prayer — Page 3

An Advent Journey: When God Became Small — Day One

November 27, 2014 By Diana

Happy Thanksgiving, dear friends.

It’s been quiet around here for a while; there have been very few words available to me for some reason. But as has been my custom, I am doing a daily Advent reflection this year. I cannot think of a year in which the spirit of Advent is more needed than this year. With the verdict in Ferguson coming on the eve of the season, and so many friends living with broken hearts and endless questions, we need to sit in this Advent space and intentionally ‘work out our own salvation,’ examining our hearts for ways in which we contribute to that sadness, those questions. May the Spirit speak to our hearts with hope and conviction. Most of these pieces were written in the early days of November, yet the breath of the Spirit is, as always, evident in the poignancy of the texts and the ways in which they have raised questions in me.

So . . . TODAY is the first day of Advent. Sunday is the first Sunday — the more familiar beginning marker in the minds of most of us — but today marks the beginning of the season, which extends through Christmas Eve. Each of these daily posts will include a photo, one of the scripture three texts from the Common Lectionary for that day, a brief reflection on a single phrase in the day’s passage, and prayer. That’s it. I so loved doing my October series on “Looking for the Little,” that I’m doing an Advent version of that — hoping to encourage myself (and maybe you, too?) to be intentional about keeping-it-simple during this crazy-making time of the year.

Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19, NRSV

Give ear, O Shepherd of Israel,
you who lead Joseph like a flock!
You who are enthroned upon the cherubim, shine forth
before Ephraim and Benjamin and Manasseh.
Stir up your might,
and come to save us!

Restore us, O God;
    let your face shine, that we may be saved.

O Lord God of hosts,
    how long will you be angry with your people’s prayers?
You have fed them with the bread of tears,
    and given them tears to drink in full measure.
You make us the scorn of our neighbors;
    our enemies laugh among themselves.

Restore us, O God of hosts;
    let your face shine, that we may be saved.
But let your hand be upon the one at your right hand,
the one whom you made strong for yourself.

Then we will never turn back from you;
    give us life, and we will call on your name.
Restore us, OLord God of hosts;
let your face shine, that we may be saved.

The picture at the top of this post probably should never have been taken. I was shooting directly into the light, something a professor in Photography 101 would say is a great, big no-no. But I loved what I was seeing and wanted to try and capture it.

Of course, it’s not possible to capture the sun. But this photo does capture some of its mysterious majesty and brilliance, I think.

“Let your face shine,” the psalmist cries as we step into this waiting season of Advent. “Let your face shine that we may be saved.”

And here’s the truth of it: Jesus Christ is the shining face of God for us. He took the dive, made the leap. From the heavens to the womb of the virgin, from the cosmos to the molecular, from the divine to the oh-so-human.

God’s face shines on us still, even though there are those days when it surely doesn’t feel like it. Over my life, I have learned that what it ‘feels’ like is never the end of the story and it is not always the truth of things. Because no matter how we may be feeling about life, God shines on us.

God shines on us in the face of that baby boy, the one who grew up to be a fascinating man, the one who gave his life away for the likes of us, the one who rose, victorious over death, the one who lives forever as Eternal Light in the heavenly places.

And also? In the smallness of our hearts. Alleluia.

Ah, Lord Jesus, light of the world. Illumine us as we take this walk again this year. As we move steadily toward the stable, help us to keep our focus on you, the one who became small for us. Amen.

Filed Under: Advent, An Advent Journey, biblical reflection, church year, Confession, Encouragement, God's gifts, Looking for the Little, prayer, Wonderings in the Word; photos with scriptures; Advent

How Blessed Am I? #MyFaithHeroine

September 30, 2014 By Diana

This piece is part of Michelle DeRusha’s blog link-up about #MyFaithHeroine, in connection with the recent launch of her excellent new book, #50Women.

A Double Delight rose, my spiritual heroine’s favorite.

Life was hard and uncertain when she was growing up. One of four siblings, barely a year apart, with parents who both worked, a father who drank hard and gambled hard, always losing. Then there were “the aunts,” she told me. The three older cousins who never married and who loved all those kids to bits, providing protection on occasion, but most of all, bringing fun and merriment into their days.

Though their mother had grown up in the church, after she married their dad, neither of them ever darkened a church door again. But they agreed that their kids could go.

So every Sunday, they dropped all four kids at the curb and left them to fend for themselves in downtown Los Angeles at that old brownstone building. For my heroine and her sister, it stuck. For their two brothers, it took a lot longer. The sisters loved to go to that place, where they met friends their own age and were sheltered and loved by lots of adults, as well.

