31 Days of Aging Gracefully: Day 9 — Listening Well

October 9, 2015 By

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This recently finished new space is where I do my professional listening these days. I am graced with the title ‘spiritual director,’ something I began to train for during the last year of my pastoral life, continuing for two years afterwards in order to earn my certification. I’ve been listening to directees (and listening to God, I sincerely hope) for six years now, some of them for that entire time. It is one of the best gifts in my life right now.

When I’m sitting in my chair (the one on the right), I listen well. I’ve learned how, I’ve practiced and I’m getting better at it each time I do it. 

It has not always been so. In fact, in my regular life, it often still is NOT so. I had a dear and trusted friend tell me once that she felt I was always scanning the room, looking for someone more interesting to talk to whenever we engaged in one-on-one conversation.

Ouch.

That one hurt. But you know what? She was right. I began to observe myself after that comment, and her remark was spot on. Embarrassingly spot on. I was not scanning the room, looking for someone more interesting — that part, I categorically deny. I was, however, easily distracted, uncomfortable making prolonged eye contact and very busy inside my head, planning what I was going to say next. Or making a list of questions to interrupt with. Or thinking about something entirely different.

Oy vey.

So I have worked on that over these years, these later years. Without the ‘cover’ of the direction session, I am still more easily distracted than I wish I were. Part of the problem — at least in my own home, with my husband, in particular — is that I learned to read with ferocious focus when I was quite young, effectively tuning out any noise or music in my home. I have carried that with me to this day. So if I’m looking at email or texts and he says something to me, I literally do not hear him. We’re both trying to be more cognizant of the truth that we must keep on learning how to communicate well with one other.

We need to learn when to talk. And most importantly, we need to learn when to listen.

Really listen.

What about you? Are you a good listener?

Just Wondering
Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Confession, Encouragement, Listening

31 Days of Aging Gracefully: Day 6 — Facing Fear

October 6, 2015 By

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If I am being honest — and I want to be, to use this space to speak my own truth, as I am experiencing it — I have to admit that this past year has been laced with fear. Falling flat on my face, spending time in the hospital as a result, suffering through a torn abdominal muscle and the resulting nerf-football-sized hematoma plus low blood counts and a medicare form that read, ‘life-threatening treatment’ — all of the above has brought bouts of anxiety the likes of which I’ve never experienced before.

It’s a very scary thing to face into your own frailty, to face into the possibility of life forever changed. I’ve had some small panic attacks and flashbacks that have stopped me in my tracks in the past few months, and I’ve uttered the Jesus Prayer more times than I can possibly count.

If I let it, fear could pretty much rule my life these days. That picture at the top of the page is of a sunset we enjoyed the third week in our new home. Stunning, isn’t it? Yet, still. A sunset, right? The end of the light. The end. That’s what I could choose to focus on as a result of the anxiety level rising to code red proportions. I could so easily be a real Chicken Little type, friends. SO easily.

But I don’t want to do that. Truly, I do not. Yes, I want to be increasingly realistic about the truth that my days on this planet are stretching less far out into the future than ever before. Duh. This is true for all of us, every day, right? But do we focus on that truth?

Or do we choose to enjoy the diminishing light for as long as we possibly can? Have you ever noticed that sunsets tend to be longer than sunrises? It takes a while for that light to leave the sky. And as it fades, it can be exquisitely beautiful, sending beams of color across the sky and the landscape below. I want to be a lovely sunset, don’t you?

And I want to remember that the sun also rises. Every single day. Rain or shine. There it is, sending its beams out to nourish and sustain us, shining down on us, even through the foggiest, grayest day. For every sunset, there is a sunrise.

And there will be one for me, too. 

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This picture, taken on one of my morning walks, deep into our new neighborhood, reminds me of that truth in a powerful way. As the sin was rising this day, I could see a cruise ship come into view. A big ole boat, filled with tourists, happy to be taking in the sights and enjoying the water. Reflecting on this photo helps me to breathe out the fear, to breathe in the hope, to lean into the promised future that is mine as a child of God. Don’t know if there will be a cruise ship to ferry me there, but I’m bound and determined I’m going to enjoy the ride.

