Quiet for the Weekend – September 7-9, 2012

September 8, 2012 By
“And God rode upon the wings of a cherub, and flew.
He flew upon the wings of the wind.
He made darkness his secret place, 
his canopy around him was dark waters
and thick clouds of the skies.
From the brightness before him,
his thick clouds passed with hailstones and coals of fire.”
– Psalm 18:10-12

“It’s wonderful to climb the liquid mountains of the sky.
Behind me and before me is God and I have no fears.”
– Helen Keller

“The sky is the daily bread of the eyes.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

“Excuse me while I kiss the sky.”
– Jimi Hendrix

“Clouds come floating into my life,
no longer to carry rain or usher storm,
but to add color to my sunset sky.”
– Rabindranath Tagore

“i thank you God for this most amazing day,
for the leaping, greenly spirits of trees,
and for the blue dream of sky,
and for everything which is natural,
which is infinite,
which is yes.”
– e.e. cummings

Hoping your weekend is blessed in very way and that the sky invites you into glory and praise.

Joining with Sandy and Deidra in their spaces for beauty and stillness:
 

Filed Under: God's gifts, Quiet for the Weekend, worship

An African Journey: Post Four – An African Wedding

September 5, 2012 By
At our wedding reception in December of 1965, 
one of my husband’s oldest friends and his wife stood in line,  shook our hands, wished us well, and jokingly said,

Ray and Dick were born just a few days apart and ‘met’ at the church their parents attended when they were infants.
They went to high school together and were part of a group of guys who kept connected through college and beyond.
Finding out that they were thinking about 
traveling around the world the same time we were?
Astoundingly good news!

And that’s exactly what happened, eight months later.
Only their location was a little more in flux than ours,
we traveled on different ships,
and we weren’t at all sure where they would end up
once we all got there.
As it turned out, for the first few months,
they were housed at a mission station in the bush, about 40 miles away from us. To get there required driving on this dirt road,
the same corrugated dirt road that we traveled 
nearly two years later when I went into labor.
There were villages located all through this area,
and all of the people who lived in them walked or rode their bikes to the mission for two primary reasons:
to receive quality medical care or
to get married in the chapel.

Every few weeks, we would drive out that road
to see how our friends were doing.
Or they would come charging into Choma,
often on the motorcycle they bought their first week there.
Their presence was a huge gift to us. Huge.
This was the small rondaval they called home for those months. It was one room, with a corrugated tin roof and an outhouse.
And you may remember how we lived . . .
in a stucco and brick house, with three bedrooms and indoor plumbing. 
Plus, we had electricity about 80% of the time.
And yes, we did feel more than a little guilty about
encouraging them to come on this adventure.
They both wanted to teach school, 
so while they waited for an assignment, 
they lived at Macha Mission. 
Ray managed this workroom, and used his considerable mechanical gifts to repair all kinds of things.
Anita made herself useful wherever she could and was 
so delighted when they rigged up cooking equipment in their small home.
Prior to that, they had to eat in the main house,
with a tribe of other workers.
Once in a while, that kind of community is a grand thing – if everyone is moderately compatible and easy-going.
But three meals a day, seven days a week?
It can be tough sledding.