One of those older women saw potential in the bigger of the girls, and when she was in junior high school, almost into high school, she arranged for a scholarship to a nearby training seminar. A Christian leadership seminar. And my heroine bloomed, learning to love the Bible, church music and a wide circle of friends, many of whom remained close to one another throughout their lives.

Eventually, she married one of the church musicians, a talented pianist with a bent for mathematics, and they began to build a home and a family. A girl was born, then two years later, a boy and about ten years after that, another boy.

All during those early years, the family continued to attend the downtown church where the parents had met, and they contributed faithfully, both musically and financially. Eventually, they moved too far out into the suburbs and switched to a larger church closer to home. Within a few years, that old church was razed and a used car lot took its place.

Their new church provided wonderful activities and teaching for her children and some powerful teaching during the adult Sunday morning hour for her and her husband. Professors from a nearby seminary came and built small congregations within the larger one. Once again, this woman bloomed and grew, stretching toward the light, exercising her good mind, asking probing questions, reading widely.

She always worried that she didn’t have a degree from college, but then, she never really needed it. Her own reading regimen (everything C.S. Lewis ever wrote, plus a lot of Paul Tillich, George Ladd, Eldon Trueblood, Peter and Catherine Marshall), her willingness to ask hard questions and her fearlessness about seeking answers provided a priceless education, as well as forming her more and more into the likeness of Jesus.

She taught eleventh grade Sunday school (girls only, in those days) for about a dozen years, providing wisdom, grace and breakfast out for every one of them sometime during the year. Each week, she worked hard on those lessons, getting up before the rest of the family to rough out ideas and read scripture. And to pray. She prayed for each student in her classes, regularly, faithfully.

By God’s grace and her own commitment to growing, both spiritually and psychologically, she overcame the difficulties of her upbringing, remaining close to her entire extended family until they each died. She is the only one left now, and that is hard — for her and for those who love her.

She dealt with a lot of insecurities and fears her whole life, but always, there was a joyful sense of humor, a warm and welcoming hospitality, and an immense reservoir of creativity. She decorated her home, her children and herself on a tight budget, and encouraged each of her children to get a good education and build a good marriage. And she loved her husband fiercely, even when he was old and frail and sometimes demanding.

This woman modeled for me what it means to follow hard after Jesus, to commit yourself to learning, asking questions, reading widely, and serving others. She wasn’t perfect — and she knew it! — but she was good. Even in her old age, she hangs onto her faith with all of her diminishing energies.

I visited her over the weekend, in the dementia unit where she now lives. She was sick, with a very sore throat and a nasty cough, all of which makes the dementia worse and exhausts her. I helped her change her clothes and sit in her recliner chair for an afternoon nap and then went across the room to bring her large, whiteboard calendar up-to-date after several months of neglect.

As I worked in the semi-darkness of her small entry way, I could hear her muttering in her chair. I thought perhaps she had drifted off to sleep and was dreaming. But then I began to pick out a few words, and my heart soared and broke, all at the same moment.

“Oh, Lord,” she said. “Please help Diana to be well, to be strong. She is such a beautiful daughter and I love her so much.”

Before I left I kissed her on the forehead and she smiled up at me and said, “The Lord’s been good. We’ll just keep praying and believing.”

“Yes, Mom,” I said. “That is exactly what we’ll do.”

This blog post is part of Michelle DeRusha’s #MyFaithHeroine contest, in connection with the release of the book 50 Women Every Christian Should Know. Find out how to participate here.

Filed Under: Aging, Blessings, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, Music, parenting, personal journey, prayer, Spiritual Heroine, The Journey with Mom

The Negative Power of Scarcity Thinking

September 22, 2014 By Diana

Sometimes, I wonder just how many of the world’s ills are attributable to the ‘not enough’ syndrome?

You know the thinking — it shows up in all its various permutations:

“I don’t have enough”
“I can’t get enough”
“You’re not enough”
“I’m not enough.”

All tolled, I reckon the answer is . . . a fair amount.

We’ve been looking at the parables of Jesus in Matthew 18 and 20 the past few weeks, the ones about forgiveness and generosity, about the many ways we tend to keep score in this life and how truly pointless it is.

Think back to our story about beginnings and you can see it even there. Adam and Eve figured they didn’t have enough and that they themselves were not quite enough, either. They listened to the sinuous voice of the Tempter and allowed it to rule over their better selves, the selves that knew and were known, the selves that saw all that God had made and knew it to be GOOD, the selves that assumed abundance.

