Wonderings in the World

The Winding Road – Highway 1

January 13, 2012 By Diana

There is a small seaside town about two hours north of where we live; a charming place, filled with home-grown berry pies, antique shops, rolling pine-covered hills and a great arcing bay called Moonstone Beach.

There is a wooden walkway around this bay,

bounded by rope and post,

inhabited by gulls and the occasional sea lion.

The coastline is dramatic here,

rugged and noisy,

colorful and dizzy-making.

The waves crash over rocks,

some of them as high as the ‘mountains’

found in the eastern half of this great country of ours.

One of them even has a name: Morro Rock.

Our destination was north of there,

a place called Cambria – pronounced

two ways, depending on which side

of the town you choose to believe:

C-A-as-in-at-MBRIA

or C-A-as-in-came-MBRIA.

It’s spelled Cambria.

We took four days away, right after Christmas,

with our oldest daughter, her new husband and her three sons. They rented a house-on-the-hill; we rented a room at the Fogcatcher Inn. Good choice. The walkway pictured above was just cross the parking lot.

One of those four days, we all took a drive,

up Highway One toward Big Sur.

If you’ve never done this, I cannot encourage you strongly enough to

TAKE ANY OPPORTUNITY YOU FIND to do so.

Especially if the weather is clear.

It’s winding and wild, breathtakingly beautiful,

and typically California.

Much more California than either

Los Angeles or San Francisco.

Those cities are magical in their own unique ways, but this?

This is the real deal, the pristine beauty

of desert mountains hugging the sea,

wildflowers, strange sea creatures

(for another post – amazing),

and views up the wazoo.

Lisa packed us a wonderful picnic lunch and we took it up above the highway, on the road to the New Camaldoli Hermitage Retreat Center (I posted a couple of pictures from that glorious place in this post.)

That ribbon of road is the famous One – stretching for 70 miles of steep turns and high cliffs between Morro Bay and Carmel. We went about 2/3 of the way up. (The retreat center is near the beginning of the Big Sur Wilderness Area.)

We took a few quiet moments to explore the chapel building after we ate our lunch and the light was just right to the north, making interesting patterns on the walls.

The wild pampas grass was mostly sticks,

except for this one bend in the road,

where we caught a glimpse of the furry fronds

waving at us as we followed the curve.

The rock formations at the inlet to Julia Pfeiffer State Park are unusually captivating, filling pictorial calendars across the state.

We’ve been blessed in our lifetime to travel a number of coastal highways –

The Garden Route in South Africa,

the Cinque Terre in Italy,

the cliffs of Dover and Cornwall and Devon in England,

the Burren in Ireland

(and the fingered south west coast on that magical island).

And I’ve got to say that this is a match for any of those

in natural beauty and heart-stopping drama.

We came back down the road as the sun began to set,

following its path for miles and miles.

It was a restful time, rich in beauty and good company.

After the busyness of the holiday season,

and before the rigors of my mother’s move to assisted living,

these four days provided respite, refreshment, re-connection.

I am grateful beyond words to live where I do,

to have easy access to places like this,

to have a husband and family who tolerate my excessive ooh-ing and ahh-ing over every rock/stick/shell/bird/cloud or wave and who actually encourage me to take more pictures.

Even in the middle of messiness, pain and loss,

life is good. God is good. And Beauty soothes every bump.

Sharing with L.L. and Laura B tonight, because they are so kind as to invite us to do so every single week:

Filed Under: Travel, Wonderings in the World

It’s Time…the Water Is Ready

January 12, 2012 By Diana

What is it about water?

The Book we read is literally swimming in it.

The waters of chaos,

out of which the Lord God creates.

Waters flooding the earth,

to wash it clean from the evil wrought by humankind.

Rebekah watering the camels of a traveling servant,

leading to the foundation of the people of Israel.

River water as the salvation for the baby-in-the-ark,

the one who grew up to become

the bearer of the rod,

the rod that brought water to its feet

in the parting of the Sea of Reeds,

and brought water from the rock

for a thirsty, complaining people.

The Promised Land,

a place fed by streams and

pools and springs abundant.

