God’s gifts — Page 12

Being Saved by Beauty — A Deeper Story

September 8, 2014 By Diana

For nearly two years now, it has been my joy and privilege to write once a month for one of the finest and most honest websites in the Christian blogosphere – A Deeper Story. I’ve got a reflection over there this month that came as a result of so much angry talk out here during this hot and sultry summer. Please follow the links here and at the end of this post to read the entire piece:

“One thing have I asked of the LORD, one thing will I seek: to live in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to behold the beauty of the LORD in his temple.” (Psalm 27:4, NRSV)

Every day. Honest to God, every single day, it is beauty that brings me back from the brink. Some days, it’s the single strongest strand in the invisible net that keeps me from sinking beneath the waves of agony that overwhelm our world on a regular basis.

This life we live can sometimes bring us to a desolate and frightening place. Human beings can be filled with so much hatred and ignorance; the work of the natural world can impinge upon our safety and our peace of mind; racism and sexism and ageism and every other ism you can name — well, they show up in all kinds of ways, both blatant and subtle. There are days when it all feels claustrophobic, paralyzing, too much.

I think that’s why I’ve chosen not to watch the news very much. We don’t take newspapers anymore, either. Maybe I’m like the proverbial ostrich, sticking my head in the sand, falsely believing I’m safe, while the ugliness continues to swirl around my very exposed hind parts.

All I know is, I have limits.

I do not like admitting that truth, I’ll tell you that. Most of my life, I’ve worked very hard to push through perceived limits, pushing to excel at whatever I’m doing. Why? Because I really, really don’t like limits that are imposed upon me by others, which is at the heart of all those isms I mentioned above, isn’t it? Racism, sexism, ageism — one group of people imposing limits on another group of people. And those kinds of limits, I do push back against, gently but firmly.

But I have other limits, ones that I’m discovering in my spirit, in my soul, and they seem to become more and more pronounced as the years add up. There are limits to how much ugliness I can take in, how much vitriol I can absorb. So I generally do not read comment threads that move from discussion to disagreement to name-calling. And I do not follow Twitter fests that quickly degenerate into small bites of not-knowing-much. There are exceptions to this, I know. But for this old broad, the speed and agility with which so many choose to speak is simply beyond me.

In the blogging world, and even on Facebook, I find that I am grateful for friends who can speak back to the ugly, and I try to lend my support with a gentle comment or two, or a Facebook share. But I am discovering that I don’t have what it takes to enter the fray and slice through the verbiage with a carefully aimed retort. For most of the last four years, I’ve been okay with that, grateful to be an encourager and a supporter, a cheerleader on the sidelines, gladly giving way to quicker minds and more articulate voices.

Today, however, at this end of these four years, I wonder: is it enough? Am I doing enough? Do I need to speak up more, maybe even shout more? This has been a matter of prayer and much inner seeking and searching into the depths of my heart and the limits of my courage. . .

Please click here to follow me over to A Deeper Story. . .

Filed Under: A Deeper Story, Aging, Beauty, biblical reflection, Encouragement, Fear, God's gifts, hope, personal journey, Storytelling

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

A Sacramental Life – A Deeper Story

August 6, 2014 By Diana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he prayed. Oh, how he prayed.

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

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

When It Rains . . .

August 4, 2014 By Diana

So . . . remember that post I wrote last week? The one about Love and Fear? Yeah, that one.

About three days after it went live, I apparently had a kind of panic attack, the night before I was to visit the surgeon to learn if I’d be on schedule for this healing process or have to add more weeks on the dang scooter.

That was NOT fun. And it set off a bout of esophageal problems that I’ve run into once or twice before — days of heartburn, back and chest pain, inability to eat much at all. Last time this happened, it took the better part of a month to resolve.

The great news I got at the surgeon’s office (begin partial weight-bearing and physical therapy now, two weeks ahead of schedule) was quickly offset by feeling absolutely lousy and remarkably frightened about it all.