That same thread can be seen weaving its sharp-edged, ugly way through so many of the stories of the Old Testament and so many of the word pictures that Jesus drew as he told his stories along the dusty roads of ancient Palestine.

Right in the middle of some of those stories is where we find ourselves in the lectionary readings as we move toward the end of Ordinary Time this month.

A couple of weeks ago, we talked about settling conflicts in the community, about how important it is to face into the hard things faithfully, openly, honestly. We followed that up last week with Peter’s question about forgiveness. “How many times, Lord?”

And the answer zinged back at him: “More times than you can count, my friend. An infinite number.” And to underscore that truth, Jesus told that story of forgiveness and generosity, the one that is paired with an equally powerful picture of what can happen if we are not forgiving and generous.

Look at our altar pieces for that week and see if you can tell which story I mean. Yeah, that’s the one — the dramatically contrasting story of the steward who is forgiven much and then turns around and refuses to forgive a debt less than 1/10th the size of the one from which he had just been freed.

I love that our artists chose to use the image of breaking down a wall to picture this disparity. A giant mallet, contrasted with a tiny hammer.

A massive pile of bricks juxtaposed with one tiny half-brick.

We get it so backwards, don’t we? The man in the story had received the gracious gift of a lifetime – he owed an incalculable debt. Huge. And yet he couldn’t spread the goodness, he was unable to ‘forgive’ the small amount owed to him, choosing instead to cast his debtor into prison, breaking up his family, destroying his life.

This story always makes me wonder where my own stinginess lies, where my fears about not having enough, about balancing the scales, about making sure everyone is paid up — where that ugliness hides itself in me. Because it’s there, I know it is.

Hanging onto hurt feelings over a casual remark when so many have forgiven my thoughtlessness over the years. Worrying that someone else will do it better or collect more friends or receive more invitations to fun events. Yeah, I’ve been in those judgmental, keep-the-upper-hand shoes.

Yesterday, the Jesus-story once again cut right through to the place I live, the one I hide inside my spirit. That score-keeping, compare-and-contrast, watch-out-that-you-don’t-get-cheated place that I must regularly pray my way out of.

The story of the generous master, the crew-boss who goes out at regular intervals to hire workers for the field and then pays them all exactly the same wage. Exactly the same. Whether they started at nine in the morning or five in the afternoon, everybody got exactly the same pay.

Now, what, pray tell, is fair about that? Yes, that is exactly what I would have been saying. Grumble, grumble. “Say what? I’ve been sweating away all day long and that clown who came during the cool of the evening and didn’t even work up a sheen — they’re getting the same pay I got??”

Envy is like that, isn’t it? Constantly keeping a mental tally of how much everybody else is getting and comparing it to what I have. Wanting to keep all things even. JUSTICE!

Well, maybe not.

Because the landowner in this story is completely just, if you read it carefully and if you think about it at all. He promises the early workers a fair day’s wage. And he pays them exactly what was agreed upon. But by that time, they’ve seen that he’s given the late-comers that same wage and have convinced themselves they’ll get more.

No dice. They got exactly what was agreed upon before they began the job. And also? A small, kindly lecture from the landowner.

And you gotta love this lecture:

‘Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?’ So the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

Now think about that for a minute. “Are you envious because I am generous?” Oh, ouch.

Oh, Lord, help me to celebrate your generosity at every turn, to recognize its beauty, to see your grace in every lovely gift bestowed by your hand. . . even when it doesn’t exactly match what I think I should have gotten!

Help me to cease this struggle for enough, for what is ‘fair,’ for what I think is rightfully mine. Remind me that every good and perfect gift comes from your hand and that whatever I have and whoever I am — is enough. Because you are so much more.

To stop asking the incessant “Why?” and “Why not?” questions and to start paying attention to what is right in front of me.

To see the beautiful in the everyday, to look for the grace in every difficulty, to remember the loveliness of the small.

To whisper, “Thank you” thousands of times more often than I cry out, “Fix this!”

To look for the color, the glorious color of generosity wherever I find my feet planted, and to stop living as though there is a scarcity of everything or anything.

And help me to reflect your heart, to make space for cheerleading instead of comparison, for gratitude instead of grumbling.

In the good, strong name of Jesus, whose generosity amazes and astounds me, day after day.

Amen.