In about our third month there, we had a true adventure together. 
There was a wedding at Macha – and we were invited!
The wedding was scheduled for about 10:00 a.m.,
but didn’t begin until a little after noon.
Why?
Because in Zambia, it was customary for the groom 
to purchase the attire for the bride.
This groom didn’t have a clue about sizing and the dress
he selected for his small wife-to-be was about four sizes too big. 
The entire mission staff was busily trying to make adjustments 
so that this girl could come down the aisle. 
Many safety pins and an improvised cummerbund later 
(made from a cloth diaper) – and, voila!
It worked and somehow the wedding happened.
Some western traditions were incorporated – like the clothes and the attendants. But one custom was entirely Tongan:
the bride never looked up, never smiled. Ever.
This was the most important and serious day of her life
and she was not supposed to make light of it in any way.
And she did not.
Following the ceremony, we were invited to the feast held in celebration of the new family – at the groom’s village.
The women had been cooking for hours,
gifts had been gathered,
and the couple’s new hut had been officially decorated . . .
by the groom, with new clothing, fabric and other gifts for his lovely bride.
We drove over a bike path, then a cow path, then through a small stream, where we had to get out and push the Kombi-bus. The bride and groom hitched a ride with us, however, so we knew the party couldn’t begin until we got there.
The houses in the village were made of mud bricks, the roofs thatch. The smaller structures were grain storage bins because the staple food for this entire region is ensima, a porridge made from ground field corn. Every village kept a ready supply of the tough kernels in these small, raised huts, out of the reach of hungry warthogs and wandering cattle.
 In the morning, ensima is served thin, gruel-style. 
For meals later in the day, it is quite stiff and usually served with a relish – most often vegetables, but on special occasions, chicken or beef.
This was a special occasion and there was chicken cooking in the pots!
Meals were cooked communally and sometimes eaten together, 
sometimes in smaller family units.
On this day, we were ushered into the groom’s hut and food was brought to us.
We felt overwhelmed and embarrassed by so much special attention, 
but had been told ahead of time what to expect 
and to just receive this hospitality for the lovely gift it was.
The groom’s hut was not quite as large as this one and did not have windows,
but it was cozy and welcoming.
As I recall, I was not feeling at all well that day, but I was determined not to miss this once-in-a-lifetime experience!
You can just barely see that the groom has a good supply of both sugar and hand soap – high on the list of desirable products to own.
They brought us so.much.food – stiff corn meal mush and some stewed chicken to go with it. And we loved the enamel ware bowls it came in!
This was the view looking out the door of the groom’s hut,
just a snapshot of village life.
After everyone had eaten their fill, the party began.
There was dancing,
and there was singing,
and there was gift-giving.
Each gift would be danced up to the couple –
a five-pound bag of sugar,
a box of tea,
a bar of soap or a box of soap flakes.
Everyone was delighted to be there and showered this
couple with love and generosity.
 About six weeks after this remarkable adventure,
Ray and Anita were moved 500 miles south of us
to one of the oldest mission stations of the denomination.
It was located in the beautiful, rocky landscape of the Matopos hills in what was then Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe.
Getting together got a lot more complicated.
We thanked God for the steam train and made the effort, however. 
And we got to see some gorgeous country in the process.
This is the school where Ray and Anita taught for nearly two years. They had indoor plumbing and generated electricity during daylight hours. They loved their students and made some long-time friends in this place.
Whenever we visited, they took us sight-seeing.
And there were such beautiful sights to see.
They came back to Zambia to visit us, too.
We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries together when we could, laughing and enjoying the long threads of our shared history.
Anita was one of the greatest friends of my life.
She taught me how to cook, how to laugh,
how to enjoy life.
She died one month before I began my life in Santa Barbara
and I have missed her ever since.

Ray was skilled at so many things and so generous with those skills! 
He and Dick shared many years of close friendship.
After we returned to the States, 
our families gathered every New Year’s Eve and Day,
and vacationed together several times.
Those ties were begun here,
in our bright red kitchen and their hilltop adobe home.
Ties that connected us heart to heart,
soul to soul.
Sharing such life-changing experiences binds people 
in ways that are hard to describe or define.
But I am eternally grateful for all of it – 
the experiences,
the ties,
the friendship.
I am so very glad we had this cross-cultural 
adventure when we were young, 
but I find that what I miss now that I am not-so-young is 
not the adventure itself, but that sense of long history with heart-friends. 
It has never been replicated in our lives.
And as I look at these old pictures,
as I read the letters I sent home,
it is this connection that I miss the most.
There simply is no substitute for it.
Thank you, Ray and Anita, for loving us well
and sharing our lives for so many years.
I miss you.

I will join this at Jennifer’s and at Emily’s and at Duane’s places. Also with Laura Boggess and with Michelle and Jen and the SDG:







Filed Under: An African Journey, death, friendship. personal journey, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay, Travel

A Photo Essay: Quiet for the Weekend – August 31-September 2, 2012

September 1, 2012 By
It’s been a strange sort of week.
‘Found time,’ here at home,
time we thought we’d be traveling –
but we’re not.
So we got to extend our days with our
youngest granddaughter by a couple of weeks,
and that was sweet.
Next Wednesday, she begins pre-school.

We took time to plan vacations for next year,
always a fun thing to do.
But communication with the agent got a little dicey 
and we weren’t sure why.
Everything worked out in the end;
it generally does. 

Yesterday, we went to see “The Odd Life of Timothy Green,”
and found it quirky and sweet.
And then the projector blew up about 2/3 of the way through.
Say what?
We got a couple of free theater tickets out of it,
but still . . .
So we had an early dinner at a nearby
cheap-o place that turned out to be pretty good,
and we shopped at Costco, to prepare
for the thundering herd (in the nicest possible way!)
that will descend on us for the holiday weekend. 

