Joining tonight with Bonnie at Faith Barista and Ann at A Holy Experience.  And because I FINALLY think I’ve gotten this done in time, with Emily for her wonderful meme “Imperfect Prose.” The topic? In what area of my life am I feeling I need more encouragement?  Not sure I’ll stay completely on theme, but I’ll give it a whirl:

Linking with Ann’s community over at “A Holy Experience” to list again those things for which I’ve been especially thankful these last two weeks.  Got a little behind last week – sometimes life is like that, you know?







This week included a number of sweet and poignant moments of grace, each of which served to remind me of how truly blessed my life is, how marvelously I have experienced the faithful presence and guidance of God over the course of these years.  Using my camera to help me catalog and remember these gifts has been a meaningful and moving way to learn more and more about rejoicing, even in the middle of painful times.  So, here is the next set of images and words on my way to 1000!
 

42.  For the opportunity to write words of tribute to my dad (which I’ve posted here) in a comment on one of Sarah’s posts over at SHE magazine.

43. Sharing in the celebration of my husband’s spectacular fathering and grandfathering gifts with these gorgeous covered strawberries.

44. Finding scarlet amidst the growing green in our veggie garden.

45. Sitting in the warm sunlight, staring out the window at these beautiful heart-shaped red leaves.

46 -49.  Laughter because of this small sparkplug’s amazingly plastic face – such a joy to us!

 

 

58. This lovely resting place at the end of the day, rhythmically saying thank-you for all of the gifts found therein.

59. These vibrant hydrangea, finally blooming richly 9 years after transplanting them following some construction work on our home.

 

I am missing my dad today. He’s been gone for six years and the hole in my spirit is still pretty dang big. He loved me from the moment I was born – and I always, always knew that. I have a letter in his handwriting that I treasure, written to his sister after I was born and it is exquisite in its tender wonder at this gift in his life. There is no substitute for knowing this reality as you grow up: that YOU are your dad’s best gift.

He was a quiet man, a brilliant man and a good man. He had huge hands, which he used to play the piano, to ‘fix’ things that were broken (including my heart more than once), to build killer campfires, to write a textbook (on statistics, of all things…I am most definitely NOT my father’s daughter in this respect) and to love my mom, me and my brothers with careful, gentle affectionate touch.

He loved ribald humor (especially British humor), butter on his bread (which was always white, not wheat), well-thought out biblical teaching (with absolutely NO tolerance for ‘fluff,’ simplistic sermons or over-spiritualizing of any kind), music of many different styles (I can still see him ‘conducting’ opera or symphony while listening to LPs checked out of the local library – and he learned to play Sondheim and Lloyd Webber in his old age, and to play it beautifully). And he loved my mother. He really, really loved my mother. And what a gift that was to a girl child growing up in the 50′s and 60′s.

When I entered seminary at mid-life, he was a bit puzzled but cheered me on. When he came to hear the first sermon I ever preached, he was overwhelmed with pride and joy, poking my mom in the ribs and exclaiming, “That’s the best Advent sermon I’ve ever heard in my life.” Just a bit of an overstatement – but exactly what his daughter’s heart needed to hear that nervous day.

I blogged this week about the sadness that came with illness and old age, the loss of this good man by pieces. But today, I just want to thank God and to thank you for helping me to remember the best parts of being his daughter. I used to think my testimony story was boring, even unimportant, because there was nothing startling or dramatic about it. I have lived long enough now to fully embrace the truth that my story is gift, pure and simple. A gift of grace and undying love, modeled in my home as I grew up.

So in the middle of missing him today, I am filled with gratitude for who he was and how he helped to form me, how he guided and encouraged my husband, and how beautifully he loved my kids and my older grandkids. Thank you for the invitation to reflect, Sarah. Thank you.