Filed Under: biblical reflection, Blessings, church year, Encouragement, personal journey, Photo Essay, prayer

A Back-to-School Blessing

September 4, 2014 By Diana

I have so enjoyed reading a variety of back-to-school blessings offered from moms to kids as September unfolds. But in our house, we are long past back-to-school. Or are we? Apparently, not quite. My husband has volunteered at our youngest granddaughter’s preschool since she started there, two years ago. This is her last year and Dick will be working with our favorite teacher, an exquisitely gifted woman named Miss Annie, for two mornings each and very week from now until June. So this blessing is for him.

Again, the excitement building. . .

Almost forgotten, but not quite.

It’s been a lotta years since the last of our own flew this nest,

but here we are, feeling that back-to-school fervor.

And how sweet it is!

So I offer these few words,

from my heart to yours,

as you step into the first week of pre-school

for the third and last time.

May you, my sweet husband, be blessed by this September

and the year that it portends.

May you be blessed by each smiling face,

by every resident of Room 3 who calls you ‘Poppy,’

(because you are Poppy to one of them),

by every colleague who invites you and your gifts

to come and play,

come and learn,

come and grow.

What a gift you are!

To me, yes. The best of my life.

To our children, yes. They saw you live what you believe

each day for all those years

we were in the same space together.

And most definitely by our grandchildren,

every one of whom rises up to called you ‘blessed.’

Never forget that you are one of the good guys,

one of the truly remarkable humans who

instinctively knows how to please a pre-schooler,

to encourage and accompany and invite

and truly, deeply love and understand.

You get this gig,

like few people I’ve known in my life,

you get it.

So, as you begin a new year,

so eager to jump in and watch these kids blossom,

may you be blessed with

kindness unmeasured,

grace overflowing,

wisdom beyond your years,

energy to survive, even thrive,

and an open, honest heart.

More than these — because these blessings —

(let’s be honest here)

you already enjoy and exhibit —

I also pray for you these:

moments of wonder,

words of love,

sticky arms around your neck,

monkey bar shenanigans,

building block triumphs,

craft projects you can actually do (!!),

and sign upon sign that what you do,

what you say,

and who you are,

make a difference in Room 3.

Because they make a difference right here,

in our room, and in my heart.

I love you,

and I thank God for you.

Now, go get ’em!

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Blessings, Encouragement, family, Grandparenting, personal journey, prayer

What if . . .

August 19, 2014 By Diana

photo courtesy of sfgate.com

What if . . .

we raised our hands with love and attention,

we offered our prayers with concern and commitment,

we held back judgment,

gave others the benefit of the doubt,

stood for justice,

and meant it,

from the soles of our feet to the tops our heads?

What if . . .

we humbled ourselves,

truly humbled ourselves,

and said, yes, I’m to blame, too,

I’ve given tacit approval to racism,

to classism,

to sexism,

to all kinds of isms

and prejudices

and fear-based opinions?

What if . . .

we earnestly sought for reconciliation,

with a willingness to pay the price,

whatever it might be?

What if we listened,

really listened,

to generations of accumulated pain,

to the voices of those who have no voice,

to the ones who are caught in the web

of evil or poverty or severe systemic dysfunction?

And what if . . .

we prayed up leaders,

real leaders,

with hearts and souls

and good, good minds,

people who would search for

lasting answers and real solutions?

Do you think it would help?

Would we learn to see each other?

To hear each other?

To tolerate each other

and appreciate differences

as well as similarities?

O, I hope so.

I pray so.

I’m listening.

I’m learning.

I want to grow in grace,

to lean into the love of Jesus,

to offer a cup of cold water

and work for peace.

Will you raise hands with me?

And with all who are suffering tonight,

in Ferguson, in Gaza, in Iraq,

wherever hatred and fear rule?

Filed Under: community, Confession, grief, personal journey, prayer, Suffering

A Sacramental Life – A Deeper Story

August 6, 2014 By Diana

This is a story that I’ve told pieces of before, but I’ve never told it at A Deeper Story. It’s my turn over there today, so please follow the links to finish reading this post . . .

His name was Thomps. Tall, lean, always smiling, Warren Thompson was the kind of man who made you think of Jesus every time you looked at him. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone quite like him — and somehow, that makes me very sad. Seems to me there should be oodles of people like Thompsie. Seems to me that all of us who claim the title Christ-follower should look a whole lot more like Thomps than most of us do.

He came to faith in his 20s, soon after leaving the navy and settling into married life with his life partner, Nancy, in the foothills of Pasadena, California. I don’t know much about his earliest days of faith because I didn’t meet Thomps until he was in his mid 50s.