Just Wondering
Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Aging, Beauty, biblical reflection, Confession, death, Encouragement

The 31-Day Write: 31 Days of Aging Gracefully

October 1, 2015 By

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2015 marks year 4 of the 31 Day Writing challenge for me. First was 31 Days in Which I Am Being Saved by Beauty (2012), then there were 31 Days of Giving Permission (2013), and last year, it was 31 Days of Looking for the Little.

This is a year of facing into reality for me. I turned 70 in January, I landed in the hospital in February and again, at the end of April. I traveled to Kauai in July with our entire clan to celebrate FIFTY years of marriage, and in August, my husband and I moved, downsizing after 18 years in a much-loved larger home with a huge yard.

Yeah, it was time. It IS time.

I am old and getting older by the minute, and if I’m going to have even a tiny chance of doing this aging thing well, I want to be intentional about it. So that is what I’ve chosen to write about for the next 31 days.

I’m nervous about this, to tell you the truth. I happen to find myself at a somewhat painful juncture, realizing I am beginning to be invisible in some ways. Do you know that about getting old in this culture? Elders are not always seen, even in their own family setting. I’m not sure this is intentional, but it surely is reality. Maybe it’s because we’ve been around so long, we’ve become part of the furniture, always available. Maybe it’s because we serve as somewhat painful pointers to the future for those who are younger. Maybe it’s because as we age, we tend to slow down a bit, to measure our words more, to give up the drivenness and hungry ambition that are so much a part of mid-life in 21st century western culture. Whatever the reasons, I am choosing to step out of the invisibility cloak this month and put some words out into cyberspace about how I’d like to live these last years of my life.

I am hoping that these reflections will be both highly individual — reflections on my own aging process and what I’m learning — and at that same time, universal in their application. After all, none of us gets a ‘pass’ from this stuff, do we? If we’re fortunate to avoid accident or early terminal illness, we all must face into the reality of bodies that grow old and weary, of choices becoming more limited. And hopefully, of enjoying the benefits of wisdom gained, gratitude grown, joy multiplied, insights deepened. 

I’ve got a list, and will do my best to work ahead a little. I’m hoping to have a post up every day, but if I miss a few here and there, extend a little bit of grace, okay? After all, I’m OLD. (said with a smile)

In the meantime, please grab my button and follow along!

Just Wondering
Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Blessings, Blogging, community, Confession, Encouragement, Fighting Scarcity, God's gifts, Grace, Gratitude, Hard Things, hope, personal journey Tagged With: ,

Learning to Bend — A Post for Amber Haines

September 14, 2015 By

There are some people you know instantly are kindred spirits. Amber Haines is one of those for me. I have read her blog faithfully for five years, have cried with her over the health crises of her youngest son Titus (virtually only, though I’d have been more than willing to do so in person if she didn’t live all the way across the country!), even won some beautiful Amber-made jewelry several years ago. She has a new book out – a beautiful book which I hope to review in this space very soon. I urge you to order your own copy of “Wild in the Hollow: On Chasing Desire & Finding the Broken Way Home.” This piece is one of a long series of guest posts that she has invited, each of them speaking to that broken way home in one way or another. An image she uses in her book is of the cold linoleum floor on which she was found by God one desperate night. And that’s where this piece begins.

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That bathroom floor can be a cold and lonely place. I’ve been there, at the end of myself, done in by doing good, exhausted by my own refusal to ask for help, by my unhealthy relationship with food, by my misunderstanding of the gospel of grace. There are all kinds of ways to be broken and I am no exception.

All my life, I have been the good girl — obedient, careful, helpful, the one who takes care of things and people. I don’t think I ever went through a rebellious phase as a teenager. Maybe it’s because I’m an eldest child, maybe it’s the way my mother instilled certain fears in me at an early age, maybe it’s the way I’m wired. I never tried anything on the ‘don’t do’ list, I never quit going to church, I read my Bible and prayed every day, I toed every line put in front of me, generally without complaint. To most people looking in, I was a very together person.

Along the way, however, I never learned much about self-care, about healthy boundaries, about knowing when to stop. And I learned to use food as . . . well, just about everything: a pacifier, a reward, a comfort, a go-to, quick-fix for any emotional struggle, a boredom-satisfier, a crutch when facing a difficult situation, even a subversive way to be rebellious. And for many years, it worked pretty well.