So much for ‘love casting out fear,’ right? It seems this is a lesson I never quite learn. And it’s not going to get any better as I continue to age, of that I am quite certain. As we get older, a lot of our youthful defenses can’t quite pull off what they once could, and different kinds of intervention sometimes become necessary.

My kind and patient husband and I went through one long day of medical testing to confirm my own diagnosis of this condition and my gastro doc ‘just happened’ to be in the lobby when I was near his section of our clinic. He promptly did a complete endoscopy.

The confirmation came when he sprayed an absolutely vile tasting numbing agent into the back of my throat and for the 60-90 minutes that stuff numbed me up, I was symptom free. He did find a few small things going on in that department, but apart from the very likely possibility of a spasm in that long tube between throat and tummy, there is no clear reason for this siege.

Except.

Stress brought on by worry.

Man, that’s hard for me to put into writing. So, he prescribed some stomach-soothing liquid medication, and a new variety of prescription GERD treatment.

And also? Ativan, to be taken whenever I feel that panic rising.

Somehow, that feels like a huge personal failure to me. Yet another of the many painful lessons I’m learning as we walk through this L O N G period of recovery and rehab. Deep breathing and the Jesus prayer are not always going to cover it all. They’re just not.

Despite my ill health, my disappointment in myself, and my overall fatigue with ALL of this, I wanted to go to church. It was Communion Sunday and Pastor Don was into 1 John 5. Oh, how I needed to worship, to sing, to pray, to hear the Word. And to sit with God’s people.

I was reminded — again! — that we don’t do this journey alone, we belong to one another. That’s the way God designed and intended the Christian journey to flourish. We gather together, in the same space, and we remember that we cannot do this discipleship thing without the company of others.

And when you’ve been sitting on your butt for 7+ weeks, these moments of community gathering are essential, believe me when I tell you this. The service was lovely, filled with grace and good humor, lovely music, a well-preached word. And the Table.

Oh, the Table. The remembering and the re-membering and the visual picture of the body of Christ streaming forward to share in the Body of Christ. Yes, yes! I needed this.

This is the great, old palm tree that stands tall in my backyard. I love it. And when I manage to scooter my way to the chaise lounge that faces it, I sit and stare for a while. And I marvel.

Birds by the dozens flit in and out of it’s immensity. All kinds of birds, from tiny sparrows to red-headed woodpeckers to noisy black crows. And there’s room there, room for every one of them. A safe space to build a nest, to nurture the hatchlings, and to rest, away from the dangers of coyote and bobcat, of riding mower and leaf blower.

I am deeply blessed to be able to say that church has always been such a place for me. Worship is a safe place, a nurturing place. A restful place. I’m so grateful that this is true in my life and that, despite the frustrations and limitations of these weeks, I am still able to be there.

It’s a humbling thing to have to acknowledge that even after many years of following Jesus, and many experiences of grace made real, I still do battle with fear and worry. I am asking for grace, most especially for myself just now. And for gracious acceptance of the limits within which I must live the rest of my life. The physical ones are difficult enough. But the emotional and spiritual ones? Those are proving to be the biggies, the ones that need daily relinquishment.

As always, I’m standin’ in the need of prayer.

Filed Under: Aging, Beauty, Birds, Church, community, Encouragement, Fear, God's gifts, Hard Things, hope, personal journey, Storytelling, The Church

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

Gettin’ on That Mat — A Deeper Story

July 17, 2014 By Diana

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

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

His friends.

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

His friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Filed Under: Aging, biblical reflection, Church, Confession, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, grief, Hard Things, Marriage, personal journey, Photo Essay, Spiritual Formation

That Fifth Commandment — She Loves

June 28, 2014 By Diana

I’ve been privileged the last few months to write a monthly essay over at SheLoves, one of my favorite spaces on the internet. This is the story for June . . .

I helped my husband teach Sunday School a few weeks ago. He teaches the kids in grades 1-4 and his usual teammate was out of town on Mother’s Day, so he asked me to step in.

I did all I could to stifle a groan, forced a smile and said, “Well. I guess so.”