The Jordan River –

the headwaters into which the people of Israel

carry the Ark of the Covenant,

and stack the stones of remembrance.

The Jordan –

through which and by which the

Baptizer offers his call to repentance

and shouts out the promise of One Who Is to Come.

The Jordan –

into which steps Jesus, the Messiah,

submitting himself to the same waters of repentance

as every other respondent to John’s call.

The Baptism of Our Lord –

one of the layered meanings and celebrations

marked with the name Epiphany:

revelation.

The light dawns,

the promise is fulfilled,

God comes to the help of God’s people.

Descending under the flow,

rising up through the surface,

glistening in the afternoon sun,

shaking the drops from hair and beard,

gasping for air, arms outstretched,

the Savior, our Immanuel, hears a voice

and the dove descends.

It is time.

No trumpets, no angels, no drum roll.

A simple walk from the shore to the river.

And the mission is launched.

What does Jesus hear as he steps out of the crowd,

out of obscurity,

out of preparation time

into the arena, ready for the main event?

What does he hear?

And what do we need to hear as well?

Three things – three things as vitally important

as the water itself to the life he – and we – are to lead:

He hears who he is.

He hears he is loved.

He hears he is pleasing.

Because of Jesus, we also have:

a new identity;

a powerful and life-changing relationship of love;

a deep-seated knowledge that

God is pleased with us,

before we do one single thing.

Do we get that??

God is pleased with us.

Because of Jesus.

And it is in the water,

the waters of our own baptism,

that we know these things to be true.

Water.

Simple. Ordinary.

Tangible. Irreplaceable.

And absolutely vital.

The Living Water calls us to reflect who he is,

he calls us to be life,

to share live,

to live life

as if Jesus himself is the well.

Oh, how deeply can I draw from this Well as 2012 unfolds?

How widely can I spray this essence of life around me?

What time is it for me?

What time is it for you?

I am indebted to Pastor Don Johnson and the worship team at Montecito Covenant Church for most of the ideas contained in this reflection and most particularly for the beauty of a worship service in which we are given the precious opportunity to renew our baptismal vows. Swishing our hands in the waters of the font, singing, “All Who Are Thirsty,” every New Year, we remember again WHO WE ARE. Thanks be to God.

Joining with lots of friends today as I’ve been away from this blog for over a week, traveling to get my mom moved and then re-settling at home with a too-full calendar. So tonight, I’m fixin’ to join with Michelle, Jen, Emily (if she’s open for business again), Ann, Jennifer & Bonnie. Each of these lovely sites has great writing going on – check them out.

Filed Under: biblical study, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

The Power of a Good Romance

January 2, 2012 By Diana

A good story well-told is a powerful thing. Story can bypass the regular channels of intellect and observation, cutting to the chase of emotional and spiritual connection; it can provide beauty, relief, even epiphany. Because story, like all good art, can touch the soul as well as engage the mind. Story can speak of things eternal – like hope and joy and love. And the best story-telling can do all of that in and through the nitty-gritty of real life, never ignoring or denying the pain, suffering, failure and struggle that mark our days on planet earth.

I began to understand these truths most deeply while our son-in-law was in the midst of an extremely difficult journey that led to his death three years ago. Watching him suffer, and watching our daughter and their three sons share in that pain, there were days when I simply could not imagine how life could ever again be good and rich. And on those days, I turned to story to help me – to remember that suffering is not all there is, that death does not have the final answer, that the power of Love is stronger than anything else in this life.

And the story-telling that spoke most clearly into that time of darkness was romance. Good romance, not dimestore fantasy. I read and/or watched everything that Jane Austen ever wrote and the BBC ever produced from that writing. I lost myself for a few minutes or a few hours; I let the harsher realities of life sit in the background for a little while. And I allowed myself to enter into those stories of trial and error, of personalities rubbing against each other in misunderstanding and false expectation. And most especially, I celebrated the resolution that always came at the end, when clarity and sanity were recovered and Mr. Darcy or Edward Ferrar or Mr. Knightley spoke their hearts and found reward as Elizabeth Bennett and Elinor Dashwood and Emma Woodhouse happily said, ‘Yes.’

