field trip one year.
Not one of them had ever seen it.
Not one.
One hundred and twenty miles.

It is the landscape of a place that gets in under the skin.
The contour of the land,
the shape of the sky,
the colors of the plants and flowers,
the presence – or absence – of water.
And this is a landscape that fed my soul,
that invited me to grow,
that gave me hope,
that taught me about time and seasons 
and hard work and good rest.
This is the landscape in which I became
an adult,
a wife,
a mother,
a more careful critic of the church,
a searcher after God’s deep truth,
and a whole lot less of a know-it-all.
I am grateful.

Joining with Jennifer and Duane, if he’s open this week, 
Emily, if she’s open and Ann’s Wednesday group.
Better late than never, right??

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