Not the most gracious response, I will admit. Since I retired from ministry a little over three years ago, I’ve sort of ‘given up’ Sunday school. I did a lot of planning, coordinating, setting up tables and chairs, and teaching during my years as an associate pastor, and, to tell you the truth, I am pretty burned out on the whole shebang.

Also? I taught adults. That’s what my call was, that’s where my gifts lie, and for a long time, I absolutely loved it.

I think it was the tables and chairs that finally got to me.

So, for most of the last three years, I have gotten up, gotten dressed and driven my husband to church, dropping him off by the children’s wing. And then, I’ve turned my car around and headed right straight down to the beach.

I park my car near the bluffs, under the lone cypress tree that marks ‘my spot,’ and I sit with my tea and my toast and I stare at the sea. Sometimes, I read scripture or a devotional guide. Sometimes I just sit. Always, I open myself to God and listen. And you want to know something? I’ve gotten so much more out of worship when I begin my Sunday this way — by myself, by the sea.

So to give that up — on Mother’s Day, no less — was tough to do.

But.

I wanted to honor my husband.

I don’t do enough of that these days. We’ve grown into a comfortable pattern of occupying this house in separate spaces most of the day. We check in with each other, we check up on each other — but part of the adjustment to our both being home together, all day, every day, has meant the creation of parallel lives, at least to some extent. So agreeing to his request that we do something together seemed timely and important.

And he really, really wanted me there.

Part of the lesson involved looking at the fifth commandment . . .

Please join me over at SheLoves today to read the rest of this story . . .

Filed Under: biblical reflection, Confession, family, God's gifts, Marriage, ministry, personal journey, SheLoves

The Age of Happy Endings Is NOT Dead

June 27, 2014 By Diana

A small disclaimer as I tell you this story. This wonderful, happy story. One that I know comes from a position of extreme privilege, something for which I thank God every day. I do know how blessed we are. I do. And the loss described in this small tale is surely not anything grand or even close to horrific. It was, nevertheless, loss. And now it is not. And in the midst of living this story, we felt heard, we felt seen, we felt loved. I share it today because I think it’s amazing. I hope you will, too.

It was an anniversary gift. An iPad Mini, handed to my husband over a plate of fine salmon as we celebrated #47. At first, he was dismayed: “What am I going to do with this?” he asked.

“You’ll figure something out,” I said, smiling shyly.

He is not a man of the technological age, you see. Not quite a Luddite — but close. He’s learned the basics of email and attachments, but refuses to own a cell phone or to explore his desktop computer any more than he has to.

But I knew something he did not. On a small iPad, he could read books. And he could play Scrabble. And once he had mastered those simple things, he was sold. I mean, that iPad accompanied him everywhere, to each room in the house, in the car when we drove down to the beach to sit and reflect, when we went on vacation.

Everywhere.

He put a great photo on the desktop — Poppy with his two grandgirls — and he became a grandmaster of internet Scrabble, playing only against the computer and usually winning. Definitely, winning.

So, yesterday was a busy day for us. Compared to most of our days since my surgery two weeks and one day ago, it was jam-packed. We had a beach trip in the morning and a doctor’s visit in the afternoon. See what I mean? Jam-packed!

And now that I’m temporarily sidelined, he must load the car with our various and sundry traveling equipment all by himself. So yesterday morning, he trudged out with our two water bottles, his own sunglasses (two pair are required — don’t ask!), his iPad. Then, I slowly wheeled myself out to the garage, carefully positioned myself just past the door opening, squiggled backwards a tiny bit and then plopped down into the front seat. He picked up my scooter and stashed it in the back of our Honda Pilot and then carefully backed us out of the garage.

Instead of reading at the beach, which is our usual pattern, we chose to talk yesterday, so neither of us noticed anything amiss. Then, when it was time to go to the doctor’s, I asked him if he would bring his iPad along for the wait time and we realized it wasn’t in the car. A cursory inspection of the house yielded nothing.

The doctor’s visit was good — cast is off, stitches are out, baseline x-rays have been taken. We could easily see the two, long narrow screws now permanently embedded into my heel bone.

