The Gift of a Good Dad

June 15, 2012 By


We were late for dinner and I was struggling to finish getting dressed to join my husband, his parents and his sister who were traveling with us, each of them now patiently waiting for me to put myself together. I took a deep breath, and quickly pulled out a beautiful crystal borealis necklace, one of my favorite pieces of jewelry during those late years of the 1960’s. As I attempted to join the clasp behind my neck, the thread snapped, sending the beads rolling like wild things, straggling into every corner of our hotel room.

And I burst into tears.

I was about four months pregnant at the time. And I was 14,000 miles away from our home in California and about 1500 miles away from the temporary home my new husband and I had created at Choma Secondary School in Zambia. There are all kinds of understandable, even semi-rational reasons for this sudden outburst.

But the real reason for those sobs was this one: those beads were a 20th birthday gift from my dad, the last gift he gave me as a single woman, as the daughter of his house. 

I loved those beads because they were beautiful. But most of all, I loved them because Daddy gave them to me.

He did that every year. For each of the years I lived with my parents, I received a special birthday gift from my father, something that he picked out, just for me. And I always, always loved whatever it was. I remember a sweet, small figurine of a January birthday girl. I remember perfume, and dainty handkerchiefs and fancy writing paper. 

And I remember those beads.

But most of all, as this Father’s Day approaches – the 7th one I have lived without my dad here – I remember how much he loved me. The longer I live, the more hard stories I hear, the deeper my appreciation for that central truth, for that gift. 

Nearly 50 years after my birth, my dad wrote me a special letter. A good friend had organized what she called a “Clearness Committee,” a group gathered for the purpose of discerning God’s will for another. I had just finished four years in seminary and was seeking the Lord’s guidance about what might come next. 

Anita wrote to about 30 people who knew me well, asked them to write me a note of encouragement, noting the particular gifts of God they saw in me. That was a wonderful, humbling and deeply encouraging experience at a time in my life when I felt both exhausted and uncertain. One paragraph out of all those lovely letters stood out for me, a paragraph written by my dad:

“On the day you were born, I took one look at you and learned who God is. If God could give me something so wonderful, He could give me other things I needed in my life – self-confidence, for example, and the ability to face up to life’s challenges. He has used you in my life ever since.” 

When these words arrived in my mailbox, I was stunned. My father was a kind, good and gentle man, but he was not what might be called effusive. He was very quiet, seldom speaking. Yet whenever he did speak, everyone listened. He was extremely smart (he co-authored a statistics textbook – yikes!) Perhaps even more importantly, he was also wise. And quite funny, when he wanted to be! I always knew that he loved me deeply, but he seldom told me so with words. Certainly not with written words. So the typewritten note in the photo above is a treasured possession. I took it out today, just to read it one more time. 


There is also another letter in the photo, this one handwritten rather than typed, scribbled in haste in my dad’s inimitable quirky handwriting. After Dad died in 2005, his older sister gave it to me. My father had written it to her and my Uncle Bob about four days after I was born. 

I want to type it out here as a testimony to the amazing, strong-from-birth bond we enjoyed. I also want to remember, and to note in this public space, who Ben K. Gold was in 1945 – a guy too skinny to be accepted into any branch of the armed services, so he taught cadets at a military academy in San Diego. He brought my mom there after their wedding in 1941 and I was born four years later. This little epistle is dated 1/27/45 and it says a lot about my dad’s personality and the terror and the joy that surround the birth of a first-born child. It also speaks to how times have changed:

Dear kids:

I’ve been trying for 3 days to get to giving you the details but got so behind I just haven’t sat down except to write Mom once.

I was going to wire you but Mom suggested she do it and I let her as I had others to call and was having trouble getting the operator. 

I have just come from the P.O. with the bond you sent. I won’t try to tell you how we appreciate both the gift and the thought. It was certainly unexpected and a very thoughtful thing to do. 

I am still walking around in the clouds. Boy, there’s nothing like it. Well, I’ll try and give you an outline of last Tues:

9:00 AM     I start teaching Solid Geometry
9:20 AM     Capt. Parker (who lives upstairs) meets me at the classroom door and says, “You better go home. I think you’re going to be a father.” 
9:20:10       I get home.
9:21             I get my wind back and ask Ruth what happened.
9:25             I phone the Doc; he is out so I wait while the nurse gets him and phones back with the message, “Dr. Graham says for you to take her to the hospital.” 
9:45              I return home and we get ready.
10:00           We leave.
10:30            Arrive in hospital, pay bill & kill an hour while they get Ruth ready & put her in bed.
11:30             I find Ruth in bed. Now for the wait. No pains as yet. (The signal to go was a slight menstrual flow.) 
12:30             I go out for a sandwich. It certainly was uninteresting. 
2:30               Pains start slightly every 4 minutes. 
4:20               Pains getting slightly stronger.
6:00               I go out for a tasteless bite of dinner. 
7:00               Pains getting stronger.
7:30               Peraldehyde administered, Ruth in a semi-coma from now on. 
8:55               Nurse kicks me out & Ruth goes to delivery room. I go down hall to waiting room.
9:20               I hear a baby cry & get excited. I hear another & get scared. I hear a 3rd & get panicky. Finally I find out it’s feeding time & they woke up the whole floor. 
9:30                I start thinking unimaginable thoughts. Whew! 
9:39                Diana Ruth Gold arrives. 8 lb. 12 oz., 21 inches long.
10:00              I am informed I have a daughter & both are doing well. 
10:00:01        I practically pass out.
10:15               I see doctor & am assured everything is O.K. First look at Di.
10:20              I find out weight, etc.
10:25              Phone calls.
11:00              Leave hospital with a feeling impossible to describe. 