He wasn’t a flashy guy. Far from it. He was almost shy, somewhat diffident, willing to stay in the background — emphasis on the word stay. That was the thing about this man — he stayed. He came to the mid-sized church we attended long before we did and very quickly offered his services as a volunteer with the youth. By then, he had a couple of little kids, a full time job and a heart that throbbed with an overflowing love for young adults.

So Thomps began to hang out with the teens. He showed up on Sunday mornings, he showed up on Wednesday evenings, he showed up on outings, he showed up at camp. Wherever they were, Thomps was there, too. He was willing to be the stooge, the guy in the skit who got shaving cream smeared on his face, the one who just loved seeing kids laughing and having fun.

More than their laughter, though, he loved their hearts, especially those belonging to young men. Every male student who came to youth group got taken out to breakfast. He’d drive all over town, picking kids up early in the morning, taking them — one or two at a time — to a local coffee shop. Together, they’d down pancakes and orange juice, and Thomps would ask them about themselves. “How’s school?” he’d say. Or, “How’s your prayer life?” he’d query. And always, he’d ask, “How can I help?”

And help he did. He went to sporting events, he listened to debates, he encouraged good study habits, he offered suggestions for devotional guides.

And he prayed. Oh, how he prayed.

Please join me at A Deeper Story and tell me about a Thomps in your life . . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Story, Aging, Beauty, Church, community, Encouragement, Friendship, God's gifts, personal journey, prayer, The Church

Gettin’ on That Mat — A Deeper Story

July 17, 2014 By Diana

It’s time for my monthly contribution over at A Deeper Story today. The editors chose to put this on the family channel – see what you think.

Matthew’s gospel has him showing up by the lakeside. Mark and Luke talk about an overcrowded house and the removal of roof tiles to get the guy into the same airspace as the Rabbi. And all three of these gospels talk about the friends, the ones who cared about the paralyzed man.

His friends.

The ones who carried him when he couldn’t walk anywhere under his own steam. The ones who laid him carefully on that mat, who got inventive when access seemed to be denied, who believed in his healing for him.

His friends.

Surely one of the most beautiful of words in the history of the English language: friends. For most of my life, I’ve been gifted with some great ones. People who have met me in the middle of the pain, in the squishiness of the mess, and in the moments of joy and silliness, too. Sisters, and a few brothers here and there, who have walked life with me — the dailyness of it all, the twists and turns, the routine and the unexpected, the predictable and the not so much.

People who know me, who get me, who hold me accountable, who call me on my crap, who encourage me when I’m down, who shoot holes in any hot air balloon that may be surrounding my head at any given moment in time. People who love me, all of me: the too-muchness of me, the outloudness of me, the bossiness of me, the loud laughter of me, the realness of me.

There have been times when the faith of my friends has carried me through some scary, dark times. When the prayers of others have had to be all the prayin’ there is, because I ain’t havin’ none of it. When the kindness of my friends has saved me from myself, from the hurtful remarks of not-friends, from the pain that comes along with the option of living here on the planet.

I’m not at all sure why this is true, but sometimes trouble comes in batches, when painful situations pile up like a rugby scrum, and hope has a tough time finding its way into the center of the throng. It is those times when the truest friends miraculously show up, when they gather round, bring in a meal, send a care package, make a phone call, drop an email or a FB message. . .

Please join me over at A Deeper Story to read the rest of this piece.

Filed Under: A Deeper Family, A Deeper Story, biblical reflection, Church, community, Encouragement, God's gifts, Hard Things, personal journey, prayer, Spiritual Formation

Remembering Her — Kathryn Ruth Byer Trautwein, January 3, 1916 – May 25, 2014

May 30, 2014 By Diana

It was a strange feeling to walk out of that room for the last time; it had been her home for the last five years, with just enough space for a few personal belongings, a private bath, and a small view of the lovely patio outside. Yesterday afternoon, we closed the door of Room 80 at the memory loss center where she lived, where she died.

We picked up the last of the furniture, filling both of our cars to do so; some of it will go to her eldest great-grandson, who will soon be setting up his own place.

It was a graduation weekend, you see. In every sense of that word.

We got the call on Friday night. The Hospice nurse, who had been so faithfully checking on my mother-in-law each week for the last two and a half years said, “Something has shifted. This is the weekend and I just wanted you to know.” An hour later we were there, and it was true. There is a ‘look,’ an other-worldly sense that someone is not long for this plane. And we saw it.

We felt it.

