Confession — Page 9

A Deeper Story: Stepping Into the Holy

October 30, 2014 By Diana

I can’t even begin to put into words how grateful I am to be a small part of the Deeper Story community. Ours is a rare and wonderful space on these cyberwaves, filled with honest story-telling and great conversation. Please follow the link to read all of this post over there . . .

It washed over me in a flood yesterday afternoon: I really love my life. Even when it’s hard, even when things I did not choose interrupt my forward progress on the way to where I thought I was going, even when I’m tired or sick or injured — I love my life.

I wasn’t doing anything particularly memorable at that moment. On the contrary, I was doing the usual — pulling together something resembling a meal for me and my husband. But there was this lovely, cool breeze flowing through the open kitchen window, the sun was shining, the wood floors were warm and smooth, the pantry was full, even the fridge was relatively well-organized and clean.

We’d had a surprise connection with our son for lunch earlier in the day, my mom was stable and smiling when I’d seen her the day before, the rest of our family was well and relatively happy, my foot was slowly healing. And, out of nowhere, I experienced a holy moment, right there in the middle of my green kitchen. So I stopped for a moment and I breathed a heartfelt, “Thank you!”

But here’s the flip side: even when I’m flooded with thanksgiving and delight like that, I too often find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Do you know that feeling? That insidious inner warning bell that says, “Yeah, you be careful there, honey. Don’t be too happy. Sure, you can be grateful — but do it with a note of caution, all right? Things are going well right now. But just you watch. Right around the corner, something terrible is going to happen and then where will your ‘happy song’ go?”

And that sad little ‘ding, ding’ inside my spirit can sometimes keep me from fully appreciating the beauty that is right in front of me. That anxious feeling, that superstitious thinking, can too often torpedo my contentment, IF I let it.

And way too often, I do let it. I tone down the enthusiasm, I look for the hard/bad things in my life to offer as a counterweight to all the good vibes, I try to ward off impending doom with a strange kind of interior bargaining, struggling to keep the cosmic scales in balance.

Why is that, I wonder? Deep down, do I think I don’t deserve happiness? Am I living in a state of perpetual angst-ridden anxiety? Do I think “God is out to get me?” I’m not sure of all the deep-seated psychological and/or spiritual issues that come into play to create this strange little interior dance. I just know I’ve grown very, very tired of it. . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Story, Blessings, community, Confession, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, Grandparenting, personal journey

SheLoves: Tuning In

October 25, 2014 By Diana

Once again, it’s the last Saturday of the month and I’m joining the amazing crew at SheLoves Magazine. This month, we’re writing about listening. I took a very personal slant on that idea this time around . . .

I took a short walk at the beach today, the first time since early June. I was slow, my stride was short, my right hip hurts, my left heel hurts, but . . . I took a walk at the beach today. You have no idea how much freedom is contained in that short sentence.

I took a walk at the beach today.

I’m sitting in the shade this afternoon, enjoying the clarity of the water, the light fuzziness of the skyline, the crowds of local people, enjoying the beauty of the beach. It’s very nice to be back in the school routine, not the tourist routine. There is parking!

There is room for me once again.”

These are journaling words from mid-September, written about 48 hours after being released from a heavy boot and the restrictions of a walker. I was finally able to wear TWO shoes after a long stretch (almost 14 weeks) of one-footed-ness while in various stages of recovery from foot surgery in early June.

It was that day that I knew I had turned a corner. Why? Because something about being near the ocean invites me to listen differently. To listen to the scene around me — the rhythm of the water against the shore, the call of the gulls, the splash and squeal of children getting wet, the gentle conversations of friends and family in different configurations along the water line. And to listen to the sweet voice of God, reminding me that I am seen, I am loved. All of it was welcome, familiar, comforting, a reminder that there is a bigger world than the confines of my bedroom. There is a bigger God than the one I had been imagining while confined!