Except for the unfortunate fact that I carried far too many pounds on this large frame. Despite the copious tears that I’ve shed over that truth during the last 40+ years, I now see that that my size was an important part of my story. Somewhere, deep inside of me, I needed to be big. Big enough to meet the needs of all the people around me, big enough to take care of three little ones who came faster than imaginable, big enough to deal with the busy schedule I always managed to set for myself, big enough to get through seminary at mid-life, big enough to handle whatever curveball my pastoral jobs might throw at me. Big enough.

Slowly, with time and experience — much of it difficult and painful — I am learning to lean into the biggest truth I’ve learned: it’s okay to be small. In fact, it’s necessary to be small — to recognize our own inability to ever be big enough, strong enough, good enough, devoted enough, loving enough, capable enough, sturdy enough . . . enough . . . unless . . . we learn how to bend.

Come along over to Amber’s place to read the rest of this and to join the conversation.

 

Filed Under: Aging, Amber's Writing Prompts, Blessings, Blogging, Confession, Encouragement, Enough, God's gifts, Guest Post, Looking for the Little, personal journey

The Surprising Nature of Grief

September 2, 2015 By

He was in his late 50’s, I’m guessing. Salt and pepper hair and mustache, thick black shoes, Bermuda shorts and the usual bright red apron. I was at Home Depot, purchasing something or other for the work we’re doing on our new home, and I noticed him, cheerfully helping customers through the checkout process.

He was kind, with a peaceful, even happy expression on his face. I could see him from where I stood waiting in line, and I remember thinking, “That guy is one of the good ones. Yeah, the shoes with the shorts are a tad nerdy, but what a sweet man!”

I dug into my cart, laid my wares on the conveyor belt and he quickly moved to the end of the island, getting ready to put my purchases into a bag for me. I handed over my credit card, signed my name and turned to thank him as I got ready to exit the store. And that’s when I saw his name tag:

                                                               “KENNETH”

Big black letters, larger than life. And as I saw them, I was startled to hear a great gasping sob erupt from my mouth. The next minute, tears were streaming down beneath my sunglasses as I made my way back to the car.

I had been blindsided by grief, deep and wide.

Kenneth was my youngest brother’s name. The one who died in 2009. A man I’d never met called me early in the morning of October 2nd; he was the manager of Ken’s sober living residence. He’d found my number in my brother’s cell phone and told me tearfully that Ken passed away in his sleep. He was 53 years old.

Oh my, such a sweet man. Troubled, broken, sick and tired, but such a sweet man. I’ve written about him elsewhere, detailing his life of struggle and pain. But that day — that instant in the Home Depot — my thoughts were these:

This could have been my brother.

He would have been so good at a job like this.

Oh, how I miss him! Oh, how sorry I am for all the turmoil he endured! Oh, how I wish I could change it somehow.

But I cannot. I cannot go back in time, much as I might wish to do so. I cannot change one second of his life.

This much, though . . . this much, I can do:

I can acknowledge my own sadness about him.

I can make space for the grief to surprise me, again and again.

I can thank God for Ken every day.

I can pray for his sons and daughter-in-law.

I can remember the best pieces of his story.

I can pay attention to those I meet who remind me of him in some way — size, demeanor, struggle.

I can not be ashamed of the sobs, the tears, the sadness or him. Instead, I can remember him with love and gratitude, accepting him for who he was, warts and all, and rejoice that his suffering is over.

Grief comes in waves, they say. Who knew the tide would still roll after this many years? Sometimes I think I’m ‘used’ to all the death and dying we’ve experienced in our family circle. But I’m not, and — thank God — I never will be. Though it often comes disguised as blessing, especially after a long, difficult illness, death is always our last enemy, a reminder that our time in this sphere is limited and finite. Ah, Lord, I thank you that Ken’s dying was gentle, though his living was harsh.

I miss you, sweet brother of mine. I truly do. 

Filed Under: Confession, death, Encouragement, family, grief, Hard Things, hope, Lament, personal journey, Suffering

Asking: Am I ‘All In?’

August 24, 2015 By

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I was invited to participate in worship leadership yesterday, the first time in a while I’ve been asked, and the first time in a longer while when I felt I could reasonably say ‘yes.’ We enjoyed a relatively quiet weekend for the first time in too long, so there was space, both on the calendar, and in my spirit, to think creatively about a passage of scripture and attempt to lead God’s people in prayer.