I took out my small prayer book, the gray one that I carry in my car at all times. The one with the beautiful prayers, the particular scriptures, and I made the sign of the cross on her forehead and I read the words I love so much, to this woman that I love so much:

Into your hands, O merciful Savior,
we commend your servant, Kathryn.
Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you,
a sheep of your own fold,
a lamb of your own flock,
a sinner of your own redeeming.
Receive her into the arms of your mercy,
into the blessed rest of everlasting peace,
and into the glorious company of the saints in light.
Amen.

May her soul and the souls of all the departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
– The Book of Common Prayer

And the next morning, we made the 140 mile drive south to celebrate Ben’s graduation from Chapman University, Dodge School of Film and Media Arts. And we congratulated him on winning Cinematographer of the Year and a lovely grant for his next project. We hesitated about going, but decided that if Mama were able to talk it over, she would say, “Go! Celebrate. Give Ben my love.”

And so we did. We gave him her love.

So much love.

Kathryn with her first born, Richard, 1942

We have lived such a blessed life. We have surely had our share of pain and struggle; we have endured wildfire and near-flooding, burglary and accident, disease and death.

But we have had so much love.

Our children were the only ones in their circle of friends who had all four of their grandparents still living and active while they were students in college. At the time of her death, my MIL had fifteen great-grandchildren, one of them named for her, many of them with stories to tell about her great laugh, her delight in them, her fabulous cooking skills.

We know how rare this is.

And what a great gift.

On a warm summer evening in 1968, soon after that first born,
his wife and infant daughter returned from two years in Africa.

I suppose on the strange and twisted scale of celebrity and fame that captures the minds of so many, Kathryn Trautwein was not a ‘big’ name. She never caused a scandal, she never made a ‘name for herself,’ she never wrote a book. From the outside, there wasn’t much that seemed the least bit big or celebrated about her.

But she was big in the hearts of her family. She was big in the hearts of her many friends. She was big in faith, big in love, big in laughter, big in commitment and joy and service.

She was a remarkable mother-in-law. When it became clear that her son was getting serious about this younger student at UCLA, she called, and made an appointment to meet me. We had tea together in the living room of the small Christian sorority to which we both belonged, and she asked me some good questions. I think I was 18 years old when we met.

I passed muster. Because from then on, I was included in every family gathering – and there were many family gatherings! – and assumed to be part of the tribe. I was never criticized for anything, even though I’m sure she must have had a lot of questions about decisions I made and the way I raised my kids.

They lived 5 minutes from us, she in the house she shared with her husband for 62 years, we in three different homes, the first of which she found for us. The only time I can ever remember her saying ‘no’ to me about anything, was to a house I was considering that had a pool in the backyard with no fence around it. She never learned to swim and hated getting wet, and she could not imagine her grandbabies surviving such danger!

I’m glad she said ‘no.’ I trusted her judgment and God had a much better house in mind for us, one where we raised our three for thirteen good years. A house she loved and enjoyed, too.

Mama & Papa with our son, 1972, in the house that she found for us.
It was his surprise arrival, bringing our brood to three, that pushed us into house-hunting again.

If I needed help with the kids, she was there. If I needed advice about cooking (NEVER about sewing!), she was there. If I needed advice about gardening, she was there. And she was there for a long list of other people, too. She was intelligent, well-read, loved crossword puzzles, made the world’s best short ribs and a magnificent 3-layer cake.

She was an active volunteer at their church and at Christian Women’s Club, where she taught and mentored younger women, and she helped with the Women’s Auxiliary of Fuller Seminary, where I later became a student. That was probably the decision of mine that caused her the most inner anguish. She did not come from a tradition of women in ministry and she wasn’t quite sure about it. But she never doubted God’s call on my life and after my installation at Montecito Covenant, she said the most interesting thing to me: “Now, you belong to the people here.”

At our daughter’s wedding reception in 2011, one of her last outings anywhere, with Dick’s sister Jean,
on the patio of Montecito Covenant Church. Such a happy day, but she struggled to be there.

And she was right. For fourteen years, I belonged to those people, as one of their pastors and as a kind of through-line during a lot of challenging transitions.

But I also, and always, belonged to my family. And she was such a central part of my family, such a central part of me. I will be forever grateful for her love and encouragement. And I will miss her until the day we meet on the other side.

On Mother’s Day this year. She died two weeks later.

Driving into the driveway at 11:00 on Saturday night, after the graduation festivities and the long drive, we called to check. “She’s still here.” “Good,” we said, “we’ll be there tomorrow.”

And so we kept vigil all day Sunday. What a privilege to sit in such holy space, to wait while the angels gather, to greet family as they come to say good-bye, to say ‘thank you, thank you’ to the amazing aides who loved her well during her time in this place.