Now I add Michael Kent to the list. And Sarah Hughes. “The Dancing Priest,” by Glynn Young, is a romance for today, a tale very well-told indeed, and a beautifully wrought reminder that, “God is not dead nor doth he sleep.” I suppose this story is to be categorized as ‘Christian fiction.’ But for me, this book far out-classes most of what I’ve read in that genre. (Admittedly, my sample is small.) It does have specific references to conversion (for this is a love story on multiple levels) and uses some of the lingo of the evangelical world here and there. But basically, this is a rousing good romance, period. A great read for just about anyone, Christian or not. A great story that is told through characters who are complex and interesting, and settings that vary widely. The lead players are each loaded with back-story and fascinating friends and family, all of whom add depth without distraction.

I had the wonderful experience of reading this story aloud as my husband and I took long car trips over the last few weeks. We were both hooked immediately and looked forward to turning on the Kindle whenever we set the cruise control. If I had to guess, I’d say that at least a dozen times, I had to stop reading for a moment to control tears. The story is that gripping, that real.

And here’s my armchair analysis of why that happened: this story, this romance, is a brilliant reflection of the Great Love Story that centers our universe, our life. For that’s what the Christian faith surely is – the greatest love story ever told. And those of us who follow after Jesus find ourselves – even in the middle of our messiness or our pain – we find ourselves caught in the grip of a rousing good romance: the God of the Universe, the One who took the downward journey to Bethlehem, who walks with us through the good and the bad, the beautiful and the messed-up – that God of very God waits for each of us to say, ‘Yes.’

“The Dancing Priest,” captures the imagination and the heart; it tells a beautiful, complex story that is just plain fun to read. At the same time, this very particular story mirrors for us The Story that claims and centers us as human persons. We who are created in the image of God, who are called into relationship, who are wooed and won, restored and rescued by the lover of our souls. Read it – I promise you, this romance will grab you and not let go.

Picture legend:
Top: The California coastline, just north of Julia Pfeiffer State Park on Highway One, surely one of the most romantic views in the entire world.

Middle: The chapel at the New Camaldoli Hermitage, two miles above highway one near Lucia, CA.

Bottom: the reflection of the ‘trinitarian chandelier’ in the same chapel, shining up from the stone floor.

Filed Under: Book Review, Wonderings in the World

One Word: Waiting

January 2, 2012 By Diana

Joining the crowd growing at Alece’s place – choosing one word for 2012 – a word that will shape decisions, influence thinking, guide us into God’s presence with greater intentionality during the year ahead. And also joining with Bonnie over at The Faith Barista for her invitation at the Thursday jam session.

This choice was a tough one for me, primarily because I am by nature not a patient person. But here it is:

WAITING

Not because I want to.

Heaven knows I’m not good at it.

But because it is absolutely

central

to what it means to be

a follower after Jesus,

one who is invited

into the fellowship of

our Trinitarian God.

So.

I am waiting.

Waiting with hope.

With expectancy.

With trust.

At least that’s what I’m asking for

as I wait.

That I might be able to say with Simeon,

“NOW, O Lord, let your servant depart in peace.

For my eyes have seen your salvation…”

Not that I’m in a great big hurry to go anywhere,

not even to heaven,

truth be told.

But because the beauty of Simeon’s character

just shimmers through every word of that verse in Luke 2.

I’d like to shine like that.

And I’m guessing that learning about

waiting

is how to pick up a glimmer or two,

here and there.

I have no clue how God will use this word,

this experience,

to form me,

to buff up the shine,

to build in me a clearer reflection

of the LIGHT.

But I’m willing to lean into it

with all I’ve got.

To consistently make an effort to take my hands off

the reins of my life,

and the lives of the people I love,

and to trust that all will be well.

Even if it doesn’t turn out like I expect.

Even if it doesn’t turn out like I hope.

Even if it doesn’t turn out at all.

Because I think that’s a big part of trust, don’t you?

Turning our hands upward,

empty,

and saying,

“Thy will be done.

Thy will be done.”

And I don’t think that can happen if I am

striving,

pushing,

driving,

insisting,

worrying,

obsessing,

fretting,

otherwise trying to control things

over which I truly have no power.

I do think it might happen if I can learn more about

waiting.