It was 7:00 p.m. and the sky was unusually pretty,
so I turned the car right instead of left as we drove out of the parking lot, and headed to Isla Vista – the crazy college community that isn’t quite crazy yet,
 as UCSB hasn’t begun their fall semester. 

There was a good place to park, so I grabbed it,
reached in the back seat for my camera bag,
and headed out onto the bluffs,
just as the sun was beginning its last 
sinking, saturating radiance,
and the blue moon was starting its ascendency.
And I walked.
And I looked.
And I breathed.
Every once in a while,
I stopped to take a picture
to exclaim over the beauty all around,
and to say, ‘Thank you’ to the One who made it all. 

Come along with me, won’t you?

(By the way, I have no idea what all those multi-colored small flags mean,
but they were pretty and whimsical in their own right, so I took their picture.
And I have to say that just scrolling through these pictures makes me say ‘Thank You’ over and over again. I cannot begin to put into words how grateful I am to live where I do.) 

And these words from scripture jumped out at
me as I reflected on this experience today, 
the day after all that confusion – and all that beauty.
Because someday, all that we see now as 
spectacular,
glorious,
breath-taking,
and life-giving
will pale in comparison to the LIGHT
that will overwhelm and bedazzle us on the Day of the LORD.

“No longer will violence be heard in your land,
nor ruin or destruction within your borders,
but you will call your walls Salvation
and your gates Praise.
The sun will no more be your light by day,
nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,
for the LORD will be your everlasting light,
and your God will be your glory.
Your sun will never set again,
and your moon will wane no more;
the LORD will be your everlasting light,
and your days of sorrow will end.”
Isaiah 60:18-20

Joining Michelle DeRusha’s invitation to Summer, for the last time this year,
and with Sandy and Deidra for their ongoing weekend invitation to quietness and reflection.



Filed Under: biblical reflection, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay, Quiet for the Weekend, Santa Barbara, Slowing Down

An African Journal – Post Three: A Living Landscape

August 25, 2012 By
Where we are teaches us a lot about who we are.
I am a Californian, born and bred.
Oceans, mountains, deserts – 
these are in my blood,
part of my psyche.
Cycles of wet and dry,
hot and cold,
sail-filling winds and
soul-slowing stillness –
these are part of me now,
not to be separated out,
placed on a shelf somewhere
like a seldom-read geography tome.
The real geography of this place is part of my soul.
Perhaps that’s why the geography of a different place,
a faraway place,
never felt alien to me.
I ran to it, embraced it, let it fill me up –
as much as a 21-year-old is capable of such rapture.
It was dusty and dry much of the year.
And as a Californian, this look I knew.
But anything short of jungle could grow there,
and grow it did, all over the savannah.
 And all around the edges of our small neighborhood,
with its dirt roads and driveways,
its brick houses, wide-open sky views, flat-topped trees
and all that red clay, just beneath the dust.
Grasses of all kinds flourish in this climate,
turning brown in the dry season,
but bright green when watered by seasonal rains.
The cloud formations were breathtaking,
the ground fog during ‘winter’ was not.
Much like California, we enjoyed three seasons
in Zambia rather than four:
Hot and dry,
warm and wet,
cold and foggy.
 When we first drove onto the campus, we were flabbergasted
to see tall poinsettias – and they bloomed every year,
bringing spots of bright color to the green and brown.
The shady side of our new home encouraged calla lilies and 
coleus in every color combination.
The front yard featured a row of bright coral-colored
flowers I had never seen before –
gerbera daisies,
always twisting toward the sunlight.
 Our campus was completely flat,
making it an ideal space for soccer matches –
a sport new to us in 1966.
My husband learned it well enough to coach it;
neither of us learned to love it.
 We lived about two miles off of the Cape-to-Cairo road,
a main thoroughfare going north and south on the continent
of Africa. Our town of about 2000 was a delightful place,
where something interesting was always bound to happen.
 There was a hospital, a small elementary school,
two general stores,
a butchery,
a bakery
and a small book store,
run by the church we served with.
 Acacia trees graced the southern entry to Choma,
sheltering the post office at that end of town.
And the train stopped in Choma, too.
A steam train – just like the picture on the sign below.
And we rode that train about twice each year,
sleeping overnight,
waking with cinders in our hair and on our clothes.
It was in our local train station, the first week we arrived,
that I had one of the most profound experiences 
of my young life. 
My husband and I got separated for a moment just as a train pulled up. Surrounding us was a veritable sea of Africans,
waiting to meet friends and family 
or to board the train for a new destination.
Every single face around me looked 
different from mine.
Every one.
And like a shot to the gut,
I had just the tiniest inkling of what it feels like
to be the minority – for the first time in my life.
This is an insight that simply cannot be bought,
or even taught,
and I am grateful for it.
The bus stop was right outside the bookstore, 
across the street from the bakery.
Bags and babies hung from every window,
from every baggage strut,
and the energy of a newly born country
poured out into the street.
This is the local police,
and this is the fire department.
There was one house fire in the two years we lived there,
and this team successfully extinguished it.
One of the two banks in town, about to have its
name changed as the nation of Zambia was four years old
at this point. Any reference to its former name 
(Northern Rhodesia) was being eliminated.
Note the drug store next door – called the Chemist.
As a former colony, many Britishisms remained.
A young mom, baby on back, getting ready to cross the street.
I don’t think she had to wait long.
Every once in a while, a touring car would
whiz by, making a stop for supplies or refreshments.
This was a highlight for the local community.
We met Australians, South Africans, Germans 
as they were heading either north or south on the transcontinental highway.
At the other end of the transportion spectrum,
we sometimes saw this coming down the main street.
Cattle were visible signs of wealth in Bantu society.
The Tonga tribe was the main group living in the
southern province, and despite the fact that it was 
officially against the law of the land, 
brides were bought and sold . . .
with cattle – lobola must be paid.
These gentlemen are the tribal elders
and it was their primary job to palaver,
to meet and talk.
Every day. All day. About anything and everything.
I never did get used to that as a know-it-all
20-something.
Looking back as a knows-very-little-indeed 60-something,
I believe this constant communication 
contributed to the well-being of both the 
tribe and the family.
Things got thoroughly talked through
before hostility developed.
This nice looking man was proud to be the owner
of a rifle and he asked me to take this picture.
I was happy to oblige.