Our nephew came and brought his three young children. Our daughters made the long drive and brought their husbands. Our son had been there the day before. All of her ‘local’ grandchildren came by to say farewell. At 5:00, we checked out for the evening, gathering good Mexican take-out food, and eating it on our patio with our girls and their men. Just as we finished, the phone rang.

“I went into her room to check on her . . . and she was gone.”

Just like Mama, to leave quietly, no fuss.

We returned to that space, met my friend Sherry, who is the chaplain at The Samarkand Retirement Community, said a few more prayers, picked out some clothes to send with her body, talked with the hospice nurse who made everything official.

THIS is who she was – a beautiful, caring, faithful woman of God,
who loved her family and lived well.

Kathryn Trautwein was a true gift to this world. A brave woman, a strong one and a good one. She loved us well. We are grateful for her long life, and we are grateful for her release from it. I find myself saying ‘thank you, thank you,’ just under my breath; drifting off to sleep at night, waking in the morning, these are the words in my heart and on my lips.

She will be buried on Monday, in a crypt in Ontario CA that she will share with her husband of 64 years. Jean, Dick and I will make the long drive and I know our rich memories will carry us all the way there.

Like her father before her, she was an occasional poet. These are two of my favorites, ones we will include with her memorial folder at a service of celebration in the Chapel at The Samarkand Retirement Community in Santa Barbara on Sunday afternoon, June 8th, at 2:00 p.m.

Untitled

How like God to have His
lamb be born in a stable.
Be announced to and first
worshiped by shepherds.
Be dumb before His
accusers then be
sacrificed for me and
be risen as my Good Shepherd.
Now I the obedient sheep do
follow him!
– Kathryn R.B. Trautwein

Potter’s Ware

I am God’s
signed, named, original
not cloned with many likenesses,
one of a kind,
made in His image,
treasured by Him,
valuable in His sight.
A simple earthen vessel but
Indwelt by eternity.
— Kathryn R.B. Trautwein

Filed Under: Beauty, death, Encouragement, family, family tree, God's gifts, Home, personal journey, prayer

On the Edge – A Deeper Story

May 15, 2014 By Diana

I’m writing for A Deeper Story today, talking about sharp edges. . .

The sharp pieces are poking me rather a lot these days. I’m feeling my own edges in just about every way I can think of during this spring of 2014. It seems to be a season of pricking, marked by painful reminders of age and infirmity, all of it triggering deeply embedded insecurities and anxieties.

Can’t say I like it very much, this edginess. I’ve never been one to be on the cutting edge of anything, always a little bit behind the zeitgeist. And generally speaking, most of the time, I’m not an ‘edgy’ sorta character. Yeah, the sarcasm can flare on occasion. And the temper. But all in all, I try to let the more mellow parts of my personality rise to the top.

But right now? Not so much. I’m too quick to take offense, too unwilling to extend the benefit of the doubt in any direction, most especially toward myself. And I’m feeling weary, right down to my bones.

Do you know these deep feelings? Do you wind around these curves in the road, try to match your steps to this unwelcome rhythm of uncertainty and guess work, of fear and resistance?

I’m guessing that most of us find ourselves wandering down this spiky kind of path at some point. And if we live long enough, we’ll walk it several times, not one of them welcome.

Well, I have certainly lived long enough, so this unstable territory is depressingly familiar. I’ve waited for a loved one to die before, and hated it every time. I’ve had health issues at different points along the way, none of them enjoyable. And I’ve had my feelings hurt and walked through existential doubt and suffered broken appliances and lost keys and I know the truth of, “It never rains but it pours” and “Bad things come in threes,” and any other superstitious truism you care to mention. . .

Please come on over to the Culture Channel at A Deeper Story today to read the rest of this post . . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Story, Confession, Encouragement, grief, Hard Things, hope, Lament, memoir, personal journey, prayer, Suffering, Waiting

Are We Missing the Boat?

April 8, 2014 By Diana

The title of the post comes from this idea in the historic church:
“The image of Christ and his disciples in a boat is traditionally used
for the symbol of Christ and His Church.
In Latin the word “navis” means ship from which derives the word for the Nave of the Church.”

We flipped things around in worship last Sunday.

Communion came first, sermon came last.

For me, that change turned out to be a powerful,
thought-provoking exclamation point to a lot of things
that have been churning around inside me
for the past couple of weeks.