So that’s my word for 2012.

Every three months or so, I’ll try and post here about how it’s going, what I’m learning, where Life is taking me.

If you need me,

I’ll be here.

Waiting.

Filed Under: personal journey, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

From the Inside Out: A Guest Post

December 30, 2011 By Diana

I sit here in the warm sunlight, enjoying the Pacific Ocean as it rolls onto the sands of a nearby beach. It’s a day alone for me – a rare treat. Even in this first full year of retirement, I’m finding it hard to do. It took me a long time to learn how much I need this – time spent quietly alone.

For most of my life, I’ve had my radar turned 100% outward. Is everybody out there okay? Is there anything I can do to help if you’re not okay? And if you’re not okay right this minute, what should I be doing to help make sure you are okay within the next minute?

I was about seven years old when my mother very carefully told me that it was a daughter’s job in life to be sure her mom was okay. She didn’t use those exact words, but I got the message. Yes indeed, I most definitely got the message. Just as she had gotten the message from her mother, and my grandmother had gotten it from her mother. A strange sort of family legacy, a secret code and a very particular set of expectations: girl children, particularly eldest girl children, exist to take care of others. A long list of others – parents, first, last and always – followed closely by husbands, children, extended family, friends in trouble, anyone in need.

But here’s the deal – that kind of living can just plain wear you out. The year I turned 45, I knew I was empty. Empty.

If you’d like to read the rest of this post, may I invite you to jump over to Tamara Lunardo’s wonderful site, “Tamara Out Loud,” and read it there? About 3 months ago, Tamara invited her readers to submit possible guest posts. So I did. And lo, and behold – she opted to put it up on her space. I’m deeply grateful for her generosity – and for her open and honest presence out here in cyberspace. She always tells the truth, even when it’s hard truth, and she quite often tells it with either a.) a sharp sense of humor or b.) a deep well of compassion. And sometimes she offers up both at the same time. It’s a special place. She is currently collecting submissions for a community book based on a post of hers titled, “What’s a Woman Worth?” Once you’re over at TOL, check the archives for that one. Stunning.

Here’s the link for today’s guest post: http://tamaraoutloud.com/2011/12/29/guest-post-from-the-inside-out/ I’d be honored and grateful if you’d follow me over there.

Thanks to Carol Garvin for catching a faulty link to this post. Try this one instead: http://tamaraoutloud.com/2011/12/30/guest-post-from-the-inside-out/

Filed Under: God's gifts, personal journey, Wonderings in the World

Christmas Reflections

December 27, 2011 By Diana

The church is full on Christmas Eve. Elbow to elbow, friends and family nudge in to make space for late-comers. A trio of angels surround the Advent candle circle, gleaming in the soft light of early evening.

In a lovely piece of encircling grace, the same family whom I wrote about way back when lit the Christ candle for this first Christmas Eve service in 20+ years where I have no role to play. That year they were new to our community. This year, he is the new associate pastor and his little ones are almost all grown up.

That final singing of “Silent Night” is always moving to me, watching the light spread throughout the room, reminding me

each time that the smallest candle can light the way. Just the smallest of flame, in a sea of darkness.

The next day, I watch from the kitchen as the morning sun lights up the soft honeyed-hues of the hardwood floor, bouncing off the ornaments on our fully-loaded tree. Just three of us for Christmas breakfast – my husband, my mother and me.

She comes to the table shivering a little bit – she always shivers when she comes here, even if it’s August – because at 90, she is always cold. But we’ve turned on the small gas fireplace near the breakfast table and she soon warms enough to smile and sit down to eat.

I’ve made pumpkin waffles – made them on her small waffle maker which I just moved from her house to mine. She is nearly blind, needs hearing aids, and is so forgetful that cooking is getting to be hazardous, so we’re moving her into an assisted living apartment the first week of 2012.

To see her like this causes me physical pain. Always bright, charming, funny, beautiful, my mother is now a worried, frail, confused old woman. And she knows it. She is frightened by it and frequently in tears.

But breakfast is good – she eats 4 squares of waffle, adding whipped cream and fresh berries to a couple of them, and seems quite content. This is the most she has eaten in several days and it gives me a strange feeling of comfort to be able to give her something that suits her, that makes her want more.