We were, however, told that this healing process could take longer than planned and we were also informed that there might be a problem with the big toe because of what he had to do during the surgery. I remain committed to holding positive thoughts, however, and am trusting that things will go as initially stated — eight weeks without walking, then another eight weeks of physical therapy. Then walking, as usual.

We returned home with some very mixed feelings and Dick began to scour the house, looking for that crazy iPad. We sat down and talked through the day together at least three different times, trying to back-step our way through where it might have landed.

It was not to be found.

He began searching again this morning after we had yet another conversation about everyplace he’d been the previous day.

Nothing.

I prayed quietly. Fervently. “Lord, this is such a good man. His list of ‘pleasure’ activities is pitifully short during this particular siege. So, maybe, could you help?”

I had a phone appointment at 9:00 a.m. and during that call, someone else called through. I made the decision to answer it because I thought I recognized the number.

Wrong.

It was “David.” No clue who David is.

But this is what he said: “I found an iPad with your name on it and I’m wondering if you’ve lost one.”

Say, what?

You found an iPad with my name on it?

YOU FOUND AN IPAD? Where?

It was at the Salinas Street exit of the freeway.

THE FREEWAY, did you say?

THE FREEWAY??

He figured out how to get into it, went to the contacts list and plucked out my cell phone number.

And just like that, we received an airmail, special delivery love note from God.

Just like that.

Dick hurriedly left to drive across town to retrieve it, I went back to my original phone call, and we were both wonderstruck that such a thing could happen.

Here’s a possible scenario for how it unfolded, given the scant information available to us: sometime during the morning get-in-the-car commotion, Dick put that iPad on the roof of the car near my door while he was helping me get situated.

It remained there all the way to the beach and back, all the way to the freeway on-ramp, only flying off as we began to accelerate. Salinas Street is the very first exit heading north, and that’s where it was found, a slight dent in the bottom, the stylus missing, but otherwise intact and operational

It didn’t go into traffic. It couldn’t have started out on the driver’s side of the car, or it would have been trashed. It didn’t fly off the back of the car, either.

It was good and gone. Gone, I tell you.

And then, it was found.

And so were we.

Not a grand miracle. But a very, very good one. Thank you, Lord.

Some photos from yesterday’s grand unveiling:

Cutting through miles of bandage,

a huge wad of cotton,

to a swollen ankle, in all its glory.

Two incisions, one at the way-back end for the bone breaking and stabilizing, one up a little higher for the tendon rearrangement.

The two pins in my foot. Can you see them?

The only stitches to be removed were here on the back, at the back end of the two screws. See those darkish round spots? Yup, that’s it.

Wrapped for protection from the inside of the boot.

And into the boot for the next six (we hope!) weeks.

Filed Under: Encouragement, family, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay

Report from the Front

June 24, 2014 By Diana

The last 12 days have felt a little like I’ve been struggling my way up from the deep water, and awkwardly paddling toward the light, the air. It’s been a limiting, sometimes frightening, always exhausting experience.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had surgery* of any kind. A long time. And I knew this would be a rough one going in — there is no way to avoid the ‘roughness’ of being almost 70 years old, with a badly injured left foot, dealing with blood thinning medication from a previous event/insult to the body, and being told that there will be no weight-bearing for eight weeks.

No way around it.

And, to tell you the truth, it’s every bit as difficult as I anticipated. Pain medications kept me foggy and slightly nauseated for ten days, the shots-to-the-belly required to manage blood thinners lasted two full weeks instead of 10 days, and trying to be a ‘good girl,’ obedient to the doctor’s instructions to keep-that-foot-higher-than-your-heart-for-as-many-hours-a-day-as-possible-for-the-first-two-weeks. Well, let’s just say that the word ‘boredom’ has taken on several new layers of meaning.

I thank God for several good gifts in the midst of the crush: my husband’s faithful attendance (much, much more is demanded of him than at any point in the previous 48 years!), my children’s kind visits and assistance, my prayer-group-friends boxes of good cheer which have been arriving with lovely regularity, and my new Kindle Fire, a Mother’s Day gift from our kids.