The sermon was from a short text in Ephesians 6 — the two verses immediately following that long list of ‘armor’ that every follow of Jesus needs to live fully, carefully and creatively in this world of ours. The verses that talk about Paul being an ‘ambassador in chains,’ the ones that talk about being  full-out followers of Jesus, the ones that encourage us all to be people of prayer. . . all-the-time prayer, not just special-event-as-the-needs-build-up prayer.

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As always, the altarpiece helped us to ‘see’ the passage, and Pastor Don’s sermon unpacked those words very well indeed. After the sermon, the worship team led us through 3 rounds of that wonderful, small Taize chorus, the one that goes:

O Lord, hear my prayer; O Lord, hear my prayer.
When I call, answer me.
O Lord, hear my prayer; O Lord, hear my prayer.
Come and listen to me.

And then we prayed a community prayer in three parts, the first and last from me, the middle one from Don, with the chorus sung liturgically between each part. It was good to lead in prayer again; I’m grateful.

We’ve heard a word from you today, Lord.
A good word, but also, I must admit,
a hard word.
It’s hard because today you’re asking us to be ‘all in.’

All of us, all the time, everywhere.

Gulp.

Somehow, it’s easier for us to be partly in, you know?
Especially on days like today, when we can come here,
to this beautiful space, and specifically focus on you —
on who you are, on who you call us to be.

It seems simpler for us to do that when we gather with your people,
when we sing the songs and pray the prayers and hear the words.

But today, your word is asking something else entirely.
And that something is important, and inclusive,
and — let’s be honest here — more than a little bit demanding.
It feels uncomfortable, maybe even disorienting,
because you’re asking us to be ambassadors, out there, in the world.

The world we live in, and study in.
The world we shop in, and work in,
the world where we converse with other people, all kinds of other people,
some of them really difficult.
The world where too many problems seem to have no answers,
where ugly things happen — things that scare us and overwhelm us.

But that is the world you made, the world you have set us in, the world you love.
And if we’re going to call ourselves your friends, then that’s the world where we must be.

Will you help us, please?
Lean in close and whisper words of truth and courage,
remind us of the depths of your love,
tell us the truth of who we are as your called,
and gifted
and empowered
representatives.

We have good news to share, to live, to offer.

Make us bold in our living, wherever we are,
from the kitchen to the boardroom,
from the study hall to the golf course,
from the baby nursery to the retirement home.

Wherever we are, whomever we’re with,
help us to radiate your love and grace,
in every conversation,
transaction,
encounter,
and circumstance.

Help us to be all in.
Lord, hear our prayer.

Part Two.

Lord, we confess that we are not always prepared for the battle.
We expect things to be nice and polite and to go our way.
We confess that we get wounded too easily and fight with others too harshly.

And the weapons we use to do battle just don’t get the job done.

So today, O God, would you re-arm our lives with your full armor?

  • Would you belt our lives with your eternal truth?
  • Would you cover our hearts with your breastplate of righteousness?
  • Would you put on our feet those fast shoes that spread the gospel of peace and reconciliation anywhere and everywhere we go?
  • Would you put in our hands that strong shield of faith that can absorb and quench the fiery attacks that often undo us?
  • Would you cover our heads and minds with that strong helmet of our salvation that cannot be taken away?
  • And give us your sword, your Word, anchored in our hearts, that Word which can fell and undo Satan and all his lies.                                                                     Lord, make us strong.                                                                                                     Hear our prayer.

Part Three

Some of us, Lord, have been doing this discipleship thing for a long time now.
Others of us are newer to the journey.
But all of us still have so much to learn about prayer.

About settling into that place where we do what the epistles call us to do with that impossible sounding phrase: “pray without ceasing.”

Maybe we find prayer difficult because we’ve misunderstood the richness of this gift, this means of communion with you.

Maybe we’ve been stuck in a rut of list-making,
and detailed itemizing.

Or maybe we think prayer is some strange specialty that’s better left
to the pastors and the wordsmiths.

Whatever the reasons, Lord, will you help us, right here and right now,
to just relax?