There isn’t much room for ‘more’ in her life just now. She can barely manage what is. In fact, the tension surrounding this move has made every symptom worse and I wonder – will settling into this new space bring improvement? Stability? Less worry for me and less fear for her?

We spend much of Christmas day doing quiet things – napping for mom, computer work for me. I open the back gate so that she can go out and wish my brother a Merry Christmas. My youngest brother, the one who died two years ago and whose ashes are buried beneath a fledgling oak in our side yard. My brother who had no life when he died – housed in a sober living residence, loving AA, dealing with a severely damaged heart. He died in his sleep one early October morning and my mother has not been the same since that hard day.
We drive to my daughter’s home in the late afternoon sunlight, admiring the crystal clear view of the Channel Islands as we cruise down the 101. It’s beautiful out there, and beauty brings its own kind of comfort, reminders of goodness and life and Something/Someone bigger than we are.

The children are wild and wonderful when we arrive – glad to see us, making us feel welcome and loved. My small mom, who had dissolved in tears almost immediately after speaking with my remaining brother by phone earlier that afternoon – she breaks out in a sunny smile, clapping her hands to see the energy and liveliness of my grandchildren as they play together.
After the food, after the crazy-making ripping through paper and ribbon and box and bag, we all help mom out to the car that will carry her home through the night. She has trouble navigating the uneven flagstone walkway, so a son and a son-in-law both offer cell phone flashlights, I offer a strong arm, my husband goes ahead to open car doors. I help her up into her seat – she is shivering again in the frosty night air – and I buckle her seat belt. There. She is safely stowed for the last leg of this long weekend journey.
But really, is my mother safe? No, I don’t think so. There is nothing safe about the fragility of her life, there is nothing safe about slowly coming unraveled, there is nothing safe about losing yourself, piece by agonizing piece.

“God alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress where I will never be shaken,” the psalmist sings out.

Perhaps there is safety there. Yes, I will choose to believe that. In every way that truly counts, my mother is safe, she will never be shaken.

Even when she stumbles, even when the tears come, even when she forgets who I am, even when she forgets who she is.

Even then.

Even then…

I am more thankful than I can possibly put into words to be heading out of town for four days with my husband and our oldest daughter and her family. We need a spell away from these concerns that hang heavy so much of the time. I may find time to write while we’re gone and I may not. We’re bringing some projects to work on – I got a new scanner for Christmas and my eldest grandson is going to help me figure out how to use it. Because, you see, I have literally THOUSANDS of old photos/negatives/slides that need to be digitized and stored. And we’re bringing some watercolor supplies. Dick and I don’t ‘do’ art, but Lisa and her crew? They’re all gifted and love to spend time just dinking around with simple instructions and basic art supplies. So we’ll try it – maybe we’ll like it! I am posting this today with quite a list of friends because I don’t know when I’ll post again this week. And then the next week, I move my mom. So, those of you who know me enough to pray for me, I’d appreciate your thoughts over these days, both the restful ones and the stressful ones. I will, as always, carry you with me as I go.

Filed Under: Christmas, family, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

Wondering at Christmas

December 23, 2011 By Diana

For the last several months, I’ve had the pleasure and the privilege of connecting with a smaller circle of bloggers through the kind invitation of Seth Haines, over at his Collective blog. Anyone who subscribes to his blog by email is invited to write about their own journey in an email round-up each month. I gotta tell you, there is some wonderful stuff offered in that space. Seth and his wife Amber are both wonderful writers, showing up all over the place, at A Deeper Story and (in)Courage and I am grateful for their kindness to me each month. I went back in and read what I added for December and thought I’d put a piece of it out in this place, just for the heck of it. I liked what I wrote, and I don’t always. So I offer it, with a few tweaks, as a very small Christmas gift to you tonight. This month, we were invited to write about our experience of Advent in 2011, and this was written before I made the trip south to pack things for my mom.

Wondering. That’s what I’m doing a lot of this Advent.

In both senses of that word.