When you are ill, or in the midst of a long recovery of some kind, listening well becomes problematic and strangely difficult. There is solitude to be found, that is most certainly true! But it’s a strange kind of solitude, not intentional, but enforced by circumstances beyond your control. And sometimes that enforced solitude can mean turning inward in ways that are not always healthy.

I am discovering that there is a difference between turning inward to hear from the gentle voice of the Spirit and turning inward to be assaulted by the anxieties and struggles of my own sick self. Finding my way through that particular thicket has not always been easy during this stretch of time.

Please follow the link on over there, won’t you?

Filed Under: Aging, Blessings, Confession, Encouragement, God's gifts, personal journey, SheLoves

Did You Say SHORTS? A Guest Post for Jamie Wright

October 8, 2014 By Diana

I had a fun thing happen! On a whim, I left a comment at TheVeryWorstMissionary.com when Jamie offered a giveaway of three guest post opps. And I WON! Begin fear and trembling. What in the name of heaven does an old lady have to say to such a young, hip crowd as those who read this woman’s amazing words? She was encouraging and I stewed and prayed for about four days, and then, this came pouring out. You can start here and then follow me on over to her place to read the rest . . . Getting old is ripe with indignities. Go ahead, ask me how I know. I watch my 93-year-old mom take daily steps further into the haze of dementia, and I fear for the future. And then I realize — the future is here. Yowza.

In four months, I will be 70 years old. 7-0. I remember struggling a bit with 35, taking a deep breath at 40, sort of reveling in 50 and feeling resolute about 60. But 70? The word that comes to mind is sobering. Also? More than a little bit humiliating.

Case in point. About a year ago, I injured my left foot while taking a morning walk — on vacation, no less. That led to a couple of months of physical therapy, which led to a different injury, same foot, which led to three months of tests, boots, ice packs, and assorted piles of pillows.

Ultimately, a new set of x-rays revealed a congenitally crooked heel bone, which had likely led to the two tendon insults in the first place, one of which proved to be a nearly irreparable tear.

And that meant surgery — to break and reset (with two titanium screws) that gnarly bone problem and to clean-up and re-connect the bashed tendon. Which meant, NO weight-bearing for a minimum of two months.

And? Ta-da. MORE physical therapy.

I am happy to report that I am now walking, in two shoes, and trying to re-learn how to move this elderly ankle of mine. And just last week, I was invited to try out a brand, spankin’ new, space-age treadmill called the Super G.

What they did not tell me is that to use this machine, I had to wriggle myself into a pair of strangely shaped walking shorts made of neoprene. Listen to me now — I have not worn shorts of any kind in over twenty years. Twenty years.

Even when I was younger, stronger, and more shapely, getting into this particular pair of shorts would have been a good trick. Now? Holy Toledo, it is . . . well, humiliating.

In a good way, of course. Yeah, that is pretty much the oxymoron of the century, I know. But what this strange, gravity-defying machine is teaching me is that sometimes humiliation can be a very good thing.

Come on over to Jamie’s good place and encourage the old lady, okay?

Filed Under: Aging, Blessings, Confession, Encouragement, personal journey, Suffering

31 Days of Looking for the Little: Looking Up

October 3, 2014 By Diana

There are too many days when I forget to do this — to look up. To get my eyes off the ground, or my feet, or my neighbor and look up.

Up where the sun is shining — or the rain is falling. Up where the leaves are twinkling, where the birds are roosting, where the clouds are blowing. Up.

I was walking through the lobby of a beautiful auditorium in Pasadena when I stopped looking at the carpet for just a moment. And when I looked up — I saw this glory. Oh, my.

An amazing chandelier — not a little thing at all. But the act of looking up was little. Just a small change in perspective, just a little bit of motion, and whammo — spectacular.

I need to look up more.

How about you?

<div align="center"><a href="http://dianatrautwein.com/category/31-day-blogging-challenge/" title="Just Wondering"><img src="http://dianatrautwein.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/DSC02765-last-round-31-days-e1411750071820.jpg" alt="Just Wondering" style="border:none;" /></a></div>

Filed Under: 31 Day Blogging Challenge, Beauty, Confession, Encouragement, Enough

Book Review & Giveaway! “Tables in the Wilderness”

September 30, 2014 By Diana

Preston Yancey is a favorite of mine. He has an artist’s soul and a deep and wide knowledge of theology and literature. His first book is officially launching TODAY, and I recommend it to you.