We lived at an elevation of just over 4000 feet and it was suggested that at least once a year, 
we travel to sea level to take a break, 
get a little richer oxygen and basically rest up. 
We did that exactly once.
My husband’s parents and younger sister 
visited us the second summer we
were there, and the five of us took a wonderful trip 
which I will write about sometime soon.
But one place we could get to in an afternoon
was about 120 miles south of us.
 From this angle, a peaceful river.
 From this one, a glimpse of why the local people called
this place, “the water that thunders.”
Victoria Falls, one of the wonders of the modern age.
Astounding, spectacular, magnificent – words fail.
Completely fail.
My husband took a truck load of students there on 
a field trip one year.
Not one of them had ever seen it.
Not one.
One hundred and twenty miles.

It is the landscape of a place that gets in under the skin.
The contour of the land,
the shape of the sky,
the colors of the plants and flowers,
the presence – or absence – of water.
And this is a landscape that fed my soul,
that invited me to grow,
that gave me hope,
that taught me about time and seasons 
and hard work and good rest.
This is the landscape in which I became
an adult,
a wife,
a mother,
a more careful critic of the church,
a searcher after God’s deep truth,
and a whole lot less of a know-it-all.
I am grateful.

Joining with Jennifer and Duane, if he’s open this week, 
Emily, if she’s open and Ann’s Wednesday group.
Better late than never, right??

Filed Under: An African Journal, An African Journey, God's gifts, memoir, personal journey, Photo Essay, Wonderings in the World

An African Journey – Post Two: A Letter to My Younger Self…

August 16, 2012 By

 Standing next to an ant hill somewhere in central Africa, approximately 1966.

Dearest girl,


That’s what you are, you know. You don’t realize that, but I do. Looking back across these years, I see you. I see how very young you are. Twenty-one, newly married, recent college graduate, thrilled to be living your life, to be planning a cross-continental move, to be moving on, moving out, moving away. 

You’re a little bit full of yourself and your university education, especially those three courses in African studies you took that last semester, in preparation for moving across the sea. Three college level courses does not an expert make – believe me, it just does not. But then, you learned that within the first six weeks of moving there, didn’t you? Yes, you learned it the hard way. I guess that’s how all good learning comes, sweetheart. It has to hurt a little to be real.

I look at these old pictures and I know you’re a bit nervous about all that’s happened to you in the last few months. I see a smidgen of uncertainty, a frisson of anxiety. But mostly what I see when I look at your face is this wonderful truth: you are just plain gob-smacked with the freedom you’ve found in being married. 