I am wondering how to help my failing mama make a move to assisted living. The physical part is easy – I’ll travel 250 miles round trip this week, spend three days and clear out her cupboards and closets. Her apartment is small, her possessions few. I can do this part. The emotional part? That’s a lot tougher. Finding that inner centered place of calm and quiet, speaking words of peace and comfort from that place, not giving in to either frustration or sorrow. That takes intentionality, that takes care. I’m praying both will appear in abundance over the next three weeks.

I am wondering about other family members who are facing into difficult decisions in weeks ahead, people I love and admire, some of them Jesus followers, some of them not. How can I help? How can I listen?

I am wondering about how to more fully live into whatever ‘retirement’ means – to write good words, to listen well to directees and to the Spirit, to be present for my family, to carve out sufficient time and space for my own inner health.

BUT…but…

I am also wondering at the immensity of God’s love and the scandal of his Grand Plan.

I am wondering at the quietness of a starry night, at the obedience of gnarly shepherds and foreign kings, at the day-by-day, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other faith of a small-town carpenter and a teenaged girl, great with child.

I am wondering at the singing sky, the celestial company who ring out words of peace and comfort, the messengers of God who serve as sentinels for GLORY.

I am wondering how to receive this infant king, this One who comes in the way that each of us comes – bursting forth from the cocoon of pulsing blood and salty water into the harshness of cold air, pungent with the scent of life-on-earth.

How can I embrace this One who embraces me and all of life?

How can I say, ‘Welcome,’ and ‘Thank you,’ and ‘Bless me, O Lord, for I have sinned’ to One so small, so innocent, so vulnerable?

I am wondering if I can make space inside my heart-of-hearts for a baby’s bed, clean and comfy, well-lit and protected, welcoming and warm. I do so want to do that, just that.

Even so, come Lord Jesus. Come.

Merry Christmas, everyone! May the WONDER of the Story brighten your day and the year ahead.

Filed Under: Christmas, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

A Strange Advent

December 20, 2011 By Diana

Life feels so strange just now:
delicate and ponderous,
uncertain and pre-determined,
incomplete, uncomfortable, gaping open,
like a sweater that no longer fits.

She asks the same questions,
over and over and over again.
She worries over the cost,
she wonders what will become of her,
she sobs at her helplessness.

Everything is shifting,
the child becomes the parent,
the parent, a child.
Groping in the dark, she becomes
the fulfillment of the Carpenter’s
long-ago warning:
“…when you were younger
you dressed yourself
and went where you wanted,
but when you are old
you will stretch out your hands
and someone else will dress you
and lead you where
you do not want to go.”

And I am the one in the lead.

I do not like it very much.
No, I do not like it at all.

Kyrie eleison.
Christe eleison.
Kyrie eleison.

The heavily pregnant Mary has been wandering the curving road to the House of Bread, Bethlehem. And she is almost there. We have been moving the candle each night that we’ve been home, moving it along the wooden spiral created by Caleb Voskamp at the tender age of 15. And we have been reading from Katharine Johnson’s lovely Jesse tree devotional, using icons her 14-year-old daughter painted. And weaving in and around these lovely pieces of young art has been the sad story of my aged mother’s move to assisted living, a move made necessary by blindness and memory loss.

And this is the cycle of life, isn’t it? We all grow old, all of us who were once young. We grow old. And we die. Some of us die relatively quickly; some of us take a long time. But each journey is fraught with uncertainty, with fear, with loss and with difficult decisions.

I think maybe the story we tell during each Advent season can bless us on this journey of aging. If we let it. The mother of Jesus was young, very young. And her world was turned upside down by events she neither planned nor expected. Scripture tells us that she said ‘yes’ to the unexpectedness of it all, that she said, “Let it be.” “Let it be to me according to your word.”

And Joseph did the same. He folded Mary in on the strength of a dream, he took on her shame, he took on her boy. He, too, said, “Let it be.”

And the two of them together, they took that curving road to the House of Bread. They found their way to an inhospitable and unwanted ‘home’ for the night. They spilled their tears and their blood on the ground of that dark cave so that Jesus, Emmanuel, might be birthed into our world. Together, they said, “Let it be.”

And they did it without knowing what they were doing, as all of us who take on the task of parenting do. We do not see into the future, we cannot know the pain, or the joy, that will come with the years.