As you read, you must come to peace with the truth that Preston is ridiculously young. Yes, he is. He might deny this, but I know it to be true. In many ways, he is an old soul and that adds gravitas to his words, burnishing them with lived experience and grace.

This memoir slice is the story of a relatively short season of life — the college years. The years of growing up and growing out, of finding lifelong friends, discovering what you love and what you don’t, and maybe, if you’re truly blessed, finding your life partner.

Over the pages of this lovely book, he does all of these things — he grows up, he grows out, he makes (and loses) friends, he discovers what and whom he loves. And in the process, he learns a lot about God — something that he was certain he already knew.

That’s the way with us humans, isn’t it? We think we know so much. And then . . . we don’t. Preston tells us about his faith journey, about the professors who inspired him, about the parents who loved and honored him, about a few girls he dated and the one he married. And he does it in the inimitable Yancey way. . . by talking in beautiful, lyrical circles.

So my primary word of advice is this: carve out a half day and read this book in one sitting. I did not do this and I wish I had — because Preston circles back to where he began more than once, as the quote above boldly tells us. Take it from me that tracking names and relationships can get a little more difficult when you’ve let time elapse between reading spells.

And the second word of advice is like unto the first: as you read this lovely story, try to remember as much of your own growing up years as possible. If you read “Tables” in one sitting, this remembering will be easier to do.

Most of us who’ve lived a bit longer than Preston will recognize ourselves as we read. We’ll remember what it feels like to love and lose, to visit strange congregations, to wonder if God has forgotten us, and to discover our faith all over again.

I think that kind of remembering is one of the primary joys of reading memoir. It’s a good thing to find companions on the way, even ones we’ve never met. And Preston Yancey is a very fine companion, indeed.

I happen to have one extra copy of this book and if you’d like to put your name in the hopper for a chance to win it, just leave me a comment. I’ll draw names one week from today — Tuesday, October 7, 2014 and I’ll post the winner here that evening. Please be sure to leave me your email address!

Filed Under: Beauty, Book Review, Confession, Doubt, Giveaway!!

What if . . .

August 19, 2014 By Diana

photo courtesy of sfgate.com

What if . . .

we raised our hands with love and attention,

we offered our prayers with concern and commitment,

we held back judgment,

gave others the benefit of the doubt,

stood for justice,

and meant it,

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

What if . . .

we humbled ourselves,

truly humbled ourselves,

and said, yes, I’m to blame, too,

I’ve given tacit approval to racism,

to classism,

to sexism,

to all kinds of isms

and prejudices

and fear-based opinions?

What if . . .

we earnestly sought for reconciliation,

with a willingness to pay the price,

whatever it might be?

What if we listened,

really listened,

to generations of accumulated pain,

to the voices of those who have no voice,

to the ones who are caught in the web

of evil or poverty or severe systemic dysfunction?

And what if . . .

we prayed up leaders,

real leaders,

with hearts and souls

and good, good minds,

people who would search for

lasting answers and real solutions?

Do you think it would help?

Would we learn to see each other?

To hear each other?

To tolerate each other

and appreciate differences

as well as similarities?

O, I hope so.

I pray so.

I’m listening.

I’m learning.

I want to grow in grace,

to lean into the love of Jesus,

to offer a cup of cold water

and work for peace.

Will you raise hands with me?

And with all who are suffering tonight,

in Ferguson, in Gaza, in Iraq,

wherever hatred and fear rule?

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

Living with the Truth

August 11, 2014 By Diana

The riveting events of the past week have served to remind most of us that we live our lives in the middle of a ‘beautiful and terrible’* world.

Yesterday, I sat in one of the loveliest, richest and most remarkable worship services, rippled with the laughter and music of children, filled with prayers of dedication for middlers and high schoolers headed off to summer camp. I heard scripture read well by an 8-year-old and smiled through tears because I could STAND and sing worship songs with the congregation.