Well, that’s it, Bob. There’s nothing like it. 

Diana is without question the prettiest girl in the hospital and the smartest. She will be a mathematician. Look at her birthday 1/23/45. (Note the sequence). 

Ruth was in the middle of the dishes & I still haven’t had time to finish them. She is at the Mercy Hospital, Room 518. I think they will be home next Friday. 

I have seen Diana for a grand total of about 2 minutes, & for 1 3/4 minutes of that time she has been improving her lungs. She has a slight amount of brown hair, is fat faced & long legged. Ruth’s roommate thinks she looks like me so I’m happy. I can’t tell much yet but once I thought she looked a little like Mom, & again like a Hobson. I’m anxious to get her home & get acquainted. 

Well, I’ll sign off. As you can see, I am quite a doting papa. 

Thanks again for the bond & the card which is very cute. Too true though. 

Love,

Ben 


Thank you, Daddy, for your unconditional love for me for 60 years, for your faithfulness to Mom, for your commitment to our family, for your deep and searching faith, for modeling for me so beautifully the Father love of our God, for your encouragement of my journey all along the way. As you know, I never did become a mathematician! And now my hair is almost all white – just like yours. Today my granddaughter Gracie graduated from kindergarden – how I wish you could know her and her little sister! But then, I see a whole lot of you in their dad – so maybe…if they’re really blessed, they know you very well indeed. 

Happy Father’s Day. 

Joining this one with Emily, Ann, Jennifer and maybe with Duane, because I’m blessed that my dad showed me the unconditional love of a father, putting flesh on the promises of the gospel.

 


 


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

A Letter to My 8-Year-Old Self: The TSP Book Club

June 8, 2012 By

At 6.5 years old, they’re not quite 8 yet. 
But they are amazing creatures, full of curiosity, eagerness, spunk and just enough vinegar to be really interesting. 
They are cousins, born one month apart at a time when our family needed reminders that life is constantly being renewed as well as ending. Writing a letter to myself reminded me of just how precious this time is – and how formative. 
 

I am beginning to fall behind on our readings for TweetSpeakPoetry. We’re wrestling through Julia Cameron’s wildly successful artistic-recovery-handbook, “The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity,” doing two chapters each week. 
That is a whole lot of chapters. 
Because each one is filled with projects/assignments/self-reflection. 
And all of that takes TIME. Time which I haven’t really had a lot of this week, what with graduations, traveling with my mom, and the demands of daily life. Which may well mean that I will not have a contribution for next week – I’ve still got one chapter to read from THIS week. 
So…for today’s response, I will post one of the assignments from the chapter entitled: “Recovering a Sense of Integrity.” (By the way, the main ‘ask’ of this chapter is something that is IMPOSSIBLE TO DO when you’re reading 2 chapters per week and this chapter is the first one – we were asked to undergo a week-long reading deprivation. Uh-huh. Like THAT’s going to happen. Clearly this book was written LONG before internet activity took over the living of life.)
This is a letter written to my childhood self. And I will grudgingly admit that this exercise – and much of what we were asked to do for this chapter – stirred a lot of stuff. And may, in fact, be at least partially responsible for two posts written earlier this week that I feel are among the strongest I’ve ever put here. (The first one can be found here, and the second one, here.) But…that’s just me. Being grudging. 
So…forthwith, a letter to me…many years ago.
Sweetheart,

You have no idea how remarkable you are or what kind of life is ahead for you. None at all. Enjoying 3rd grade, walking to school with pride and a growing sense of independence, embarrassed by how tall and ungainly you believe yourself to be. And the skin problems? Don’t even get me started about how constricting that is for you.