You and he are on your own – and that feels grand, doesn’t it? You can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. Of course, there are limits to that, aren’t there? Limits of morality and common decency, which you both hold in high regard. But more than that, there are limits of believing and belonging, limits that you share, that you value, that you try to live. 

Following in the footsteps of the Rabbi from Nazareth has always been part of who you are, for as long as you can remember. Suffering growing pains as a 4-year-old, you told  your Mama one night, “That ol’ Jesus is down in my leg tonight and he’s hurtin’ me!” And you believed that with your whole, small heart. Jesus was there, living your life with  you. 

And walking down that center aisle of the old brownstone church in downtown Los Angeles, late on a Sunday evening the year you turned 11 – saying ‘yes’ to Jesus in front of your community of faith – that was important, significant. And you felt it deep down inside you as you drove home in the backseat of your parents’ car, staring at the street lights. You were filled with wonder that night – and so many nights since. 

Your heart was true that 21st year, this much I know. But I also know that your heart and your mind had a lot of traveling to do in order to communicate well. And then there was the matter of getting what you knew and what you felt to travel down your limbs to your hands and feet. Living what you knew, what you believed, what you began to allow yourself to feel with the truer pieces of yourself – that took years and years, and still isn’t done. No, not done yet.

Our once-a-week dinner with the students at Choma Secondary School.

But here’s what I want to tell you, oh, brave younger self. Here’s how I want to encourage you. You will break out of the mold as you get older and wiser. And you will make a lot of mistakes in that process. But you will also learn and stretch and grow and change and enlarge your heart and your mind and your spirit . . . and it will be wonderful. Difficult, painful, anxiety-filled, marked by loss, watered by tears and tears and tears . . . but wonderful.

You will push three living beings out into the world and love them fiercely. Those three will form you in ways you cannot even begin to imagine now, but count on it – their mark on you will be indelible. 

And while you’re at home, raising them and learning more about that Rabbi you love, you will begin the hard work of questioning much of what you were taught about who you are as a daughter of God, a sister to Jesus. And you will find answers from good people, from faithful people, people who’ve walked the road ahead of you. Some of them will be contemporaries; many will be much older saints, long gone to be with Jesus. 

If you could see me across these years, you might be surprised, maybe even shocked. Life has this way of getting both more complicated and more simple as time passes. Layer upon layer of love and responsibility get added as your family and friendships grow. But at the same time, much that is extraneous and unnecessary gets stripped away, leaving the bare bones beauty of truth, faith, hope, peace, love. 

You cannot see what’s ahead – neither the joy nor the heartbreak. And you can’t really see what’s behind you at this point, either. That takes time and work and self-care and you’re nowhere near that at age 21. You’re too busy living your life to look at it carefully. Give it a little time, however. You’ll start looking. And what you’ll find will surprise you, bring you to tears, fill you with thanksgiving and make you wonder about a lot of things. 

It will take time and scrutiny to understand the impact of an alcoholic grandfather on your mother and her parenting of you. It will take time and patience to look at the steely-eyed pressure your grandmother put on your father and how his reaction to that made a difference in you and your own family circle growing up. These things take time, they take maturity. But you’ll get there. You’ll always be getting there, honey. Count on it. 

Because that’s what this life is about. Truly, it is. We’re here to become human, to become the person we were designed and created to be – in a word, to look more and more like Jesus. And back then, you only had glimpses of all that, which was exactly how it should have been. Now, at this end of these years, I can say with gratitude that goes deep as the Marianas Trench – it’s all grace. Because it is, dear one. It is.

Love you – more and more,

Your older, wiser, creakier Self

Waiting for the bride at my nephew’s wedding, April 2012

Delighted to be re-joining Bonnie over at Faith Barista, whose prompt this week was a letter to our younger self. I’ll also check in with Emily at Canvas Child.

Filed Under: An African Journal, An African Journey, family, God's gifts, memoir, personal journey, Wonderings in the World

Garden Glory: Summer Weekend – August 10-12

August 11, 2012 By
Every day I walked circles in the parking lot.
We sat a lot during the School for Spiritual Direction
and I needed the exercise. 
So, I walked in circles, 
round and round the lowest level of the parking lot.
And every day, I noticed a lovely garden just below me.
Twice each week, volunteers came to weed and water.
It took me two summers,
two weeks each summer,
to actually stroll down into that garden below me.
 And I discovered something wonderful.
An historic garden,
filled with flowers and fruits and vines
that were in use during the late 18th and
early 19th centuries, during the era of the missions
and Spanish rule of Alta and Baja California.  