Posting these Sunday thoughts on Monday night for Michelle DeRusha over at “Graceful” for her weekly “Hear It, Use It” meme:

 

Joining with Jen at “Finding Heaven” and the women at Soli deo gloria:
And, at the end of the week, choosing this one for Amanda’s great linky party at “Serenity Now”:



This little journey to yesterday began on Wednesday night of this last week.  My husband’s first cousin was in town for a conference – he teaches physics at a famous university in northern CA and we seldom see him.  The two men are six weeks apart in age, and until late in high school, they did a lot of growing up together, never living more than a few miles apart. 

He sent Dick an email and asked if we could meet for a late meal after his workshop, so we made reservations at a favorite spot. The dinner was good, the conversation interesting and it was really fun to re-connect. 

But it was also a little disconcerting. Sometimes we get so used to our own faces in the mirror, that we can brush over the fact that we are getting older as the years go by. Then you see a face you haven’t seen in a while…and you remember.  Both he and his wife are doing well and look terrific – they just look a little bit older than the last time we saw them!  Funny thing about that – it happens to the best of us.

When we lived in it, it was about 1400 square feet of living space with an added on ‘lanai’ that was long and narrow across the back of the house.  It has been added onto a couple of times in these intervening thirty-six years (!!). 

The driveway was asphalt and very cracked and there were tree roses lining the walkway.  I also made the hideous mistake of painting the house ‘green.’  We had NO money for a paint job by a professional, so I went to the local hardware chain and bought what I thought would be a lovely, soft yet cheerful shade of green.  And I rolled that stuff on the front and driveway side of the house and proudly crossed the street to admire my handiwork. 

Where I was SHOCKED to discover that the house was now a vibrating shade of chartreuse. Many additions of white pigment later, it was toned down enough to look at without going blind.  Oh, the joys of youthful enthusiasm. 

After our third child arrived in 1972, we began to look for a larger place, one still in the same school district because our eldest was thriving there and her sister was just about to join her.  I looked at so many houses!  Finally, in 1975, we had an accepted offer on a larger home on the very same street, so we listed ours and it sold pretty quickly. 

Then the owners of the house we had bought backed out – and we were panic-stricken.  I was sure that we needed a 4-bedroom so that each of our kids could have their own room, and that we would never find another house so well-suited to us as the one we had just lost, and…, and…And then, the Sunday after escrow fell apart, we heard an excellent sermon about keeping our wants in line with our needs – and I prayerfully said, “Time to look smaller than I thought, right Lord?” 

The next weekend, a very small, for-sale-by-owner ad showed up in our local paper.  It immediately caught my eye. I went to see it the next day, and thought it might be TOO small, at least as much as I could see of it from the street.  But then the owner opened the door, and lo and behold – the hallway just stretched right on back! And we were SO blessed to find this wonderful place:

Our children were 7, 5 and 3 when we stretched ourselves to buy this home (it was a few thousand dollars more than the one we had originally tried to buy – but remember this was in 1975, long before the housing boom! And the subsequent crash of the last few years…)  We lived there for 13 years and loved, loved, loved it.   We had some great neighbors who became lifelong friends (she is in my BBC group) and my kids all remember this house as the one where they grew up.

 

When we lived here, there was an absolutely gorgeous bougainvillea climbing up the left side of the house, framing that balcony.  Hated the thorns, loved the vibrant magenta blooms, even when they fell and coated the walk with their color. 

In this house, our second daughter’s future husband and our son’s future wife came and lived in our guest room while they each explored the possibility that God might be bringing them together. That was a great experience, one for which I have always been grateful.  And I went to seminary from this house, using that downstairs room with the large front window as my study, pulling way too many all-nighters for any age, but especially for a woman in her forties! And our older daughter brought her first two babies to visit us in this house – what a joy that was!  I was 46 when Ben was born – and now he’s 20! 

We had so much fun driving this neighborhood, remembering our story.  It was lovely to see that each home still looks loved and cared for – a reminder that new families are learning and loving and growing and changing within their walls. 

And as we drove from house to house, we were each simply overwhelmed with the goodness of God, with the faithfulness of God’s leading, with the ways in which we learned how to be a family of faith in each one of these special places.