But here’s the thing, honey. NONE of that is going to matter at all. Not.at.all. 
I know, I know. It’s tough to believe that. Especially when you carry around all your mother’s anxiety about yourself. I know your heart, young one. I know that you believe you are both ‘too much’ and ‘not enough.’
Too tall
Too smart
Too bossy
Too duck-footed
Too strong-willed
Too different from what your mom believes you could/should be
AND, at the same time…
Not graceful
Not coordinated
Not picked for the playground sports endeavors
Not pretty like Sylvia
Not popular like_______(fill in the blank with any of about a dozen names from that era)
Not mold-able, at least on the inside 
Please hear me when I say this:
     You are exactly who you are supposed to be…
 …and that is a glorious thing. 
Glorious, do you hear that? 
Yes, indeed. Glorious. Full of curiosity, a daydreamer and  dawdler who takes the time to both look – really look – at the world around you, and to imagine all kinds of worlds in that head of yours.
You imagine that the milk bottles left in the rack on the back porch are a family, that they have names and they carry on quite the conversation after the household has gone to bed. 

You believe that if you just dig deep enough, you will end up in China one day.
You write a short story about peas in a pod – and the interesting family life they lead. 
You are affirmed by teacher after teacher for your creativity with words and ideas –  yet – you don’t believe them. You don’t treasure those words. Why is that? 
I think it’s because your parents, good people and loving and generous – I think it’s because your parents are so deeply afraid of your getting a ‘big head,’ of thinking yourself worthy of acclaim. 
They deliberately play it low-key when you get good grades and kind remarks. They are proud of you – yes, you know that they are. But they are cautious, circumspect, sincere in their belief that flattery is a tool of the devil and never to be trusted. 
And you are a very good learner, especially…especially when it comes to intuiting the feelings and moods of others. So you soaked that fear of theirs down deep into your pores. Even at your tender age, you don’t trust anyone who says something nice about you. 
So, if I can just say this to you right now, with all the love I can muster for how tender you are at this age, how malleable and open to wonder – if I can just say this:
        
You are totally unique – one of a kind – none other in this world is exactly like you. And YOU, dear girl, are God’s gift to this world in a way that no one else ever has been or ever will be.  
You are not your mother and  you do not need to be like her. You are not your father and you do not need to be like him. You can learn from them – and you will! – but YOU are the only Diana Ruth Gold on this planet. The only one that looks like you, thinks like you, dreams like  you. And that is pretty great, kiddo. 
That is pretty darn great.
With lots of love and gratitude for who you are right this instant,
Your older and more seasoned self.
And I can just imagine that YOU might make this very face at me about now.
Oh, how I hope you would. Because I LOVE this feistiness and I’d like to think it’s a generational gift.
Filed Under: Book Club, family, God's gifts, memoir, Wonderings in the World, Writing

That Delicate Balance, Part Two

June 6, 2012 By

She really wanted him to play the piano.
Among the earliest guests to arrive
at the party,
she made her desires known
right away.
And of course, I am not surprised 
she felt that way.
She’s been teaching him piano for 14 years.
He was 4 when he started,
and we were gathered to celebrate
his 18th birthday,
 
and his graduation from high school.
The graduate with his family.

Four.teen.years.
How many people do you know who stick
with anything for that long? 

“He’s been working on this one all year long,”

she said.
“I want to get him on tape,”
she said. 

But he resisted for quite a while.

As the sun began to set,
about sixty friends and family trickled
in the front door. 

The house looked lovely,

the yard, enchanting.
The chatter was friendly,
filled with laughter and warm reminiscence.
A slide show went round and round,
repeating on the big-screen television set,
featuring a lovely collection
of photos from day one until yesterday.
And it was there,
catching glimpses of the past,
that I felt the first sharpness,
the sudden movement of grief and loss
mixing its way right into the middle of 
celebration and joy. 

Our grandboy as a newborn,

held in the loving arms of his daddy.
His daddy who died almost four years ago. 

So much sadness for so long.

And so much joy and happiness, too.
All of it mixed up together in this journey we call life. 

Our daughter’s new husband,

strong and kind and good –
such a gift to all of us,
a gift we are grateful for,
right down to our toes. 

But another milestone has come and gone.

And Mark was not here to celebrate with us.
That will never change.
And I imagine, we will always feel
that stab of recognition at such times,
that moment of searing sorrow. 

It was only a moment.

And soon, the joyful banter
gained volume in corners, at tables,
in the yard, in the house.

And then, cutting through the conversation,
I heard the strains of Chopin.
Familiar music to my ears,
music I heard in my own home, growing up.
Ballade Number One,*
technically difficult,
achingly beautiful. 

So I gently led my mother into the living room,

to listen as Luke played this glorious piece.
She sat in a chair placed right in front of the piano.
My father’s piano,
the one he played for years and years. 

And I stood behind her, 

my hand on her shoulder. 

And together, we heard a miracle. 


The piano literally sang to us.
Of love and loss,
of hope and discouragement,
of hard work – hours and hours of hard work.
My dad’s,
Luke’s,
our own. 

The tears rolled down my cheeks as I

missed my dad,
as I missed Mark,
as I celebrated Luke,
as I thanked God for Karl,
as I thanked God for all of it.
All.Of.It. 