But we can say, and we can live, this truth: “Let it be.”

We can take it all, the love and the laughter, the anger and the tears; the hopes and dreams and the harsh realities and stern wake-up calls; the energy of youth and the exhaustion of old age; the promise of life and the sober questions about death – we can take it all firmly in hand, receiving each piece as gift, and we can say: “LET IT BE.”

According to your word. According to your word.

I write tonight with a mixture of both sadness and of gratitude. I am grateful for the family I was born into, for my father’s passion for music and learning and family; for my mother’s graciousness, hospitality, great good humor and sharp mind; for my brother Tom’s keen wit, kindness, loyalty and tenderness; for my brother Ken’s sweetness despite a lifetime of heartache. My father has been gone for almost seven years now; my brother Ken for two. My mom is moving closer to the end of life (aren’t we all?) and Tom and I are each dealing with a plateful of challenges. As we left the mortuary after saying good-bye to Ken, Tom put his arm around my mother and me and said, “We’re down to just three now, aren’t we?” Yes, we are. And who knows when we will be just two. I pray daily for the grace to stand with Mary and Joseph, for the strength to remain steadfastly hopeful and thankful, even in the midst of loss and sorrow. Some days it’s a struggle. Some days it’s as easy as breathing. All days, I am grateful to God for each breath I am granted. And this day, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a blessed New Year.

Adding this to the list at several places this week. Please check them all out and read a few here and there. Always richness to be found in these places:

Filed Under: Advent, family, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

Advent 3: Good News!

December 13, 2011 By Diana

It was the music that did it.

Two violins, three flutes, electric and acoustic guitars, piano, two male vocalists.

And of course, the arrangements.

(Thank you, Bob Gross)

As we sang, a lush accompaniment buoyed us, with pieces of familiar carols circling around the praise choruses.

I could hear, “Away in the Manger” over and above the words to, “Amen, Amen.”

We sang songs about waiting, songs appropriate for this season.

And then we sang this small chorus, a setting of the words from the Old Testament lesson for the morning, Isaiah 61:1-11.

And something about the way this song was worded,

the way the melody housed those words,

the way we all sang it together – well, it just got me.

“Beauty for ashes, garments of praise for my heaviness.

Beauty for ashes, take this heart of mine and make it Yours.

I delight myself in the Richest of Fare,

trading all that I’ve had for all that is better;

a garment of praise for my heaviness.

You are the greatest taste.”

I thought about my mother and her increasing frailty.

I thought about my brother and the hard things he is dealing with.

I thought about my daughter and how she is living this truth so beautifully just now, after a long season of ashes.

I thought about my own life and how the good news is what I hunger for, the good news that takes ashes away and replaces them with beauty; that takes heaviness away and replaces it with gossamer thin, lightweight, flowing garments of praise.

And I wept.

Tears of sadness, yes.

But tears of truth, too.

Tears of yearning, I think.

Yearning for the people I love to experience good news in their lives. Yearning to be one who carries that good news, who channels it, who shares it, who lives and releases and savors it.

This, tall graceful angel – a word that means ‘messenger’ in the biblical text – this angel stands guard over the word, trumpeting the message of truth and love and grace to all who will listen. She is surrounded by evergreens and candlelight, pungent pinecones and softly glinting ornaments.

And as I gazed at her during worship, I found myself listening for good news as the word was read: 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24 (which I wrote about yesterday) and Luke 1:26-38, the record of Mary’s visit with one of those messengers of God and her remarkably poised response. Not asking, ‘Why?’ Only asking, “How?”

What might have seemed like terrifying news was apparently received as GOOD news by this young woman.

And I wondered.

Do I know how truly ‘good’ this news is?

Do I believe it, deep down in the marrow of me?

Do I live as though I believe it?

The preached text for the morning was full to the brim with all kinds of good news:

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim freedom for the captives,

and release from darkness for the prisoners,

to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor

and the day of vengeance of our God,

to comfort all who mourn,

and provide for those who grieve in Zion –

to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,

the oil of joy instead of mourning,

and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

These words of Isaiah the prophet are the very words Jesus read out into the synagogue as he began his ministry.