 A lovely small piece of summer serendipity in the middle of an intense time. 

“Serendipity is the faculty of finding things we did not know we were looking for.” 
Glauco Ortolano 

“May Jesus himself and God our Father, who reached out in love and surprised you with gifts of unending help and confidence, put a fresh heart in you, invigorate your work, enliven your speech.
2 Thessalonians 2:15-16, The Message

Joining with Michelle, Sandy and Deidra this beautiful summer weekend:



Filed Under: God's gifts, Photo Essay, Quiet for the Weekend

What Does It Mean to Be Blessed? Reflections on a Life

August 7, 2012 By

My mother-in-law, Kathryn Trautwein, with my mother, Ruth Gold. Picture taken at Easter 3 years ago. Today they are 96 and 91 years old. 

She was sleeping today.
She sleeps a lot.
When she’s awake, she is often unhappy,
confused, disoriented.
But once in a while, when I stare into her hazel eyes,
I see her in there.
I see the Mama I’ve known for nearly 50 years,
the woman who bore my husband,
who welcomed me into her family,
who blessed my children with her loving care.

I see brief glimpses of the 
quiet feistiness that empowered her
to stand against the strict requirements of her
family’s faith.
She kept her hair short.
It was easier, she liked it and she didn’t 
want to deal with the prayer coverings 
that all the women in her family wore. 
She shared their faith – she lived that faith
every single day of her long life.
But she did not share their restrictive way of
expressing that faith.
So she went her own way,
without angry words,
without an ‘I’m-right-you’re-wrong’ attitude,
without open rebellion.
She simply made quiet, thoughtful shifts on the inside
that began to show on the outside.

She took me clothes shopping before we left for Africa, 
so many years ago. 
We were going there to live and work for two years,  
teaching school in a small Zambian town. 
She very carefully and gently advised me on 
skirt length, sleeve length, 
the best kind of shoes (closed toes), 
the simplest kinds of fabrics.
She knew.

She knew that I would feel woefully out of place
 and would wonder why on earth 
I had come to serve with people 
who looked and lived so dramatically differently 
from anyone  I had ever before encountered 
in my Christian life. 

She did not advise me to change who I was – 
she was far too wise for that.
But she did advise me to be more aware,
to honor those with different lifestyle values
while still being true to my own.

Mama was not one to offer advice very often,
preferring to keep most of her opinions to herself.
But she found us our first house to buy.
And she outright put her foot down when we got ready to
move from that house to another, 
 one where the entire backyard was a swimming pool.
She never learned to swim, you see.
And we had two toddler girls and a baby on the way.
No way, José. No way.

Even when we moved here to Santa Barbara,
our kids all grown and married,
she carefully let us know that she preferred  
one house we were looking at over another.
Always subtle, gentle, non-intrusive.
But there was steel there.
The good kind of steel.
The kind that holds things together.
The kind that adds form and shape to life.
The kind that stands firm when the ground shakes,
or the wind blows,
or the fires rage.

She is 96 now and suffers from dementia.
She’s fallen twice in the last four days,
her speech is suddenly very slurred,
her appetite way down.
Maybe the end is beginning.
I don’t know.
I just know that today,
as I stood in front of her recliner chair,
watching her sleep and dream,
I thanked God for her.
I prayed the blessing of Aaron over her.
And I wept at the memory of her laughter,
her generosity,
her kindness,
her lifelong faithfulness.

You ask me what it means to be blessed?
I’ll tell you this:
to be blessed is to have a second mother
who loves you no matter what;
who doesn’t always understand you, 
but who always, ALWAYS supports you;
who lives Jesus day in and day out,
mentors younger women,
leads Bible studies,
keeps your little kids at a moment’s notice,
adores her children and their children, 
understands why her husband reacts to life the way he does
and loves him like crazy anyhow.

This is blessing to me today.

This woman of God,
this mother to my husband.
This woman who came to tea one day long ago,
driving 40 miles across town, 
sitting in the living room of the house where
I lived while attending UCLA,
and letting me know that if I was serious
about her boy, then I was welcome to his whole family.
And I was.
Other than the family I was born to,
this has been the greatest of God’s gifts to me.
I am blessed.
And I am grateful.

Joining with Em’s synchro-blog today. You can find other entries here:
http://www.emilywierenga.com/2012/08/what-it-means-to-be-blessed-synchroblog.html
Also with Ann and her gratitude linky:

and with Jen and the sisterhood.