I live daily with the truth that my spot on this earth is beautiful, filled with the grandeur of mountain and ocean, agriculture and wide open spaces. This is a heaven-on-earth kind of place and I am grateful.

When I start asking the impossible ‘why?’ questions, I must begin with where I am. Why am I so blessed? Why is my life as lovely and full as it is?

As with every ‘why?’ question, there is no easily accessible answer. What can I say? The luck of the draw? The will of God? The accident of birth and marriage? There is no answer that suffices, all I can do is breathe out thanksgiving and choose to live with a ready sense of wonder. My life is a gift, one that I did not earn and cannot control.

As I reflect on the atrocities happening in Iraq — and in many other places not nearly so well-publicized — I must also acknowledge that there is no easy answer to the ‘why?’ question there, either.

It has always been so. Even a cursory reading of history forces us to accept the truth that human beings are capable of unimaginable terror and torture. And human beings are capable of creating art, architecture, literature, music, caring acts of compassion and astounding feats of derring-do and invention.

This is the truth. The reality in which we all must live.

And though my life has been most assuredly blessed, even our family is not immune to the troubles and pain of this world.

My maternal grandmother lived long past her expected demise, suffering a major coronary at the age of 54 and living with congestive heart disease until she died at the age of 101.

She lived long enough to meet my two eldest grandsons. Why? I haven’t a clue.

On the other hand, my son-in-law, father to those two and one more, died at the age of 44. A hard death, long and difficult and marked by struggle, pain and suffering every single day for many years, especially the last three.

I have no explanation for any of this, or for why my mother and my mother-in-law sank into dementia or why I was born with a crooked heel that would cause me such distress as I close out my seventh decade.

This is truth. This is life. This is what we live in and with, every day we breathe. But I am also coming to believe that this is also what we live for. ALL of this — the beautiful and the terrible — is what makes life life, what makes life true.

I did not say easy. Because it most decidedly is not easy. It’s complicated, troubling, fearful. Also? Amazing, astounding, remarkable and stunning. And over all of it, God is telling the story of redemption.

And God is using us to help tell that story. God invites us right up on stage and says, “Partner with me. Tell my story in your vernacular, in your specific situation. Live it out, trust me, love me, love one another. I will be with you, no matter what comes.”

The sermon we heard yesterday was a reminder of the size and scope of this story we are a part of. Pastor Jon worked from 1 John 5:6-12 and he talked about the One who comes. The One who comes from God, as one of us. The One who breathes life into everyone he meets. The One who dies for us, who never dismisses our pain and struggle, but who ultimately assumes full responsibility for all of it. I loved this line: “God’s death on the cross is not a military victory but a glorious martyrdom. God straps on our humanity to kill death by dying. God takes on our life so that we can take on God’s Spirit.”

As horrific as the news out of Iraq is to our eyes and ears, not one bit of it surprises or shocks our God. It saddens and stirs that great Divine Heart, but in no way does it signal the end of the story.

Redemption is still at work. We cannot yet see it, but I am confident it is there. Not one drop of blood is shed in vain in that place.

As brothers and sisters, we are called to participate. First of all, we are called to pray. This is the primary work of the church and it is important and needful. We are also called to give what we can to help alleviate suffering in this hard place and everywhere on this earth where human beings are struggling.

And. We are called to lament. To grieve, even as God grieves. We are called to wrestle and ponder, to ask the hard questions and search for difficult answers, to hold governments and paramilitary groups responsible for unspeakable acts.

And then? To come back round to praise. To sing a sad song – yes, yes, yes. But to sing it to the One who comes, to the One who knows our frame, who embraces our frame, who lives out love to the fullest, and who asks us to love for his sake.

Do you see this magnificent fresco? It is painted in the rear of the Chora Church in Istanbul, Turkey. Take a close look at it. The One who came, the One who died, is risen in glory and in each hand, he grabs hold of Adam and Eve, pulling them into life right next to him. This is why Jesus came, you see. THIS. Jesus came to bring life to our messed up, broken, imperfect, inglorious humanity.