These words spell out what the Good News looks like, how it reads, how it rolls.

And here’s the kicker:

these are also the words that describe what we are to look like as we follow in the dusty footprints of our Savior.

These are the truths that describe what disciples are supposed to be and to do.

We are to be those who bring:

the bandages,

the keys to long-locked places,

the elixir of freedom to the darkest of cells,

the words and the deeds,

the hugs and the home-cooked meals,

the prayers and the extra miles,

the very scent of the oil with which Jesus was anointed –

the oil of joy in the midst of despair.

So the question I’m left with, after the music and after the tears, is this one:

Do I smell like Jesus?

Does my life carry the scent of invitation,

of welcome and renewal,

of hope and praise and joy?

Not the false scent of polite,

“Oh, I’m just fine, really I am – just fine.”

Not the musky cover-up of pollyannish ‘cheer.’

But the real deal.

The splash of tears when sad things come,

the sigh of frustration when folks don’t ‘get it,’

the head-thrown-back, hearty laughter at the hilarity of being human,
the willingness to say,

“Yeah, this is hard. And I’m sorry it’s happened to you.”

That’s what true good news looks like.

Binding up the brokenhearted cannot happen unless we first admit to our own broken hearts, unless we testify to God’s ability to heal the heaviness we carry.

On the way to our healing,

the Carpenter wept over the city,

he wept at the loss of his friend, Lazarus,

he flung the whips around in anger at injustice in the temple,

he chided his friends for falling asleep while he wrestled so hard with death that he pushed out beads of blood instead of sweat.

Our Healer was broken – by life and the failures of friends rather than by sin –
but he was broken, even as we are broken.

And we, too, are called to be wounded healers,

messengers of good news in the midst of all kinds of bad tidings.

Because we must carry with us always the powerful truth
that the Christmas tree becomes the cross,

the manger stall becomes the tomb,

and the news must get very bad indeed, before the Truth breaks forth in great waves of goodness on Easter Sunday morning.

But break forth it does.

For news like this simply cannot be contained.

And it is so very, very good.

Joining with Michelle tonight, with Jen and Emily F. tomorrow, with Ann on Wednesday and Emily W. on Thursday, with thanks for each of them – for their glorious writing skills and their hearts for God:

Filed Under: Advent, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

Five Minute Friday: Color

December 10, 2011 By Diana

I’ve missed a few weeks of this very fun exercise, but I’ll give it a shot today – while it’s still Friday! Our assignment is to write for five minutes flat – no editing – on the topic for the week. And we all sign up over at Lisa-Jo’s place to share our very different responses to the same prompt. Check it out – I think you’ll like it a lot!

Today’s prompt is:

COLOR

GO:

I’ve spent most of this week elbow deep in color – Christmas color. Reds, greens, golds, silvers – all the rich, jewel-like tones that have come to symbolize this season of the year. I’m not done yet, either. The lights are on the tree, but the ornaments? That takes some doing and we’ll have to carve out a few hours tomorrow afternoon to get those beauties dangling.

I am a clear-color-lover. Don’t give me a dusky or muted palette – it will drive me to drink! I like lots of color around. Take a good look at the world in which we live most of the time. Is it not rife with glorious, eye-bending color collages? Yes, I think it is. And so, I revel in it.

But I’ll tell you this: as much as I enjoy adding all the razzle dazzle of this holiday season to my home, I am also very glad indeed to take it all down again in January. Why? Because I have come to love the colors we live with year-round – they speak to my heart of home and happiness and I miss them when they’re gone.

When we re-modeled our home about 4 years ago, I ordered new Fiestaware. I had never bought a set of dishes like this before and I was delighted to pick out: Sunflower, Turquoise, Chartreuse and Blue. They made me happy. So happy that I planned the entire renovation around my new dishes. And I’ve never been sorry. To me, these are the colors of creation – at least the parts of creation that resonate most strongly with my spirit. They speak of life and hope, of springtime and growth. And I LOVE being surrounded by varying shades of these 4 plus light-toned woods and white trim everywhere.

And people who visit seem to respond exactly the way we do – they tell me they feel happy and welcome when they get here. And that’s what it’s all about, right?

STOP