We finished this little remembering journey by eating Chinese food at a favorite restaurant, eating way too much Honey Walnut Shrimp, Beef and Broccoli and Mu Shu Pork.  When they brought out the Pan Fried Mixed Noodles, we knew we had overdone it and wrapped it all up to take out to my mom’s the next day. All three of us enjoyed the leftovers as we gave my mom a photo memory book of her special party (the one I talked about here ), the one celebrating her 90th birthday.

How many times in scripture are we called to remember?  Over and over again, God reminds the Israelites and God reminds us that it is in remembering our story, our journey with the Lord, that our faith is strengthened and we are reminded of grace.

When is the last time you’ve taken a trip down this particular lane, the one where the memories are?

Joining with Katie and her friends who encourage a single snapshot which illustrates a scripture verse:
 

 This swing hangs in an oak tree in our front yard and it is one of my favorite places to ‘take a load off.’  I like the image of a two-seater: sharing any load somehow makes that load more bearable. 

This respite spot is particularly inviting late in the afternoon, as the shadows lengthen and the evening breeze picks up. A good place to remember that I am never alone with whatever burdens I may be carrying on a given day, that there is rest to be found in God’s presence. 

When I first began working in my last pastoral position, a member of the congregation asked if I would be willing to visit with a friend of his who was in town for treatment.  She lived in Arizona and came to the local clinic for a lung cancer drug trial.  I was so grateful that someone in my new congregation would trust me enough to do this.  And when I met Helen, I knew that God had brought us together for all kinds of good reasons. 

Helen’s very favorite section in all of scripture was this verse and the two that follow it – “Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.” 

I never read or hear these words without thinking of Helen: her gentle spirit, her deep faith, her love for her husband, her children, her grandchildren and her desire to live for their sake.  Yet, while she waited and while she hoped, she also lived with a calm assurance that all would be well, no matter the outcome.

Helen did die, about five months later, and during those months, I met with her frequently. I was privileged to plan and conduct a memorial service in her honor for friends and family who lived locally. We used these verses on the worship folder, in my meditation for the service and printed on cards with a lovely photo of Helen, a small reminder of who she was, something tangible for friends and loved ones to carry with them in their grief, in their missing her.

Helen lived the truth of these words better than almost anyone I’ve ever known.  To be with her, to pray with her, to hold her hand and look into her lovely brown eyes – all of it was gift, a holy space in the midst of whatever other brand-new-pastor-busyness was engulfing my life at the moment.

So I often think of Helen as I softly swing in the evenings. One of her sons was a builder and about a year after she died, her family sent me a lovely announcement with a picture of a beautiful, adobe-style, very small prayer chapel, built by her son in her memory.  A place to sit and remember that Jesus promises rest for the weary.  Oh, rest in peace, sweet Helen.  You are missed still.

Also linking up with Laura at the Wellspring and LL at Seedlings in Stone:

And…it’s that time again.  Already.  Friday morning and time to sign on with Lisa-Jo for her writing prompt.  This week’s word?  WONDER:  (pictures added later)

GO:


She sleeps beside me as I type.  Small, fierce, funny.  She will be 16 months old tomorrow and she spends one or two days a week with us while her mama takes care of patients, offering love, wisdom, training and calm presence to so many people. 

She is the littlest of our eight, a gift straight from heaven as we move into the full openness and clear-sightedness of retirement.  And she reminds me to touch that child who still lives inside this spirit of mine, the small one who looks out at the world with eyes wide and heart open. 

She points and gestures wildly, communicating her wishes with grunts, inflection, occasional clearly English words and frequent smiles, kisses, gentle pats on the face or arm.  She is also a curiousity child, wondering and wandering around our home and property, always within sight of one of us, torn between breaking away from us and running straight toward us.

Isn’t that what wonder is about?  Some sort of balance between moving out and moving home?  Openness to the new and deep appreciation for the familiar?  That sense of open-mouthed, wide-eyed delight in beauty, spectacle, small and large, right alongside the affectionate embrace of all that we love and lean into as we live these daily lives? 

STOP

 In response to the invitation from LL Barkat at “Everyday Poems” and Marcus Goodyear at “Books and Culture.”