Learning to play Chopin takes practice.

Practice, practice, practice. 

And learning to hold the tensions,

the mysteries of this life –
to hold them together,
to let them resonate with one another,
to acknowledge the pain and loss,
and to celebrate the gift and joy –
sometimes in the very same instant –
this takes practice, too. 

Life is hard.

Life is glorious.
Life is overwhelmingly difficult.
Life is radiantly free.
Life is …
LIFE. 

It’s a dance with ever-changing tempo;

it’s a song with shifting harmonies;
it’s a tapestry,
a rich oil painting,
filled with color and with shadow. 

Thankfully, we don’t have to navigate 
the dance floor on our own; 
we don’t have to struggle to sing all the parts. 

We are given the gift of one another. 

And we are given the gift of Presence.

Loving, gracious Presence.
God – Father, Son and Spirit;
Creator-Redeemer-Counselor –
GOD ALMIGHTY
invites us into the ongoing dance of the Trinity,
the intricately, achingly beautiful song of the universe. 

In this life, we cannot yet see the edge of the dance floor,

nor can we hear the resolution of all the chords.
But…
we can know the One who does.  

Thanks be to God.

“And the Father who knows all hearts knows what the Spirit is saying, for the Spirit pleads for us believers in harmony with God’s own will.  And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.“
Romans 8:27-28, The New Living Translation

*At the bottom of this post you will find a link to Vladimir Horowitz playing this piece. Horowitz was a hero to my dad – a genius on the piano, especially playing Chopin.
This is an older video of a live performance, but you will get a view of the
technical virtuosity needed to play this music. 
I was so moved that I did not think to shift my little Canon camera over to video
to record even a little bit of Luke playing!
 
Thanks so much, Luke, for those transcendent 10 minutes.

Joining with those same friends with this second part on balance…no buttons this time.
Michelle, Jennifer, Jennifer and Emily. And this time with Laura Boggess, too.



Filed Under: biblical reflection, birthdays, death, family, God's gifts, grief, memoir, personal journey, Wonderings in the Word, Wonderings in the World

Redeeming the Time

May 30, 2012 By

It was a Monday out of the routine.
No childcare responsibilities.
No church responsibilities.
No family responsibilities.
Don’t get me wrong – all of those are good things in our lives,
things we treasure and are grateful for.
But occasionally,
it’s a very good thing to have a day
to ourselves.
A day set aside for nothing other than dinking around.
It is my firm belief that there is not enough dinking
happening in this world.
There is far too much busyness,
too much obligation,
responsibility,
activity,
schedule.
Once in a while, it needs to stop.
All the noise, the inner grinding of gears,
the siren call of one more person to check in with.
The computer needs to be closed,
the phones need to be silenced,
the calendar squares need to be left blank.
Blank, I say.
Because when there is ‘free’ time,
that’s when the good stuff happens.
The really good stuff.

The this-is-me-at-the-heart-of-it-all stuff.
The let’s-do-something-spontaneous-
and-see-what-happens stuff.
The take-off-your-cloak-of-ought-and-
should-and-must-and-look-at-life-without-it stuff.
Our children gave their father a gift certificate for his birthday.
His birthday was at the end of March.
The end of March.
Each week when he dropped off Lilly at our house,
our son would ask,
“Have you used that certificate yet?”
Well, no.
We hadn’t.
It was overdue for redemption.
And so were we.

They gave it to him so that we could select some large pots for our living room,
pots to house the very large orchids 
my husband has been tending for a number of years.
This is what they looked like this winter – 
from just after Christmas until about a week ago:
They were stunning this year,
a daily reminder of the creative genius of our God.
And they are contained in some very ugly black plastic things.
So…some good-sized, good-looking pots.
And our kids knew just the place to look, too.
It’s in Carpinteria, up against the foothills,
about 10 minutes from our home.
So Monday was the day.
And what a day it was.
Seaside Gardens is simply amazing.
Nursery supplies displayed creatively,
covered areas for pots of all colors and shapes,
and behind and around it all?
Gardens – fully planted with trees, grasses, color – 
representing a variety of different 
landscapes.
South African, Asian, native Californian,
succulent, Bioswale – all laid out for the walking,
for the looking,
for the re-charging,
for the dinking around.
And it was all free.
Yes, we found two matching pots,
in a soft green to sit quietly in our living room.
They’re lovely and we’re so glad to have them.
But, it was the walking,
and the looking.
The oohing and the ahing.
The did-you-see-this-one’s
and the what-the-heck-is-that-one’s
and the oh-my-such-glory one’s —

that’s where the redemption truly happened. 