Filed Under: family, Family Portraits, God's gifts, personal journey

Quiet for the Weekend: July 6-8, 2012

July 8, 2012 By
“My beloved spoke and said to me,
    ‘Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, 
come with me. 
 See! The winter is past;  
the rains are over and gone. 
 Flowers appear on the earth;  
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves is heard in our land. 
 The fig tree forms its early fruit;  
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;  
my beautiful one, come with me.’”
Song of Solomon 2:10-14 (NLT)
It’s summer!
 The flowers are popping,
 the fruit is ripening,
 the fountains are flowing,
 the outside lights are hung in celebration.
 Even the old, tired fence looks happy to see
the sun, the warm air and the pinks and purples of summer blooms.
 And the shyest of our feathered friends peeked out from behind the leaves – even though I did have to shoot through the screen to capture her.
May your weekend be full of light and laughter,
time with family or friends,
and time to sit alone in the afternoon breeze.
God is good, all the time.
But somehow, on a fair summer’s day,
God seems even good-er than usual.
Joining up with Michelle, Sandy and Deidra for their invitations to celebrate
the weekends with a small space of quiet and color. 
 
 
Filed Under: biblical reflection, God's gifts, photography, Quiet for the Weekend

Sunny Summer Afternoon: A Photo Essay

June 23, 2012 By
Joining with Michelle DeRusha and her invitation to sit and savor summertime. It comes on Fridays and it’s delightful and refreshing. Check it out:
Sunshine today, almost all day long,
a refreshing change after many days of June Gloom.
So I took myself to the beach and then on a walk
around my yard,
and enjoyed the beauties of summer.
‘Tis the season for blue blooms in these parts,
blues of every hue,
with a little pink thrown in for good measure.
Honey bees,
humming birds,
lizards sunning themselves,
swallowtails,
even those with injured wings,
are among the beauties of today.
Join me, won’t you?
And offer thanks to God for the glories of summertime.
 
 
Filed Under: God's gifts, Home, Photo Essay

“This Difficult Friendship” – Living in Bodies

June 18, 2012 By
And the body, what about the body?
Sometimes it is my favorite child, 
uncivilized… 
And sometimes my body disgusts me.
Filling and emptying, it disgusts me… 
This long struggle to be at home
in the body, this difficult friendship.
-Jane Kenyon (From “Cages”)
 Yesterday, I was in need of some solitude,
some time by myself,
away from the interruptions of home and family.
So I packed a lunch, got in my car,
and waited to see where my car would take me.
Turns out, my car likes the Slough.
 The parking lot was much more crowded than usual,
filled with family and friends of UCSB graduates
who were gathering at the nearby park for 
celebrations of all kinds on this graduation day.
I found a spot between a large motor home,
which served as a gathering spot 
for a group of middle-aged guys I’ve seen here before,
and a car filled with a family of beach-goers. 
I ate my lunch.
I did some reading.
And I got in and out of the car,
taking pictures and paying attention.
 It took me until today,
after hearing a fine sermon this morning by
our Associate Pastor, Jon Lemmond,
to more fully understand why this particular spot,
of all the possible spots I could have chosen,
is such a special one for me.