Why? Because we are valuable to God, loved, seen, understood, accepted and esteemed. Every single life that is lost in Iraq — every single one — is seen, loved, accepted, esteemed.

And so is every single crazy person moving through town with a weapon and a heart full of hate. That’s the piece that is toughest for us to pray our way through, isn’t it?

But that’s the piece that makes God GOD. That’s the piece that makes redemption the point of the story. That’s the piece that fits the gospel to a tee. While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.

Oh, may the worldwide church prove to be worthy of the blood of these martyred ones. May we be faithful to pray and to give and to act. May we live lives worthy of the One who came.

May we live well with the truth.

* quote from Frederick Buechner in “Wishful Thinking.” This is the whole thing:

“Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you.”

Filed Under: Beauty, biblical reflection, Church, community, Confession, Encouragement, God's gifts, grief, Hard Things, hope, Lament, personal journey

Love and Fear

July 27, 2014 By Diana

“There is only one metric for discipleship, only one call: to go beyond being polite, subdued, civil and nice to practicing real, even dangerous, love.” – Pastor Don Johnson, in this morning’s sermon, “Sifted,”
based on 1 John 4:7-21

Twenty-nine times in fourteen verses — that’s how often the apostle John uses the worn-out, overused, mostly ignored word, “love,” in the 4th chapter of his first epistle.

Twenty-nine times.

I think this guy believes what he says, you know?

And I think he has the street cred to back up his instructions, his analysis, his hopes, his commands.

You remember John, don’t you? The ‘beloved’ disciple, one of three pulled out for special events, the one to whom Jesus gave responsibility for his mother while he was dying on that cross, the one who stayed around through the whole awful crucifixion scene and then showed up early at the empty tomb and immediately believed?

Yes, I think this man’s words can be trusted. I think John knows whereof he speaks.

So from our perch in the balcony this morning (it’s where the scooter fits best), I sat and pondered this tableau of sifting things — fish net, colander, strainer. And as we moved through the sermon, I could see — again! — that the one thing Jesus uses to sift the wheat from the chaff in our souls is love.

Nothing else works, you see. Only love can separate us from all those things that get in the way of deep and true relationships, that keep us from living out the peace and justice that God asks of us, that infiltrate our spirits and keep us suspicious, reactive, judgmental and jealous. Only love.

We’ve heard that word so often that most of the time, we don’t even think about what it might mean when we see it, hear it, think it.

What does it truly mean to love? To choose love, to practice love, to live in love? Where does it come from? How do we grow it in ourselves?

It is, after all, the one thing that Jesus commands us to do, right? Love God, love one another.

And John picks up the song right where Jesus left off. Pastor Don outlined for us the powerful truths that are buried in this long list of ‘love’ words in 1 John 4 and the ones that stood out to me are these:

Love comes from God because God is love.

God is therefore the source of love, we are the reflectors of it.

God chooses to use us as instruments of God’s love in our interactions with one another.

Our love for one another is the primary — perhaps even the only — way in which those who do not yet know God can see God at work in the world.

The clearest demonstration of love ever let loose in this world is Jesus.

When love takes over, fear flees.

Loving God and loving others are non-negotiables.

Even though I wasn’t feeling particularly well this morning, I knew I needed to hear this sermon, to ponder it and pray through it and learn from it. For lots of reasons, but primarily because of my own ongoing battle with anxiety and worry. That particular journey is a two-steps-forward-one-step-back kinda trip in my life, and I needed to think again on these words: “Perfect love casts out fear.”

When you think about it, fear is at the bottom of a whole lot of ugly, scary things in this world. Every bomb dropped, warrior wounded, child enslaved, bit of food hoarded — all of it comes back to being afraid of something. Afraid there won’t be enough, afraid we’ll lose face, afraid we won’t get all our wants/needs met, afraid of the nameless/faceless ‘enemy,’ wherever and whoever they are.