Each of us could feel it.
Each of us could hear it, too.
The soft sound of the soul, opening.
Opening to the beauty,
the orderly chaos,
the flamboyance,
the brilliance of living things.
Opening to the shared creativity
of a good God and a few greatly gifted human partners.
It was only a couple of hours,
but it was exactly what we needed.
A blue sky,
a warm sun,
a shared space.  
We followed our time at the gardens with an early
dinner near the beach.
Sitting where the sun could warm our backs,
watching a few young ones playing in the outdoor sandbox,
eating fish tacos and sharing a milkshake. 
 Redeeming the time, indeed.


Joining with Michelle, Jen and the sisterhood, Ann, Laura and L.L tonight,
grateful for their invitation to nurture gratitude,
to have a playdate with God, to write about place,
to talk about Sunday blessings made real in the rest of the week.
Yeah, I think most of that is in here somewhere.
 


Filed Under: family, God's gifts, Marriage

EASTER! Day One

April 8, 2012 By
Christ is risen!
Christ is risen, indeed! 

A Prayer for Easter Sunday Morning

As we whoop and holler and celebrate the end of our journey together in Lent 2012, we will greet this magnificent morning with the beautiful words of a very special and ancient prayer called the Exsultet.  It was the prayer offered  by the lowest member of the clergy, in the early church, the deacon, and it was prayed when the Christ candle was re-lit following its extinguishing on Good Friday.  Its origins can be traced to the lamp lighting in the synagogue and you can hear the echoes of our Jewish heritage in its language.  That synagogue prayer was adapted by the early church for special times of celebration, most particularly for the annual celebration of the resurrection.  On Saturday night, Christians would gather outside their places of worship to observe the Easter Vigil – that time of waiting for the hour of Christ’s rising from the dead.  Then, in the very early morning, as they lit the Easter fire, the Christ candle was re-lit and the deacon would lead the congregation in this prayer as they re-entered their sanctuaries.  As the people followed the candle, they would chant: 

“Christ our light! Thanks be to God!” 

Let us pray:

Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels! 
Exult, all creation around God’s throne! 
Jesus Christ, our King, is risen! 
Sound the trumpet of salvation! 

“Christ our light! Thanks be to God!” 

Rejoice, 0 earth, in shining splendor, 
radiant in the brightness of our King! 
Christ has conquered! Glory fills you! 
Darkness vanishes forever! 

“Christ our light! Thanks be to God!” 

Rejoice, 0 holy Church! Exult in glory! 
The risen Savior shines upon you! 
Let this place resound with joy, 
echoing the mighty song of all God’s people. 
  
“Christ our light! Thanks be to God!” 

It is truly right that we should praise you, 
invisible, almighty, and eternal God, and your Son, Jesus Christ. 
For Christ has ransomed us with his blood, 
and paid the debt of Adam’s sin to deliver your faithful people. 

“Christ our light! Thanks be to God!” 

This our Passover feast, when Christ, the true Lamb, is slain.  This the night when first you saved our forebears, 
you freed the people of Israel from their slavery 
and led them with dry feet through the sea. 
This the night when the pillar of fire destroyed the darkness of sin! 

“Christ our light! Thanks be to God!” 

This the night when Christians everywhere, 
washed clean of sin and freed from all defilement, 
are  restored to grace and grow together in holiness. 
This the night when Jesus Christ broke the chains of death

and rose triumphant from the grave. 
Truly blessed, when heaven is wedded to earth, we are reconciled to you! 

“Christ our light! Thanks be to God!” 

May this Easter candle mingle with the lights of heaven, 
and continue bravely burning to dispel the darkness of the night! 
May the Morning Star, which never sets, find this flame still burning. 
Christ, that Morning Star, who came back from the dead, 
and shed his peaceful light on all creation, Your Son who lives and reigns for ever and ever. 

“Christ our light! Thanks be to God!” 

Amen.

A blessed Easter Celebration to you all, 
dear friends. 
Thanks for taking this journey with me, 
for your words of encouragement 
all along the way. 
I pray that we have, by the grace of God, helped each other to ‘grow together in holiness,’ as this ancient prayer so beautifully puts it.
Now may we move through Eastertide 
to Pentecost,
and then out into Ordinary Time 
remembering that we are 
AN EASTER PEOPLE. 
Thanks be to God on high for our salvation, 
for our hope, 
for our life!
Filed Under: Easter, God's gifts, Lenten Journey, worship

Burnished Through the Years

March 30, 2012 By

What can I say to help you see the man I know? 

That he is funny and smart and loving? 

Yes, that’s all true. 

That he is opinionated and sometimes volatile, gestures wildly while watching sporting events and has been known to yell at the screen (and also at passing drivers when they cut him off)? 

Yes, that’s all true, too. 

But how do I find words to describe how tender he can be? How deeply he adores his children and grandchildren – and me, too? 

How do I tell you how goofy he can be? Wearing silly hats and too-small-butterfly-wings just to make a 2-year-old giggle?

How can I describe his thoughtful wondering about the future, his careful allocation of resources so that we and our kids and our church and our missionary friends and the worthy people and projects that God sends our way can all be tended to, with love and care? 