Red Leaves

staring out my window,
begging the muse to 
pluck the strings
and make the words sing,
I wonder.
Could it be my silent heart
needs but a gentle breeze,
a moment of sunlight,
a rustle of promise
to release all
that waits within?

And because for the first time ever, I somehow managed to write a post that matched one of her weekly prompts, (write a poem about a photo) I’m also posting this at Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop:




 
 Ian Cron’s poignant, often laugh-out-loud funny, ‘memoir of sorts’ is the story of a lonely, frightened boy who grew up with an abusive alcoholic father – a man who just happened to work (at least occasionally) for the CIA.  It is ultimately a story of redemption and an exquisitely drawn portrait of grace. 

The cover image of a smiling young boy, sitting alone in a small boat, seems at first glance to be at odds with the sad and strange story within.  Until you read the author’s forward, and realize that this small ship is a lifeboat, and that the waving small boy within is beckoning to the future.  Small, smiling Ian is signaling to his adult self to get in the boat, to get in and hold on for dear life; it’s going to be a rough ride.

Cron is the youngest of four children born to parents who were already drowning in a difficult and dangerous marriage.  He learned early not to depend on his father for anything, most certainly not for the love and affection he so deeply needed.  Children of alcoholics often carry inordinate amounts of guilt – convinced that if they had just been a better boy (or girl) the sick parent would have been well. Cron is no exception to this sad truth. He lived much of his life alternating between shame and fury, longing and disillusionment, chronic anxiety and outright terror.

Raised in the Catholic church, he senses something of the mystery of God very early, surprising himself with tears of awe and gratitude during his first communion. A good priest provided some guidance and encouragement during these early years, as did a remarkable British nanny, who came with the family when they moved from London to Greenwich, Connecticut. 

But as his father’s absences and binges continued and grew, Cron became bitter, believing that God had abandoned him.  Struggling in school, both socially and academically, he opted to experiment with alcohol himself.  Cron’s very first encounter with the bottle proved overwhelmingly that he carried the family disease.

He experimented with pot, then tried being the ‘good student,’ then went back to excessive drinking, always looking for peace, solace, centering.  He was exposed to some caring Christians along the way: a Young Life leader or two, a good friend who saw the crash that was coming, some college friends who tried to reach out.  By the time he was a student at Bowdoin College, he had moved back to faith in God, but it had little to no effect on his drinking. 

During those years, he met the love of his life, his father died, he got married and also began working in a church.  But the drinking continued.  About 18 months after his father’s death and his own marriage, he began to have what felt to him like a nervous breakdown.  A compassionate physician sent him to a 70-year old psychologist, a man who proved to be the personification of God’s grace in Cron’s life.  Using his skills as a counselor, his own life experience with alcoholism and some ‘tough love,’ this man was able to get through to the heart of it all.  

Working through the grief, loss and intense pain surrounding his relationship with his father, Cron found his way home: home to himself, his wife, his calling.  He is now an Episcopal priest, a father to three, a best-selling author and an articulate and winsome reminder that no story is beyond the power of God to redeem. He has been sober for 25 years.

Cron readily admits that he has taken artistic license with some of the ‘facts’ of his story.  Memory is not always perfect and details can be heightened, lessened or even created to help make memoirs more memorable.  But in the end, that really does not matter.  The story, as it is written, is powerful and it is true, in the best sense of that word.  This is a book well worth reading, filled with sadness, hilarious bits of self-description and ultimately, the radiant beauty of homecoming. It was a privilege to read.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze®.com book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 : “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

Joining in a very fun photo scavenger hunt that requires all new photos on a series of themes.  Sadly, I am unable to capture their button.  The blog title is:  “Ramblings and Photos: Scavenger Hunt.” And the website is http://www.ashleysisk.com/search/label/Scavenger%20Hunt’


And because it was fun AND because they were all shot at home, I’m also submitting this one to Laura and Laura at “Playdates with God” and “On, In and Around Mondays:”
 

A rose at my eye level and what we both saw,