We passed the trays on Sunday.
Not my favorite way to participate in this sacrament,
but the instructions included something new,
something that made this time-honored,
possibly-more-convenient,
definitely-less-messy way of celebrating the Lord’s Supper
a little bit more palatable for me.

We were invited to say the words to one another.

This is not something we normally do,
so right out of the chute, we were experiencing
a little cognitive dissonance,
a gentle stirring of the usually placid waters
that mark our times of community gathering:

We went to the table first, instead of last.
And each one of us was asked to say,
“The body of Christ,”
“The Blood of Christ,”
to our neighbor.

Coming out of the last two weeks on the Christian internet,
those two small changes spoke volumes into my soul.

Why?

Because way too many of us have lost sight of the big picture,
the glorious, beautiful, flawed but remarkable
Big Picture.
And this is it —
WE BELONG TO ONE ANOTHER.
Every one of us who calls upon the name of Jesus,
who chooses to follow in the footsteps of that
strange and wonderful rabbi,
is part of ONE family.
ONE.

We may not agree on every point of doctrine,
we may enjoy differing worship styles,
we may live in wildly divergent cultures,
with very different standards of living,
lifestyle choices,
abilities and disabilities,
preferences and political parties and points of view.

But we are ONE.
The Body of Christ.
The church.

And when we begin sniping at each other,
undercutting, criticizing, taking sides, name-calling
for any reason —
any reason —
then we have missed the boat,
refused to see the Big Picture,
and engaged in thinking, talking and doing
the very things that Jesus himself prayed we would not.

Our text, both Sunday morning and Sunday evening at our monthly Taize Service,
was taken from the 17th chapter of John’s gospel, verses 20-26:

“My prayer is not for them alone.
I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message,
that all of them may be one,
Father, just as you are in me and I am in you.
May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me.
I have given them the glory that you gave me,
that they may be one as we are one–
I in them and you in me–
so that they may be brought to complete unity.
Then the world will know that you sent me
and have loved them even as you have loved me.
“Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am,
and to see my glory, the glory you have given me
because you loved me before the creation of the world.
“Righteous Father, though the world does not know you,
I know you, and they know that you have sent me.
I have made you known to them,and will continue to make you known
in order that the love you have for me may be in them
and that I myself may be in them.”

Jesus was praying for us that night,
all of us.
Our pastor reminded us that the opening verses of this chapter
contain Jesus’ prayer for his circle of friends,
those whom he had called to be with him,
walking those roads,
seeing those miracles,
hearing that voice.
But in this last segment of the prayer,
he prays for ALL of us — ‘those who will believe. . .’
And dear friends in Jesus,
that means
EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US.

There are lots of people writing on the internet,
serving Jesus in a variety of capacities,
offering hope and healing through a long list
of charitable and church-based organizations.
Many of those friends would not see eye-to-eye
with me on a long list of topics.
But on this one thing,
this one central thing,
we are ONE:

Jesus is LORD and JESUS is the hope of the world.

And each one who hangs their life on that sentence
is a ‘relative’ of mine
and of yours.

It’s not easy, sometimes it’s not even pretty.
But it is TRUE.

And here’s what else is true — the way we are one,
now hear this, please —
THE WAY WE ARE ONE
IS HOW THE
MESSAGE OF THE KINGDOM OF GOD
IS CONVEYED TO THE WORLD.

Did you catch that in the beautiful prayer-words of our Savior?
The way in which our unity reflects the unity of the Trinity
is exactly the way in which the love and grace of God Almighty,
Father, Son and Spirit,
is transmitted most effectively into the world
that does not yet know about it.

“Then,” Jesus says,
“Then the world will know
that you sent me.”

Can it be any clearer than that?

I can think of no more powerful symbol of this unity
than sharing bread and cup at the Table of the Lord.

And that is why our Sunday experience spoke so strongly
right into my troubled and tired heart.

WE ACTED IT OUT, you see.

We acted it out even before we heard the word preached,
before we passed the plate,
before we read the scripture or prayed our community prayer.

And somehow, acting it out helps me to catch a glimpse of
The Big Picture a little bit more clearly.
It helps me to catch, rather than miss, the BOAT.

It reminds me of how vitally important it is for us to
love one another as God has loved us.
When my muscles move,
and my mouth speaks,
when I receive table gifts from the hand of another,
when I speak words of life to yet another,

“I REMEMBER.
AND WE ARE RE-MEMBERED.*”

And I know once again, that

WE BELONG TO ONE ANOTHER.

*My thanks to a long-ago story from Madeleine L’Engle for these lines.

Joining this one with Michelle, Laura, Jennifer, Jen.