How can I possibly describe to you what a privilege it has been for me to mother his children, fold his laundry (most of the time!), admire his handiwork in the yard and at the kitchen sink and to see how kind he is, how very, very kind?

Is there any way to put into words how grateful I am to God for each and every day – even the horrible, terrible, very-bad ones – we’ve had together? Is there any way for me to describe to you the inexpressible joy it gives me to wish him a happy birthday this week? This marks number 49 that I’ve shared with him, 47 of those as his wife. 

And this one? 

Well, this one is number 70. 

He has survived pleurisy, a kidney stone that had to be surgically removed, a major blood clot in his lung and prostate cancer. And he plays tennis – singles tennis! – once or twice a week with our son. 

And there is no way that any one of you would ever guess his age without my putting it out here in black and white for you to marvel at. 

No, there is just no way to tell you. There are no words. 

Well.. maybe just one: 

GIFT. 

He is a gift to this world, a gift to our family and most especially a gift to me. Easily the best earthly one I’ve ever been given. 

And I thank God for this gift every day that I breathe.
Joining Lisa-Jo for the first time in several weeks. (This daily devotional posting has been so much fun for me – but wow! It’s tough sledding trying to add anything to that.) This, however, was one I just could not pass up. Join the ever-increasing crew over there and check out what others are saying in 5 minutes flat. I will gladly admit that this one took a few extra minutes.

Filed Under: birthdays, family, God's gifts, Marriage

Losing a Mentor: A Re-Post Plus a Tribute

March 4, 2012 By
I am re-posting this one from last January,
in honor of Abbot David Geraets,
my spiritual director and friend,
who died on Friday morning.

These are words I wrote to a few friends earlier today about my response to receiving this sad news:
My mentor died on Friday. He was 77 years old – only 10 years older than I am – 
and he’d battled a number of ailments this past year. 
But still…I didn’t think he would DIE.

We all die. 

I know this in my head. 
I even know it in my heart, 
as we’ve lost a lot of dear ones in the last 10 years. 
Yet each time I get a phone call like the one I got on Friday afternoon, I am bereft. Like part of me has been sliced with a very sharp blade 
and all that pours out are tears.

I took my usual evening walk on Friday, walking circles around our large driveway parking area. I’ve been learning to pray while I walk this past year – many fewer words, lots more images. But what I found myself doing on Friday was simply saying the name of Jesus, over and over and over again.

And here is why: a friend had posted a very old video on YouTube. A video of the mentor I had just lost. This clip, filmed in 1986, was an interview with Abbot David (who, at that time, led a much larger community in New Mexico) by a nun named Mother Elizabeth. Now may I just add, with a repentant heart and spirit, that if I had seen this video when it was filmed 26 years ago, I would have either switched it off immediately, or watched it with a sort of gleeful feeling of superiority to those ‘weirdos’ in the habits and collars. I’m ashamed and embarrassed to admit that, but it’s the hard truth.


I watched all 30 minutes of that grainy old video, marveling at the sweetness in David’s face, the kindness of his words and the truth of his life. I met with him monthly for the last three years, receiving spiritual direction in the form of dream interpretation. He was an expert at that and also at encouragement and gentle prayer. In this video, he suggested praying the Jesus prayer (which has been a favorite prayer practice of mine for about ten years) or just simply saying the name of Jesus over and over for 20 or 30 minutes. I have discovered that following Abbot David’s advice is a very helpful thing. (I wrote a post about the benefits of one piece of that advice at the end of January.)

So on that first afternoon after this dear man’s death, that’s what I did when I walked. I cannot put into words how intensely moving it was for me, in these initial hours of grief, to just say the Name over and over and over again. And I wept my way through a 45 minute time of walking, praying, remembering, celebrating. I will never again feel the dear Abbot’s fingers make the sign of the cross on my bent forehead at the end of our hour together. I will not be blessed by his hand when I receive my certificate in spiritual direction next August. I will not engage with him in friendly, loving conversation.

And that is a huge, huge loss to me.

And to so many.

Thank you Abbot David Geraets for your loving commitment to Jesus, for your years of kindness, wisdom and gentle correction, for your heart as big as the sky above the ranch you and the brothers live(d) in out in the back country of San Luis Obispo.

I will be grateful for your presence in my life during these pivotal years in mine until the day I die.

And then I will hug you fiercely.

SLO stands for San Luis Obispo, a town 115 miles north of my home. 
This was our late-lunch view today, as we traveled home again.
 