To sit here, in your presence, and say as little as possible.

Maybe a, ‘thank you!’
Or a, ‘bless them.’
Or a, ‘you’re amazing, Lord!’

Because that’s at the heart of it all, isn’t it?
Moving through our days with an awareness of you,
with a spirit of gratitude,
with an eagerness to find you, already at work in the midst of the details
that fill our time and our minds.

So as we sit here in this quiet space, and as we sing this lovely small song,
will you help us to unkink,
to let go of our need to be ‘good’ at things,
and just discover the simple joy of
being quiet, with you?

Thank you, Lord.
Bless us, Lord.
Praise you, Lord.

Amen.

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We visited with some old friends and met a few new ones, too; we picked up some mail at our former home, and then we turned the car around, drove further than we’re used to on a Sunday morning, and spent the rest of the day enjoying the quiet beauty of our new space. I sat on a chaise lounge, in the sunshine for two hours, just being grateful for the ways in which we have been blessed in this life of ours. Not many words were said. And I was happy to be ‘all in,’ if only for an afternoon.

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Filed Under: biblical reflection, Blogging, Church, community, Confession, Encouragement, God's gifts, Grace, Gratitude, Listening, personal journey, prayer, preaching, Santa Barbara, The Move

Easy Does It — SheLoves

July 11, 2015 By

When I see the wonderful themes that come from the fine people at SheLoves each month, I am always surprised at what comes to me. This one is no exception. I’m not writing about my mom too much in public these days, but here are the most recent reflections. You can start here and follow this link to finish this piece and join the conversation. Please do!

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The part of my life that needs me to be ‘easy’ right now happens to be the hardest one ever. My mother lives within five miles of our home and turns 94 this month. She loves it when I drop by, she smiles right through the telephone when I call her, she tells me I’m the most wonderful of God’s creatures, even though she is not entirely sure who I am.

Because my mother, in addition to being one of the loveliest women I’ve ever known, also has dementia. Her brain is deteriorating, week by week. She has lost most of her memory, including all 63 years of her marriage to my father, has only very limited mechanical ability of any kind, and more and more often, leaves her sentences hanging in the air after about three words, leaving me to wonder where in the world she was headed. When I am with my mother, what she most needs me to be is relaxed, present, patient, slow.

Too much of the time, I am NONE of those things.

Loving a person with severe dementia means you continually live with a large load of cognitive dissonance. In my head, I know that she cannot understand, cannot remember, and cannot move quickly, either physically or mentally. But with my heart? I want her to be as she once was: fast-witted, funny, vivacious, interesting, well-read, deeply spiritual.

Who she is now. . . is slow. Her brain is losing itself, day by day. Scientists do not yet understand all the complicated mechanisms that make this true, but this much we do know: the part of her brain that remembers things is disintegrating. The part of her brain that understands how things works, how time happens, what she said 30 seconds ago is almost entirely non-functional.

So when I hand her a napkin at lunch, she has no idea what to do with it. I say gently, “Put it in your lap, Mom.” And she moves to pick up the knife and fork that were just wrapped in that napkin, sending them to her lap.

Because she has always had a gift for sociability, and is a natural extrovert, she has maintained a semblance of those characteristics. She has a ‘routine’ that she follows when we are together. Ten times in ten minutes, she asks the same set of rote questions: How is your family? Have you found a church you like? Where is your husband? And the biggest one of all, ever-present: Do you ever think about moving?

“No, Mom,” I always say. “I like it here. We plan to be here until we die.” And some days, I swear to you, I want her to hear and understand that verb. I want her to grasp that she is dying, that I am dying. We are all dying. Most of the time, she hasn’t a clue. . . 

Come on over and join us at SheLoves . . .

Filed Under: Aging, Alzheimer's Disease, Confession, Dementia, family, grief, personal journey, SheLoves

Cloudy Days

June 15, 2015 By

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It is June in Santa Barbara, California.

That means clouds. Lots and lots of low-hanging clouds. Apparently, the heat in the central valley does something magical to the sea air, dragging in lots of creeping fog to lay its head all along the central coast. Mornings and evenings are darkish and very damp, occasionally to the point of invisibility through the front windshield of your car. Most of the years we’ve lived here, I sort of tolerate this kind of weather. It’s not my favorite, but it is frequently redeemed when all that fog burns off about mid-afternoon, revealing blue skies and shadows, showing off the loveliness all around us, loveliness that somehow seems less visible in the fog and clouds.