I like birds.
A lot.
I know very little about them,
I just know I love to sit and watch them,
to try and capture some of their beauty and grace
with my camera,
and to reflect on how completely  
at home they are
with the bodies God gave them.
Completely.
You don’t hear birds complaining that they’ve
got too many feathers or too few,
that they wish their beaks were just a bit narrower,
that their feet were a little smaller,
that their tummies were tighter.
No, you don’t.
Besides the fact that birds don’t speak English,
I think the reason we don’t hear (or observe) such
kvetching behavior in birds is this:
they know who they are,
they accept who they are,
they live a one-piece life.
I want a one-piece life.
I want to keep body and soul together,
I want to recognize that I am a body.
And I want to accept that body with grace and with gratitude.
And I have a long way to go on that journey.
Today’s sermon was a strong, clear word of encouragement
to keep on truckin’. 
Jon took a few verses from a favorite psalm 
this morning – Psalm 139:13-18.
And he laid out his observations beautifully:
1. Our bodies are spiritual – 
we want not to err on the side of gnosticism 
(the most stubborn of historical heresies in the church) 
and denigrate the design of God for our physicality.
It is with our bodies that we glorify God.
It is in our bodies that we are saved.
We are, in truth, our bodies.
In Genesis 2, God takes the dust of the earth 
and breathes life into it…
spirit and flesh, joined forever. 
But unlike the birds, our bodies need redemption,
restoration, renewal.
And they are so valuable to God,
that God took on our bodily form so that redemption
and restoration and renewal might be possible. 
2. Our bodies are praiseworthy.
And this is where most of us badly twist the truth 
of who we are as embodied creatures.
The most usual translation of verse 14 goes something like this:
“We are fearfully and wonderfully made.”
But Jon’s OT prof, Leslie Allen (who was also my OT prof!),
translates it more like this: 
“God is wonderful. And we are made in God’s image.”
We should indeed stand in awe of who we are,
at what our bodies can do –
wounds heal,
pupils contract and dilate 
according to the ambient light,
our skin and sweat glands 
help set a healthy thermostat.
We are indeed wonderfully made!
BUT…
we are wonderful because of who made us,
not because of any intrinsic ‘perfection’ of our own.
Therefore, beware our cultural predilection for
believing we are the center of things.
When the Bible tells us that our bodies are wonderful,
it is not meant as, “a psychological pick-me-up 
aimed at bolstering our self-esteem.”
Rather, these words point us first to the Creator,
and only then, to the creature.
If we can grab hold of this astounding truth,
then maybe, just maybe,
we can begin to believe that every single one of us,
able-bodied or not,
fat, thin, tall, short, young, old –
every one of us – 
broken and imperfect as we are –
is a thing of wonder and delight to the One who made us.
Not just cute babies.
Not just Hollywood celebrities.
Not just the perfect bikini-body.
Not just the strong, ripped muscles.
No.
ALL.OF.US.
“We are beautiful because we are the Lord’s.”
And then my friend and former colleague offered the most
beautiful analogy to help us latch onto this 
powerful truth.
The stole he is wearing was a gift to him on the 
day of his ordination into the ministry.
It was made for him by his mother and his grandmother.
It is lovely to look at…
but it is not perfect.
It doesn’t lie flat at the back like 
a more professionally made stole would.
Some of the stitching around the six lovely 
symbol patches is a little rough. 

But it is one of Jon’s most priceless possessions.
When the Tea Fire hit his neighborhood three years ago,
he first made sure his wife and children were safe.
And then, Jon rushed into his house and grabbed this stole.
Not because it is perfect.
Not because it is without flaws.
Not because it does everything it was meant to do.
No.
Jon grabbed it because of who made it.
Jon grabbed it because of the love that was poured into it.
Jon grabbed it not because of its intrinsic value,
but because of the relationship 
he has with the ones who made it.
It is beautiful,
not so much for what it is,
but because it reflects the love of the creator(s).
 
Can I begin to value my body for what it truly is?
The gift of my Creator?
My body.
The dust of the earth,
into which God breathed life 67 years ago.
My body.
The embodiment of God’s dream for me 
as a whole person,
a unified human being,
body, soul, spirit.
My body.
A reflection of the God who loves me.

An added spot of beauty to our worship last Sunday was a new offertory song. Our Director of Worship Arts, Bob Gross, wrote a lovely melody to go with these powerful words written by Mechtild of Mageburg in the 13th century. This translation was done in 1991 by Jean Wiebe Janzen, but the words in bold are Bob’s addition and served as a beautiful refrain throughout the piece. He tells us he’s going to do a YouTube version, and when he does, I’ll post a link here – and undoubtedly elsewhere, like Facebook and Twitter.  I sat amazed at how these lyrics sort of wrapped up my entire weekend. Read them carefully:
I cannot dance, O Love, unless you lead me on.
I cannot leap in gladness, unless you lift me up.
From love to love we circle, beyond all knowledge grow.
For when you lead, we follow, to new worlds you can show.
Love is the music ’round us, we glide as birds in air,
entwining, soul and body, your wings hold us with care.
Your Spirit is the harpist and all your children sing;
her hands the currents ’round us, your love the golden strings.
Play me a medley. 
Play me a song. 
Lead me, I am yours. 
I cannot dance alone. 
O blessed Love, your circling unites us, God and soul.
From the beginning, your arms embrace and make us whole.
Hold us in steps of mercy from which you never part,
that we may know more fully the dances of your heart. 
Joining with Michelle, Jennifer, Laura, Duane and L.L. this time.
And at the middle of the week, also joining Ann V., Jennifer Dukes Lee and Emily W.

On In Around button




Filed Under: biblical reflection, God's gifts, personal journey, Photo Essay, Wonderings in the Word, worship
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