I’ve been afraid a lot lately — afraid I’ll never walk right again, afraid I’ll be dependent on others forever, afraid I’ll be . . . what? Defective? Hobbled? Less than?

And yet, I don’t believe that about friends of mine who deal with disabilities of one kind or another. I see them for who they are, I value their insights and their gifts. So what am I truly afraid of?

Maybe that I’ll be less than what I’ve been before. Maybe that I’ll fail to measure up to some invisible, impossible standard of perfection that hangs over my head. Maybe that no one will love me if I’m not ‘together.’ Maybe that I do not and will not love myself if I’m not ‘performing’ the way I think I should. Maybe that God won’t love me if I’m not working hard.

Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.

I am still doing battle with that ancient enemy, that old heresy, the one that goes like this:

Salvation is to be earned.
Worth is to be proven.
What I do for God and for others is what will force God to love me and will make me more acceptable to myself, too.

And that is crazy-making thinking, you know? Scroll back up to the list I wrote out from chapter 4. John spells it out, plain as day. LOVE COMES FIRST, God loves us, we respond in love, God’s love flows through us to others, and the pattern is repeated.

Only, we’re really, really lousy at this thing. Just reading through the comments section at some of the more public blogging sites proves that. We can’t even be civil, much less move beyond civility to love. We so often let fear win, don’t we? Way too often.

So tonight, at this end of the day, I want to start again. Again. I want to ask for the blessing and I want to be open enough to receive it. I want to hold my hands and my heart open and let the love of God flow into and through me. I want to live in love, not in fear.

In LOVE, not in fear.

How about you?

Filed Under: biblical reflection, Church, community, Confession, Doubt, Encouragement, God's gifts, hope, Listening, Mystery, personal journey, worship

Learning to Lean — SheLoves

July 26, 2014 By Diana

Each month, it is my privilege to write for SheLoves Magazine. Here are some reflections on the idea of authenticity. . .

So exactly how authentic would you like me to be? Would you like some of the more grimy details related to surgical recovery? A picture of what it’s like to be suddenly down to one leg?

Well, okay then. A little peek into our days just now, a glimpse of where I find myself post-surgery, and some of what I’m learning while I’m here.

Have you ever tried to get into a shower with one foot? Can’t be done, I tell you. Cannot be done. I’ve recently begun to master the fine art of hopping, but jumping? Not gonna happen. And any shower with a normal door requires one gigantic jump, let me tell you.

The only appliance — and believe me, we have several — the only appliance that helped me get into that shower is my new best friend, a four-wheeled contraption called a knee caddy. The walker just did not cut it. The crutches? Fuggedabout it. Even the shower chair, on loan from a friend, didn’t help all that much. But that funky scooter, coupled with one determined husband?

Yeah, that did the trick.

Half in and half out, my injured leg atop the cushions on said scooter, I finally managed to make the small leap over the shower lip and land safely on the tiled bench we built into our shower over a decade ago. Our shower — part of the master suite, which has become my home of late. And also, my prison.

I knew this would happen. I’ve been preparing for it for a couple of months now, practicing my maneuvers on one leg, learning to keep everything I need within reach, asking for help when I need it.

But it’s that last piece that is the worst one of all.

I am not good at asking for help. I’m pretty good at giving it, been doing that all of my life. But receiving it? An experience so unfamiliar as to be downright unrecognizable, almost undoable. It seems I would rather take the risk of falling out of bed to make that one – last – reach than to raise my voice and shout for HELP.

Why is that, I wonder?

Won’t you follow me over to SheLoves for the rest of this piece and the always wonderful conversational thread that builds in that place. . .