When I sat down to write my semi-monthly newsletter yesterday, I was surprised at what came to me. (You can subscribe through the pop-up or by using the link at the end of this post. If you are subscribed and are not receiving these letters, be sure to let me know. I can get them to you if I know you’re missing them.) In the letter that went out early this morning, I wrote about the presence of sadness in our lives, even in the midst of deep joy and contentment.As you might guess, I spent some time reflecting on this hard journey with my mom. Somehow, writing about sadness seems appropriate in this kind of weather. 

I will quickly add that this year, I’m deeply grateful for all that cloud cover. Why? Because we are working harder physically this year than we have in a very long time. We’re pulling things out of corners we’ve forgotten about, we’re lugging old, broken pieces of yard furniture the entire length of our acre lot, we’re filling up not one, not two, but THREE recycle containers in a matter of hours. And cool weather makes all that work a whole lot easier to do.

As I often do after a particularly rich sermon, I chewed on the truth that Jesus must have carried a great deal of sadness when he walked this earth, too. We all do, you know? It’s always there and it needs to be acknowledged. Not catered to or unduly emphasized, but owned. Why? Because to be human is to be sad, at least once in a while, and sometimes it’s good to let that sadness breathe a bit. 

We are enjoying a marvelous series this summer on how Jesus read the Bible, which means how Jesus interpreted the Old Testament, the only Bible available to him in first century Palestine. This happens to be one of my very favorite topics, one I believe to be central to our understanding of how we are to view and use the Bible we have today, so I am greatly enjoying what we’re hearing. I had hoped to be one of the preachers in this series, but life intervened and that will not be happening. At this moment in time, ALL of my books are in boxes, not to be unpacked until sometime after August 10th, so preaching will be impossible for me this summer.

In years past, I would have been heartbroken about that truth. I used to love preaching, more than almost anything else I did as a pastor. But a switch got turned sometime during my last year of professional church ministry and that deep desire just sort of dried up. Sometimes I am puzzled by that. But most of the time, I am grateful. It was sometimes difficult to be a part-time associate — a role I felt called to and grateful for — when I loved preaching so much. Part-time associates do not preach often. Of course they don’t –it’s part of the deal, you know? But I loved it and I longed for it.

So losing that driving desire felt like a deep confirmation in my discernment process about retirement. It was like God said, “There will be new things for you to love, Diana.” And there have been; yes, there have been. This space is one of those things, and I am sorry that life has intervened to the extent it has in recent months. I am not able to make as many contributions to this space as I would like to. Hopefully, that will be resolved sometime next fall.

I am also thoroughly enjoying the newsletter. I allows a bit more personal interaction than the comments space (although I do love the comments space!!) and I may find it the best place to write about my journey with my mother. I also enjoy writing bi-monthly for our denominational magazine and monthly for SheLoves. I miss Deeper Story dreadfully,  but am grateful for the occasional connection with writers there via our private Facebook group. 

So losing that driving desire felt like a deep confirmation in my discernment process about retirement. It was like God said, “There will be new things for you to love, Diana.” And there have been; yes, there have been. Like this space (which I have been badly ignoring during this time of heavy lifting!), the newsletter, the articles I write for our denominational magazine, SheLoves, and anywhere else that will have me.

I think what I loved most about sermon-crafting was the writing. It was also the part that I hated the most, so go figure! And that is an interesting parallel to the joy/sadness thing, isn’t it? Both things are true. Most of us who write have a true love/hate relationship with the whole process. And all of us who live must become accustomed to that constant mix of joy and sadness, ease and difficulty, wonder and discouragement. 

Life is complicated.

But isn’t it glorious??

 

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Filed Under: Beauty, Blessings, Confession, Encouragement, Hard Things

Tapestry — SheLoves

May 16, 2015 By

The themes over at SheLoves this year have been rich and provocative. This month: fabric. You can begin this meandering piece here and then follow the link over to one of my favorite magazines in order to read the rest:
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This life we live is a woven thing.