I have watched six seasons of “Inspector Lewis,” a six-part documentary on “The Celts,” and every Jane Austen film production my Amazon Prime account gives me for free.

In the last three days, I have found the energy and focus to read again, and that has been delightful. I just began the “Anne” cycle last night for the first time in over 40 years, and am partway through both Emily Wierenga’s new memoir and a fun book sent by a prayer friend called, “Leonardo’s Foot.” Perfect topic, or what?

And then, of course, there is my new best friend.

This has since been tricked out with a little scooter bling by another of the prayer group friends. Tassels and a small bell.

This handy-dandy little 4-wheeled vehicle is called a knee caddy. A wonderful invention, but not without its flaws. LOUSY turning radius, requiring me to bodily pick the entire front half up off the ground to make a 90 degree turn. Still – it’s worth it. I spent the first three days hopping behind a 2-wheel walker, so this is a vast improvement. Our son-in-law built me a ramp to cover the two steps down from the master bedroom area to the living room/kitchen and I try to carefully maneuver that at least once a day.

I am both looking and feeling my age and am aware of some pretty deep levels of exhaustion and anxiety. By the grace of God, I am trying to remain open to the graces to be found, even here, even now. Giving up self-reliance is a huge monster of a thing for me. Just an ugly, hard thing. I like being competent and in control, even though I know that any semblance of control is always but a ghost of reality, a trick of the mind.

Because as it happens, there is very little in this life that we can control. Except, perhaps, for our responses to whatever it is life hands us at a given moment in time. I remain grateful that God invites me to partner in this life-course, daily choice business of discipleship. I am not a puppet nor is every detail of my day-to-day life mapped out ahead of time. I still get to choose. There are events, circumstances, illnesses and injuries that are beyond me, beyond any capacity of mine to change. But there are always choices. Always.

I can choose to say thank you to those who help me, who pray for me, who bring twice-weekly meals, who send love in a cardboard box, who pay a visit and offer a sympathetic smile.

I can choose to value my family, to appreciate their encouragement, support, assistance and great good humor.

I can choose to lean into the fear when it rises, to say the Jesus prayer whenever necessary, for as many times as it takes to slow my breathing and return my focus to the goodness of my life. Even here, even now.

I can choose to look for God’s grace and goodness, even when it hurts, even when I’m bored, even when I’m tired, even when I’m confused.

I can choose to lean and to learn, to seek and to find, to listen and to look, to love and be loved.

I can choose.

And so I will.

In two days, we return to the surgeon. Hopefully the cast will come off, the stitches will come out and there will be early evidence of the bone beginning to heal, the tendon attachments beginning to take hold. Then I’ll go into a removable boot for the remaining six weeks, which I hope-and-pray will mean the ability to shower without a huge plastic cover-up over my left calf.

I’ll report again after that appointment.

*For those who do not know what this surgery was about – a brief synopsis Last summer, I injured my left achilles tendon while taking an early morning walk when we were vacationing in Hawaii. I began physical therapy when we returned home, with very good results. Near the end of those sessions, I had a firm massage from the therapist in which the outside of that foot was pressed against the edge of the massage table and I was instructed to resist that movement. In doing so, I somehow managed to rupture the pereoneus brevis tendon, which comes down from the back bone of the lower leg and wraps around the ankle before heading to the outside of the foot and attaching to the little toe. It runs adjacent to the peroneus longus, which takes a turn at the ankle, going under the foot and over to the big toe. After trying three different appliances from three different doctors in an effort to avoid this surgery, the orthopedic surgeon took an additional series of x-rays which revealed a congenital malformation of the heel bone, likely contributing greatly to the tendon rupture in the first place. So. In two different incisions, which I have yet to see, he went in and broke the heel bone, straightening it and pinning it upright with screws and he cleaned up the torn tendon and reattached it to the neighboring one. And yes, it hurts about as much it sounds like it would.

Filed Under: Aging, community, Encouragement, family, God's gifts, Hard Things, personal journey, Slowing Down, Suffering