Filed Under: Confession, Encouragement, personal journey, SheLoves

Offering Welcome . . . Starting with Me

July 13, 2014 By Diana

The wisdom of illness for me always seems to come with the slowing down and staying present. I don’t believe these experiences come to teach us “lessons” as if God were some great schoolmarm in the sky. But out of our radical vulnerability arises an invitation to ever greater gentleness, to tenderness to the needs of our bodies. This is inner hospitality at its most intimate.
– Christine Valters Paintner, Abbey of the Arts

I am struggling with the truth of these words in a profound way these days. “Inner hospitality” is something I say I believe. And most of the time, I truly mean it. It turns out, however, that I am a desperately slow learner, one who ‘knows’ things in her head long, LONG before I know them in my heart and in the rigors of day-to-day life.

I am impatient by nature, anxious to keep moving forward to whatever the goal of the moment may be, and I’m finding it extraordinarily difficult to be patient in the midst of this particular period of waiting. Most especially, it is difficult to be patient with me.

We heard a sermon this morning that reminded us of our primary identity as followers of Jesus. Underneath every other label we might choose to slap on our personal lapel, this one is the truest, the dearest and the most important: I am a child of God.

I will say that I am feeling peculiarly childlike (or is it child-ish?) these days. I feel small, markedly helpless, dependent on the wisdom, strength and availability of others.

And I do not like it at all.

And I find myself wondering — what does it mean to be a child? I mean, besides the relative helplessness and lack of control over the ‘big things’ in life, what does it mean? What did (does) it feel like? What can I learn from remembering/observing what a child’s life is like?

Here are a few things that rise to the surface as I ponder. I believe these things to be true for most healthy children growing up in caring, relatively functional families, where physical and emotional needs are seen and met and safety and security are the norm. Such blessed children can often be described as:

emotionally open
accepting
unself-conscious
curious
eager
joyful

This is not to say they are perfect. Far from it — children are humans, too, and they can be as belligerent, obnoxious, difficult and moody as the rest of us. But, on balance, there are some truly lovely things that emerge in childhood that so often get hidden away as the maturation process sets in.

As I spent this afternoon reflecting on the sermon and on my life at the moment, I began to search for a spirit of welcome in me, a spirit of welcome for the person I am right now, hobbled by injury and fatigue, more dependent on others than at any other point in my long life since about the age of three.

How can I reclaim that central identity, name myself a loved child of God, and extend grace and true hospitality to the me I am right this minute?

I’ve spent my entire adult life being ‘big,’ both metaphorically and literally. It’s been important that I be seen as enough — good enough, strong enough, smart enough, acceptable enough, big enough. And I’ve worked hard to earn the respect, even the admiration, of others.

So what does it mean that right now, right this minute, I am ‘small?’ I am ‘less than?’ I am dis-abled?

In the midst of that reality, is it possible that I can reclaim and cherish, the identity of child? That I can embrace the littleness, learn to tolerate the dependency, and then move through this particular slough of despond?

Maybe I can start by studying these pictures. Scroll through them with me again, will you?

Can I stand still in the light? Can I pay attention to the life that is happening around me? Can I rest on one foot and ready myself for the next adventure?

Can I enjoy the transience of things, the creation of moments, just moments, of beauty and delight? Can I choose to make the ‘dishwater’ a source of interest and creativity, and leave the dirty dishes aside?

Every day, can I go on a hunt for treasure, looking for beauty and nourishment in unexpected places? Can I resist the urge to make it a contest — with myself or anybody else! — and just look around and see what I can find?

Can I make room for, even welcome, all the emotions that are rising to the surface at this time? The pensiveness, the worry, the hilarity, the joyful abandon, the silliness, the wonder?

Can I re-learn how to be deliberate, to concentrate, to focus? Despite the fatigue of having to re-think every single thing I’m used to doing by rote, despite the lingering after-effects of anesthesia, despite the new demands that this season places upon both body and spirit?

Can I give myself complete permission to take a break? To veg out, as needed, to pull away for a minute (or 30) and just rest? Not this enforced resting that is so much a part of the living of these days, but true rest — deliberate, well-chosen rest?

The very fact that I have found enough interior space to write this many words is a hopeful sign that maybe, just maybe, the answer to these queries is a quiet, but determined, ‘YES.’

As with so many things in this life, it’s a matter of waiting.

And seeing.

Shall we wait and see together?