One day each month,
I take a road trip.
This particular road trip is not like 
the other ones I take.
I’m not going to take care of my mother.
I’m not going to enjoy my children and my grandchildren.
I’m not going on vacation.
Strike that.
I am going on a vacation, of sorts.
I am vacating the usual rhythm of my days 
to embrace a different one.
And I find that I am hungry for re-creation as I travel.
I am eager to be addressed as…
me.
Not as wife/mother/grandmother/daughter/
pastor/teacher/friend.
Just me.
Child of God.
Stumbling follower of Jesus.
Seeker after wisdom.
And this is where I go.
A strange looking monastery,
one that used to be the ‘dream house’
of a retired dentist,
but was bought by some monks 
from New Mexico to be their community home. 
The monastery is the long white, 
red-tiled house to the left in this shot. 
To the right of the drive, is the chapel & bookshop
with a couple of additional bedrooms.
To the left of the drive, below the monastery itself,
is the home of Connie, the oblate who lives on the premises
and assists the brothers.
There are only five or six of them now,
praying the hours,
assisting the people of a dozen parishes
with healing prayer, special masses and spiritual direction.
This is where I meet my spiritual director every month.
The sign says it all:
And this is the view from that house, 
in the springtime,
when all the hills are green and the sky is blue.
And this is the man I meet with in that house:
Abbott David.
Spiritual Father to this small band,
and an acclaimed leader in the 
charismatic renewal movement 
 of the Roman Catholic Church.
He is a remarkable man, gifted and humble.
Did I ever tell you how we met?
Now, that’s a great story.
“Once upon a time, there was a tired pastor,
full to overflowing with the needs of her congregation, 
the struggles in her family.
She had tried direction a couple of times,
with mixed results.
“Not a good fit,” was the diagnosis,
whatever that means.
For her, it felt like failure.
And she is not a fan of failure.

So she began to pray about it,
to search for someone.
She even went online, used Google
and found a monastery website.
Not a fancy, bells-and-whistles kind of place,
that website.
And the monastery featured there was over 100 miles away.
But something caught her eye,
her spirit.
 And email responses were invited.
So she sent off a note.
“Is there anyone there interested and available
to offer direction to a tired
female pastor,
one who needs listening ears,
wise words,
some guidance along the way?”
That was in July of 2007.

Nothing came back.
Sigh.

So, she got on with life,
a life that was feeling a bit overwhelming
about then.
And she forgot all about that note.

One early morning, in September of the following year,
FOURTEEN MONTHS
after her initial inquiry,
her cell phone rang.
Puzzled at the early hour, she picked it up.
“Abbott David here,” a strong, friendly voice declared.
“You wrote about spiritual direction?”

And she burst into laughter.
“Yes,” she said. “I did. Over a year ago!“

“Really?” came the response. 
“Because I just received this yesterday.
Would you like to meet with me and see if this
might be what you’re looking for?”
They set a date for one week later,
she drove up the 101, took the country road out to 
his place and sat,
absolutely fascinated and astounded as he told
her his story.
Raised on a farm in Wisconsin,
paid his way through college by playing
trumpet in a dance band,
became a priest,
sent by his order to
study in Rome,
multi-lingual,
specialist in Jungian psychology
and dream analysis.
“If you work with me, you’ll keep a dream journal.
And that’s what we’ll talk through each month.”

She was hooked – line, sinker, bobble, lure – 
the whole kit and caboodle.
“Thank you, Jesus,” she cried to the heavens as she headed south again 
at the end of the hour.

Before their next visit,
there was a tragic death in her immediate family.
And before the following visit,
there was a ferocious wildfire in her community,
stripping lifetime memories from many in her congregation.
Within the first year, she herself landed in the hospital, was forced to make a major shift in her own training
program to become a director herself,
and by the second year, she was enrolled in the Abbott’s school for spiritual direction certification.
Not sure that she lived happily ever after,
but deeper ever after? That would be a big ‘yes.'”

Now I would call that whole tale
a God-thing.
My friend Jennifer might call it “God-Bumps” or a “God-Incidence.”
All I can tell you is that my entire spiritual journey
took a decisive turn upward from the moment
I heard that voice on the phone:
“Abbot David here. You wrote….?”
Abbott David leading mass in the monastery chapel.
Today, I had only one dream for the month.
Of my own, that is.
I also shared a tricky one from someone I am directing.
Somehow, this kind, brilliant man
(who has been seriously ill this year)
wove those two together, asked me some penetrating
questions, and helped me think about myself
in some new ways.
“You’ve spent your whole life relying on your left brain, Diana, your intellect. 
It’s time to learn to trust your gut, your intuition. 
You need to spend long stretches of time just sitting and looking at the ocean.
Do that long enough so that eventually, you find yourself on the other side of the picture – you’ll be the ocean, looking back at you. 
And take a look at what you see when that happens.
I think you’ll like what you find.
Be still long enough to let the beauty in,
to let God in,
to shift inside from reason to intuition.
Learn to trust that,
to know that God meets you there, too.
This is the gift of aging, Diana.
There is gift in all of life.”
I sure hope he’s right.
I’m counting on it. 
Stopping at Costco on our way home this evening,
I looked up from loading the bags into the back of the car and saw this. 
My gut said, “Grab that camera, even if it is the little one, 
even if the picture won’t be sharp.”
So I did.
The gift of the present moment.
Right brain all the way. 
Joining with Jennifer and her “God-Bumps” meme and with Ann and her Walk with Him Wednesday invite.  Even though this is way too long – two posts in one, actually – I’m also joining with a few friends with very different invitations – not because this post in any way ‘matches’ with most of them, but because it’s a big piece of my heart right now and I’d like them to know.
 Bonnie & the two Laura’s and Michelle, too:

On In Around button

 

Filed Under: death, friendship. personal journey, God's gifts, memoir, prayer, Spiritual Direction

The Good Ache: a Photographic Reflection

March 2, 2012 By
 Overlooking the Saanich Inlet on Vancouver Island, August 2007
Aches and pains.
Yes, I’ve got a few.
Part of the aging process, or so they tell me.
Knees that creak,
heels that are tender,
hips that remind me they’re there, working away.
And heartache?
Yes, I’ve known a bit here and there,
some of it permanent.
You never stop missing those you love.
But there is another ache that I live with,
day in and day out,
from sun up right through my dream life.
And that ache is a wonderful thing.
An ache buried deep within me
at the hand of my Creator –
an ache for…
home,
love,
beauty.
Yes – beauty.
and I’ve kept thinking about it ever since.
Turning a corner and finding…
a sunset,
a sunrise,
a cooing baby,
a soaring mountain range,
a field of wildflowers,
a couple in love,
the coltish antics of middle-schoolers,
leaping across a lawn,
the creative genius of a fine artist,
a musician,
a sculptor,
anything and everything
that makes that chord inside ring and resound.
Anything and everything that sings to that yearning,
that yearning for every single reflection I can find
of the beauty of God.
STOP
Some words in response to Lisa-Jo’s prompt for 5-minute Friday this week. 
And that prompt is “ache.”
This written reflection was done in 5 minutes – 
links, photos and captions added later.
Join the party over at The Gypsy Mama and check out how others have responded. 

(And then you can scroll through a few samples of heart-thrumming beauty recorded by my camera over the last few years – and this is just a small sample. They range from scenic vistas to charming children, to delicious food to ancient cathedrals.) 


Puget Sound, WA, August 2007

Four gangly boys and their games.

Butchart Gardens, August 2007
Two-year-olds that same summer.
 Whidbey Island views, 2007
Cathedral views, various places – stained glass on old stone; organ pipes and chandeliers; trussed ceilings lit by natural light.

Human structures, remarkable engineering and reflections.
All of these from a river cruise in Europe, 2009


And of course, a variety of Hawaiian views – from Maui and Kauai – places and people who are dear, dear, dear to me. (And a couple of creatures plus a whimsy driven color combo that knocked me flat one day at lunch.)
This last picture is similar to others I’ve posted in this space – one of them in the post noted above – and it is one of about FIFTY I shot of the most remarkable sunset I’ve just about ever seen. And that’s saying something – I’m in my 7th decade, I live in a coastal town, I’ve traveled to HI about every other year since 1980. And this one was an absolute corker.
Filed Under: Family/Travel, God's gifts, Photo Essay, Wonderings in the World

Five Minute Friday: DELIGHT: A Photo Essay

February 18, 2012 By
I’m about out of words for this week.
I’ve written my heart out for the last two weeks or so, 
trying to be more ‘vulnerable’ in my reflections.
Net result?
Fewer readers, many fewer comments.
A couple of those were ‘entered,’ if that is the right word, in an open invitation, a highlight-will-be-featured kind of event.
Never yet made a cut at any of those,
so I know there is something missing in this place.
I’m just not sure what that is.

So, I’m taking a bit of a break from words just now.
I’m heading out for this three-day weekend,
spending it at the mission,
a reunion with the folks from the school where I am in training for spiritual direction.
I will not be posting or checking facebook for a while.
So to transition myself from too many words to none,
I’ll reflect on Lisa-Jo’s invitation this week with photos from the last two weeks, photos that reflect that intake of breath when I see something wondrous,
delightful.
I am grateful beyond words for these God-given moments of bliss, particularly during this difficult season of slow loss,
the fading away of our moms.
These photos range from a surprising surround-sound sunset as I walked circles in my front drive,
to a glorious pink-flowered tree as I walked in my daughter’s neighborhood on Monday,
to beachside stops for lunch and prayer,
to a few shots of our local-est grandkids.
All.of.it.delightful.
Thank you, Lord, for these good gifts.

Thanks, Lisa-Jo, for this great prompt. Delight is a gift of grace and it’s always fun to reflect on how we meet grace in the everyday.
Check out some of the other entries over at TheGypsyMama: 

Filed Under: Family/Travel, God's gifts, Photo Essay

From the Inside Out: A Guest Post

December 30, 2011 By

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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