Textures, colors, strengths, weaknesses, flaws, beauty, warmth, breathability — a wondrous, complex, sturdy fabric of relationships, experiences, emotions, encounters, learning and un-learning.

Weaving in and out of each of our stories are some glorious threads that glisten and shine; and then there are those others, the darker ones that cannot reflect light at all. Sometimes, the tension between the two can feel chaotic, without design or beauty. We can feel buried under the weight of it all as the loom of life pulls and pushes us in ways we might not choose to go.

When those days come, I try to remind myself that the fabric that is me is only one small piece of the much larger work God is creating across time and all around this universe. And that larger piece is a design of such magnificence that not one of us can even imagine its depth and beauty. Those ‘thin places’ we talked about last month sometimes give us a peek, a hint, of what God is up to in the ongoing creation of life. And that old cliché — the one about seeing only the backside of the tapestry God is weaving? Yup, I think it’s true.

There are those days when we catch a glimpse of the front, though. Moments when the glory-light shines in and our lungs feel like they’re breathing heavenly air. In the fabric of my own life, there have consistently been some glittering threads, ones that make me gasp with gratitude and sigh with recognition and relief.

Please come over and join the conversation at SheLoves! Just click on this line.

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Blessings, community, Confession, death, Doubt, Encouragement, God's gifts, Grace, grief, Hard Things, hope, Mystery, personal journey, SheLoves

The Mystery Remains

May 15, 2015 By


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Once again, I am overwhelmed by your response to a post about my journey with my mom. It never ceases to amaze me how great an epidemic this is in our land, how many people are walking this hard, painful road through the death-by-inches and loss of self that is dementia. Thank you for your kind words and your stories — they mean the world to me, and to everyone who reads through that long comment thread.

This week has been one of gradual healing, slowly regained mobility and living right smack dab in the middle of deep wells of gratitude. I’ve spelled out a few reasons why in today’s newsletter (you can subscribe at the bottom of this post if you’d like), but I will just say here that the human body is both fragile and miraculously resilient and I am celebrating the gift of my own body in ways I never have before.

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I have abused this vessel for many years, in many ways: too many calories, too little exercise, too much stress. Slowly, slowly, I am learning to appreciate how very well it has served me over my life and I am living more fully in it than ever before. That is no small gift for a little girl who hated her height/skin/hair/self and always felt awkward and clumsy. 

The bruises from my time with mom on Mother’s Day are healing as well. I dropped off some supplies two days later and as she saw me, her eyes welled with tears and she said, with great hesitation,”Are you still mad at me?”

I almost wept again.

Somewhere in the confusing tunnels of her brain, she knows that she has upset me. And she is sorry for it.

I am sorry, too.

A trusted friend and counselor said to me this morning, “You know, Diana, your letting go of that Coumadin is a strong metaphor for the way in which you must let go of everything else that makes you bleed.”

Everything else that makes me bleed.

Well, wow.

Exactly.

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I must continue to learn how to let go of these old wounds, to offer them to my Savior as a means of grace, to say ‘thank you’ for the good gifts first and forever, to release my mother’s ultimate care and safety to Another.

I am not now, never have been, and never can be responsible for her health and happiness. That is the lie that she and I have believed for far too long and it must be jettisoned. It must be.

We cannot, any of us, be ‘the answer’ for another human person. It is not possible, nor is it desirable. We can be instruments for healing, we can be companions on the way, we can laugh and cry and worry and wonder with one another. But we cannot, we must not, we dare not ever try to fix one another.

We don’t have that power. Thank God.

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There is only one source of Healing in this universe, and it pours out on us all day after day, in mess after mess, through trial after trial. It shows up in medicine, psychology, friendship, good marriages, good parenting, healthy politics (is there such a thing?). But the Source is the same. Everything  that is good and right in this universe comes from God alone.

Not me.

Not you.

Through me, hopefully, yes. And through you, too.

But we do not have to generate it, invent it, or even package it. We simply have to allow it. That is all. 

So I am learning again to say, “YES.” With as much of me as I now know, I say, “Yes.” 

And I say, “Thank you.”

Filed Under: Beauty, Confession, Dementia, Encouragement, God's gifts, Hard Things, personal journey, Spiritual Formation, Storytelling, Suffering, The Journey with Mom
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